#geralt is both touched and shocked when he finds out

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 11

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 10 🟣 Part 12

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of blood, biting, throwing up. SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI, fingering, light Dom!Mikey but the right way this time, vague mention of p-in-v sex.

Word count: 5.2k

A/N: Alright! There you have it! We're finally getting somewhere... It's a surprisingly long chapter. Took a little turn I wasn't initially planning on XD

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @summersong69 @teamfan7asy @mis-lil-red @ellethespaceunicorn @sillyrabbit81 @peyton-warren @livisss

Now you had to break the news to Mike. This was going to be fun. He was still in the bathroom, dry heaving so violently you immediately realized there was no way he could get up right now, much less keep anything new down. August was next to him, now slumped against the wall, looking paler and more exhausted than you had ever seen him before, but at least he didn’t look and/or sound like he was actively dying, so that was great.

“There’s nothing I can do for him right now,” he said when you leaned against the doorframe – it was finally your turn to lean against the doorframe! You doubted you looked as hot doing it as they all did. August’s voice was hoarse and he yawned as soon as the sentence was out.

“You’re coming with me, August.” Not a question. You weren’t going to give Mike any room for protest here. Luckily, August didn’t ask any questions – and Mike was too busy, still.

“I’m cooking dinner again, right?” August said when you stormed to the couch, pulling him along behind you.

“Depends,” you replied. “If you feed now, can you settle Mike’s stomach enough so that he can feed?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. You’ve made up your mind, then?” He seemed awfully pleased with the news – then again, so did you, probably.

“What about Marshall?” you asked, ignoring his question. You had different priorities right now. August and Sherlock exchanged looks while August practically shoved you onto the couch, squeezing your shoulder with way too much force.

“Sorry,” he sighed, “I usually go off what I feel that you’re feeling whenever I touch you. I’m running on empty here. Did I hurt you?”

“Not irreparably, can we get on with it? I can’t listen to another minute of Mike being this miserable, to be honest.” Both Sherlock and August seemed to find that a reasonable excuse to skip the pleasantries.

“I probably won’t be able to bite you as gently as last time, I’m sorry.” You assured August it was fine, and prepared yourself for a little more pain than the amount you were slowly beginning to get used to from the guys.

“Christ on a fucking bike, August, you… Fuck.” He wasn’t exaggerrating when he said he wouldn’t be as careful as before, but damn, you had underestimated what that meant. Nearly four hundred years of reading feelings had really hurt his ability to act normal without it... Luckily, the pain subsided quickly, and was replaced by the lovely feeling of warmth and comfort that was slowly becoming very familiar to you.

As soon as you relaxed, Sherlock asked you about the plan.

“I was hoping you could help me with that,” you said. “What’s the smart thing to do here?”

“Mike feeds first, after August gets him back on his feet – or at least on his bed. He’ll probably be about as hungry as Marshall was a few weeks ago.” That wasn’t reassuring; you still remembered the terrible shape Marshall had been in.

“And Marshall?”

“If August agrees, he can try to keep Marshall from going in Mike’s direction,” Sherlock said hesitantly, signaling you that there was a preferable option. “Or he feeds, too.”

You felt August’s teeth come out of your arm, and the nice feeling slowly disappeared. It was almost addictive how good it felt to feed the guys.

“Let him feed, please,” August said, “now that I can feel how miserable he is… I’d spend all night making him comfortable, and I’d need to feed again by morning.”

“Sounds like a plan.” You tried to get up from the couch by yourself, but August insisted you take his arm. “Thanks, August.”

“We notice, and we appreciate it,” Sherlock said next to you, his voice suspiciously close to your ear. “The thank yous. Please keep doing that, even if you get used to our antics over time.”

“I will,” you replied. It struck you as strange for a minute that he’d bring something like that up so relatively out of the blue, but then the implication hit you. Don’t take them for granted, even if they’re compelled to do things for you. It shouldn’t be difficult, but it was a good thing that Sherlock had pointed out that it was something to look out for.

“Hey baby.” Mike didn’t respond – not really. You got a soft grunt, but that was it. He was curled up in bed, facing away from you, clearly still miserable. “Want some breakfast in bed?”

“’S evening,” he murmured, his words slurred and his voice hoarse.

“Dinner in bed, then.” You sat next to him and stroked his back.

“Don’t wanna go back,” Mike groaned as he carefully looked over his shoulder.

“Come here, handsome,” you said as you slid under the covers and wrapped an arm around him. He was shivering and ice cold to the touch.

“Lea’me’lone,” he hummed into his pillow when you pulled on him to get him to turn around. “I’jus’need… nap.” His eyes threatened to fall shut. Even though he did manage to roll back onto his side, it was clear to you that he was in really rough shape…

“You need food, baby,” you tried. “Come here. I thought you loved to eat me?” That did get him to turn around, with a hint of his normal grin on his face. He was pale as a sheet, his lips a sickly bluish gray.

“We don’t eat people, babe,” Mike said softly. “Are you sure?”

“You look like you’re an inch away from death,” you muttered as you gently stroked the side of his ice cold face. “Please feed on me.” You turned your head demonstratively, exposing your neck to Mike.

“Your neck? You sure?” Apparently, there was more to it than Sherlock had led on when he had so casually mentioned it…

“Sherlock said you have a preference.” You shrugged – as well as you could while lying in bed and on your side.

“I do, but… Ba-,” he didn’t manage to finish his sentence. His reaching for your arm surprised you, though. It didn’t work, the angle was horrible, and you could tell Mike grew more restless with every passing second, making the most adorable frustrated noises you’d ever heard. Eventually, he turned around again and let you put an arm around him. He settled for your wrist, seeming happy to just be in your arms. After about a minute, when you were on the verge of falling asleep from the soothing feeling, he let go.

“Huh?” That wasn’t feeding. That was barely a snack… What was he up to?

“Sorry, needed a snack to finish that conversation.” There was definitely more color in his face now, although his lips were still pale. “Sherlock gave you that tip, huh? Guess we found his little vampire kink…” You thought about it for a second. The only thing you could say was that maybe Sherlock had hinted that he, too, preferred to feed from someones neck, but other than that…

“What do you mean?” Maybe Mike had more insight than you did. Scratch the ‘maybe’: Mike was one hundred percent bound to have more insight in the matter than you did…

“It’s the similar to mine,” he said. So something along the lines of erotic feeding… Either Mike read the confusion off your face, or he sensed your need for more information. Either way, he continued: “Babe, I can’t even get to your neck without manoevring us into some pretty intimate position. It’s not the fact that it’s someones neck that makes it preferable, it’s… everything surrounding that. Intimacy, proximity… At least that’s what I’ve been told. God, I’ve never even really experienced the real thing. Always just… little bites.”

“You got a pretty decent snack the other night,” you laughed as you remembered the boob-incident.

“That was fucking amazing, though,” Mike said, joining your laughter. “Seriously. Can I try that out for real sometime?” Would you effectively be breastfeeding your grown-ass boyfriend? Yeah. But he hit you with the grin, and the puppy eyes, and that was the end of your already non-intimidating resolve to tell him ‘no’. Besides, did it really matter wherehe bit you?

“Today? Or?” You might as well give him what he wanted straight away, right? As soon as the words were out of your mouth, you noticed that some of the old spark was back in his eyes. Briefly, but definitely present. You had to fight the urge to shake your head. He was such a goof…

“I can live off my snack from just now until tonight,” he said innocently. “You feed Marshall in a bit, then dinner, movies and cuddling – Marshall will want some attention – and then when we get to bed it’s my turn?” His attitude surprised you. Weeks ago – and days ago, probably – he’d still been opposed to all of this.

“Why the change of heart?”

“I told you I needed time to get used to the idea. Well… I’m used to it. As long as I get to play with my favorite titties…” Of course he groped them for good measure, as if he wanted to dispel any confusion as to whose boobs he meant, exactly. “I think I’m good with it now.” He got up without saying another word, and returned with a glass of water.

“I should have asked, sorry. The whole ‘ask for confirmation’ thing isn’t exactly second nature yet.” Now, the water was something you didn’t complain about. You were notoriously bad at keeping yourself hydrated, and Mike just handing you cups of tea and glasses of water throughout the day really helped to solve that little problem for you.

“I’m starting dinner, if you don’t mind. Can you get to Marshall? He’s in better shape than this one was.” August suddenly poked his head around the corner and looked at you, taking in Mike as he sat back on the bed. “Why is he still hungry?”

“Agreement,” Mike said before you could open your mouth.

“Alright, let me not get involved in whatever kinky shit you have planned! Me, dinner. You, Marshall. Goodbye.” August’s voice remained surprisingly neutral, even though his eyes clearly gave away that he found it at least somewhat funny.

“Hey, girl, hey!” Marshall snorted when you barged into his room with those words. “Dinner is served. Not the one August is making, the one I’m making.” Without thinking, you flopped onto his bed beside him. August was right; Marshall was in better shape than he had been a few weeks ago, but he was still not doing very well. He was well enough to pull your arm over his body with a little too much force, though

“Oof! Careful,” you said as you slammed tit-first into his solid back. It didn’t take much to curl up comfortably behind him, and you barely noticed his teeth sinking into you.

“We’re negotiating tomorrow, aren’t we?” Marshall’s voice echoed in your head after only a couple of seconds – way sooner than the last time you’d spent with him like this. It was a good thing he’d grabbed your arm firmly before ‘talking’, otherwise you might have found yourself in need of a few more stitches…

“We are. When you’re all out of the chemical compulsion phase of the program.”

“Thank you. So incredibly much.” He squeezed your arm a little tighter when he said it, as a sign of his gratitude. You could tell how happy he was that you were – finally – ready to fulfill their request.

“Hey, how does this projection thing work, when you’re this weak?” You knew the guys got stronger real fast after they started feeding, but using their gifts beyond their passive abilities was supposed to be really heavy-duty stuff on their energy levels, right?

“It gets easier as we get closer. There’s a chance it might persist beyond feeding sessions after some time.” So, not as intense and tiring as you thought it would. You considered the things Marshall had just said for a moment, and what that actually meant.

“So I’d get to snoop around in your brain full time?” You found that way more exciting than you probably should, especially considering how much you hated it when they did it to you.

“Yes. Unfortunately for me.” There was something of a chuckle in his voice, although you were still getting used to reading his intonation properly through the echoing and distance and generally strange situation.

“You admit it’s annoying?”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Marshall said before lifting his mouth off your arm. This time, you made sure to take note of how he gently and briefly licked the wounds before letting go of your arm.

“I still have to ask Sherlock about that,” you reminded yourself out loud as you looked at the tiny holes in your arm. There were six of them now, all on the same wrist. As you looked at them, the thought occurred to you that these six lovely puncture marks really should hurt, but they didn’t bother you at all.

“They normally do hurt,” Marshall said softly. “Even people who do this for money, the ones who aren’t naturals, are constantly in at least some pain, especially after the drugs they get wear off. It’s because of what you are that you barely feel them. August got you good today though, didn’t he?”

“How do you know that?” It surprised you that he’d heard anything over his music while feeling the way he had been feeling.

“Without his ability, the man is a brute. He always was.” Why did that sound so… good?

“You've known him for a long time, then?”

“Yes, but I won’t discuss his past. That’s up to him.” That seemed fair. You wouldn’t take kindly to one of your childhood friends spilling the beans on everything you had done when you were younger.

“Hey! August just told me to tell you that dinner is almost ready!” Mike didn’t knock, or anything, he just stormed into the room and jumped on Marshall’s bed behind you, snuggling up to you in the process.

“Mike, mate. I love you, but get the fuck out of my bed.”

“Bro, you’re literally cuddled up to my girl right now. If I get out of your bed, I’m taking her with me!” It was probably a good thing that he announced that, because judging from the look you caught briefly in Marshall’s eyes as he turned around, he would have ripped Mike to shreds if he hadn’t said anything. A low growl rumbled in his throat and there was a strange twitch in his upper lip.

“Like I said. Territorial issues,” Sherlock mused from the doorway, where there was – yet again – too much leaning going on for your tastes. “Can we try to get along, gentlemen?” Both Mike and Marshall grumbled a barely audible – to you, Sherlock probably heard them perfectly – ‘fine’ as they got up.

“Mike suggested movie night,” you said sternly, staring both guys down when they fought over who got to drag you to the kitchen for dinner. You could tell Mike wasn’t as on board with his idea right now as he had been when he had first suggested it.

“Get moving, before we have August to deal with as well,” Sherlock sighed as he walked away. You followed him, and Mike and Marshall followed you. Very closely.

Sherlock gave stern instructions on the seating arrangements at the table, which you were grateful for, but it didn’t stop the guys from bickering over who got to take care of you the most.

“Little boys!” you shouted after the so-manieth spat before dinner was even served. “Your behavior right now is: a) exactly what I would expect from a bunch of five year olds and b) upsetting me.” That last part got them to settle down really quickly: the last thing they wanted to be doing right now was upset you. In fact, they were more or less chemically compelled to do the exact opposite. All three of them mumbled apologies while still glaring at each other. On the plus side; you took Sherlock’s warning about spacing those feeding sessions out a lot more seriously now that you’d seen with your own eyes what ignoring his suggestion would result in.

“Thanks for cooking, August, it’s really good,” you said before even swallowing the last of your bite. August nodded gratefully in reply to your compliment, but Marshall and Mike just glared at you, causing Sherlock to sigh deeply before burying his head in his hands. The rest of dinner followed a similar pattern: you said something – anything, really – to one of the guys, and the other two were frowning and pouting like a couple of little children. Sherlock reassured you several times that things would settle down with time, especially if you kept an eye on the timing. You had to admit to yourself that if it hadn’t been for Sherlock keeping your head level, you probably would have changed your mind about negotiating an arrangement by now.

After dinner, the guys cleared the table. It was nice to not have to help, so you quietly enjoyed that while keeping Sherlock company in the living room. When everything was done in the kitchen, Mike and Marshall got snacks and drinks ready to watch a movie. August sat next to you on the couch for a moment, and for a split second, you wondered if he was sitting maybe a little bit too close.

“I’m off to bed,” he said softly. The words seemed to hurt him – maybe they did, considering the fact that the guys still had their little caregiver-competition running. On top of that, August sounded pretty much exhausted. “Seeing those two like that, dealing with all of it, while being so… depleted, really took a toll. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not! Thanks again for dinner, go get some rest!” Some of the tension in his shoulders seemed to disappear when he heard you give him ‘permission’ to go to bed. Was it permission? Did he actually need you to tell him it was okay? “You never have to feel uncomfortable about taking care of yourself, August.”

When he got up to leave, he briefly stroked your cheekbone as you told each other good night. His touch left a strangely hot trace on your face – a feeling you decided not to linger on for too long. What on earth was wrong with you?

“Dinner?” Mike snuggled up to you, his eyes hopeful. You sighed, not because of what he was asking – you made him a promise, after all, even though you were certain it wouldn’t be a problem if you changed your mind – but because it was so typical.

“Yeah, go ahead,” you said casually. Something about it seemed to rub Mike the wrong way, because he pulled back.

“Hey, I need you to really be okay with this,” he said softly, “there’s no fun in this if you’re not totally on board.” You laughed without thinking, not because what he said was funny or anything, but because you didn’t know what else to do.

“You know what I want, Mikey,” you whispered, a smile spreading slowly across your face when he pushed his face into the crook of your neck and chuckled. A gasp escaped you when you felt Mike’s tongue against your skin, and you shivered. Yes. That was exactly what you needed after today. He kissed your neck, the touch of his lips so soft you suspected the only reason you felt it at all was because he was still hungry – thus: freezing.

“Hm, a little cold for you?” he teased. You couldn’t help but laugh again – a sound that turned into a sharp hiss when Mike’s fingers snuck into your t-shirt unexpectedly.

Strong hands pinned you in place when you wriggled to get away from the cold – something you did instinctively even though you were well aware of the fact that there was only one way to get it to disappear.

“Shh, baby. Let me take care of you,” Mike whispered softly in your ear, “I know exactly what you want.” Oh. That voice. The confidence. It was the polar fucking opposite of his – failed – experiment from a few weeks prior, and the best part was that you knew he wasn’t bluffing this time.

“Please, Mikey, you have to eat something.” Alright, ‘something’ was ‘you’, but still. It felt weird to just openly beg him to feed on you like this. Then again, it wasn’t the first thing you’d ever begged him for. The strangest, maybe, but definitely not the first.

“I will,” he said, his voice soft in your ear as his teeth gently grazed your earlobe, “but I’m going to enjoy this.” His voice was an intense mix between hunger and lust, so dark you almost didn’t recognize it, but damn… It turned you on to no end.

“I have no idea what you taste like when you’re not minutes away from cumming all over my cock,” he growled, “and I’m sure as fuck not going to find out today.”

Oh. It was like that, then? You weren’t complaining, just… making some – very minor – adjustments to your expectations. What surprised you most was the fact that you wanted him to bite you as much as you wanted him to fuck you. And he knew that. ‘I know what I’m doing’-Mikey was hot. This time, he wasn’t trying to do some bit, pretending to be someone he clearly wasn’t. It was just your Mike, acting on one of his silly whims, and this time, that meant he was going to lean into his gift all the way, not even leaving any room for protest – not that you wanted to. He knew you didn’t, and he’d know it if he was about to go too far, and that simple fact made you trust him more than you’d ever trusted anyone before.

It was precisely that trust that made you so desperate for him. Well, maybe it did help that he’d managed to take most of his clothes off in a moment when you weren’t paying attention. Now that you were paying attention… You were also suddenly mostly undressed.

“You’re impatient today,” you teased, thinking you saw an opportunity to get the upper hand in this situation. Big mistake.

“Oh, it would have been so mean of me to leave you hanging when you’re this fucking needy, baby.” Damn him. One of his hands wandered, making its way down your body until it slipped into your panties, while he teased your neck by kissing, licking and gently grazing his teeth over your skin. Every time his mouth touched you, you found yourself squirming and whimpering, your body begging him to bite you. At some point, you realized you wanted him to feed on you more than you wanted anything else from him right now. The problem was… He knew that.

“You’re gonna cum for me first, Sweetcheeks,” he said. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t have been a problem, but now, you were so consumed by the thought of him biting you that you seriously wondered how you were ever going to focus on anything else. You’d even missed how Mike had pushed two fingers into your pussy. How did you miss something like that? “Come on, focus.”

Had he always been this good with his hands? You didn’t exactly remember… And now was really not the time to think about it, anyway, because Mike was doing his absolute worst (read: best) trying to drive you wild – and it was working. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, it was working. His touch had you writhing and moaning, swearing so loud he used his free hand to cover your mouth. You knew for sure it wasn’t the other guys he was worried about, so it had to be the neighbors. His fingers never stopped moving inside you, he steadily wound you up until he had you right at the edge… and then he kept you there. For what felt like a really long time, when in reality it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

“Please,” you begged, “Mikey – f-fuck – please.” It didn’t help one bit. He just chuckled, with that stupid grin on his face, and watched you as you wondered why – in the name of everything that was good and holy, goddammit – what he was doing wasn’t enough. It should have been enough, it always was. And you were trying so hard.

“Come on, baby,” Mike said softly, “I know you can do it.” His voice was what finally broke you – that and the fact that Mike suddenly rolled his thumb over your clit in exactly the right way, giving you that tiny little bit of stimulation you’d been missing. You were glad he put his hand over your mouth again as you came, because they would have heard you scream three doors down if he hadn’t.

“Good girl.” That gravelly voice, and that chuckle… Absolutely divine – but somehow nowhere near as good as the feeling you got when Mike’s teeth finally sank into your neck. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he was going to enjoy this: he sure as hell was taking his sweet time now. That’s why it was all the more surprising when he let go again, leaving you to stare up at him with a look of utter bewilderment. There was something strange in his eyes. Not just the caring, worried look that you were used to, but something feral and dangerous that probably should have scared you, but didn’t.

When he smiled, you noticed that his teeth didn’t retract the way they normally did. It made the devilish, posessive smile all the more intimidating. Then how was it still so sweet? You laughed when Mike made a beeline for your chest. Idiot. Your idiot. At first, you just felt his tongue and lips as he inspected every inch of skin very closely, as if he hadn’t done it a hundred times before, but soon you felt his teeth grazing your chest, sharp fangs threatening to puncture your skin, leaving red scratches now and again, in particularly careless moments. When he looked up at you, his eyes held a question, though it was unnecessary, since he already knew the answer to it: yes.

“Mine,” he said before biting down on your boob the same way he had last time. Now that you saw it coming, and weren’t overthinking the sensation, you were able to enjoy it much sooner than before. The view was fun, too: Mike had the most content look on his face – especially when you ran your fingers through his hair – and he let out a happy little hum. It wasn’t until he opened his eyes and looked at you, however, that you felt it. An overwhelming desire for… you. The feeling disappeared when you closed your eyes and groaned as Mike bit down on your boob harder than he had been – and definitely harder than he had to.

“Mikey!” you hissed at him angrily when he let go of you again. He still wasn’t fully fed. He’d be going in for at least one more bite.

“What?” he asked innocently as he crawled back up and snuggled up to you. “What’s the point of having a girlfriend if you can’t mark her up a little?”

“You’re having a little too much fun with this,” you said. Mike just laughed. When he looked at you, the feeling from before returned. It was such a strange thing to feel about yourself, that it took you a while to realize you weren’t feeling it about yourself. They weren’t your desires at all: they were his.

“So that’s what it feels like,” you muttered under your breath. It had the same kind of ‘echo’ to it as Marshall’s thoughts when he had been feeding this afternoon. Before you could analyze the feeling any further, however, it disappeared.

“Oh? My gift? What did I want?” Mike asked eagerly. Of course he’d heard you perfectly! When were you going to get used to the fact that no matter how softly you spoke, they were always going to hear you?

“Me,” you said. There was something in your voice that resembled teasing. You couldn’t help it, even though it really wasn’t your intention.

“Correct,” Mike said as he kissed your neck, making you giggle. “And I’m not done with you yet.” His playful tone was a far cry from the – for lack of a better word – Daddy-vibes from before, and you laughed at the immense contrast. It was in his eyes, too: They were hopeful instead of fierce and demanding.

“What happened, tough guy?” you teased. Mike frowned at you.

“Didn’t think this all the way through,” he answered. It was typical, to say the least. “The compulsion to take care of you is kinda weighing me down here. Can’t bring myself to growl at you, even though I know you loved it.” Instead of growling, he tickled you lightly, and you squirmed in his arms.

You didn’t realize he had moved until he was at the foot of the bed, holding a box of condoms you knew for a fact came out of your bedside table.

“I know you want to cuddle,” he said as he let himself fall on top of you again, immediately pressing his lips to your neck. “It’s really hard to ignore that right now, and I really want to, too, but I also really want to have sex with you.” The way he said it made you laugh. As if this was some life-or-death dilemma where it was impossible to pick the right thing, when the solution was absolutely dead simple.

“I’m sure we can compromise,” you said as you gently stroked his hair out of his face and looked at him.

“Cuddlefuck?” he suggested while biting his lip in that way you found completely irresistible. Before you could even answer – not that you had to, you knew that by now – he was already behind you. Naked.

“Human. Speed. Michael.” You were really starting to lose your patience with this nonsense.

“Well, excuse me, I have urgent matters to attend to,” Mike replied, acting as if your words were the gravest offense. “Making you feel good, for instance.”

He made good on that promise like you wouldn’t believe. For the better part of an hour, too, until you had to beg him to stop for fear you weren’t going to be able to walk straight in the morning. And he was being gentle – as gentle as his immense enthusiasm allowed, anyway. He only really slowed down when he bit your neck again – on the other side, thank god, because the first site was suspiciously sore.

“Are you finally done?” you laughed when he nuzzled your neck afterwards.

“Yeah,” he sighed contently, making you laugh even louder. “Thanks for the… special treatment.”

“I would have liked to tell you about that,” you said while stroking his hair.

“You can, tomorrow,” he replied – much to your surprise. You’d never even considered the fact that those ‘boyfriend privileges’, as you’d called them before, would have to be part of the negotiations you were about to go into with the others. “I drank enough to get me through at least two or three weeks, just in case.”

[darkverrmin]

soft h/c: a magical creature grants Jaskier one wish, and Jaskier decides to ask for Geralt to be happy. The creature fulfills Jaskier’s wish, by making the bard immortal.

[wishicouldpostfromsecondaryblogs]

@zeebee823 THAT'S SUCH A COOL IDEA I HAD TO WRITE IT OUT IMMEDIATELY (along with geralt finding out abt Sandpiper even if he's too drunk to fully process lmao)

Also more Aves stuff here

"There are so many good ballads to make here," Jaskier sighs happily, looking over at the ruckus the other Witchers are making as they fight for the last bone on the table. "The pack of Wolves, reunited at last, denning down together for the season."

"Hm," Geralt says, equally as happily, enjoying the length of Jaskier stretched out on him. They may still be unusually hesitant around each other, kissing like trembling teenagers rather than decade-old friends falling into something new and wonderful, but at least they way they touch each other still has the same familiarity as before.

"Barring one Cat and one Griffin, though," Yen says, her need for accuracy winning out over the drunken sleep she was about to succumb to. She smacks weakly at Jaskier's feet in her lap, face scrunching up adorably in irritation, and Geralt leans over and kisses her for it.

What neither of them are expecting, though, is Jaskier choking on his drink at her sudden input and tensing up in their laps. Geralt turns to him sharply, Jaskier waving away his concern as he asks, "Did- did you just say Griffin?"

"Yes," Geralt replies, frowning at the way Jaskier grimaces at the affirmation. "Coën is a Griffin witcher. What-"

"Ah, fuck," Jaskier says, stumbling out of their embrace to his feet. "Shit, gotta talk to him."

Yen laughs at the look on Geralt's face as his drunken brain registers that Jaskier is now no longer in his lap. "Aw, is the puppy dog sad that his little birdie left him?"

"Fuck off," Geralt mutters as he helps her up, both of them stumbling after where Jaskier had disappeared. The bard had always been mind-boggingly fast when he was drunk. "I missed him, alright?"

Yen snickers and they lean on each other as Geralt tracks Jaskier's scent through the halls to Coën's room. After a few moments of admiring the stars outside, Geralt actually stops to think about it and grows more and more mystified by Jaskier's behaviour as they walk, curiously wondering what on earth had Jaskier acting like that.

The bard pacing outside the room when they approach, muttering and mumbling to himself under his breath, nervously pulling at his clothes every few seconds.

"COËN!" Geralt shouts, then hiccups. This way Jaskier won't have to worry for much longer. Yen helpfully kicks the door for them. "COËN!"

"Meletile above, Geralt, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Coën snaps as he jerks. open the door. Geralt wrinkles his nose at the smell coming from inside, then wrinkles it further when Remus waves cheerfully at him from the bed, half-naked. "Are you all drunk?"

"You're drunk," Yen shoots back intelligently, and Geralt nods in support. Coën looks at him with an expression seeming to question his choice of companions and also his sanity, then jumps in shock when Jaskier suddenly grabs him by the arms and turns him around.

"Coën! I am so sorry, I really didn't know you existed, promise!" He exclaims, looking beseechingly at the flabbergasted Griffin. "Really, I thought there was no one from your school left, I swear, or else we wouldn't have, wouldn't even have thought about it."

"Wh-what?" Coën says, looking towards the two of them for an explanation and also leaning slightly away from Jaskier. "What is he talking about?"

Geralt and Yen shrug at him- they've started doing things in sync nowadays, which makes him feel sort of gooey inside- and Coën rolls his eyes in exasperation and turns back to the bard. "Jaskier, what?"

Jaskier sighs in distress and pulls a hand down his own face. "Look, I- what do you know of the Aves?"

Geralt frowns. "The branch of the Resistance that helps the non-humans round the Continent?"

"Damn good at what they do, too," Remus says, lazily walking up and plastering himself to Coën's back. "Kind people, them. What about the Aves, bard?"

"Ah, well," Jaskier says, pasting on a smile and bowing to them all. "Sandpiper of the Aves, at your service."

Geralt feels his mouth drop open as he turns to look at Jaskier, even as Yen cheers drunkenly. "What?"

"You're the Sandpiper?" Coën says disbelievingly. Jaskier reaches into his jacket and produces a sandpiper feather with a wink and a smile.

"Fucking hell, Geralt," Remus says, impressed. "What on earth did you do to snag a catch like this?"

Jaskier ducks his head and blushes, pleased, eyes flickering to Geralt to see his reaction.

Geralt is still busy processing this new information that explains so much but also raises a million more questions- but stops everything to smile at Jaskier at the question, as mushily as his face will allow, tipping his head onto Yen's. "I have no fucking clue. I'm still trying every day to be good enough for him."

"How much did you drink?"

"He's amazing!" Yen cheers, which makes Jaskier go from a lip wobble to barely holding back tears, and makes Remus walk up and gently pry the bottles from their hands.

"It's an extremely noble thing that you and your team are doing, yes, but what on earth does that does this have to me being a Griffin, Jaskier?" Coën asks patiently, redirecting the bard's attention back to him.

"Right! Right- Geralt, Yen, I love you but please shut up for a bit now. So, here's the thing- when we first started the Aves, we needed a stronghold for the- well, everything, I guess. Papers, important people, a place to drink. But there isn't really a place that's, uh, free of soldiers or spies, right? So then I remembered that Geralt mentioned that the Griffin's keep was in Korvir, which is the one place far enough from Nilfgaard and Redania and Cintra to be safe. So we-"

Geralt raises his head from Yen's to stare indignantly at Jaskier, "You remember that, but you couldn't remember that I told you to get the peaches I liked from Oxenfurt seven years in a row?"

"Kind of- shut up, Geralt- tracked it down in the mountains- and got it repaired."

Yen opens her eyes to join Geralt in the indignant staring. "You could track down an abandoned Witcher's Keep in the mountains, but you got so lost in the fort today that four separate witchers couldn't find you?"

"Will you please shut up, Yen."

"Wait, wait," Coën interrupts, waving his hands about. He looks adequately like someone who was dragged from his lover's embrace to confront three drunks in the hallway and told his old home had been taken over by his brother's lover, who was also a key member of the Aves. Geralt, personally, has decided that he's going to process it all later. "Are you telling me that you... repaired the Griffin Keep? And people are living there now?"

"Well, yes, we had contacts in the area who owed us a favour," Jaskier says, shifting nervously. "And don't worry! We made sure the remains of the witchers trapped inside got a proper burial, and I made sure we could rescue as much of the place as we could, and-"

"Jaskier, Jaskier, it's fine," Coën says, letting out a laugh of disbelief and holding his hands out. "I'm not- I'm not mad, it's just a lot to take in. Are you serious?"

Jaskier nods.

"Damn. Fucking hell, can I see it?"

Jaskier perks up immediately. "Of course! It's your old home, you don't even need to ask." He scrambles through his pockets until he produces a xenovox from somewhere and flicks it open. "Alessandra! Alessandra, wake up, dear."

The xenovox light flickers on and a scratchy voice comes through, irritated and groggy from sleep. "Jaskier, you dick, it's fucking past midnight, what do you want?"

"I've met a Griffin witcher."

The line goes silent for a while. "Well, fuck," The woman says finally, "Are they mad?"

"No," Coën says, shaking his head and stepping forward to take the xenovox. "But I would like to see my home, if it's all the same to you."

"Of course!" The stranger says, sounding as earnest as Jaskier had, if still half-asleep. There's the sound of bedsheets being thrown aside and a loud crash. "One moment, I'll just track the xenovox and open a portal for you all immediately."

Geralt groans loudly. Jaskier shoots him an unimpressed look. "No one's making you come, you know."

"Shut up. I'm coming with."

"I'm not," Yen announces. "I will throw up if I do. I am gonna- hic- go to bed. Goodnight, assholes."

"Goodnight," They chorus to her as she goes, Remus risking his hand as he ruffles her hair when she passes, an unfortunate habit of his that they've all been violently subjected to.

A portal opens before Yen can kill him, luckily, and Jaskier and Coën slip through immediately. Remus cheerfully claps a hand on his back and dodges a fireball and does the same.

Fuck portals.

Jaskier's there on the other side, though- letting Geralt fall into his arms with a laugh and holding him close until the dizziness passes. Geralt nuzzles into his neck and snuffs, breathing in his scent slowly until he feels like he can stand without embarassing every witcher to ever live.

"Better, love?" Jaskier whispers. Geralt nods and stays in the hug a moment longer before straightening up and looking around.

His eyes widen.

It's a Witcher's Keep- just like Kaer Morhen used to be when he was a child; torches lighting up the grey stones to brown, heavy tapestries and cloth draped over the walls, well-worn tables and armchairs in the centre and books and papers and weapons all scattered across them. There's people running about, children and adults alike, scampering to clean up the mess and staring at the four of them with wide eyes.

It's so different. Unscathed from violence. Geralt hadn't realized how many grief-filled memories the Wolf Keep held in the blood spattered on its stones until he'd walked in here.

Remus seems to be thinking the same, if his awed melancholy is anything to go by. Coën is crying silently beside them, eyes darting around the whole place intently, like it would disappear if he blinked. He's trembling too, and Geralt let's go of Jaskier so he can half-hug his brother in comfort.

A woman walks towards them from the end of the hallway with a determined air around her and holding herself with authority, looking like she was about to charge into battle any second. The people scattered around the room fall into place behind her in a tangled jumble, staring at them and whispering amongst themselves.

"Master Griffin," Alessandra says in a clear, strong voice as she reaches them, meeting Coën's eyes unflinchingly. "If you hold any grudge against us being here, if in any way you think it a slight against your brothers and sisters, then just say the word, and I promise we will leave your Keep immediately."

Coën visibly gathers himself back together and puts his hand on his shoulder with a bark of laughter. "Madam, please. My brothers and sisters would have been honoured to house the members of a noble cause such as your own in our halls. Of course you can stay. You all can."

A huge cheer goes up in the halls, tension visibly breaking, and Jaskier throws himself onto Coën with a whoop, hugging him so tight that Geralt hears his joints crack.

"Why the fuck did we get stuck with the fucking assholes and not Coën's instructors? Fucking unfair," Remus grumbles to him, and Geralt hums in amusement.

"Your maintenance of the place is beautiful," Coën praises enthusiastically. "Better than even when we lived here. You've truly done a spectacular job here, my fair lady. Now, come! Let's see the rest of it!"

Alessandra stares at Coën with wide eyes, looking slightly teary and very overwhelmed. "Dammit, Jaskier," She hisses wetly, smacking the bard without looking away from where Coën is leading the children further into the Keep. "What the fuck? Why did you wake me up to supernaturally beautiful men complimenting me in the middle of the fucking night? I fucking hate you."

Remus laughs and pats her sympathetically on the arm, before pulling her along to where everyone was going. "Trust me, it doesn't get any easier in the daylight. Why don't we get you sent back to bed, sprout, you look like you're about to drop."

"Come on!" Jaskier suddenly pops up in front of Geralt as he goes to follow, and he barely stops himself from backhanding his lover to the ground. "No one's really here apart from the chaos children and the people who can't leave, but let me show you around!"

"You call this no one?" Geralt says amusedly, gesturing to the two-score crowd of people now surrounding Coën and Remus and chattering at them as they walk off.

"Yes, there's usually more when we all meet up- us Aves need a break too, once in a while," Jaskier says, towing him away in the opposite direction. "Let me show you my room!"

Ten minutes later, they are extremely lost.

"Why did I trust you again?" Geralt asks, scrunching up his face. The alcohol is wearing off a bit now, the buzzing in his head less loud, and he has enough of himself back to feel more or less exasperatedly fond of Jaskier's horrible navigation sense.

"Oh, hush, you," Jaskier chides, opening random doors and peeking inside. "I know this hall, it has the unicorn tapestry on the left side, which means- aha! Welcome, Geralt, to my humble abode."

Geralt walks in and is immediately assaulted by the pleasantly musky scent of the warm room, with hints of Jaskier's perfume in the background. "Nice room."

Jaskier preens. "Thank you, darling. I transferred most of my stuff from my Oxenfurt room here when we all jumped ship, and it made it quite homely, if I do say so myself. Ah, don't- be careful with those papers, they're important!"

Geralt skims them, shifting the delicate pages to the side. They're names- rows on rows of people whom the Aves have rescued, persecuted for something or the other, as well as maps and intensive sketches of webs of people allied and at war. "Jaskier."

"Yes?"

Geralt looks him up and down with new eyes, trying to spot the leader of the Aves in his old companion's frame. "You did all of this?"

"Yes, well," Jaskier smiles softer, walking up next to him. "I'm well aware of the privileges I had when I was back at Oxenfurt, as did the others. And we- after the- the Tree-" He swallows hard, visibly fighting back tears. Geralt pulls him close and rubs his fingers gently. "After that, Geralt, I- I had to do something with all that extra leeway. I had to."

"It's amazing," Geralt says, voice full of emotion. He kisses Jaskier. "You're amazing."

Jaskier ducks his head and blushes again, blotchy red high on his cheeks. He's tipsy as well- not going off into fictional grand tales or bragging. "Oh, shut your gab, it wasn't much. All I did was pester my friends into research and help a few families get to where they needed to go. Everyone else did the rest."

"You shut up," Geralt says, kissing his cheeks. "Doesn't look like the Aves would have existed without you, Jaskier. And even your part requires an incredible amount of bravery, that shit isn't as easy as people say it is."

"Don't I know it," Jaskier huffs. "Thank you, Geralt."

Geralt hums, nuzzling into Jaskier's neck. He hesitates as something occurs to him, but the alcohol loosens his tongue before he can stop himself, "... Have I been holding you back, all these years?"

Jaskier snorts. "Did you see a war waging these past years for me to be a part of the Resistance for? Do you think I secretly wanted to be a spy in the courts of the spoiled nobles all these years rather than go on our wonderful, fun adventures? I chose to follow you, you dumb lump of coal. Hell, if anything, the sheer amount of horrors I've seen you take down without breaking a sweat helped harden my nerves enough for me to do this whole thing in the first place."

Geralt sniffs and wraps his hands around Jaskier, mollified.

"And it... hurt, thinking of you," Jaskier admits, and Geralt presses an apologetic kiss under his ear. "But, Meletile, Geralt, you have no idea how many times we had a close call and I would be so fucking scared, because I was responsible for people now and if anything happened it would be on me. And then I'd run my fingers through my midnight scarf and it would feel like you were there next to me, and that I could do it."

Geralt presses in closer and makes a note to dye some more clothing for Jaskier when he gets the time. "I'm here for real now."

"You are," Jaskier says fondly. "And I wasn't expecting it to get this big, you know? But then more and more people joined in, and next thing you know, I'm an urban legend."

Geralt hums happily. "Good. You deserve to be a story too."

Jaskier laughs, loud and delighted. "Geralt! That is the sweetest thing you've ever said to me. Oh, come here, you."

They kiss for a good long while.

"You're the Sandpiper," Geralt says again when they stop for breath. He can see it now, actually- a version of Jaskier made of the little skills he'd picked up through the years; haggling and persuading and running and comforting and hiding and cunning. He tries not to, but ends up pouting a bit, petulantly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's not the easiest thing to confess to without sounding like a lunatic?" Jaskier raises an eyebrow. "Yen only knows because she found me as the Sandpiper while the idiot was on the run. But regardless, I was gearing up to tell you anyway. Probably would have told you in a week. Or three."

Geralt hums and kisses him again. "I have so many fucking questions for you, by the way. About how the fuck you managed to take over a lost Witcher's Keep, for one, when you can't even stitch our clothes well enough after all these years."

"My stitches are perfectly fine, you boor," Jaskier replies heatedly, kissing him back. "Both of us just have extremely active lifestyles that end with them tearing again and again."

Geralt hums mockingly and Jaskier huffs and shoves him onto the bed. He climbs in after, eyes twinkling. "Now. We seem to have gotten ourselves a perfectly empty hallway all to ourselves, with no one around to hear us. Up for some fun, darling?"

Geralt moans teasingly and puts his hands up to grasp the bedpost. "Yes, Sandpiper," He replies in the same tone Jaskier calls him the White Wolf and Jaskier throws his head back to laugh and then pounces.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Prompt idea: Geralt gets a contract for a monster that has been sighted nearby. When he tracks it down, he is surprised to find mothman!Jaskier who (much like actual mothman) has an ass that won’t quit.

?

I just want you to know that Mothskier now lives in my head rent free 24/7. I love him. I would die for him. This is my new favorite emotional support au.

2k-ish words - please feel free to shove comments through the bars of my enclosure, I would really like that

art by the ever-wonderful @mawbwehownets, whose drawing of Mothskier made me legit cry.

tw: mild injury, brief blood mention, strangers to lovers

---

“So what you’re saying,” Geralt raises an eyebrow slowly, curious, “Is that you need me to catch a monster that’s half man and half moth?”

���Yup.”

“Alright,” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger. The frustrated Witcher takes a slow breath to calm and center himself, before he ends up botching the entire contract-writing process. Humans tend to grow attached to the strangest monsters sometimes, and apparently this mysterious local being was no different. “Let me get this totally straight, so there are no mistakes or misunderstandings. You want me to capture this man-moth and get it out of your woods, but you don’t want me to kill it?”

“He’s called the Mothman, and he’s pretty damn stubborn about sticking around,” the aging farmer corrects Geralt with a little frown. Then his expression shifts and he smiles in a way that seems almost apologetic. “We were hoping you could find a way to relocate him without hurting or killing him, Master Witcher.”

“That’s completely possible, if he isn’t attached to this specific patch trees by any magical or biological means. You said his natural habitat is just… the forest?”

“As long as there's an abundance of pine around he seems pretty happy. Before he came to live with us, Mothman lived in a heavily forested area up the coast; or at least that’s what the historical records and local mythology seem to indicate.”

“That’s actually pretty helpful information to have on hand, I’m impressed,” Geralt nods. “Alright, Mr. Stevens. I promise to relocate the poor thing without killing or maiming him, and I’ll be sure to take him somewhere far enough away that your crops won’t be in danger. Thanks for calling me first instead of just going straight to an extermination service.”

“Honestly, Master Witcher,” the farmer sighs and readjusts his dirty baseball hat, “If it weren’t for the mischief he’s been getting into lately, we would have let him stick around until spring. I hate to admit it to a man as strong and stern-faced as yourself, but the poor creature is almost… adorable at times.”

“Well that’s a first,” Geralt chuckles, honestly amused by the situation he’s found himself in. “A monster being referred to as ‘adorable’ rather than ‘terrifying’. I’ve never heard such a thing in my many years of life.”

“Then you’d better prepare yourself, Sir Geralt. He’s got a pair of big blue puppy-dog eyes that’ll knock you on your ass if you aren’t careful. And that’s coming from a man who raised three daughters with dimples.”

“Hmm. Fuck.”

---

Geralt knows enough about moths to come up with a plan he thinks will work.

Before he heads into the woods to find and capture the poor wandering creature, the Witcher takes a detour through the lighting section of the nearest Lowe’s.

---

Unfortunately for Geralt, the farmer was right about the power of Mothman’s puppy dog eyes, which are big and blue and begin to water as soon as the Witcher’s net knocks him to the ground. The creature lies in a whimpering tangle of limbs beneath the heavy, magically enhanced restraints. Geralt takes an opportunity to look at what the locals called "a cryptid".

Mothman has a long, lithe body that's covered in a light layer of grey-brown fur, but his hair resembles that of a human’s, falling over those enormous blue eyes in a lovely chestnut fringe. When Mothman sees the swords on Geralt’s back he cries out in panicked recognition and tries to pull his arms up far enough to shield his face. The lamp Geralt used to lure him into the clearing is still bathing him in a pool of yellow light; it’s almost pretty for a monster, Geralt notes.

As the Witcher takes a step forward, the cryptid squeaks and buries his face against his own shoulder. His entire frame is trembling.

“Hey there, shhhhh,” the Witcher murmurs quietly. He drops into a squat and holds both hands up to show Mothman that they’re weapon free. Tears are now falling freely down the creature’s surprisingly human face; whoever or whatever this is, they are likely some kind of Fae. “I’m not here to hurt you, I just want to get you back through the veil.”

“Liar,” Mothman huffs. His voice has a surprisingly musical quality to it and Geralt is now sure of his Fae parentage (or grand-parentage).

“I promise I’m not lying,” Geralt reassures him, slowly crawling forward. When he reaches for the nearest corner of the net, he feels all of Mothman’s muscles go tense. “I’m going to lift this up and I am going to restrain you, but I swear that I’m not going to kill you. I wish to cause as little distress as possible. Is that alright, Mothman?”

The creature hisses and yanks his foot back away from where Geralt’s hand had nearly touched it. “Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” Geralt glances up, raising an eyebrow.

“My name is Jaskier,” the Fae repeats, glaring up from between the sections of woven rope that make up the heavy net. “Not Mothman.”

“My apologies, Jaskier,” Geralt bows his head. He words his introduction carefully, in case this thing can manipulate his name like others of his kind: “You may refer to me as Geralt.”

“That’s your real name,” Jaskier states. The Witcher’s head snaps up.

“How did you know?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier sticks his tongue out as he mimics the sound Geralt made earlier. “Not telli-AH! Stop! Oh go- gods, stop! Please!”

Geralt drops the short section of rope he’s trying untangle from around Jaskier’s ankle and snaps his eyes upwards, already searching for damage. “What’s wrong!?”

“My wing!” Jaskier bawls. His scent spikes out through the clearing, sharp with panic and pain. The creature’s chest begins to shake more violently than before, his shoulders shuddering with the rising force of his sobs, “It’s t-t-torn! Oh gods, my wing! Sir Witcher, p-please!”

Geralt freezes, his gaze settling on the torn section of Jaskier’s large, furry wing. It’s a nasty wound near one of the joints, a faint trickle of barely-luminescent blood has already dried around the edges. Jaskier tries to flutter it a little and screams in agony when the muscles shift too suddenly, shrilly enough that Geralt needs to cover his hypersensitive ears. The Witcher's heart crashes down into his boots; based on the way the shivering Fae has gone pale and silent, the pain is too much for him to process. He’s gone into shock.

A torn wing is exactly the kind of thing Geralt had promised the farmer (and the collective of townspeople he represented) wouldn’t happen to the peaceful moth creature if they hired a Witcher instead of an exterminator. He sighs and gives the strange being another once-over. “Everything's alright, Jaskier. You’re going to be alright. I’m so, so sorry that you've been wounded. We’ll get you out of this net and get you something for the pain, but it’s going to hurt a little to untangle you. Stay still, don’t struggle, and it’ll be over soon.”

“J-Just kill me,” Jaskier pants. He’s continuing to hyperventilate and Geralt needs him to calm down before he passes out. The Fae reaches a hand for the dagger at Geralt's waist and the Witcher twists out of reach with a frown. Jaskier sobs again, fingers still seeking, “I might n-n-never fly a-again so just k-kill me!”

“Breathe with me, Jaskier,” the Witcher instructs, forgoing patience and cutting through the net with that same dagger. He scoops Jaskier up into his arms, ignoring the keening sound at the back of Jaskier’s throat when his wing is jostled, and rushes the Fae to his truck, tucking him into the passenger’s seat and wrapping him in a large, fluffy blanket. “I’m taking you to my friend. She’s an expert at healing magical creatures and I'm certain that she'll get your wing fixed in no time.”

Jaskier doesn’t give an answer. When Geralt looks up into the creature’s face again, the injured Fae has already passed out.

---

Jaskier moves with all the grace of a newborn foal as he explores the room Geralt has provided for him. His wing has been inspected, treated, and bandaged by a rather scary sorceress named Yennefer, who glared at the Witcher the entire time she was caring for him. She had also taken one of Geralt’s old t-shirts and cut an enormous hole in the back for Jaskier’s wings to fit through. The shirt’s bottom hem falls to the middle of his thighs and the thick black material is softer than anything he’d ever felt before.

He hears a knock on the door and calls out, “It’s open!”

Geralt enters slowly, bearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a mug of tea. “I brought you some last minute supplies and - uh… I brought you some tea. Yen always likes some before she goes to sleep and I figured since this was a new place and new places can be scary that I should-”

“Thank you,” Jaskier interrupts, smiling shyly. His antennae twitch happily as he takes the offerings from Geralt's hands and the Witcher watches them with wide eyes. Jaskier carefully sets the pajamas and the tea on the nightstand before turning back to look at Geralt. “I will… see you tomorrow?”

Geralt gives one sharp nod. “Hmm.”

“Goodnight,” Jaskier sing-songs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as Geralt exits.

From the other side of the closed door, Jaskier’s superior hearing picks up the Witcher’s final whisper: “Goodnight, Jaskier. I will always be sorry for causing you pain.”

The next morning he meets Geralt at the breakfast table, refreshed and ready to learn about the human world. He’s summoned a glamour in order to hide his more Moth-like traits, the only things that remain of his true nature are his wings and antennae; his fur is gone and he’s dressed in a pair of sweatpants and that same old shirt. The Witcher offers him a bowl of fruit and mug of something sweet-smelling. Jaskier glares into the mug with a slight pout to his lips before finally asking, “What is this?”

“Hot chocolate.”

Jaskier takes a sip and his antennae flutter, twitching happily as he swallows the best drink he’s ever had in his long life. He eats a strawberry from the bowl and slowly works his way through the hot chocolate, eyeing Geralt warily as the Witcher moves through the familiar kitchen to make his own breakfast.

“Where is Yennefer?”

“She went home,” Geralt shrugs.

“She isn’t your mate?”

“N-No,” Geralt sputters, turning to stare at the nervous young Fae. “Why would you think that?”

“You smell like each other.”

“We spend a lot of time together,” Geralt shrugs again. “Good friends, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier mimics his host for a second time. Rather effectively by the annoyed twitch at the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Just wondering.”

“Anything else you’re curious about?”

“Why don’t you have more lights?”

“Huh?”

“Lights,” Jaskier gestures around the minimalistic layout of Geralt’s open-concept kitchen/living room and its distinctive lack of lamps. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans forward against the dark marble countertop. The pout has gone from 'slight' to 'full-bore' and Geralt is clinging desperately to his braincell with how cute it looks. “It’s no fun.”

“You really like lamps, don’t you?” the Witcher replies, mouth dry. Jaskier huffs and takes another sip of his hot chocolate, antennae flickering back and forth in irritation. Geralt bites his lip to hide a smile; it’s too fucking cute, which is an odd thought for a Witcher to have.

“So what if I do enjoy a nice lamp or five in my living space?” Jaskier argues. "I'm a Moth of taste."

“No matter,” Geralt laughs quietly. “Finish your drink before it gets cold.”

---

Jaskier stays with Geralt for a few weeks while his wing heals, and for a creature whose sole interest seems to be fancy light fixtures, the Fae becomes a source of light in Geralt's own world. They go to a nonhuman friendly second-hand store to find Jaskier some more clothes and Geralt discovers the cryptid's love for oddly patterned shirts in bright colors. Jaskier chooses several to fill out his closet, as well as a sweater two-sizes too large in deep black (Geralt tries his best not to attach any meaning to this choice), a few pairs of pants, and a jean jacket that he declares, "Can be altered."

They watch movies together and make food together - Jaskier is always incredibly impressed by the way the automatic coffee maker works, and how easily Geralt can control the flames of the stove. Jaskier also follows the Witcher along on less dangerous hunts and helps bandage him up after worse ones, always there with a smile and a little kiss over the cleaned-up wound.

“It really is magic,” Jaskier always insists, lips pink and shining from licking them as he concentrates. "It makes you heal faster."

Geralt realizes one night - two weeks into Jaskier’s stay, as he leans against the doorframe and watches the strange creature’s even breathing - that he has gone and done the stupidest thing a Witcher can do: fall in love with a pretty, temperamental young Fae. Head over fuckin’ heels, actually.

So he makes a decision.

---

The next evening, after the dinner dishes have been cleaned and put away, Geralt herds Jaskier down the hall to the guest room. Those entrancing blue eyes blink up at him in obvious confusion. “Bedtime already?”

“No, not quite. I just- I made you… uh…”

“Do you have a surprise for me?” Jaskier asks, used to the Witcher's issues with verbalizing.

Geralt nods, relieved and thankful for the Fae’s steadfast understanding. “Do you want to cover your eyes or should I just open the door and show you?”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Jaskier smiles, covering his eyes with both hands. Geralt finds it adorable, as Jaskier always is, and allows himself a matching grin as he swings the door open. The ceiling light is off but Geralt has built a blanket fort at the center of the room and surrounded it with fairy lights of all colors and sizes. Inside the blanket fort is a mass of blankets and pillows; Jaskier has the odd habit of building nests - Geralt jokingly calls them cocoons - and sleeping in those on the floor instead of on the very comfortable mattress the Witcher has provided.

“Open them,” Geralt urges.

Jaskier pulls his hands away and Geralt watches as his pupils go huge and wide. Jaskier's face breaks out in the sunniest, most blindingly happy smile Geralt has ever seen. He turns and throws his arms around the Witcher, his wings fluttering behind him and his antennae twitching and flicking above his head. He tries desperately to speak but only manages a half-snuffled little “I’m-” before bursting into tears of joy.

Geralt just holds him, letting his arms fold carefully around Jaskier’s waist, just beneath his wings.

"I just wanted you to know that, if you wanted to stay, there would be room for you. Your room, if you want it."

"I do," Jaskier smiles, burying his face in the Witcher's neck. "I'd love to stay. I'd love nothing more than to spend my days going on adventures with you."

"Well then," Geralt gathers all of his courage and presses a soft kiss to the crown of Jaskier's head. He's met with happy spasms from the antennae so he does it again. And again. Moving from the top of the Fae's head to his cheeks and then his mouth - pretty and pink and pouting and so worth the trouble. "I suppose we can get started on our next adventure tomorrow."

[writinglizards]

Poison in my Veins

Summary: Geralt takes a mix of potions on a hunt and has an uncharacteristically bad reaction. Jaskier helps him deal.

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: Mature

Warnings: smut, dubious consent on the basis of sex pollen (but they’re both into it), minor levels of whump

Read on Ao3

Geralt hates potions. He always has, and he probably always will.

They're useful, sure, and he takes them because he needs the edge they provide when he's hunting, but the negatives far outweigh the positives, as far as he's concerned.

Depending on the concoction, they make him prone to headaches, sensitive to light, lightheaded, nauseous. And those are just the mild ones. That's not saying anything about the way they make him look, or how some of the more intense potions feel like they're burning him up, make him twitchy and hypersensitive.

He's mixed a vial of kiss and black blood for his hunt tonight and he knows he's going to need them, even if he hates it, even if he doesn't want to use them. Jaskier's in camp tonight and he doesn't...he doesn't want to have to hide in the trees until he looks normal and approachable again. It's the worst part, feeling strung out and needy and knowing he's got to wait another thirty plus minutes until his eyes change, until the black of his veins fade until he can return to camp.

He hates it.

-----

He knows as soon as he downs the potions in quick succession that something's wrong. He dispatches the garkain taking up residence in the nearby cave smoothly and without problem, but there's a burning under his skin that shouldn't be there, a tight, hot curling in his gut that makes him double over, makes him moan brokenly. It’s not the normal slightly queazy response he has to this mix of potions. It's not...it's not good, this feeling, but he gets the impression it could be, maybe. It feels like being so strung out, so needy that everything hurts, and tears spring to his eyes as he curls tighter into himself, knees hitting the cave floor and he moans again, an unpleasant, painful sound.

It's how Jaskier finds him, however long later.

"Geralt, what--" he stops in the mouth of the cave, and Geralt knows something's really wrong with him because he should have heard him coming, should have--

"Jask," he grinds out, and his voice is thin with pain, "Jask, please--" he doesn't know what he's asking him for, but Jaskier steps forward anyway, puts his hand carefully on Geralt's shoulder as he ducks to get a better look at his face. The touch is like a brand, even through the thick leather of his armor.

"Geralt? Are you okay?"

"Potions," he says, breathless with the tender brush of Jaskier's hand along his arm, the way he squeezes his bicep gently. Even with the barrier between bare skin, it's too much, "hurts."

"Is that--" he trails off, other hand coming up to cup his cheek, force him to look him in the eye. He can feel his face heat, knows that like this his blush will be black like ink instead of red. Jaskier breathes in sharply, thumb rubbing idly back and forth against his cheekbone.

"Yes."

"What can I do to help?" It's...a valid question. But there's not anything that can be done, and if Jaskier isn't going to run screaming, apparently--

"Help me back to camp? Please." It hurts to ask, but not as much as the knotting, painful feeling in his gut, not as much as Jaskier's fingertips on his bare skin. Jaskier nods, more to himself than anything, before working his way under Geralt’s arm and winding his own around Geralt’s waist. When he’s got a good grip on him he stands, dragging Geralt upright with him.

"Oh, fuck," Jaskier gasps when Geralt moans and his knees buckle, almost bringing both of them back to the ground, "work with me, Geralt, I'm trying here."

He focuses on keeping upright, one foot in front of the other as Jaskier leads him from the cave toward their camp. His gut burns unpleasantly and he wants to curl up again so badly. His skin prickles where Jaskier touches and he realizes, belatedly, that what he feels is arousal, so bright and hot it hurts. He wants to wrap his fist around his cock and strip himself until he physically can't take the touch anymore, wants Jaskier to hold him--

"Doing okay?" Jaskier asks when Geralt stumbles, but he keeps a firm grip around his waist, keeps him moving despite the way he drags them both down. Geralt knows he's hard and he knows Jaskier must know, but he hasn't drawn attention to it.

"No," he says honestly, "keep walking." He can see the way Jaskier presses his lips together firmly in response, but he doesn't stop, continues to help Geralt hobble closer to camp, slowly but surely.

By the time they make it back to the camp, Geralt's shaking so hard he can barely stay upright, and Jaskier's gone absolutely silent, breathing ragged as he labors under the majority of Geralt's weight.

He's expecting to be deposited unceremoniously on the ground, but Jaskier lowers him gently beside the fire. As soon as Geralt's knees hit the packed dirt, he's curling forward, moaning lowly.

"Okay, okay, just--" Jaskier's breathless from exertion, but he's still fussing over Geralt, hands working quickly at the clasps of his chest piece as he focuses on freeing him of the heavy leathers, "--give me a minute, Geralt, hold on--"

"Fuck," he mumbles, forcing himself still as Jaskier plucks at the buckles and ties, undoing them deftly. It makes his blood sing to feel Jaskier undressing him, even if he knows that's not how this is going to go.

"I need you to sit back for a minute, Geralt, can you do that?" he asks, palm searing against his back where it rests. He's sure Jaskier means it as a kind of reassurance but all it makes him feel is want.

He doesn't say anything, just forces himself more upright, even as it makes that curl of intense pain flare in his gut. He closes his eyes and forces himself to focus.

There's a high, whining noise in his ears that he realizes belatedly is him. Jaskier's speaking, soft soothing nonsense as he rushes to free the last few ties and pry him out of the armor, and as soon as the heavy weight of it is gone, he's shucking his shirt as well. He shifts to curl back over, but Jaskier doesn't move, a hand pressed gently to his chest. Unbidden, Geralt whines. Jaskier's expression flickers with something, there one minute and gone the next.

"Geralt, you've never...what's going on?"

"Potions," he repeats roughly. "Jask, please--" there's blatant need in his voice, and Jaskier jolts, eyes meeting Geralt's straight on and holding his gaze, which--

"What do you need, love?"

He can't ask that of him, even if he knows Jaskier would give it. This burning feeling will only intensify before it runs itself out. He can...he can wait it out. He's done similar before.

"Space," he says, not meaning it for a moment, but Jaskier nods, shifts back and away to let Geralt curl back around himself, folding his arms on the ground and press his forehead to them tightly. His gut cramps like there's a fist in there, squeezing tight, and he can't help the shocky little sound of pain that filters through his lips when he shifts, his dick catching against the rough fabric of his trousers.

"Geralt?"

"Hurts," he repeats, "sorry, I--" he cuts off when Jaskier presses in close again, not touching but close enough for the calming scent of lavender and pine to wash over him. It makes him ache sharply, makes his dick throb, even if he smells nothing but the sour note of concern under that, tinging with something like fear.

"How's it hurt, love?" he asks softly, and Geralt can feel Jaskier's desire to reach out like a physical thing. It's...worse, somehow, than he thought it would be. His touch burns, but--

"Bad potion mix, they must have been off and I fucked it up, I--" he has to snap his jaw shut or risk biting off his tongue as a wave of shivers hit him, so sharp they're almost, almost pleasant, if it weren't for the aching burn in his gut, "--ah--"

"Geralt?"

"Sorry, I--" he cuts off again, whining as he presses his forehead to his arms, hard. "--Melitele fucking help me."

Jaskier sits silently at his side even though he's practically vibrating with energy, and Geralt just...rides out the sharp swell of it for a few moments, waiting for the bright hot burning need to settle for the time he needs to speak.

"Always a little...ah...but this is, mm--" there's a sharp, needy quality to the noises he keeps making; he can hear them as if they come from another person, "intense." He's panting as if he's run straight from Vizima to Novigrad on foot.

"And there's nothing I can do to help?" he asks, "like a massage or--"

Geralt laughs. It's sharp and painful, more a bark of noise than true laughter. It shocks Jaskier silent.

"Jaskier, I am so hard I can't breathe, you touching me is the problem."

"O-oh," he stutters out, and Geralt wishes he could see his face, gauge his reaction. Is he disgusted? Amused? Merely indifferent? Geralt's already too far gone to read his tone. "Did you...nothing will help?"

"Jerking off might," he bites out, feeling the heat in his cheeks, "but I...it's never been this bad before, I can't fucking think--"

"Do you need help?" Jaskier asks, and the pulse of arousal is so strong it sends him spiraling in another wave of cramps. He cries out this time, trying to ride out the bright hot flare of pain as Jaskier makes his own soft, distressed noises above him.

"You can't help," he gets out eventually. It's supposed to be angry, but it just comes out breathy and weak.

"Okay so you don't--okay," Jaskier says, sounding more like he's talking to himself than Geralt before clearing his throat and sitting up a little straighter, "so you don't want me touching you. Why can't you get yourself off? That should help, yeah?"

"Hurts," he breathes, gut-clenching at the thought of Jaskier watching him. He's just getting that surge of white-hot arousal under control and now it threatens to overwhelm him again, "can't...can't lay flat long enough to--"

"Ah," Jaskier says, as if suddenly getting the picture, "it's...like a cramp? Like that time I had the food poisoning and--"

"Yes," Geralt cuts him off quickly. He doesn't want to think about Jaskier on his knees in any context, even if it involves lots of vomiting and tears.

"Mm, you know what helped with that," Jaskier says, tone conversational, "was when you held me, actually. Do you think that might work?"

Geralt whines again, muscles tensing as the curling heat in his stomach bursts to fresh life again. The thought of Jaskier touching him, holding him so tenderly, even if he's not--

"Please," his traitor of a mouth says before he can catch up to it, "please, it hurts so bad, Jask, I just want--" he cuts off on a sob when Jaskier's palms settle on his back, rubbing warm, soothing circles as he shuffles around him into what his hazy focus assumes must be a better position.

"Alright, Geralt, alright," he's soothing, voice low and warm. Distantly Geralt realizes the fear scent is gone as Jaskier tucks himself across Geralt's back, palms sliding to his hips as he curves over him. "I know it hurts, love, but we're gonna lay back, alright?"

"Can't," he gasps out, hands scrabbling for Jaskier's forearms, hold him closer, "Jaskier, I can't."

"Sure you can," Jaskier says softly, voice honey-sweet and warm, "I know you can, Geralt, you're so strong, love--"

He chokes on a soft sound at the praise, and Jaskier just hums. "I know, darling, you can do it, relax for me."

Slowly, bit by bit, Jaskier works his arms around Geralt's waist and eases him backward until he's sitting upright, knees shaky where they’re bent under him.

"Oh, good job, sweetheart," Jaskier breathes, and Geralt's gut clenches so tight it’s unpleasant, hips twitching, "you're so hard, darling, why don't you take care of that? I'm sure it will take the edge off a little."

He's whining, a thin, sustained noise as he fumbles at the button of his trousers, drawing himself out with shaky hands. He knows from experience that the pull of his own hand feels good, but all he can process is the searing pain, the way it knots his gut and makes him breathless.

"Hey, hey," Jaskier soothes in his ear, hands pressing hard to his stomach just above the jut of his cock, "take it slow, love. Enjoy it." He doesn't enjoy the rough drag of his own hand, but Jaskier's palms against his stomach, right above that licking heat is...

"Fuck," he sobs, hips snapping, but Jaskier just holds him calmly, fingers brushing slowly back and forth across his overheated skin.

"I know, Geralt. Easy, darling," he murmurs. He lets Geralt jerk himself for what feels like an awful stretch of time with no results.

"Isn't working," he rasps out, and he's not sure when he started crying, but there are tears on his cheeks and his throat is raw with them.

"Do you want help?" Jaskier asks, voice calm, and the thought of Jaskier's hands wrapped around his dick--

"Yes, please, oh fuck," he gasps, squirming. Jaskier doesn't even have his hands on him yet, but just the thought--

"Alright, darling, alright," he murmurs, fingers sliding from the flat stretch of his stomach lower to wrap around his cock, and Geralt jerks, coming in long, hot spurts that leave him sobbing, fingers digging into the flesh of Jaskier's thighs as he desperately grasps at something to ground him. "Oh, that's so good, Geralt, there you go, good boy."

"Jaskier," he gasps, not softening in the least as Jaskier continues to work him over, tugging him toward a second peak with skilled fingers and soft words.

"I know, sweetheart, does it still hurt?"

He can't speak, just nods roughly. He moves to press his forearm against his lower stomach and Jaskier lets him before resettling his palm over the top of his arm, a warm, reassuring weight as he continues to jerk him off, slow and smooth.

"That's alright, we'll get you everything you need, Geralt, don't worry, oh, look at you," he breathes when Geralt locks up, spilling a second time over Jaskier's fist and his own thighs, "aren't you a sight?"

"Jaskier, please--"

"You want me to stop?" he asks, touch gentling but not pulling away. He’s worked his trousers and smalls down to his calves at some point, and he kicks free of them, finally bare. Behind him, Jaskier is still clothed, and the contrast makes his skin prickle. All of him aches fiercely, but it's not so bad he feels like he'll die, like he needs to curl into a ball and rock back and forth, sobbing with it, not like earlier.

"No," he mumbles anyway, and Jaskier makes a sweet, approving sound before his lips press against Geralt's shoulder, softly.

"Thank you for letting me help, love," he says, lips brushing skin. He redoubles his efforts, bringing Geralt to an easy third peak, but he can still feel that awful itching burn under his skin that tells him they're not done, even though he's already tired.

"Jaskier--"

"Hm?" he asks. He's paused to play with the head, thumb pressing just a touch shy of too hard under it. It makes his hips twitch, makes him groan. He knows he needs to ask if he wants more than just this, but--

"Would you--" he wets his lips and inadvertently catches sight of his own dick in Jaskier's hand, the way he's swollen angry and nearly purple, the delicate curl of Jaskier's fingers around all that firm flesh, and he watches, raptured, as those fingers stroke to the base, dip to fondle his balls, reach back--

"Yes," he hisses, back arching, and Jaskier rubs a little more firmly against his hole, humming softly.

"You want me to get you off on my fingers? Jerking you off doesn't seem to be helping." It is, of course, but it's a slow depletion of the potions after effects. He knew, even as the burning, itching feeling had settled into his bones, that this was one of the bad ones, one that is easier fucked out of him than fucked through.

"Yes," he husks, "please," and then Jaskier is dragging his hand through the mess of Geralt’s come and pushing one slender digit in, slowly but surely. "Oh, fuck." The ache isn't gone, but it's immediately eased with that slight fullness.

"Breathe, Geralt," Jaskier reminds, and he sucks in a sobbing breath, head lolling on Jaskier's shoulder as he spreads his knees a little wider to give him better access, "there you go, love."

"Fuck me, please," he mumbles, and Jaskier does, moving that single digit in and out nice and easy. The slick of his come eases the way and his head spins as his gut clenches. He needs-- "more, please."

"Eager," Jaskier says, lips pressing to his shoulder again, but there's a second finger nudging against his rim before pressing in, slow and steady, and he chokes on his next breath, "but that's okay. Let me know if it's too much."

It isn't. He wants more, faster, harder, but he doesn't want Jaskier to think he's greedy. It's bad enough he's nearly out of his mind with need, bad enough Jaskier has to see him like this at all, but--

"You're thinking too hard," Jaskier says softly, and he crooks his fingers, brushing against that spot inside him that makes him shake, gasping, "I want you focused on this, Geralt, not whatever's up in that head of yours."

"What if I'm thinking about you?" he whines, prodding for a weakness, anything. Jaskier laughs softly.

"No need to think about me, love, I'm right here." He twists to press his lips to Geralt's cheek at the same time Geralt twists to look back at him and their lips brush, just barely. They both freeze.

"Fuck--" The moment doesn't last long. As Jaskier's fingers still, the heat flares up, sharp and overwhelming, and Geralt's head rolls against his shoulder again as he squirms, trying to encourage Jaskier to move.

"Sorry," he breathes, fingers resuming their easy movement. It quells some of the feeling, but he's still painfully hard, still needy and right on the edge, "sorry, Geralt, can I kiss you?"

"Please," he sobs, twisting his head, lips searching, and then Jaskier is there, lips sliding against his own. Geralt assumes Jaskier will kiss gently, will kiss as thoroughly as he's fucking his fingers into him, slow and controlled and overwhelming. What he gets instead is fierce heat, the slick slide of lips and the quick bite of teeth before the nip is soothed away with the cool lap of his tongue, leaving him gasping.

Jaskier crooks his fingers again as he licks into Geralt's mouth and Geralt comes with a muffled cry, hips twitching as Jaskier milks his prostate, cock spilling over his hip.

Jaskier works him through it, fingers tucked against that spot inside him until it hurts, until he's squirming again and whining, and only then does he back off, fingers easing away from his prostate to play with his rim instead.

"How are we feeling, Geralt?"

"Good," he whines, "Jask, I need--"

"More?" he asks, fingers teasing lightly along his rim until he's panting with it.

"Yes, please, gods fuck me, please--"

"Alright, darling, alright." He kisses him again, quick. "But you are alright though?"

"Yes, Jaskier, please--"

"Alright," he soothes, "touch yourself for me," he says, and then he's pulling away, fingers sliding free. There's an immediate flare in his gut, sharp and painful, but not as bad as it was. Almost...almost manageable. Especially as he wraps his own fist around his cock, movements quick and jerky. He doesn't say anything as Jaskier eases him down onto his back on the hard ground, situates himself between his thighs. He thinks...he thinks maybe he should, but--

"How's it feel?" Jaskier asks, curling his own hand around Geralt's where he's pumping himself roughly still. He jerks in response to the touch, needing Jaskier's more than his own.

"Good," he gasps, "so good, Jask, I--" he bites off the words, teeth sinking into his lower lip. There's...there's no need to tell Jaskier how bad he wants him, no need for Jaskier to know about how he feels. It would make it weird. He's just...he's just here to help.

"Good," Jaskier says, voice rough as he kisses him again, filthy and quick, "want you to feel good, Geralt."

His hand falls away as Jaskier shifts between his thighs and he situates himself around Jaskier's waist. He’s still fully dressed, chemise rucked up, trousers open and dick curving hard and hot from the open vee of his trousers. Compared to Jaskier, Geralt feels open and exposed but he burns with the need to feel Jaskier inside him.

"Don't tease," he says when Jaskier drags the slick head of himself over Geralt's entrance but doesn't push in, "please, Jask."

Jaskier hums and steadies himself wordlessly before pressing in, and the thick, burning pressure makes him shout as he arches into it, hips canting to get him deeper faster.

"Slow," Jaskier grunts, hands on his waist, and Geralt sobs, fingers scrabbling along his shoulders as he yanks him down over his chest, forces him closer.

"Please, need it now, fuck me, please," he gasps, thighs flexing, and Jaskier groans, a deep, primal sound that makes Geralt shiver. "Fuck me hard, Jask, come on--"

Jaskier growls and snaps his hips forward almost brutally as he sinks the rest of the way in and it's perfect, leaves Geralt breathless. There are tears trickling down his cheeks again but it's good, it's so good--

Jaskier doesn't move, wrapping his fist around Geralt's dick and jerking him off hard and fast until he's coming again, Jaskier buried inside him and grinding filthily against his ass but not really moving. Above him, Jaskier hisses, but otherwise doesn't respond, teeth grit in something like a grimace.

"Jask," he slurs out, feeling drunk on pleasure, and Jaskier grunts, leaning forward to kiss him when he tips his chin up needily, "want you to fuck me for real," he mumbles when they part, just enough to breathe, "please."

"'M gonna come if I do that," Jaskier says, words pressed into his lips as he kisses him again, over and over in brief, delightfully filthy little presses.

"'S okay," he says, and it's true; the burning, clenching feeling in his gut has mellowed. He feels...almost normal.

"Are you gonna be okay? I thought you needed to be full?" and the tender care in his voice, despite how rough and deep it is, despite the way his hips twitch restlessly against his ass, makes Geralt flush hot.

"I do," he says softly, "but I want your come in me more," and Jaskier makes a harsh, painful sound.

"You say the prettiest things, Geralt," he gasps, and then he's fitting his palms beneath Geralt's knees and pushing them back to his chest, holding him open. Geralt's own hands settle on his thighs to help as Jaskier pulls back partway before snapping forward again.

The first thrust is like heaven, sharp and pleasurable and almost overwhelming. Geralt makes a sharp, needy noise in response, and Jaskier bares his teeth, expression fierce as he pulls back to fuck into him again, just as hard. The singleminded focus in his eyes makes Geralt feel hot, makes his gut churn and his dick twitch and he can't help but think about how much he wishes this were different--

His thoughts are interrupted by a hand in his hair, yanking hard as Jaskier sinks in again, makes him cry out hoarsely.

"Where are you, Geralt?" Jaskier asks, and it's clear he doesn't mean physically.

"Here," he mumbles anyway, "with you."

"No," Jaskier grunts, hips snapping forward again, and Geralt whimpers, "don't lie to me, Geralt."

"I want you," he sobs out when Jaskier snaps back in again, and Jaskier makes a tsk-ing noise.

"You have me, Geralt, what are you really thinking about?" He tugs the strands in his fist a little harder, tips his head back a little farther as he snaps in again, and Geralt can't help but wail as his cock twitches. He's so close-- "tell me."

"Want you to want me," he gasps, even as he wishes he could strangle the words in his throat--the fierceness in Jaskier's eyes, the intense look there is flaying him open in a way he's never felt before. He couldn't stop them if he wanted to, "want you to want this, Jask, please--"

"You think I don't?" he pants out, still not losing his rhythm, "hm? You think I'd do this for anyone, Geralt?"

He doesn't have an adequate response for him. Of course he doesn't think Jaskier would do this for just anyone, but--

"You think I'm slutty enough to slide between just anyone's thighs, Geralt?" he asks, fingers cinching tighter in Geralt's hair, and he can't help but cry out, back arching.

"N-no, no, fuck, Jask, of course not, I--"

"Then why am I here, Geralt?" he growls out, punctuating the question with the thrust of his hips, and Geralt's thoughts scatter as he nails that place inside him again, leaves him gasping and whining. "Answer me, Geralt. Why am I here?"

He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know why Jaskier's here if not out of some twisted sense of loyalty. But he also knows if he says anything about loyalty right now, Jaskier's likely to snap and he's...he doesn't want that.

"I don't know," he gasps, fingers clawing uselessly across his shoulders, and Jaskier hisses at the bite of his nails, "'M sorry, I don't know."

"I want to," Jaskier growls out, forcing Geralt's eyes to meet his with the hand tangled in his hair, "you fucking idiot, I want to."

He doesn't know when Jaskier closes the space between them again to kiss him, but as soon as he does, Geralt can't breathe, needs Jaskier's mouth moving against his own more than he needs air. And still, Jaskier's relentless pace doesn't let up.

"'M gonna come," he gasps against Jaskier's lips, and Jaskier just hums softly in the back of his throat as his fingers rise to flick over his nipples teasingly, and that's it.

Geralt comes hard, shivers wracking his frame as Jaskier works him through it, thrusts angled deliberately to hit his prostate. Each brush feels like coming anew, makes him whine sharply into Jaskier's mouth despite the lack of come painting his stomach--he's come almost dry this time.

He's still whining and clenching around Jaskier's length, still oversensitive, when Jaskier shoves in deep and comes with a strangled noise, lips slipping messily against his own. The feeling of being filled is good, makes him feel loose and pliant, even as Jaskier collapses across his chest, sticky mess between them.

They lay together, silently panting, for a long, tired moment before Jaskier shifts to pull out and rolls off him. Geralt immediately misses the firm weight of him.

He waits for Jaskier to say something in the issuing silence, but he doesn't, just lays there quietly alongside him, only the harshness of his breathing, already easing, between them.

"I'm...sorry," he says awkwardly, tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth. He no longer feels like he might die, but he's still not quite right either, riding the aftershocks of pleasure that make him feel dumb and hazy.

"What for?" Jaskier asks, fingers rising to pluck at the ruined fabric of his chemise before squirming out of it with a sigh, tossing it somewhere to the side.

"For...forcing you into such a position," he says, and Jaskier sighs, an awful, put upon sound.

"You didn't force me into anything, Geralt," he says, "or were you not listening?" The reminder of Jaskier's very attentive lesson makes him flash hot. It's almost upsetting to be turned on again so soon. He doesn't think he could come again if he tried.

"I..."

"Do you need a reminder already?" he asks, voice like steel, and Geralt can't help the whimper that slips through his lips. "I told you I was here because I wanted to be. I do. Too much." Something in Geralt's chest lurches.

"I...not as much as I do," he mumbles, eyes averted. Jaskier is silent so long Geralt can't stand it--he looks back at him, just in time to catch the shock fading to something soft, something like longing.

"What do you mean, Geralt?"

Fuck. Jaskier's really going to make him say it. Again.

"I...told you," he says haltingly, and his cheeks are on fire, "I want you to want me."

"More than just when you're ten seconds from dying without an orgasm," Jaskier says, voice teasing, but there's sincerity behind it, and Geralt feels himself flush harder.

"Yeah."

"Good," Jaskier says simply, "because I do." It...takes Geralt a minute, for his world to readjust.

"You...do?"

"Mm," Jaskier hums, rolling closer and tucking his head under Geralt's chin pointedly. Belatedly, Geralt brings his arms up to wrap around his waist. Nothing about this could be considered comfortable--they're laying on the hard ground feet from Geralt's actual bedroll, Jaskier's still got his trousers on, Geralt can feel come dripping down his thighs and he's absolutely covered in his own spend, itchy where it's already begun to dry.

"Oh," he says softly, and Jaskier gives a snort of laughter, pressing a kiss to Geralt's collarbone.

"Thought you already knew, darling."

"I...did not," he says, and everything has a surreal, slightly fuzzy quality to it. It's...probably the after-affects of the potion, coupled with the haze of pleasure still running through him.

"Mm, well now you do," Jaskier says, "what are you gonna do about it?" It's teasing again, soft. Geralt sighs, a quiet, content gust of breath.

"'M gonna nap," he slurs out, dragging Jaskier closer to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "and then we'll see about repaying your...favor," he mumbles, and Jaskier laughs, bright and soft.

"I'll hold you to that."

[valdomarx]

Aard

“Jaskier, down!”

Jaskier doesn’t think, doesn’t question, just drops to the leafy mulch covering the forest floor. He sees Geralt gesture with his left hand and a whoosh of air thunders over his head.

The shockwave slams into the huge, hideous arachnomorph that had been scuttling towards him, lifting the creature off its legs and sending it flying ten feet through the air. It hits a tree trunk with a sickening crunch and falls, twitching, to the ground.

He’s still in shock when Geralt comes over, picks him up and sets him on his feet.

“What was that?” he asks, heart pumping furiously.

“Giant spider,” Geralt says flatly.

“No, the -” he gestures by flapping his hand about. “- thing you did. Was that Witchery magic?”

Geralt scowls but indulges him anyway. “It’s not mage’s magic. It’s called a sign. That one was Aard.”

“Huh. Handy.”

Yrden

“Show me another of your signs.”

“They’re not party tricks, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pouts. “I have the natural curiosity of an artist, and it’s cruel to deny me the sustenance of knowledge.”

Geralt glares at him. “You want to see another sign? Fine.” He inscribes a round shape with his fingers and a line of purple light glows in a wide circle on the floor around Jaskier.

“Tingly!” Jaskier grins.

“Now stay right there.” With that, Geralt disappears off, silver blade in hand. Jaskier twiddles his thumbs, pretending he isn’t bothered by the muffled sounds of something inhuman shuffling around the old castle or the distant blood-curdling shrieks.

Out of the corner of his eye he’s sure he sees something pale and insubstantial flit through the air, but when he turns to look directly at it, it’s gone. Then there, again, more shapes moving in the dark corner of the room, then another by the window.

“Geralt?” he calls, determined not to let his fear show in his voice. “Um.”

One of the shapes draws closer, still wispy like smoke until it crosses the threshold of the purple circle and all at once solidifies into a twisted nightmare of a human skull, flesh tearing away from the bone in filthy chunks.

“Geralt!” he screams as the figure approaches him, all thoughts of bravery forgotten. “Geraaaaaaalt!” The figure is inching closer, bony hand outstretched to claw at Jaskier’s face.

As he thinks this is it, this is how I die, Geralt leaps from the darkness with blade in hand, slicing the wraith’s head clean off. Its body collapses and its head rolls to a stop in front of Jaskier’s horrified hands.

“You used me as bait? You absolute brute!”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Igni

Jaskier shivers, looking morosely at the cold bath. They’d been trekking through the snow for days and every part of him was frozen from his nose to his toes.

He’d got through the freezing nights by promising himself a lovely warm bath when they finally reached an inn, but they arrived late and had been lucky to find accommodation at all.

He’d insisted Geralt take the bath first to have the benefit of the lukewarm water. He needed it more after the hunt. But by the time he was clean, the water was stone cold.

Jaskier braces himself. Needs must, though he dreads the idea of becoming even colder for the sake of getting clean.

As he contemplates the bath, Geralt slips up beside him. He looks him over, seems to make a decision, and waves one hand.

There’s an orange glow, and then the water is steaming and Jaskier can feel the heat radiating off it. He could honestly cry.

“How did you...” he looks at Geralt. “Never mind. Thank you, Geralt, really.”

Geralt grunts and goes back to cleaning his armor.

Axii

The pain is unlike anything he has experienced before. The gash in his leg is deep and ugly, but the tearing of the rent flesh pales in comparison to the agony of the arachas venom racing through his veins.

Every muscle in his body feels like it’s on fire, a blazing explosion of acid which leaves his lungs heaving for breath and his voice hoarse from crying out.

“It’ll be okay, Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice clipped and tight. “We need to get you to a healer.”

Through his panic Jaskier catches sight of Geralt’s face, frowning deeply. He longs to wipe his sad expression away. But his body is wracked by another jolt of pain and he can’t stop screaming long enough to respond.

As his vision begins to swim and fade, he sees Geralt gesture with one hand and his mind goes suddenly, blissfully blank. The pain and the worry and all of his thoughts dissolve away, leaving him floating in empty space.

Feel no pain, Geralt’s voice echoes through his mind, and everything in him yearns to obey. Sleep.

The pain is gone. His eyes drift shut and darkness descends.

Quen

Jaskier barely has time to register the gang of bandits that appears on either side of the ravine they’re travelling through before a hail of arrows descends on them, sharp death incoming on the end of every shaft.

Geralt swears and moves faster than lightning, grabbing Jaskier and pulling him close, throwing one hand upward. A shimmering gold shield fizzes and pops into place around them both, the arrows bouncing harmlessly off it.

Jaskier looks up at Geralt with wide eyes, seeing him cast in a golden glow as the shield thrums around them. The bandits yell and growl, but within minutes they give up their assault and slink back into the forest in search of easier prey.

Geralt’s arm is still around Jaskier’s waist and their bodies are pressed together. Warmth blooms everywhere they touch.

“You okay?” Geralt asks, voice gentle.

Jaskier is breathing heavily, and it’s not due to the close call. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Thanks to you.”

Geralt's face pinches and Jaskier can see the refutation forming, so he distracts Geralt by taking his chin in his hand. The golden shield holds, keeping the world at bay for a few precious moments.

“My hero,” he says, and means it.

“You don’t have to -” Geralt says, turning his face away, but Jaskier keeps a hold of his chin and turns it back.

“I know I don’t have to,” he says, sliding his hand around to cradle the back of Geralt’s neck. He leans in until there’s nothing more than a breath between their lips. “I want to.”

[imagineredwood]

6. “Please don’t kill him.” “Nah, I just wanna talk.” - Coco Cruz

Summary: Your ex Coco thinks that your new guy isn’t treating you right, but things aren’t always as they seem.

Pairing: Coco Cruz x female reader 

Warnings: Implication of abuse but its not, I promise, it’s a plot twist. 

Word count: 772

A/N: When I tell y’all I loved writing this, I mean it  😂 

“What are you doing here?”

You blinked as you looked at Coco, not having expected to see the sniper on your doorstep. Sure, you had heard the bike, but you had figured it was EZ or Angel, maybe even Taza being a sweetheart and stopping by for coffee and a chat like he had done last month. The last Mayan you had expected to see was your ex-boyfriend Coco. You hadn’t seen him in nearly four months now, and you weren’t able to hide the shock nor the nostalgic sadness from your face. Coco didn’t seem to mind though, thinly veiled rage in his eyes as he gently pushed his way past you and into your house as if he still lived there.

“Coco!”

He ignored your incredulous exclamation and closed the door behind him, looking around your home.

“Is he here?”

To say you were confused would have been an understatement.

“Is who here??”

“That motherfucker you were at the store with yesterday. The one Angel saw yank your arm when you were taking too long at the deli.”

You shook your head in disbelief, hands pushing against the Mayans chest as you kept trying to scope out your home.

“Coco, slow down. What-what are you even talking about?”

He stopped for a moment and slowly looked down at your hands as they laid on his chest, his shoulders losing some of their tension at the touch he had missed. You looked down as well and then pulled them away, not missing the wince on Coco’s part. His eyes landed back on yours and he explained tightly.

“Angel was at the store yesterday, same time as you. Said he saw you there with some guy, and that he was rushing you to leave. When you took too long, Angel said he saw him pull you away all rough and shit. Said he was gonna fuck him up right there but decided he would let me do it.”

Coco held his arms out to the side then.

“So I’m here. I don’t give a fuck if you’re my ex; no ones gonna put their hands on you like that. I know we both agreed to split but promised I wouldn’t ever let anyone hurt you and I meant that shit. I’ll fuckin’ kill him. So where’s he at?”

In the time it took to explain it, Coco’s anger had resurfaced, and he was trying to go further into your house now, on a mission to find the man who thought he could get aggressive with you. Your hands were back on his chest once more, holding him back. Just like the first time, it stopped him in his tracks, and it embarrassed him how the simple touch made his heart hurt.

“Coco, stop.”

Looking back at you, he found you looking just as confused until the lightbulb went off.  

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I haven’t been with anyone since we split up. At the store? The guy Angel saw me with? That was my cousin.”

Coco’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion and you shook your head, already having figured out the oldest Reyes brother’s plan now.

“Angel has met my cousin. He knows what he looks like. He’s seen him plenty of times before. He just…must’ve told you that to get you to come here.”

Coco could feel his cheeks starting to heat up then and he looked down at the floor, that anger from before now switching toward Angel in his mind.

“So…so you’re ok? No one’s being mean to you or anything?”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, body relaxed now.

“I’m fine. No one’s being mean to me. My cousin was just hangry and wanted to get lunch but there were still like 6 people in front of me at the deli, so he wanted to go. That’s it. No one’s doing anything to me. I promise.”

Coco nodded and then let his own shoulders relax. Ex or not, he was always going to look out for you, and that was something you appreciated. Looking over at the clock, you saw it was nearly dinner time and motioned into the kitchen with your thumb, extending the offer.

“You…wanna stay and eat with me?”

Coco nodded, the first ghost of a smile coming to his lips.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. I’ll stop by Angel’s place after.”

You laughed and shook your head, knowing his best friend was in for it after pulling this move.

“Please don’t kill him.”

Coco shook his head and pursed his lips the way he always did when he was lying.

“Nah, I just wanna talk.”

General taglist (Gets tagged in basically everything that is a reader insert)

@piccasoe @ateliefloresdaprimavera @gemini0410 @woahitslucyylu @my-rosegold-soul @that-chick212 @everyhowlmarksthedead @glimmerglittergirl @elcococruz @fanaticfangurl21 @encounterthepast @iambabyharry @svintsandghosts @starrynite7114 @saturnsaree @multiyfandomgirl40 @destynelseclipsa @sadeyesgf @queenbeered @iamthegraham @emoengelfurleben @all-the-boys-to-the-yard @otomefromtheheart @rosieposie0624 @papa-geralt-of-cirilla

Mayans MC taglist (Tagged in all Mayans MC content only)

@dazzledamazon  @abunnykisses @briana-mishell24 @angelreyesgirl @wrcn9fvlcver @peaches009 @capt-canadian @thesandbeneathmytoes @krysiewithak @veracruz-djarin @appropriate-writers-name @cind-in-real-life @blessedboo @montanaraed @kkim120 @megapeacelovemusic-blog @emoengelfurleben

Coco taglist 

 @emoengelfurleben​ @maciiiofficial​

[oldandkinky]

“i don’t know what to do” “then let me teach you” & "no one can ever find out about this”

with Geraskier 👀 ?

CW: priest kink, blasphemy, breaking of celibacy vows, loss of virginity, doubt, first kiss, anal fingering/sex

Part one here

*********

Ever since the day where Jaskier stepped into the confessional, things have… escalated. Geralt doesn't quite know what to do with that.

First, there was the touching, more and more of it. A handshake that morphs into Jaskier clasping both of his hands as he smiles at him, while Geralt tries to keep his thoughts on the conversation and out of the gutter. Those long fingers curling around his forearm and squeezing gently, just for a moment, as they stand around in a circle with others from the congregation, talking about the next big event.

It's all perfectly innocent, if it weren't for the way Jaskier will lick his lips or tilt his head just so. Implying.

It's three weeks after that day in the confessional, and they're entirely alone for the first time. Jaskier hung back after mass, fiddling on his phone, and Geralt tried to ignore him as he finished putting things in order, as he said his goodbyes to the altar boys and the lector. He can only guess at what people think of Jaskier staying behind. Everyone knows he only moved to the town recently, that he's a city boy with issues, so he can only hope people will assume that Jaskier is in need of counsel and nothing more.

Jaskier rises to his feet once the door closes behind the lector and walks up the aisle, to where Geralt is waiting by the altar. There's a light flush high on his cheeks, and Geralt wants to kiss him.

They don't talk. They don't need to. Geralt gently takes Jaskier's hand and leads him out the back into the sacristy, and Jaskier is on him the moment the lock clicks behind them. Geralt grunts as he's pushed back against the wall, moans when Jaskier kisses him like his life depends on it.

They stumble over to the credence table and Geralt's hands are around Jaskier's waist, lifting him up, and Jaskier grabs him by the collar and pulls him into the vee of his legs.

"Please," he begs, "please, I can't wait any longer, I need you in me." He's flushed and beautiful, and Geralt aches for him, wants him so much it hurts. Over his shoulder Geralt can see the cross hung up on the wall, the Paschal candle, and he closes his eyes and presses his face against Jaskier's throat.

"I- I've never-" It should be embarrassing to admit, that he has never had sex, that he's a thirty-nine year old virgin, but it's a simple fact. "I don't know what to do," he whispers, and Jaskier makes a soft noise, his hands tangling in Geralt's hair.

"Then let me teach you, Father," he breathes as he coaxes Geralt's face away from his throat, and then he kisses him again, softly, gently.

Jaskier kicks off his shoes and trousers, and Geralt can't hold back the shocked little noise when his fingertips brush against silk and lace. Jaskier gives him a grin and hands him a sachet of lube, winking.

Geralt's breath catches when the other drapes himself over the table, his shirt riding up and exposing the soft blue panties, and Geralt's prick throbs in his trousers. His hand trembles when he reaches out, and his breath catches when he touches Jaskier, when his palm curves around his cheek.

Jaskier shimmies the panties over his hips, lets them drop to the floor, and he guides Geralt's fingers between his cheeks, to the tight, soft, hot furl of his hole. "Careful," he breathes, "but hurry."

Geralt has no idea how he's supposed to do that, not with the way he's shaking at the thought that he's about to be inside Jaskier. Still, he tries, slicking his fingers with the lube, and his breath catches when that first one breaches Jaskier's hole. The other keens and lifts his hips, spreads his legs wider, and Geralt watches with a mixture of rapturous pleasure and mortification as pre drips from the wet tip of Jaskier's prick, as it sticks to the side of the credence table, a thin, glistening ribbon connecting Jaskier and the wood.

It's obscene. It's sacrilegious. He can't get enough.

Jaskier declares himself ready after three fingers, and Geralt fumbles with his belt until he can get his trousers open and his dick out. His skin feels too tight as he slicks himself, like he'll shatter if he makes one wrong move, and Jaskier looks back at him over his shoulder. "Please, Father," he breathes, and Geralt presses in.

It's a revelation, unlike anything he could have imagined. Jaskier is tight and hot and slick around him, taking him so easily in a manner that defies all logic, and he curls around him and rests his forehead against Jaskier's shoulder with a groan. "Jaskier-" His voice trembles, cracks, and Jaskier reaches over his shoulder and gently strokes his hair.

"Ssh, it's alright, take your time." He sounds overcome, his breath hitching softly with every minute shift of Geralt's hips, and Geralt knows he'll never be able to come back from this. He won't be able to live without this, without Jaskier, and it should horrify him but it doesn't.

A voice in the back of his mind tells him that it's the devil's work, that he's being tempted for a reason, but he doesn't care.

He doesn't care.

Geralt pulls back, slowly, then pushes in again, and Jaskier moans, and it's like a dam breaks. He fucks Jaskier hard and deep, coaxing gasps and cries from the younger man, and when Jaskier grabs his hand and presses it to his mouth to keep him quiet, Geralt snarls and only fucks him harder.

Neither of them lasts long. Geralt comes first, deep inside Jaskier after the other doesn't let him pull out, one hand curled vise-tight into Geralt's shirt. He bows over Jaskier as he comes, cheek pushed against his back and with the other's name on his lips. The orgasm turns his legs to water, but he has enough presence of mind to reach under Jaskier and wrap a hand around his prick, jerking him quickly until Jaskier arches and trembles and goes so fucking tight around Geralt's cock still inside him.

They stay like that, sweaty and panting in the silence of the sacristy, until Geralt has gone soft and slips out of Jaskier, and Geralt knows he should step away and downplay what just happened. Should insist that it can never happen again.

Instead he pulls Jaskier upright and kisses him, kisses him with all the desperation the moment warrants, and when they have to part for air, he presses their foreheads together. He cups the back of Jaskier's neck, clinging to him as though the man could vanish into thin air, and then he says, "No one can ever find out about this."

Jaskier hums and rubs the tip of his nose against Geralt's. "I know," he murmurs, and then he kisses Geralt again.

Later, when they're cleaning the drawers of the credence table where Jaskier's come had crept between the gaps, Geralt wonders if he has gone mad. He's risking his career, his calling. Then again, he has already broken his vows. Broke them the first time he thought about Jaskier in a sexual fashion, really.

If he has doomed himself, well. He can't do that more than once.

[write-ur-wrongs]

Lavender’s Blue

A/N: I y’all! Today marks the beginning of my vacation and hopefully I’ll be able to flex some creative muscles. Here’s my first official attempt at a Jaskier x reader blurb. Thank you sweet anon for your request!!!! I picked a song from Cinderella (2015) - hope you like it :’)

Can you write a drabble for jaskier x fem!reader who has a similar personality to Gerald so he doesn't think she can sing but then he hears her sing and it's absolutely beautiful?? Thank you so much

                                                     ***

“I am begging you to sing another song,” you spat, as Jaskier launched into his fifth round of Toss a Coin.

“I told you to ignore him, Y/N. Any attention is positive with this one,” Geralt grumbled, tugging lightly on Roach’s reins to ride by your side in order to be heard over the bard’s voice.

“…oh, valley of plenty!”

“Argh! I’ll kill him, Geralt, kill him!” you said, shouting the latter part of the sentiment back at Jaskier, who was, as Geralt predicted, revelling in the fact that you were addressing him at all.

“I take requests, my dear Y/N!” he sang out, riding up to your flank before leaning over to add with a wink, “Just name the tune.”

“I want silence, Jaskier,” you said icily, “and don’t wink at me, it’s creepy.”

“Wow,” he whistled lowly and wiggled his brows flirtatiously, “testy when you’re flustered aren’t you?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, shooting his friend a stern look.

The bard huffed and lightly strummed at his lute in silence, earning a sigh of relief from both you and Geralt.

As you rode, you allowed yourself to get lost in the sounds around you – the horses hooves on the dirt road, the birds singing softly around you, and the rustle of leaves above you on the trail. It was so peaceful that you couldn’t help yourself from tipping your chin up to the sky to bask in the sun’s warmth, sighing contently. Your horse knew the trail well enough for you to close your eyes, with your head still tilted back, and fully relax into your saddle.

All the while, Jaskier continued to strum lightly on his lute, cycling through a few chords of a song before switching to another. Curious about the bard’s apparent indecisiveness, Geralt cast a quick glance over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at the sight.

Jaskier was watching you intently, his eyes soft and his mouth slightly agape, as he played, trying to find a song that you’d enjoy. Whenever he saw you smile, he played that song a little longer. When swayed in your saddle a little, he’d play that song a little louder.

He was about to switch to a pluckier tune when, to everyone’s surprise, you began to hum.

Eyes wide, now grinning fully, Jaskier played a little louder, completely in awe as your humming turned to song.

“Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, and the lambs play We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, out of harm's way

Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, lavender's blue If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you”

As you sung out the last line of the chorus your eyes met Jaskier’s and for a moment you felt lighter than air. There was a magic in that moment, as your voice played off the lute in perfect key.

“Oh fuck,” sighed Geralt, hanging his head low. “Now I’ve got two bloody bards on my hand, eh?”

The magic in the air shattered around you.

“NO! No, no, no-no, no,” you sputtered, feeling a deep blush creep from your chest up to your hairline.

“Don’t be modest, my dove, you have a beautiful voice!” Jaskier said in astonishment, unable to keep himself from gushing.

“No – Jaskier! That didn’t happen, okay? Nothing happened!”

“Wha – we shared a moment, Y/N!” he beamed, reaching to grab hold of your hand, “please, sing for me?”

His touch sent a shock of electricity up your arm and you felt your blush grow even deeper. Against the insane desire in your body screaming to never let his hand go, you pulled your hand free. “No! I can’t sing Jaskier, I’m not singing.”

“I won’t tell,” he promised in a whisper, leaning closer to you, “if you sing with me, it can be our secret.”

You couldn’t help but smile at him. He looked so boyishly keen; his features soft and warm as he looked up at you through his thick lashes.

“Deal,” you mouthed, “thank you.”

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 2

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 1 🟣 Part 3 

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Mentions of blood, biting, feeding, sex, some kinky shit, angst. Think that's it. It's pretty fluffy. It's Mikey, so there's boobs involved.

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: We're moving into kinky stuff territory. Still medium scared to post this.

@geralts-yenn I couldn't resist...

@deandoesthingstome @summersong69

“Are you still mad at me, Sweetcheeks?” You felt the mattress dip in the place where Mike sat down next to you. You wondered how you were supposed to answer that question. Were you mad? A little. At him? Not really. It was mostly at yourself, at this point. Of course you could blame your parents for this, but you always felt that their information was off… Why did you never look into it yourself? “No, just a little overwhelmed.” Overwhelmed and tired. And not completely comfortable with how this afternoon had gone down, if you were perfectly honest about it. You’d learned a lot, that’s for sure, but it wasn’t as if all your questions had been answered. Maybe some cuddles from Mike were exactly what you needed right now…

“Can I join you? I missed your arms around me today.” Instead of answering him, you lifted the blanket by means of an invitation. Mikey immediately crawled in beside you, sighing deeply as he laid his head against you and pulled you against his chest. “Hmm, my baby.” He nestled his face into the back of your head. “I love this.”

You decided then and there that he hadn't changed. The fact that you knew what he was made absolutely no difference: He was still the sweet, loveable idiot... who was absolutely inappropriately obsessed with your boobs.

“Mikey!” You squealed when both of his arms slipped around you and immediately grabbed your chest in a way that told you he wasn’t about to let go of you.

“Mine! My boobies.” There was no escaping the iron grip he had on them, and you could only pretend to hate what he was doing for so long before giving in to his touch. When his lips brushed past your neck, you shivered. You felt utterly humiliated when you realized there was a substantial part of you that wanted him to bite you, just to find out…

“You wanna know what it feels like, don't you?” How did he always know? You didn’t let the thought occupy you and turned your attention to denying his claim. Of course he didn’t buy it; you were a terrible liar and generally curious by nature.

“Baby, it's super normal to be curious about it,” Mike said softly. It sounded like he meant it, but you didn’t trust him to be sincere. For all you knew, he was just trying to get a bite out of you… Still, your curiosity won out once again.

“Does it hurt?” Let’s see, does it hurt when someone sinks their teeth into you hard enough to draw blood? What could the answer to that question possibly be?

“The general consensus is 'yes, it does',” Mike said – and you weren’t surprised, “but I wouldn't be me if I didn't know some kinky fuckers.” He laughed. In fact, you both did. You already knew that he did: Mikey was one of those kinky fuckers, and he'd been doing a really good job at having you join that club, too. “And they say it's no worse than a good spanking. God knows you enjoy those...” You felt your cheeks heat up. He wasn’t lying; you’d tried it out a few times and you definitely liked them, even though you doubted that what you’d been doing qualified as a ‘good spanking’ on the seriousness scale.

“Are you trying to convince me to try it out?”

“I'm telling you to allow yourself to be curious.” That was Mike for you, always down for trying new things, always telling you to push any feelings of shame you had aside and just go with it, enjoy things…

“And you're up for it?” The question was redundant; his eyes told you more than enough, but you still felt like asking. Mike was a ‘try most things once’ kind of guy, and he’d definitely agree to something he wasn’t one hundred percent up for, just to try it out. You’d mentioned before that that made you insanely uncomfortable, and that you were only willing to try new things if he was entirely on board with it.

“Oof, hell yeah!” His eagerness made you whip your head around to look at him. It was a rather uncomfortable position to be in, so you just decided to turn around in his arms. That was a fight he didn’t let you win, and you ended up on your back with Mike’s cheek on your chest.

“That was some unprecedented enthusiasm, Mike, explain.” You couldn’t help but laugh when he snuggled tightly against you. All your life, your parents had been telling you vampires were vicious monsters, but Mikey was just about the most adorable thing you had ever run into.

“Oh, oops. Sorry!” Mike laughed, too. “It can be really... eh… hot.” Now that didn’t sound like the word you’d use to describe biting someone, but you obviously weren’t the expert here. Then again, the conversation with the boys hadn’t exactly made it sound like it was a fantastic experience, either.

“Yeah, so…” Mike sounded uneasy. You weren't used to that; he was usually very sure of his idiot self. He hummed softly as you gently pulled your fingers through his dark curls, your touch seemingly putting him at ease. When he spoke again, you had to put in some serious effort to catch some of what he was saying, as part of it almost got lost in your cleavage. “Alright, cards on the table, I guess. It’s a thing, in like… a sexual way… and it happens to be something I'm into. It's intimate and it can feel pretty awesome.”

“Awesome for you or awesome for me?” It was a good thing you blurted that question out before thinking it through, because otherwise you probably wouldn’t have dared to ask him. Mike thought about his answer for a minute.

“Well, it’s obviously awesome for me, I mean… God, how do I explain this?” He returned to his pondering, taking a little longer this time before he continued: “I wouldn’t suggest that to, like, a one-night stand. But with someone I trust… It’s just awesome. There’s lots of closeness involved, lots of care. The pain aspect makes it kinda kinky, and you know me… Let’s bring back the comparison with spanking, okay? You like that, even though it kinda hurts, and I like that you like it… But like I said, it’s a really intimate thing, and just generally another sensation to add to everything else. This isn’t a very coherent story, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” you said before kissing him on the top of his head.

“Oh, and there’s the fact that every time I bite you in like a playful, sexy kinda way, I’m holding back, and sometimes it can be really nice to not have to,” he added. “There are a few risks to it though.” You shot him a quizzical look, and it wasn’t long before he continued.

“Alright, first one would be the pain. And you not liking it. Which means – hypothetically, if we were to ever… y’know – you would just tell me to knock it off, I would, and you would obviously never have to try again. I mean... If you don't want to. And the second one would be that technically you could die.”

“Mike! That sounds like the one you start with, you moron!” You laughed, because – again – this was so incredibly typical for him.

“Well, no. I said: technically.” You secretly hated how entirely à la Mike it was to really dispute the seriousness of a possibly deadly situation on the basis of technicalities. That being said; you were fairly – but only fairly – sure he wouldn’t have so much as suggested it if the risk of dying was significant. Or genuinely present, even.

“I'm sorry, could you stop discussing technicalities when talking about a situation that might kill me?” Maybe by now you were just playing with him a little…

“Sweetcheeks, ease up, would you? And let me finish,” Mike said. “Alright. Yes, technically you could die. If I decide to drain you.”

“Wait, couldn't you technically decide to do that any time?”

“There we go: technically.”

[babylooneytoonz]

The Vessel [Pt. 15- Final Chapter]

Geralt of Rivia x fem! reader

A/N- This is officially the end of my book, and I want to thank you all for sparing the time to read it. Thank you! 🤍

Warnings: fluff and soft Geralt

*Please reblog if you like it, do not repost or claim my work as yours.

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

Geralt grumbled under his breath, yet his movements were quiet; stealthy like a cat as he didn't want to wake you. You were almost due to give birth, and Geralt didn't want to disturb your sleep, because you hardly got any. Although it was strangely pleasing to him to watch you try to pacify your baby, sometimes stroking your bump, or sometimes singing to it, and he didn't want to admit he secretly loved it, he was happy the baby was calm today, and you were peacefully asleep.

He entered your shared bedroom back in your home in Redania where he now mostly spent his time, when he was not out hunting monsters, that was. His armour was soiled with gore, fragments of the kikimora's intestines, and he wanted nothing more than to drown himself into a bath, and relax but he didn't want to wake you up.

The size of the body the man had, silence was the least dominant trait that he had. As he took off his armour, the armour fell from his hand, crashing against the floor with the clatter that woke you up instantly.

"Fuck, who's there?" You almost sat up in bed, grabbing a nearby empty pitcher of water in your grip, ready to throw it at whoever it was, your mind slightly disoriented as you had been asleep.

"It's just me," Geralt grumbled, frowning at how clumsy he was, immediately bending and picking up his armour. Finally, your eyes adjusted to the lighting of the room, and when you saw him, you slowly slid out of the bed and waddled towards him.

"What have you done to yourself, my love? You look like a piss pot."

"Hm, blame the kikimora," Geralt grumbled, under his breath, and you ended up chuckling as he tried to shoo you back into bed, waving his hands.

"Didn't mean to wake you, go to bed, [Y/N]."

"It's okay, Geralt. Let me draw your bath," You motioned to him to take off his dirty clothes while you decided to warm some water so he could take a bath.

Geralt didn't let you carry the pails of water yourself, of course and neither could you. In fact, it was difficult for you to climb the stairs owing to the fact that your bump was blocking your view of your feet.

You watched as he slid into the warm water, his body immediately relaxing as the soothing touch of the heat hit his sore body.

"I can't wait to give birth, Geralt," you mumbled as you sat against the edge of the bed, rubbing a paste that you had created over your swollen ankles, as much as you could bend, while Geralt relaxed in the bathtub, his eyes flicking occasionally towards you and a small smile graced his lips at the sight of you.

When Geralt didn't reply, you lifted your gaze, fixing it on him, noticing how he was staring at you. His lips were curved— so minutely, that only you and Jaskier could understand now, little details about him, like when he was amused, or in a jestful mood. You stood up, letting the vessel down on the bed, and walked up to fix yourself behind your Witcher's back, your hands coming to rest against the base of his neck as you began scrubbing him. Geralt of Rivia's company had taught to treat silence as bliss.

"What was that?" You frowned as you looked up at the wooden door of your bedroom. You had been sitting against the headboard of your bed, while Geralt was laying on your lap, almost having dozed off; your fingers gently stroking through his locks, lulling him into an even deeper sleep.

The words had barely escaped your lips, and Geralt was up, rigid and alert, like a wolf. He jumped, in one movement, standing by your bed, his hand drawn towards you, his palm raised, motioning you to stay still as he grabbed his sword with the other hand.

"Jaskier? Is that you?" Geralt snarled, but the pounding outside your door didn't stop, and instead it worsened, the loud noise now giving you a headache, forcing you to press your hands against your ears.

Just as Geralt darted towards the door, ready to pull it open and see for himself as to exactly who this intruder was when suddenly, the door flung open, and a Cintran guard tossed Jaskier in, who fell on his knees where Geralt was.

"Geralt! Say something, I am being tossed about like a worthless sack of grain!" Jaskier dramatized, and you hurriedly slid against the edge of the bed while Geralt drew his sword towards the Cintran guard.

The guard turned, regarding you through the armoured helmet that covered his face partially, and then nodded to himself before his voice rang out, "My Queen, the Princess is here, as expected."

"Touch her, I'll break your fucking bones," Geralt growled, his grip on his sword tightening when suddenly, "Lower your weapons! I'm here to talk," a familiar voice commanded, and you knew who it was. You pressed your lips together in a slight anger, both your hands coming to rest protectively against your swollen belly.

Calanthe entered, her eyes falling first thing on the Witcher and her frown widened, before she turned towards you, "Knew I'd find you here."

You bit your lip, eyeing her carefully, when Geralt began speaking, and her head shot towards him.

"If you're here to drag her to that King who fucked his own sister, then it's too late."

You nodded at Geralt's words, immediately rushing to Geralt's side, stepping behind him, grabbing on to his hand that wasn't holding the sword, your fingers entwining with his, "Yes, mother. My baby will not be a bastard anymore. We're married now."

"I'm not here to ask you to marry Foltest, I'm here to—" she stopped talking, throwing out her hands towards you, trying to nudge you to go to her but you stayed by Geralt's side, "I'm here to take you home. Your Kingdom needs you. I need you. If the Witcher is who you desire then, I give my blessings."

"What?" You and Jaskier said almost together, and you almost choked on a gasp.

"All my life, I thought you were dead and then I found you only to lose you again. Come home, I can't rule a Kingdom anymore, I need you to sit on that throne."

The shock of it all was hard to process. You gasped, tightening your grip on Geralt's hand and he turned towards you with a frown, "You okay?"

"A throne? This is too much."

"You were born for this, [Y/N]." Calanthe continued.

Suddenly, your mind began zoning out the voices, and the voices of Geralt, Calanthe and Jaskier were just background noises to you. You felt something wet slide down the inside of your legs, and your eyes widened. Your breathing laboured suddenly as a sudden cramp tore through your stomach, all too suddenly, and you whelp escaped your lips, causing Geralt to turn towards you.

"I don't think.. I can think of any throne right now.. mother.. I think the baby is coming."

That was, perhaps, the fastest journey Geralt had made, to the village to get the midwife, while Calanthe stayed with you.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Calanthe wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand and you growled at her, "Then what exactly am I doing mother? You are not helping!! I would rather have you switch places with Jask'."

"Leave me out of this. I have a history of fainting at the sight of a lot of blood," Jaskier called out from outside the room, and you groaned in pain, and part annoyance, now aware that he was lurking right outside your door.

You screamed as another contraction tore through your body, the midwife having finally arrived as Calanthe switched positions with her and you felt her squat down by your lower region. You tried breathing, preparing yourself for another crippling contraction, spreading your legs and arching your back, as Calanthe tried to soothe you.

"Geralt, I fucking hate you for doing this to me! I hope you hear me!" You screamed in pain, even though you knew you would regret this later when you would have your baby pressed to your chest.

The sun set, and the sun rose again the next day; but your screaming didn't die. It was only when the sun was right above your home did the first cries of your girl finally fill your shack. Tears of joy flew freely through your eyes, and your mother's as she pressed the babe to her chest, looking down at her slightly golden eyes in awe.

"She's got Geralt's eyes," she whispered to you, as you let out a sob, and weakly threw out your hands so you would hold her in your arms. She was so tiny, and so perfect, her eyes like Geralt, a tuft of golden white locks already on top of her otherwise bald head.

"Mother, can you take her? I feel.. like all my energy is gone."

"Lay down and close your eyes, child. You've birthed a baby, and that isn't easy as the menfolk think it is. I have her," she took her from your arms, and you smiled weakly at the sight before you let your eyes shut.

You were in a dreamless slumber, your slumber so deep that even Jaskier playing the lute against your ears would not have been enough to wake you up.

After a long time, you stirred in your sleep, your eyes slowly fluttering open.

The sight in front of you, as you propped yourself up against your elbows, made your heart swell with love. Geralt sat on a chair, his eyes pressed shut, his chest rising up and down the only movement that you could see, holding your daughter close to his chest. The little babe looked tiny as compared to the Witcher's bulky frame, yet this was the softest sight you had ever seen. You slid to the edge of the bed, letting the bare pads of your feet brush against the cold floorboards as you pushed your still sore body up. Just then, Jaskier entered the room, his eyes lighting up as he saw you.

You smiled when you saw that he was holding the blanket that you had knitted for the baby when you had found out of the pregnancy.

"Here," he whispered in a low voice so he didn't wake the father and the daughter as he threw out his hand towards you. You only shook your head and pointed towards Geralt.

"Scared to put it on him?" You joked, your voice a whisper too.

"For the first time, I don't want to ruin the moment," he smiled, as he pulled you into a side hug and you almost sniffled dramatically, pouting, "Well, Jaskier. Aren't you in love?"

"Princess, I'm not ashamed to say I'm in love with her. She is the best thing that's happened to us."

"Oh, Jaskier—" You blurted out, a little too loud, and the Witcher grumbled slightly, stirring from his sleep as he fluttered his eyes open; the first thing his eyes falling on being the baby in his arms, and then up at you.

Geralt smiled and nodded, as you walked up to him, lowering yourself on his thigh, carefully placing your palm on top of her head.

"She's perfect, my love," Geralt whispered, and you nodded, wrapping your arm around his neck, letting your head rest against his.

It was the calm before the storm.

You stood by the massive window of your chambers, staring at the city ahead of you— Cintra.

Your Kingdom, your home, which you now ruled, with your Witcher by your side.

"What are you thinking, love?"

The familiar rasp of a voice made you turn towards him, a faint smile breaking out against your lips. Geralt was propped on his elbow, his naked chest glistening as a ray of sunshine fell directly on him, his lower body wrapped in the silkiest of the blankets.

"I have an ill feeling, Geralt."

"Come to bed, love. Let me make you feel better," Geralt smirked, as he patted on the empty side of your bed but before you could, a loud babble of a baby filled the room.

Both you and Geralt turned towards the door, watching your one year old taking baby steps towards the two of you.

"How the hell?" Geralt muttered, when Jaskier darted into the room; his hair unkempt, paint caked on his cheeks and his shirt. He grabbed Fiona in his arms, and swung her up and the little girl cackled in glee, making you grin.

"Sorry, I was just teaching her how to paint. She ran off with my brushes," he sheepishly grinned before his eyebrow shot up and he eyed Geralt, "Don't let my interference stop whatever the two of you were planning to do. Perhaps, planning a sibling for her."

Geralt grunted under his breath, while you ended up snorting to his comment, shaking your head, "That's not happening, Jaskier. I'm done with mages and their spells. Now run along, we've got things to do."

The Vessel Taglist:

@kawennote09 @viking-raider @raspberrydreamclouds @pterodactylterrace @singeramg @historianwithaheart @miss-emilia-cavill @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @xxxkatxo @coffeebreathy @fanaticnae @kmuir1 @little-jana @pineapplemama @auds24 @sassy-pelican @bitchynicole @cavillsim @ragamuffin285 @hista-girl @oliviali0930 @introvertedmouse @madbaddic7ed @libbymouse @nerra75 @maxineswritingcenter @superawesomegeek @waifu4lifeu @funalpaca @petitefirecracker10 @marantha @vikingsbifrost @babypink224221 @jessyballet @strrynigxts @rn7rocks @theroyalbrownbarbie @amirra88 @naughty-koala07 @xuxszx @iminlovewithenchilidadas

[asweetprologue]

hematoma of the heart

Octoberfest 9: Wound reveal (whumptober #30)

Hitting the tree is more surprising than painful. A strange shock goes through Jaskier’s entire body when it happens, a litany of unspoken no no no through him as his side slams into the wood and he topples to the ground. For a moment he can’t see, can barely even think, just feeling a dizzying sense of wrongness that makes his skin buzz with anxiety. 

Then, finally, the pain does come to him, bursting from his ribs. If his breath hadn’t already been crushed from his lungs, he would have wheezed at the intensity of it. He lies there for a long moment, curled into a protective ball and trying to get his chest to expand beyond the jagged feeling in his ribs. Through bleary eyes, he can see that Geralt is still fighting the fiend, twisting and rolling deftly around it. That’s good, Jaskier thinks. Gives him some time to sort this out. 

The fiend hadn’t even really been paying him any mind, which was almost more embarrassing. Jaskier had gotten in the way, a bit, though it wasn’t really anyone’s fault that the fight stumbled its way so close to his hiding spot. Normally Geralt would never allow Jaskier to tag along to a fight this dangerous, but as usual trouble found them. Geralt had picked up the smell of the fiend on the breeze, and the noble bastard hadn’t been able to leave well enough alone. His stubborn bravery and selflessness is one of the many reasons Jaskier loves the man, but at this exact moment he finds himself wishing that, for once, they’d just kept out of it. 

After a long moment of lying still and trying to gather his wits, Jaskier slowly sits up. He leans his back against the offending tree and tries to stay as still as possible, not wanting to draw the fiend’s attention or break Geralt’s stride. Mentally he takes inventory. Toes and fingers wriggle when he tests them, so that’s good. No pain in his neck, though it radiates out from his left side and across his back like a sunburst. When he sticks a hand against his shirt he doesn’t feel the wet, tacky sensation of blood, so aside from a few abrasions it looks like he’s escaped with his skin intact. 

Jaskier knows his ribs are bruised, maybe even slightly broken, but overall it’s not as bad as it could be. Jaskier watches as Geralt’s sword descends into the neck of the fiend, a hot spray of blood splashing across the ground and Geralt’s face. The second the beast falls to the ground, Geralt looks up and finds Jaskier’s gaze, his own eyes wild.

Jaskier realizes two things at once. One: Geralt is going to be livid if Jaskier was hurt during a fight, and there’s a very great chance that it will make him not want to take Jaskier on hunts in the future. He’ll say that Jaskier is at risk and is a risk himself, likely to cause Geralt to get distracted and wind up with one of them dead. Never mind that Geralt often needs help after a hard fight, might not be able to make it back on his own or just needs a hand patching up the worst of his wounds. Never mind that Jaskier hates being left behind, hates sitting in a cold, empty camp or inn waiting to see if Geralt will come back this time. Never mind that Jaskier’s entire supposed reason for being here is to get first hand experience of what monster hunting is really like, even if that maybe isn’t so much the reason he’s so dedicated to the Path anymore. 

And two: Geralt will blame himself. 

Jaskier decides, in the span of a second, that he’s not going to say anything. It’s not so bad, after all. How hard could it be to keep a few bruised ribs to himself? 

In the time it takes for him to determine this course of action, Geralt is upon him. He doesn’t touch - Jaskier touches Geralt. Geralt does not touch back, unless it’s to manhandle Jaskier out of danger. Jaskier tries not to think too hard about why this is. Geralt looks at him, his eyes intense but unreadable as always, and Jaskier takes a steadying breath that makes his ribs ache. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, almost more of a grunt than a name. He’s only breathing a bit more heavily than normal, as if he’d just been on a light morning jog. “You alright?”

Jaskier nods, forcing himself to climb unsteadily to his feet. The movement is agony, his back screaming as his muscles shift and stretch. He bites his cheek, forcing himself not to gasp or wince. The pain isn’t sharp, just pulsing, which is a good sign. He thinks. “All accounted for,” he says to Geralt, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound too strained. 

With another human, Jaskier doesn’t think he’d have been able to get away with it. No one would be able to get thrown against a tree with such force and pop back up perfectly alright. But Geralt isn’t human, and over the years of traveling together, Jaskier has realized that Geralt knows fuck all about how much humans can withstand. He is both terrified of their fragility and entirely unaware of their limits. He grew up around witchers and has never stuck around any human beings long enough to figure out what really could hurt them. Jaskier thinks, sometimes, that maybe Geralt doesn’t touch him because he’s afraid Jaskier will break. But then Jaskier falls from a horse or gets punched in the jaw or stumbles over the side of a small ravine and Geralt will act surprised when Jaskier’s ankle is twisted or his face is bruised. The witcher just has no idea what will actually cause damage and what Jaskier can walk away from.

So Jaskier plasters on his most convincing court mask and gives Geralt a winning smile, and he knows he’s won when Geralt gives an almost imperceptible shrug. Jaskier watches his shoulders drop ever so slightly, his expression loosening just a fraction. Jaskier drinks up Geralt’s worry like a man drowning of thirst, but he’s still relieved when Geralt turns back towards the fiend. If Geralt knew he was really hurt, his tender concern over Jaskier’s well being would morph into guilt and anger, and that’s the last thing Jaskier wants. So he forces himself to follow after Geralt, and he doesn’t even limp. 

Jaskier does not limp as they set up camp that night, or as he follows Geralt to town the next day, or over the course of the next week on the road. It’s probably making the healing process longer than it needs to be, he knows, but he’s in too deep now to back down. And if he winces occasionally when he’s getting up in the morning, stiff and sore and aching, or if he sucks in a breath to hide a yelp when someone brushes past his wounded shoulder in an inn, Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. Jaskier changes when Geralt leaves for breakfast or to take a piss or to bathe and he thinks he does an okay job, overall, of hiding it. It hurts in another way, deep in his gut, that Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier doesn’t want him to say anything, doesn’t want him to know, but in another way he does. He really does. He wants Geralt to find out and be upset because he cares about Jaskier, cares about his well being and whether he’s in pain. He wants the full force of those golden eyes on him with total attention, those broad hands running across his flank to search for damage. Jaskier wants. 

Maybe that’s why he lets his guard down. Or maybe he’s just healing nicely, and so for a few hours Jaskier just… forgets. They’re in a tavern, stopped in a small town a week and a half away from the fiend encounter, and Jaskier is a bit drunk. He’s been playing, for the first time since he was thrown into that tree, and it felt so good he got a bit lost in it. The crowd was small but invested, lively and eager for entertainment, and Jaskier had been passed more than a couple of tankards. Geralt had watched it all unfold with mild amusement, matching Jaskier cup for cup but barely tipsy by the end of the night. Jaskier had stumbled up the stairs with Geralt close on his heels, likely making sure he didn’t tumble back down the steps. He isn’t that drunk, truly. Barely wobbling as he’d made his way into the room. But as he tugs off his boots now and tosses aside his doublet, he’s drunk enough that he forgets, for the first time in a week, that he’s got something to hide. He turns away from Geralt and unbuttons his shirt, yawning around some garbled sentence about how many ales he’s had. The fabric has barely left his shoulders when he hears Geralt make a strangled sound, and turns to find himself nose to nose with the witcher. 

“Uh,” he says, articulately, and hisses as Geralt’s fingers come up to prod his side. Oh, right. Fuck. He’d been doing so well. 

“What the fuck is this?” Geralt asks, and his voice comes out as a low, warning growl that Jaskier feels in his toes. It’s threatening, he reprimands himself. Geralt is scary when he’s mad. Not hot. Scary. “Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier snaps back to the moment. 

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, too quickly. He’s trying to pull his shirt back up to cover up the canvas of blue-purple-yellow that’s scattered across his ribs and shoulder, but Geralt’s hands are in the way. He must be truly surprised, to break his own rules about personal space like this. “I fell, it looks worse than it is. Nothing to be concerned about, truly, I don’t even think my ribs took too much damage -”

“When?” Geralt says. His tone and his hands are demanding, pulling Jaskier’s arm up away from his body so Geralt can get a closer look. Jaskier feels himself flush under his touch, and he’s annoyed at himself for it. 

“Uh, a - a week ago? Around then? It’s been a few days.”

Geralt looks away from the bruises, his eyebrows pinched together. His golden eyes are intense, searching Jaskier’s face for a lie. There’s a moment of quiet between them, Geralt thinking with his hand spread across Jaskier’s ribs, and then his face softens with surprise. “The fiend hunt,” he says, and then his face shutters into that expression, furious and guilty, that Jaskier was trying to avoid this whole damn time. 

“I was fine,” he tries to say, but Geralt is already growling at him. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Jaskier?” he snaps. Gentle-rough hands push Jaskier down onto the one bed in the room. They’d decided to share, to save money. Always to save money. Geralt starts pacing, not an aimless trek but a journey around the room, pulling various supplies out of their scattered bags. “You could have died. What if your lung had been punctured? Or your kidney ruptured?” A jar and a roll of bandages are thrown down by Jaskier’s side, and the bard winces at the sharp movement. Geralt stops in front of him, fists clenched at his side, glaring down at Jaskier’s face. Accusation in every line of his body. 

Jaskier sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide the wince as it pulls at his side. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he says, and his voice is smaller than he’d like it to be. He didn’t do anything wrong, really. Geralt isn’t entitled to know of Jaskier’s every scrape and bruise. Yet Jaskier feels guilty regardless. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The fiend was there, so was I, I ended up fine! I’ll be better in another week or less.”

Geralt looks away, jaw clenching as he studies the far side of the room with intense scrutiny. Without looking back, he says, “You should have told me.” 

Before Jaskier can respond, Geralt turns and gathers up the supplies on the bed and sits down beside him. The lid of the jar pops off, releasing a cool, minty smell into the air. “Lift your arm up,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier does. He can only go up so far without pain, so he rests his forearm on Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly aware that he’s bare from the waist up and Geralt is still fully dressed. It makes him feel off balance and short of breath, for some reason. A moment later Geralt’s fingers are smoothing lightly over his ribs, rubbing whatever salve was in the jar across Jaskier’s bruises. The gentle touch steals the rest of the air from Jaskier’s lungs.

Jaskier lets Geralt work on him in silence, the minutes stretching out silently between them. He’s not sure what to say - how to tell Geralt that he didn’t want him to be mad without sounding like a child, how to make Geralt feel less guilty without being patronizing. Jaskier never quite knows how to manage Geralt’s emotions, not like he does everyone else’s. A crowd, a pretty barmaid, a professor at Oxenfurt, all of these are easy to push and pull where he pleases. Easy to predict. Geralt… isn’t. He digs in his heels when Jaskier tries to lead him, closes himself off when Jaskier tries to get a peak under the mask. Geralt is, Jaskier thinks, perhaps one of the most complicated people Jaskier’s ever met. He knows that’s part of the draw. But it’s frustrating in moments like these, when Jaskier wants so badly to say just the right thing to make Geralt’s shoulders relax, to make the deep frown marring his lovely mouth loosen into a smile. He thinks he could figure it out, given enough time. If Geralt will let him. 

When Geralt finally moves to face away from him, to attend to his back, Jaskier speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he forces his voice to be steady and firm. “I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to feel bad for not - That is, I don’t blame you. And I didn’t want to slow you down.”

Geralt's hands still on his back, his warm palm burning where it rests on Jaskier’s shoulder blade. It’s so hot in the room, sweat prickling against Jaskier’s brow, and Geralt’s hand doesn’t move. “I don’t care if you slow me down,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier can feel his breath on the nape of his neck, and he can’t suppress a shiver. Geralt must notice, but he doesn’t comment. 

“You very much do,” Jaskier argues, irritated. “You remind me on a near nightly basis that if I’m not up when the sun is you’ll leave me behind. I don’t even bother to ask for a break anymore because you never fail to remind me that it’s my choice to be here. And it is, I know that. I’ll keep up, and if I can’t I’ll take my leave. You’ve made it quite clear that the onus of responsibility rests with me, and I accept that.”

From this close Jaskier can nearly hear Geralt grinding his teeth together. “Not at the expense of your health,” he says, and he sounds properly angry now. “Fuck, Jaskier, you can’t think I’d - That I wouldn’t wait, that I’d leave you behind when you were hurt. You could have fucking died, if it’d been more serious. You couldn’t have known that it wasn’t, right away. What if I’d woken up the next day and you’d choked to death on your own blood in your sleep? What if you’d -” He cuts himself off.

Now Jaskier turns to face him, shocked by the display of emotion, feeling Geralt’s hand shift across his back. Geralt looks away from him, hiding, but the expression that Jaskier catches on his face is… pained. As if it would truly hurt him, to see Jaskier damaged beyond repair. Hesitantly, Jaskier reaches out and touches Geralt’s knee. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t think of it that way. I just didn’t want you to take it personally.”

Geralt’s eyes meet his again, smouldering in the low light. Jaskier suddenly remembers that he’s a bit drunk, and they’re so, so close together. The space between them is warm, and Geralt’s hand slowly slides down his back to rest at Jaskier’s hip. “I always take it personally when it comes to you,” Geralt says. Jaskier breathes out shakily. Geralt reaches out with his other hand and gently grasps Jaskier’s elbow, making Jaskier’s fingers press more firmly into his knee. “Tell me next time,” Geralt says. And then, “Please.”

Jaskier is powerless to refuse him anything in this moment, so he says, “Alright. I will. Just don’t leave me behind.”

“I won’t,” Geralt says softly. “I won’t. I promise.” Something tense releases in Jaskier, because Geralt is not frivolous with his words and a promise means something coming from him. He won’t leave Jaskier behind. 

“Well good,” Jaskier says, and smiles easily at him. His side feels better now with the salve and the fuzzy layer of alcohol in his system, and every part of him touching Geralt is tingling pleasantly. It’s a lot of parts, he realizes giddily. He’s nearly in Geralt’s lap, held close by Geralt’s hands in something that’s nearly an embrace, and Geralt’s lips are right there. All Jaskier would have to do is lean forward just a smidge, press them together gently, soft as a feather -

Geralt’s eyes flicker to his mouth, and Jaskier flushes hot all over. Gods. Just a look and he feels undone. 

But before he can do anything, Geralt is up and halfway across the room, tucking the jar away like nothing had happened. Jaskier lets out a breath that’s equal parts disappointment and relief. A moment later Geralt is back at his side, holding the roll of bandages. 

“This will keep you from pulling them while they heal,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier obediently raises his arms up as much as he can. Geralt wraps up his ribs efficiently, and it does feel a little more stable. It will help him sleep, at the very least. Just before he wraps the light gauze around Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt leans in and drags in a deep breath. 

Jaskier splutters. “Are you sniffing me, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt huffs out an amused breath against his skin. “Checking for infection. You don’t smell sweet, so you’re probably alright.”

“I smell plenty sweet,” Jaskier gripes. Geralt finishes the bandages, tying them off neatly. Jaskier feels compressed, a bit, but it’s for the best. 

“You smell like ale,” Geralt says with a raised eyebrow. “And the salve. And that lavender soap I hate.”

“You only hate it the first day I use it,” Jaskier points out. The smell is too strong for Geralt to abide by. Jaskier tries not to use it unless they’ll be apart for a day or so. He’d bathed with it the day after the hunt, hoping that the intensity of it would mask anything else Geralt might scent on him. Pain, or distress. Geralt had supported a pinched look of annoyance for a full half a day.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it sounds annoyed and fond at the same time in equal measure, which Jaskier wouldn’t have said was possible before he met Geralt. The most complicated man he’d ever met. “You need to rest.”

“Up at dawn?” Jaskier guesses, shucking off his pants and settling under the covers. Geralt removes his own boots and pants and crawls in on the other side, settled between Jaskier and the door. Jaskier’s not sure if it’s to protect him or to keep him from running off. As if he ever would. 

“We’ll leave when you're ready,” Geralt says, snuffing out the candle flickering on the bedside dresser. In the darkness, Jaskier hears, “I’ll wait for you.”

For once Jaskier has nothing else to say to that, so he settled down into the covers and plans to sleep past noon.

[samstree]

For the reverse trope ask: the soft character comforting the tough character after a trauma

Piece Him Back Together

Part of the reverse trope series.

When Geralt gets kidnapped, it's up to Jaskier to rescue him. Some truths about a witcher's worst weakness come to light.

(geraskier, 2.1k, hurt/comfort, geralt whump, mutual pining, competent jaskier, love confession, mild blood)

read on AO3

"Shit, shit, shit..."

Jaskier lets out a string of curses all the while balancing the weight of two fully grown men with stumbling footwork. He desperately tries to keep Geralt up with a hand on the small of his back but fails to stop the injured witcher from drooping with each step, until, at last, both of them wind up in a heap of limbs by the road.

Geralt lets out a pained grunt and Jaskier scrambles with apologies.

“Fuck, sorry.” The bard shifts Geralt’s bulk with all he can muster and finally settles him on a patch of soft moss under the tree. The witcher hisses as his back hits the bark rather heavily. “Shit, I’m so sorr—”

“You already said,” Geralt interrupts him but there’s no anger in his tone.

“Still. I am.”

Jaskier retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to dab at the mess of blood at Geralt’s temple, wincing when he finally sees how bad the blow is. Blood oozes from the gash, slower than a moment before. The fabric is soaked through and the skin there is still tender.

It’s all witchers’ weakness.

The temple. A blow to the head.

It messes up all their senses and coordination, leaving them in the most vulnerable state. If Jaskier had reached him any later, this might have done Geralt in.

Jaskier lets out a distressed sound at the thought.

“Stop fussing. We need to go.” The witcher, against all odds, remains level-headed.

“No, it’s all right. I knocked out all the guards and servants, along with the duke and his mage.” Jaskier tilts Geralt’s head for a better angle to press the handkerchief down on the wound. “I may have given the two of them a little more than the recommended dose. The lady at the apothecary warned me about the risk of choking with much sleeping potion, urgh, like I give an ounce of fuck if they die a gruesome death or not. It’d be a favor to the town.”

The venom surprises even Jaskier himself, and Geralt lets out a meaningful hum.

“Rest assured, my dear. No one will be looking for us today.”

Up close, Jaskier can feel Geralt scrutinize him intently as if to burn a hole into his face. He meets the amber gaze, the dark pupils still a little blown wide from the shock, but there’s also something akin to relief flowing in those beautiful eyes.

He revels in the silence, observing Geralt in return for further signs of hurt, but finds none.

The witcher relents first, the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So you drugged an entire castle?”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?” Jaskier teases. “The White Wolf, saved by a humble bard and forever impressed by his wit.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up, oh mighty witcher. I’m sure you only needed the rescue because those villains took advantage of your only weakness.” The bard adds his usual dramatic flair into the last two words.

Geralt blinks. Something shifts in his expression, his breathing picking up and his eyes darting everywhere. If the bard didn’t know better, he’d say the witcher is flustered, which makes it all the more confusing.

“Mocking me, are you?” Geralt drops his gaze and tries to shy away, but the bard holds him in place with the other hand. Under Jaskier’s palm, the frame of the witcher’s ear is heating up.

“How am I mocking you? Geralt, even you must admit witchers aren’t all-powerful beings.” Jaskier frowns. “They messed up your head. I know all your senses get muddled when you’re like this. Seriously, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“What are you talking about?” the witcher snaps his gaze back to Jaskier, a puzzled crease deep between his brows, which only makes the bard scoff with amusement.

“The head wound, of course. How did they get you? An ambush and a blow to the head, I’m assuming.” Jaskier explains. “How else did you get yourself into a dungeon and dimeritium cuffs? What, are you telling me you walk into their trap voluntarily?”

He rolls his eyes at the offhanded joke but the silence from the witcher leaves the mood heavier. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a denial of what he just said. Geralt is staring at him with an inexplicable look on his face, and these looks are hard to come by these days. Jaskier prides himself in being the best on the continent at reading his witcher, and he has no inclination to break the streak.

“What happened then? Talk to me, Geralt.”

Jaskier removes the handkerchief a little. The gash has stopped bleeding, so he ties it around Geralt’s head carefully to keep the wound shielded, at least until they can wash it properly. His hands stay with Geralt afterwards, waiting for him to open up.

“I—” Geralt purses his lips before continuing, golden eyes meeting the bard in earnest. “They didn’t ambush me, Jask. I walked into that castle unarmed by choice.”

“What?” Jaskier’s jaw drops.

“It’s because—” the witcher scowls. “Because I thought…that they had you.”

It’s like a lightning strike, where their skin connects tingling all the way from the tips of Jaskier’s fingers to a warm pool of fuzziness in his stomach. The air is suddenly too hot so Jaskier decides to put more space between them.

“Oh.”

Geralt chases him ever so slightly before settling back with resignation, his eyes still bare and vulnerable, as if he just revealed the darkest secret when it is only the sweetest thing in a horrible, horrible way.

“A whisper of you being held hostage and suddenly I couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember to check the truth. Couldn’t waste another second.” Geralt hovers a hand near the bard’s face before retreating to his side. “You were right that they got me because of my one weakness, Jaskier. Just not the one you assumed.”

The pounding in Jaskier’s chest is jumping out of his throat. He’s sure he will die within the next minute if he doesn’t speak to ease this ache in his heart.

“Oh.”

He ends up saying dumbly.

“It was too late when I noticed the absence of you. Your voice, your heartbeat, your scent. Nothing. You weren’t in that castle or the cells. All I could hear was silence and all I could smell was blood.” Geralt draws a shuddering breath. “I hoped, when they kept me in the dark, that they were lying about ever having you. That you were nowhere near that damn place instead of—”

The witcher swallows, unable to finish the sentence.

“Instead of,” Jaskier adds for him, “they’d already killed me.”

The tension hangs between them. The bard sits back on the heels of his feet and finds himself at a loss for words for the very first time in his life.

Geralt might be the only person who can force Jaskier through so many firsts in his life. His first time writing a hit song, first time smashing into someone’s face with a lute, first time saving a witcher’s life, and perhaps, first time murdering two evil overlords obsessed with collecting witchers for experiments.

Hmm, it’s not like Jaskier regrets any of these.

Geralt reaches out again, tentative and patient like he’s approaching a spooked horse. This time, Jaskier takes pity and meets him halfway, his thumb rubbing small circles at the sword callouses that he adores so much.

“Say something,” Geralt pleads.

Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat and sniffles to ease the congestion in his nose, his vision blurring in desperation.

“It’s the most words you’ve said in one sitting, Geralt. You’ll have to allow me a moment to figure out what you are saying and, most importantly, not saying.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s you, you know? There’s always something you are holding back and that is often the crux of it. I thought I got good at reading between the lines, but this is…overwhelming.”

With the enhanced healing kicking in, Geralt is looking much better by the minute. The blood dries and crusts over and his eyes almost shining in the daylight, or is it just the emotions within them? Jaskier can’t tell.

“Maybe I can help you. With the hidden words.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s fingers reassuringly. He tilts his head in the most endearing way. It happens to be that particular head tilt that Jaskier treasures with his life, the one that manages to always take his breath away.

“I love you, Jask.”

The warm pool of fuzziness in Jaskier’s stomach turns into a bottomless pit, and he’s falling.

And soaring.

“I love you.” Geralt smiles sadly. “In the dark of that cell, it became…ever so clear and so loud that I couldn’t deny it anymore. I love you, in spite of myself. Gods, I’ve loved you for so long.”

Geralt picks up Jaskier’s hand and places the barest touch of a kiss there, his lips chapped but oh so gentle. Jaskier lets out a soft gasp and the tears roll down uncontrollably. The next thing he knows, he’s buried deep in Geralt’s embrace. The sobs choke in his lungs like a dam has been broken.

“I—” Jaskier is amazed to find that their roles have reversed. The witcher has expressed everything but the bard becomes mute. So he takes up Geralt’s role gladly and replies with actions.

Jaskier’s lips are pressed everywhere he can reach: the soft, warm skin of Geralt’s neck, the sharp of his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. He disregards the grime and dirt and kisses Geralt’s uninjured temple, the single most fragile part of a witcher’s body—barring their heart, so it seems. He tucks away a strand of white hair and kisses Geralt’s temple one more time, tasting the salty tang of tears.

When he pulls back, Geralt’s smile is blinding.

He hears Jaskier, even though—

“I still don’t know what to say,” Jaskier croaks, sniffling hard.

The bard rests his hands at the nape of Geralt’s neck and loses himself in the sunlit golden honey, his favorite color in the world and the most beautiful dream that’s ever come true.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Geralt wipes away the wetness on Jaskier’s face with the pad of his thumb. “Master Jaskier, poet, minstrel, professor… Stumped for words and forever impressed by a witcher’s love confession.”

He mimics Jaskier’s phrasing and the bard can’t help but chuckle despite the tears and snout, his hand swatting at Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier knows he must look so absurd, laughing and crying all at once, but it’s the last thing in the world that matters.

Geralt loves him, and—

“You got hurt because of me.”

The remorse licks up, along with the urge to protect and to care. The sight of Geralt limp and bloody, bound by the wrists in a dark cell is something Jaskier never wants to relive again.

“I don’t care, Jask.”

“I care.”

“Then make it better.”

So he does. Geralt never wavers as Jaskier captures his lips and pours everything he cannot voice into the kiss, drawing a contented moan out of the witcher.

“Does it still hurt?” the bard whispers between one breath and the next.

“A little.”

Jaskier resumes his work and cards deft fingers through silver hair, careful not to nudge the handkerchief. His nails ghost over Geralt’s scalp and scratches gently until a purring sound rumbles deep in the witcher’s chest. The bard giggles proudly.

“Now?”

“Keep going.”

Geralt traps Jaskier between his strong arms devours him with passion, the heat of his body solid and calming.

Jaskier has never thought of himself as a protector, except at this moment with his witcher arching into his every touch and producing those heavenly sounds. The world is too bent on hurting Geralt, too eager to take and take and take from him.

A bard is not a fighter. Jaskier cannot stop monsters from tearing through armors or crossbows fired with ill intent.

But a bard is a lover. What Jaskier can do is heal, is piece Geralt back together with gentle words in the dark and soft lips on the thin skin at his temple.

“How about now?”

They are panting in tandem, the gold of Geralt’s eyes dreamy and out of this world.

“Still dizzy.”

“That’s from all the kissing, you oaf.”

But Geralt begs wordlessly with those wide, puppy-like eyes so openly, and Jaskier’s already non-existent resolve breaks into a million pieces. He kisses Geralt until the witcher melts into a puddle of purring mess, sun-warmed and pliant.

And he kisses Geralt more.

Again and again.

---

Thanks for the prompt. I kind of just rolled with the concept. The twist looks a bit obvious from the beginning, but feel free to tell me what you think. <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @dapandapod @artisanbaguette @birdsflyhome

Please tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[bamf-jaskier]

Accidental Witcher AU

Just gonna put this here so I can find it later if I ever start writing again...

...

alright so accidental Witcher Jaskier

which is objectively hilarious. No more angst, no glamour, no memory loss or curse NOPE all we have is an absolutely shitfaced Jaskier, a Geralt who left his bag at the inn and isn't coming back until the morning.

Jaskier starts mixing together Witcher potions, why wouldn't he? He's drunk, they are shiny, what isn't there to like?

So Jaskier mixes these potions and it left with a black liquid, dark like tar. And what does this man do? What does this renowned Bard do? HE DRINKS IT

and when Jaskier wakes up the next morning, he realizes oh FUCK he can say a lot more things than the night before, he can smell a lot more things too, damn he reeks.

He looks in the mirror and thank fuck his eyes are still blue somehow but when he looks directly into the light they dilate just a bit, all Cat-eyed. Well. Okay. Jaskier isn't stupid. Something bad happened last night and now he's a Witcher.

But here's the thing: making himself physiologically a Witcher doesn't mean he's a Witcher now. He doesn't know much about the path (besides what Geralt has told him) and he has NO IDEA how to use that huge ass pointy Witcher swords. And the LAST THING he wants is for people to expect him to run around wearing armor and fighting monsters. He would much rather prefer to follow a Witcher around and perform.

So what does Jaskier do? Pretends nothing happened.

Geralt comes back from his contract that day and there is...something different about Jaskier but he can't put his finger on it. Jaskier meanwhile is desperately trying to get used to all these new sense and after accidentally breaking a door handle finds out that Witchers are just a little bit stronger than the average person. He practices with his lute until he can control his strength (and music is such a good way to practice controlling his strength)

And Jaskier just continues traveling with Geralt pretending nothing has happened. Partially because he doesn't want Geralt to get it into his head that he ought to be "trained" (Jaskier will carry a sword the day he dies) and partially because he's embarrassed to admit he recreated the lost recipe to the trials shitfaced.

Of course, if Jaskier's songs begin to focus a little more on a Witcher's senses and are just a touch too realistic about a Witcher's sense of smell? Well Jaskier needs a coping mechanism somehow and the world STINKS now.

Now, Geralt is smart, but even he wouldn't suspect Jaskier of accidentally becoming a Witcher but he knows something is wrong. So what does he do? He starts testing Jaskier to see what's wrong.

At first Geralt thinks its a doppler but that is quickly proven wrong when Jaskier falls directly into a mud puddle and makes Geralt stop at a bathhouse to change and clean up.

He thinks Jaskier has a secret lover but then he see him sleep with someone in a tavern.

Maybe Jaskier is under a curse, but the medallion doesn't even hum.

Geralt even asks Yen to check if Jaskier is under a glamour or a spell and she tells him no.

Geralt has no idea what to do so he asks Yen to dig and find out.

Yen and Jaskier like to gossip and drink together so while Geralt goes off on a contract Yennefer and Jaskier get together to bitch and stitch a little.

Once more, drunk Jaskier starts talking about how he totally accidentally made himself a witcher and he has no idea what to do now. Yennefer of course, doesn't believe him. She thinks he just fucked up and took some potions with temporary side effects that will wear off eventually.

so OF COURSE Jaskier grabs Geralt's bag and begins making the Witcher potion once more. And he holds up this tar-potion, drunk as all hell and declares he is the maker of Witcher and the god of the skies. Then Yennefer steals the bottle, pushes a drunk Jaskier to the ground and chugs the potion.

She wakes up the next morning with a resounding FUCK as her purple eyes dilate in the light. Yennefer didn't even think mages could become Witchers? What the fuck was in that potion Jaskier made?

Jaskier and Yennefer both freak out. Now they are both in deep shit and Jaskier has definitely discovered how to make more Witchers but can only do it while drunk, sober attempts to recreate the potion have been met with no success.

Geralt returns and now BOTH Yennefer and Jaskier are acting weird and fuck what's wrong with them?

Geralt comes to the COMPLETELY wrong conclusion that Jaskier and Yennefer are sleeping together.

Cue Geralt trying to make weirdly supportive comments about Jaskier and Yennefer and the two of them acting super weird because, "does he know? what the hell is Geralt talking about now?"

Geralt: I would support the two of you no matter your life choices

Jaskier: wait does he know?

Yennefer: is he trying to invite us to go monster hunting with him?

Jaskier: Oh gods, please don't let it be that

For Yennefer, the transition from Mage to Witcher-Mage isn't all that different. She supposes she's a bit stronger now and her sense are enhanced but honestly she's really just shocked that drunk Jaskier managed to recreate the trials.

Witchers put on muscle a LOT faster than humans and are better at retaining it. What does this mean? Jaskier, who previously was tall but not exactly a brick shithouse like Geralt is suddenly getting muscle definition and OH NO he doesn't like that. His doublets are getting too tight and Jaskier basically desperately trying to not build muscle which goes against the biological instinct of Witchers.

Cue Jaskier cutting his protein and doing lots of cardio to stay smaller and more lithe. Jaskier refusing to pick things up or do any kind of arm exercises.

Jaskier: Geralt can I tie my lute to Roach's side, I can't carry it anymore

Geralt: why?

Jaskier: .... because

This is when Jaskier buys his horse Pegasus so he doesn't walk quite as much (he unfortunately finds out that horseback riding give you great thigh muscles)

Meanwhile Yennefer doesn't give a shit and she is building some truly fantastic arm muscles in the corner.

Geralt stops by Yen's place on the way to Kaer Morhen and she is....chopping wood a la Captain America with an ax. When Geralt watches Yennefer rip apart a log with her bare hands he literally swoons. Jaskier catches him.

Of course, Geralt STILL thinks Jaskier and Yennefer are sleeping together so he begins to make comments about Yennefer's new look and immediately apologizing because he doesn't want to overstep his bounds.

Geralt: Yen ur looking very powerful lately

looks at Jaskier and back to Yennefer

Geralt: not that u didn't always look powerful, and not that I care or think that's it's attractive or anything.

Jaskier: what...?

Yennefer: Are you saying I'm not attractive Geralt?

Geralt: no...I'm...fuck

Jaskier: hello fuck nice to meet you I'm Jaskier.

Okay but after a few months of Geralt making pointed comments about Yen and Jaskier they begin to think he is trying to matchmake them.

Jaskier: I think that Geralt wants us to bone

Yennefer: he does keep making comments about us alone together in the bedroom, I thought he was joking but-

Jaskier: he just left the room and told us to 'have fun'

Yennefer: I mean, should we?

Jaskier: yeah, sounds fun

okay but IMAGINE. Jaskier and Yennefer are sleeping together right? and they decide to spend a Winter at Kaer Morhen with Geralt who just acquired a new child surprise and they show up at the Wolf Keep and Vesemir (who knows these things) is like, "what schools are these Witchers from" and Geralt just...blanks

Geralt: these aren't Witchers?? One is a bard and the other is a mage??

Vesemir: No these are definitely Witchers

Geralt: ???

Jaskier: ...

Yennefer: ...

Jaskier: OKAY SO LONG STORY

TL;DR Drunk Jaskier mixes together a bunch of potions, him and Yennefer end up drinking them and becoming accidental Witchers, they hide it from Geralt and end up sleeping together due to Geralt misreading the situation

[geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde]

Geralt and eskel taking turns eating jask one night during winter at kaer morhen 👀👀👀

For this prompt I was very specifically told to obliterate the twink, to make him cry. So, here ya go! 5 months later

Title: An Absolute Disaster

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier/Eskel

Warnings: buckle up buttercups, this one’s a ride (literally) - threesome, double penetration, cum eating, rimming, dom/sub dynamics, overstimulation, orgasm delay/denial

The biggest of thanks to @thecomfortofoldstorries for beta-ing the shit out of this for me

-

Jaskier shivered under Eskel's intense gaze.

When Geralt had first suggested it, Jaskier had been unsure about bringing someone else into their bed. But now, with his eyes burning into Jaskier's skin, Jaskier was thrilled.

He focused on the sight of Geralt, sprawled out on their bed, piled high with furs to help keep Jaskier warm during the harsh winter at Kaer Morhen. Geralt looked like a dream, splayed naked, his hard cock already straining, leaking on his stomach where the tip rested. His normally pale skin was flushed with his arousal, a look Jaskier had come to know well. His hands were folded back behind his head as he gazed back at Jaskier, his eyes roving Jaskier’s equally naked form.

Jaskier never felt more wanted, more desired, than when Geralt watched him so intently. Jaskier felt waves of heat behind him as Eskel moved closer.

Jaskier had been instructed to keep his eyes focused on Geralt until Eskel told him otherwise, so that was what he would do. Eskel’s presence was dominating, demanding attention and obedience in equal parts. Jaskier was drunk off it.

Roughened hands settled on Jaskier’s hips, squeezing briefly before trailing up Jaskier’s sides in a comforting motion before moving back down.

“Geralt,” Eskel said, the deep bass of his voice making Jaskier whine, “why don’t you get started? Give Jaskier a show.”

Jaskier’s eyes met Geralt’s as the man smirked, following Eskel’s order slowly but surely. Jaskier followed Geralt’s slow movements, relishing in the strong grip on his hips and he felt his knees weaken at the sight of Geralt, stroking himself.

Geralt’s mouth fell open as he began to pant lightly and Jaskier let out a ragged moan at the sight.

“Mmmm… you like watching just as much as you like being watched, don’t you?” Eskel asked, his breath warming the outer shell of Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier nodded, unable to find his voice, his eyes still focused on the downright sinful picture in front of him.

“Geralt lay back, prop your head on a pillow and get comfortable.” Eskel ordered, the command sending sparks racing down Jaskier’s spine, even though it wasn’t directed at him.

Eskel squeezed Jaskier’s hips again. “Alright Jask, I need you to sit on Geralt’s face for me, okay? Face me.” Eskel’s voice was calm, but held an undercurrent of dominance that made Jaskier shiver. 

Jaskier hurries to do as ordered, clambering up the bed and Geralt’s body, carefully straddling the witcher’s face. As Jaskier maneuvered his legs into a good position, balancing on his knees, Geralt’s hands came up, providing support. The anticipation of what was to come had stolen Jaskier’s breath and he gasped shakily as he settled, hovering over Geralt.

Using his grip on Jaskier’s waist, Geralt pulled him down eagerly. Jaskier lost his balance, tilting forward as he felt Geralt’s tongue circle his hole. The relief he felt was immediate, the sensation sending sharp bursts of pleasure through him. He put his hands on Geralt’s chest to keep himself from falling as he grinded back on Geralt’s face, making the witcher moan.

Geralt’s hands came up, spreading Jaskier’s cheeks, allowing the witcher to press even closer. Jaskier’s eyes fell shut and he whined when he felt Geralt’s tongue push inside of him.

“No, no, little lark, eyes open and on me.” Eskel’s voice sent another shock through Jaskier and he forced his eyes open slowly, his vision blurry as he gazed towards Eskel’s large form.

The larger witcher had climbed onto the bed without Jaskier noticing and was now resting on his knees in between Geralt’s legs. His hands were rubbing a gentle rhythm on Geralt’s spread thighs as he watched Jaskier intently.

“Geralt, let’s give Jaskier a little more, okay? Use your fingers.”

Jaskier groaned weakly as he felt Geralt’s arms shift, a finger prodding at Jaskier’s hole. It was slick, the jar conveniently left in Geralt’s reach by Eskel at the start. Geralt’s thick finger finally pushed in beside his tongue, brushing up against Jaskier’s prostate and making him shake from the stimulation.

He was aching.

His cock throbbed as he reached for it, desperate to give himself some friction.

A growl made Jaskier freeze, his only movements caused by Geralt shifting him around minutely. His eyes met Eskel’s.

“Who told you,” Eskel asked, his voice low and powerful, “that you were allowed to touch yourself?”

Jaskier shivered under the fiery gaze of the man in front of him.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, shaking from desperation.

Eskel hummed, “You won’t touch yourself little lark, we’ll give you your pleasure as you earn it.”

Jaskier nodded, his hand settling back on Geralt’s abdomen for support.

“Is Geralt not doing a good enough job?” Eskel asked, shifting Geralt’s legs so that Eskel could slide his bent knees under them. Geralt wrapped his legs around Eskel easily as he continued his ministrations.

Jaskier was panting, Geralt now pistoning a finger in and out of him at a harsh pace, “No, no!” the bard gasped out, shifting his hips, “so good… just… wanted more. Want to cum.”

“You will, Jaskier. I’ll tell you when. Got it?”

Jaskier whimpered and nodded, rocking back onto Geralt’s finger and tongue.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Geralt stroked Jaskier’s prostate, making the bard howl with pleasure. Jaskier was quickly becoming mindless with it, rocking his hips and practically smothering Geralt, chasing the pleasure jolting through him at every movement Geralt made. His fingers, now two pressed in him, were focused directly on Jaskier’s prostate, hitting it with every thrust in. His tongue licking inside of Jaskier, helping stretch him while he occasionally nipped at Jaskier's rim with sharp teeth, making the bard squirm and wriggle and mewl.

“Four fingers, Geralt. He’s ready. And he’ll need at least that to take my cock.”

Geralt pulled both his hand and mouth away from Jaskier, making the bard whimper. He quickly slicked up his hand and put his fingers back to Jaskier’s hole. He pushed in slowly with all four fingers, making the bard whine from the pressure. The stretch was just this side of too much and it felt amazing.

Jaskier couldn’t think of a time he had been more desperate or more fulfilled.

He was babbling now, the words nonsensical as he rocked back onto Geralt’s hand, his pleas making absolutely no sense.

He felt himself being shifted again and then suddenly a wet heat was on his balls. He keened as he felt Geralt’s mouth draw him in, suckling gently at his sac. Jaskier was overwhelmed.

“Please,” he cried out. He could feel tears streaking down his face.

“Please what?” Eskel purred.

“I need to come. Please let me. Let me touch my cock please. Please, please, please, please.”

“Shhh it’s okay, buttercup. You’re doing so well. Being such a good boy for me. Do you think you’re stretched out enough for my cock?”

Jaskier groaned and feverishly nodded, “Please. I want it so bad. Please.”

“You’re being so good, buttercup. So good. But I don’t think you’re ready yet.”

Jaskier whimpered.

Eskel muttered something so quiet only Geralt could make out the words and then suddenly two sets of hands were on him, lifting and shifting until he was sitting on Geralt’s crotch, his ass pressured right up against Geralt’s cock.

“Alright buttercup, we’re gonna let Geralt get you nice and open for me first, okay?”

Jaskier nodded, the tears still slowly trailing down his face. Strong hands gripped him again and he was seated comfortably on Geralt’s cock, letting him slide down slowly until Geralt bottomed out. Jaskier’s head was thrown back from the pleasure of the stretch. Geralt’s cock was thick and beautifully curved so it hit Jaskier’s prostate unerringly every time.

“Come on, buttercup, think you can bounce on him for me?” Eskel’s deep voice made Jaskier shiver. He tried to get his legs underneath him and lift up, but they were too shaky.

“It’s okay, buttercup, we’ve got you. Geralt can do all the work, beautiful. You just enjoy.”

Geralt’s hands settled back on Jaskier’s hips as he rolled his hips, grinding inside the bard, making him wail. “That’s right, Jask,” Geralt whispered, “let me take care of you.”

Geralt wasted no time, beginning to lift Jaskier up as if he weighed nothing, thrusting his hips.

Eskel hummed, “Look at that. How does it feel, Jask? Geralt’s using you like a toy, moving you around for his own pleasure. Do you like that? Being used?”

“Yes,” Jaskier sobbed, the tears renewed as Geralt pounded into his prostate, “please, please, please”

“Just enjoy buttercup, we’ve got you.” Eskel leaned forward and pressed a hard kiss to the bard’s lips. Jaskier was so fucked out he could do nothing but moan into it.

Eskel shifted again, reaching for the lube and slicking up two of his fingers, “Geralt slow your thrusts down, we don’t want to push him too far too soon.”

Geralt did as ordered with a grunt, slowing his powerful thrusts down until they were smooth rolls of pleasure.

Jaskier’s whine threw his voice into a pitch he didn’t think had ever achieved before.

From his position, Jaskier had the perfect view of Eskel fingering at Geralt’s hole, circling the muscles before pushing in quickly with two fingers.

Geralt grunted and bucked his hips, making Eskel chuckle, “missed the stretch, wolf?” Geralt grunted again, pushing down on the fingers inside of him just as he lifted Jaskier, nearly unseating the bard from his cock before slamming him back down.

Jaskier nearly toppled forward from the force, reaching out to grab hold of Eskel’s shoulders.

Eskel smiled at him, “That’s right little buttercup, you can hold on to me, okay?”

Jaskier nodded, burying his head into Eskel’s neck, tears leaking steadily from his eyes as Geralt’s thrusts began getting more powerful.

Eskel hummed and trailed one hand up and down Jaskier’s back, the other still fingering Geralt open, “Geralt’s close, Jaskier. Can you feel it? How desperate he is?” Jaskier nodded, head still in Eskel’s neck. “Has he done well, buttercup? Does he deserve to cum in you? Mark you?”

Jaskier whimpered, his hips making aborted thrusts, desperate for friction on his cock.

“I think he’s done well. Alright Geralt, cum inside our buttercup for me.” Geralt thrust one more time inside of Jaskier before shivering, his cock throbbing as Jaskier felt his hot seed spill inside of him.

He didn’t feel Geralt soften.

Eskel made a pleased noise as he ran a rand down Jaskier’s back, fingers prodding at Jaskier’s opening. “Still just as hard for us, Geralt?”

Geralt grunted.

“Use your words wolf.”

“Yes.”

“Prop yourself up, Geralt.”

Jaskier remained seated on Geralt’s cock, his head still buried in Eskel’s neck, whimpering quietly every time Geralt shifted inside of him as he resituated.

“Perfect. Jaskier, lean back onto Geralt, okay?” Jaskier whimpered. Eskel chuckled and shifted forward, moving Jaskier back until he was settled against Geralt’s chest, still seated on Geralt’s cock.

Geralt’s arms came up and wrapped around Jaskier, strong and solid. Comforting.

Jaskier whined and bucked his hips. His cock was red and angry, and he was so desperate. “Please,” he whined, breathing hard, he begged again, “please”

 “Not yet, buttercup.”

Jaskier let out a sob and closed his eyes he wasn’t sure he could take anymore.

He bucked again when he felt more pressure pressing against his hole. Opening his eyes, he saw Eskel in front of him, a slick finger prodding at his opening.

“I think that you would feel amazing if I slipped in here beside Geralt, what do you think, buttercup.”

Jaskier froze, the idea alone enough to make him feel so incredibly close to his orgasm. He bucked his hips again, so close.

Suddenly Geralt’s hands settled on his hips, stilling Jaskier’s hips just as one of Eskel’s hands circled his cock, gripping the base tightly.

Jaskier sobbed again.

“None of that, I told you that I tell you when to cum.”

Jaskier nodded.

Suddenly the fingers were back at his hole, pushing in, Eskel’s other hand still wrapped almost painfully tight around the base of Jaskier’s cock.

“Gods you’re already loose and sloppy Jaskier. Geralt’s cum inside of you. I could just push right in, couldn’t I?”

Jaskier stared at Eskel cock, larger than any he had ever taken.

He had never wanted something more.

“What do you want, Jaskier”

“Wanna be full,” He whimpered, trying to shift but Geralt’s strong grip stopped him.

Eskel pushed another finger inside of him. It slid in easily, Jaskier’s opening around him beautifully.

Eskel smiled and pushed two more fingers in him on the next thrust. Jaskier whimpered at the stretch.

“Please, please, please, want you in me, please.” Jaskier was desperate for more. For everything.

Eskel tutted, “Patience, buttercup. If we go too fast, we could hurt you. Just sit back. Let us take care of you.” Eskel’s composure was infuriating. Jaskier was reduced to a shivering, sobbing mess but it seemed like Eskel was completely unbothered by the whole situation.

Jaskier felt another sob escape him as Eskel continued thrusting his fingers in and out of him. The additional stretch alongside Geralt’s cock was mind numbingly amazing and Jaskier couldn’t focus on anything else.

He felt like he might pass out from it.

Eskel’s position was perfect to hit his prostate but he just skirted around it, sometimes grazing against it enough to make Jaskier shout.

Jaskier didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours when he finally felt Eskel’s hand pull back. Jaskier felt empty despite the hard cock still inside of him.

Suddenly, Eskel was on his knees, his hard cock slick and pushed up against Jaskier’s opening, “You still want this buttercup?”

“Please” Jaskier couldn’t take one more minute of this delicious torture but he would rather die than be anywhere else.

The stretch was divine, something Jaskier couldn’t remember ever feeling. It stung but the pleasure far outweighed the pain. Jaskier couldn’t have imagined a feeling like this.

It felt like ages before Eskel finally bottomed out inside of Jaskier. The two thick hard cocks stretching Jaskier far past what he would have ever thought he could take.

It was bliss.

Jaskier tried to buck again but Geralt’s hands still held him in place.

Eskel pulled out and thrust back in slowly, over and over, drawing groans from both Geralt and Jaskier.

Finally, Eskel smirked, “I think you’re ready, buttercup. Hold on.”

Eskel pulled out to the very tip, slamming back into him just as Geralt lifted him just enough to thrust out. They set a brutal pace, pistoning into him alternatingly so he was never empty, their cocks dragging against each other inside of him as Jaskier felt like he was being pounded into oblivion.

He really might pass out.

His cock was long forgotten, the stimulation he was receiving was more than he thought he ever would.

All he could do was lay there and take it.

Geralt was the first to break, shaking through his second orgasm of the night and Jaskier could feel him go soft inside him.

Eskel kept thrusting.

Jaskier was reminded of the throbbing of his cock and he tried desperately to angle his hips so he could get some sort of stimulation on it.

Eskel puffed out a breath, “You ready too, buttercup? Gonna come on my cock?”

Jaskier bucked his hips again, desperate for more. Desperate to cum.

The hand that wrapped around him was the best thing Jaskier had ever felt. Eskel’s hand was still slick from fingering him open as he pumped Jaskier’s cock in time with his thrusts.

When Jaskier came, he swore he could feel chaos raging through him.

His vision blurred.

When Jaskier came to, he was lying on the bed, covered in a thin sheet. Geralt lay beside him, facing him, his eyes closed and face screwed up in pleasure as Eskel fucked into him from behind.

“Buttercup,” Eskel said brightly, only the slightest hitch in his voice indicating he was doing anything more strenuous than laying in bed, “welcome back.”

“How long was I out,” He asked, voice raw,

“Just a couple minutes.”

“Fuck.”

“Had fun?”

Eskel’s thrusts were speeding up, shaking the bed and jolting Geralt. He shuddered as he came inside the white haired man, his thrusts slowing until he finally stopped.

Eskel’s eyes found Jaskier’s, “It was a shame I didn’t get to come inside of you before you passed out.” He barely even sounded out of breath.

Jaskier’s hole was throbbing but he wanted, oh how he wanted it. To take Eskel’s cock again, have it fill him up.

His over sensitive cock gave a twitch.

Eskel chuckled, “It’s okay, buttercup. We can do that next time. I’ve got dinner duty tonight so I need to get going anyway,” Eskel slid from the bed, graceful despite his size, “I’ll see you both in a couple of hours.”

He slipped his clothes on and was out the door before Jaskier even realized what happened.

He looked at Geralt laying beside him. He looked sleepy and content. Except for his achingly hard cock.

Despite everything, Jaskier felt heat pool in his groin. Fuck, he would be so sore later.

His movements still shaky, Jaskier slid down the bed and settled between Geralt’s thighs where he was now lying on his stomach. Jaskier cupped his cheeks, pulling them apart and watching as Eskel’s spend dribbled out of Geralt’s hole still stretched and gaping from his cock. Fuck, Jaskier could only imagine what he looked like... He groaned at the thought.

Geralt’s hips shifted as he grinded his cock into the bed, “You want to cum again?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt let out a sleepy hum, “fuck me?” he asked quietly, shifting to spread his legs even more.

Fuck.

Yeah, Jaskier could do that. His cock was filling out quickly, leaving Jaskier feeling light-headed and sensitive.

He could feel Geralt’s cum where it was drying on his thighs as it leaked out of him. Fuck they were a mess.

Eskel’s cum was still spilling from Geralt slowly, the sight was beautiful and Jaskier couldn’t resist, leaning forward and tonguing at the spend.

Geralt keened.

Jaskier buried his face into Geralt, licking sloppily at his hole. Geralt whined and thrust his hips back when Jaskier’s tongue pushed passed the loose practically gaping muscle.

Jaskier took his time, licking Geralt open and cleaning him out until he was whimpering, thrusting minutely against the bed.

Deeming him clean, Jaskier slid up, pressing a gentle kiss against Geralt’s shoulder before grabbing him by the hair, pulling gently to bring Geralt’s face from the pillow he had buried it in. His eyes were red rimmed and there were tear tracks on his cheeks

He looked ruined

Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder if he looked the same. He certainly felt the same.

Maintaining his grip in Geralt’s hair, he pressed a gentle kiss to his lips as he slid inside of Geralt.

The slide was easy and wet, Geralt more than opened enough to take him.

“I won’t last long,” Jaskier bit out, his thrusts already speeding up as he chased the edge.

“Me either.” Geralt grunted, grinding his cock onto the bed beneath him as Jaskier pounded into him.

In what felt like no time, Jaskier could feel Geralt tighten up slightly around him, still looser than Jaskier had ever felt him before, and it pulled Jaskier with him over the edge. Jaskier rolled to the side, wrapping his arm around Geralt and muzzling up to his side, “We should clean up,” he whispered sleepily.

Geralt rolled so he was being spooned by Jaskier, his back pressed to Jaskier’s front, “Sleep now.” He said quietly.

Jaskier pressed a kiss between Geralt’s shoulder blades and let his eyes fall closed. They would regret not cleaning up when they awoke, but in that moment he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

They would definitely be doing this again. At least once a week until they all departed, if Jaskier had anything to say about it.

-

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[writinglizards]

My Heart Just Knows

Sequel to Don’t Stop (I Can’t Turn the Feeling Off)

Summary: Jaskier pays Geralt a visit at his studio after a long day. Geralt makes it very good for them both. 

Paring: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Explicit Warnings: Smut, Dom/Sub play, use of the word ‘sir’, semi-public sex

Read on Ao3

As their relationship progresses, there's...a slight change. Geralt texts more often, more openly. He tells Jaskier when he's having a bad day, when he's worried, when he's struggling with this, all of it, and he gives Jaskier the opportunity to connect to him, to reassure and explain. And in return, Jaskier does his best to be a little more manageable. He doesn't smother him in attention, doesn't text incessantly, or call, or make a general nuisance of himself. They're...they're finding a balance.

They go on a few more dates, little things that end in sweet kisses and sometimes a frantic fuck at either Geralt's apartment or Jaskier's house. It's good. It's good, and Jaskier's terrified of when and how it's going to end. He keeps telling himself that they both want this, that it's not likely Geralt's just going to break it off, suddenly tired of the attention that comes with Jaskier being a popstar after he’s had his fill of Jaskier's body. He's not...he's not like that, Jaskier knows. It doesn't make it easier to deal with, but texting Geralt about it does, so he continues to do that.

Bad day, Geralt texts him sometime shortly after 1 pm, you wanna meet up for dinner? I'll pay.

Sure. You thinking that Nilfggard place downtown again?

If that's what you want, yeah. Just wanna see you.

Jaskier's chest is tight as he reads over the words. "Hold still," Yen tells him, pinching his bare shoulder aggressively. He flinches, whining, and she smiles only a little meanly at him when their eyes meet in the mirror, "you can moon over Geralt later."

"Yenna--"

"No, don't you 'Yenna' me, Jaskier. Later. You've got another interview." He grumbles in response, shoving his phone between his thighs to eliminate the temptation of looking at the texts again. "And if this goes well enough, I'll cancel the 3 pm interview."

"Really, Yen?" he asks, sitting up a little straighter. Her smile softens just a little, goes a little more genuine around the edges.

"Mm. But only if this goes well. And that includes hair and makeup, you imbecile, so hold still." He does, smiling all the while. He knows she's offering to cancel the later interview so he can meet Geralt at his studio as he closes down for the evening. He also knows if he points that out she'll overload his schedule just to prove a point. It's practically a game.

The interview goes well enough, and Yen scowls only a little when he comes back to the hair and makeup room with his best pout in place.

"Yenna--"

"Oh, shut up, for Melitele's sake. I already canceled," she says before he can even ask, and he can feel the smile on his face, stretched so wide it hurts.

"You're the best, Yen."

"I'm aware," she says primly, "now sit back down. We've got a meeting to catch in an hour and you can't wear stage makeup to it."

By the time she drops him off at Geralt's studio building, he's exhausted, but looking forward to it. They haven't talked much since setting up dinner tonight, and Jaskier's hopeful Geralt will want to take him home (or let Jaskier take him home). It's...it's been a while since they've gotten off together, although they've seen each other plenty. And they haven't fucked in even longer.

He rides the elevator up, shifting from foot to foot anxiously until the doors snick open on the correct floor. He ducks into the office less than a minute later and is delighted to find Aiden at his desk with Lambert in his lap, very obviously making out.

"Hello darlings."

"Son of a--fuck," Lambert yelps, tumbling out of Aiden's lap and directly onto the floor. Aiden fumbles a hand out to catch him but he's laughing and he's not much help.

"It's been a good day for everyone, I see."

"Hi Jaskier," Aiden smiles, helping Lambert up who shakes off his hands immediately, glowering.

"Listen, popstar--" he starts in, aiming for intimidating, but the effect is diminished by the way Aiden melts behind him, smile soft and fond, "--Geralt doesn't know. You can't--"

"Can't say anything? My lips are sealed." He mimes pulling a zipper closed in front of his mouth and Lambert fumbles to a stop, confused.

"...Really?"

"Really. It's not my place to go blowing your big secret, dear." He winks over Lambert's shoulder at Aiden, who erupts into snickers, a hand clamped over his mouth.

"And what do you think is so funny, kitten?"

"I--I just--" he has to pause to breathe, to calm himself down, "We've been dating three years and Jaskier's been dating Geralt two months and he already knows. Lambert--"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he grumbles, but even he's grinning a little now.

"Am I missing something here?"

"It's a secret only from Geralt," Aiden tells him helpfully, "everyone else knows."

"Ah." That's... "is there any particular reason?" he asks. Lambert shrugs and Aiden grins broadly.

"Geralt told Lambert not to harass me two days after we started dating and it was just...too funny to correct." Lambert snorts a laugh and Aiden's grin softens as their gazes catch and hold, "And here we are."

Jaskier's chest tightens watching them. It's clear they care about each other, clear they love each other, and he's...he's happy for them, he is. He just hopes...

"Aiden, when's that next appointment?" Geralt's voice calls from somewhere in the workroom, making Jaskier jump and Aiden roll his eyes.

"He canceled," he hollers back, dragging Lambert back down into his lap with a grin, "you're cleared for the day." There's a vague rumble of assent from the other room as Lambert beams and twists back to press a kiss to Aiden's throat, swinging a leg over the armrest of the chair to lounge back in his lap, Aiden's arms around his waist, his back to Aiden's chest.

"You aren't afraid he'll walk in and catch you?" Jaskier asks, and Lambert laughs.

"Pretty boy's real focused at work, popstar," he grins, "why, I've--"

"Okay," Aiden laughs, slapping a hand across Lambert's mouth, "no lurid details, thanks." Jaskier can't help but laugh.

"Ask me again when princess isn't here," Lambert grins, elbowing Aiden playfully. Aiden slaps at his chest vaguely.

"Behave."

"I always behave, kitten."

"Mm, no, you don't," he says, but he still presses a kiss to Lambert's cheek, "now are you gonna let me work or are you gonna have to go sit in the car until I can get off early to pick puppy up from daycare?"

"Fuck you," he mutters, cheeks tinged pink, and Jaskier bites back a laugh. Ah. So that's what that means.

"Do you think he'd mind if I--" he trails off, gesturing vaguely toward the back room, and Aiden refocuses on Jaskier, smiling.

"Nah, go right ahead. I'll shout before anyone comes in, no worries." The wink he sends Jaskier implies he knows very well what they've gotten up to in the past. Jaskier fights down the blush burning in his cheeks as he steps through the door.

Geralt's stitching together an outfit across the room at one of the large, industrial sewing machines, humming softly under his breath. It's a tune Jaskier recognizes, one of his songs.

"Aiden?" Geralt asks, not turning to look, and Jaskier's chest aches with how much he loves him, this quiet, attentive man.

"Try again, love," he says softly, and Geralt swears. Jaskier laughs as he pulls the fabric away from the machine and snatches up a stitch ripper.

"Couldn't have waited another fucking minute, could you?" he grouses, "you ruined my seam."

"Mm, I'm sure you can fix it," Jaskier grins, crossing the room to press up behind him, drop his chin onto Geralt's shoulder, "I believe in your very capable skills, darling."

Geralt grumbles irritably, but he also turns to kiss Jaskier sweetly, so he can't actually be that mad.

"What are you doing here so early?"

"Good boys get their last interview of the day canceled so they can come visit their very important other half," he murmurs, kissing along Geralt's throat, "and I've been such a good boy, sir."

"You want me to put you in your place?" Geralt asks, and it sends a shock of heat straight to Jaskier's core. He'd just been teasing. They haven't...Geralt's not really interested in dominating and Jaskier hasn't slipped on him since that last time with the dildo. The thought of it--

"Don't tease me, love," he murmurs, kissing Geralt's throat again as he pulls away. He twists to look at him, expression thoughtful.

"I'm not."

"Geralt. I know you don't...you don't like that."

Geralt twists, getting his hands around Jaskier's waist and tugging him forward, thumbs pressing into the jut of his hipbones just above the waistband of his trousers, "It doesn't do anything for me, but I--you like it. And I like to see you feel good." It sends a shiver down his spine.

"Aiden's in the other room," he whispers, but it sounds like a weak protest even to his own ears.

"And my last appointment canceled. Aiden won't come back here because he doesn't want me to give him any extra work." He says it matter-of-factly, but he's not pressing, just...offering.

"What about dinner?"

"We can get something after, if you want," he murmurs, pressing his lips to bare skin peeking from the deep v of Jaskier's shirt. He sinks his fingers into Geralt's hair, petting gently.

"Will you take me home afterward?" He's...a little nervous about...about after. He doesn't play as a sub often for a number of reasons, one of which being his sub drop can be...bad. Most people don't want to deal with that.

"Of course," Geralt hums, lips barely brushing his skin, "whatever you need from me, Jask," and that's...

"Please," he gasps, tightening his grip in Geralt's hair, "sir, please."

Geralt breathes out quietly for a moment, and then his shoulders straighten as he pulls away. Jaskier lets him go.

"Go kneel by the couches. Don't touch anything, yourself included. If you're very good, I'll take care of you after I've fixed the problem you caused. Understood?"

Jaskier swallows hard and nods. Geralt just raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Go sit."

Jaskier feels a little thrill go through him as he crosses the room, settling down on his knees by the client couch. Geralt watches him critically until he's settled and then he nods, more to himself than to Jaskier, and resumes his work on the sewing machine.

It's a unique thrill, to be on the other end of their play, to have Geralt ignore him. He's already hard and aching in his trousers and watching the curve of Geralt's shoulders as he works is only getting him more wound up. He shifts, biting back a whine, and the sound of the sewing machine stops.

"Do we have a problem over there?" Geralt asks, tone severe, and his stomach clenches so hard it almost hurts.

"N-no, sir," he mumbles, forcing himself to stillness. His hands settle on his thighs and he squeezes sharply, trying to calm himself down. Geralt stares at him for another long minute before he turns back to his work. Jaskier lets out a breath.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the slow rush of breath in his lungs, the easy inhale, exhale pattern. He tries to focus on that rather than the burning under his skin, his own arousal. At some point, every exhale becomes a whine, but he's so far gone he doesn't notice until Geralt snaps at him.

"Can you be quiet?" he asks, and when Jaskier's eyes snap open, he's not even looking at him. He whines again, louder, unable to help himself. "Answer the question, Jaskier."

"N-no," he admits, and something in him roils to admit that he can't be good enough for him, can't--

"You need help?" Geralt asks, tone a little softer, and Jaskier sobs, nodding.

"Please."

Geralt sighs, a long, slow exhale, and then he's standing. He pauses to scoop something up from a nearby table before approaching Jaskier.

"Will this work?" he asks, presenting a scrap of fabric for Jaskier's approval. It's soft and silky from the looks of it, and Jaskier nods, tilting his head back and letting his mouth fall open as if to take Geralt's cock. Geralt groans.

"Cheeky," he mumbles, thumb pressing temptingly against his bottom lip, "misbehave and cause distractions and still think you deserve my cock in your mouth." He takes the cloth and winds it tight before shoving the fabric gently between Jaskier's teeth.

He moans as the fabric presses against his tongue, soft and silky like he knew it would be. Geralt stretches the ends of it back behind his head and tips his head down with one hand, knotting the fabric tightly but not so tightly it causes undue stress on his jaw.

"How's it feel?" Geralt asks, "nod if good, shake your head if it needs adjustment." Jaskier hardly waits for the question to be out of Geralt's mouth before he's nodding, tongue pressing against the fabric as he works his jaw testingly. There's a little give, but not too much. It's perfect.

"Good," Geralt says fingers settling on the hinge of Jaskier's jaw and digging in just a little, "you stay quiet and let me finish my work, and then we'll see what you've earned." Without another word, he turns and crosses back to his sewing machine. Jaskier could cry.

He tries to be good, but it's so fucking difficult. He's hot and hard in his trousers and Geralt looks so good, shoulders pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his back as he bends over the sewing machine and Jaskier whines around the gag.

Geralt starts humming again and Jaskier forces himself to focus on that--the pleasant melody of it, the way it makes his chest tight with fondness. He lets himself get lost in the sound, and when the sewing machine stops humming, he doesn't even notice.

"Jaskier?" Geralt's voice is soft and his fingers along his jaw are gentle. He can't remember closing his eyes, but opening them takes an enormous effort. "Good?"

"Hmmph," he mumbles through the gag. His tongue feels thick, his thoughts syrupy. He's not sure when he slipped into subspace but it's...pleasant. To put it mildly.

"Will you behave if I remove the gag?"

"Mmph."

"Alright," he says, as if Jaskier had answered with something intelligible. His fingers shift gently through Jaskier's hair before unknotting the fabric and easing the gag, damp with saliva, from between his teeth.

He gives him a minute to work the stiffness from his jaw, one hand cupping his face gently as he does so almost automatically. His half-lidded eyes are locked on the clothed cock not a foot from his face and it makes his mouth water to think of getting his lips around it. He hopes Geralt thinks he's been well behaved enough to let him suck him off.

"Color?" he asks, and it's so hard to make words work, but--

"Green," he rasps out, voice wrecked. Geralt hums.

"You were very good after the gag. Do you think you deserve my cock?" he asks conversationally, and Jaskier sways forward without really meaning, cheek pressed to the front of his trousers, "Answer me, Jaskier."

He rubs his face against the firm bulge of him, like a cat, moaning. He can't do much else.

"In your mouth?" he asks, voice low, and Jaskier moans again, soft and shaky. Geralt hums in response.

He doesn't say anything, just unbuttons his slacks, holding Jaskier back with one hand in his hair as he works them down his hips enough to pull his cock free.

Jaskier moans again, mouth falling open when Geralt rubs the head across his slightly parted lips, one hand around the base of his cock and the other still tight in Jaskier's hair. Distantly, he knows what comes next, but right now all he can process is the slick of precome on his lips and cheeks. His tongue flicks out to lick the taste from his lips. Geralt groans.

"You're so pretty on your knees, sweetheart," Geralt says, and it ignites something hot in Jaskier's gut, something ravenous. Geralt uses endearments so rarely. To hear it now lights him from the inside and Jaskier shivers with it. "You going to be good and let me fuck that sweet little mouth now?"

"Please," he rasps, barely loud enough to be heard, but Geralt makes a soft noise.

"Good boy," he breathes, and Jaskier chokes, gut clenching tight, "hands on my thighs. Don't want you tempted to touch yourself." He whines softly, but follows the directions, digging his fingers into the soft fabric of his slacks and bunching them under his hands.

As soon as he does, Geralt presses forward and Jaskier's jaw falls farther open, his length sinking between Jaskier's lips.

"Fuck," Geralt sighs. He stops about halfway and Jaskier mumbles incoherently in protest as he pulls backward before thrusting forward again, only a little deeper. "You feel so good, Jask."

He does his best to be good for him, tonguing along the length and sucking at the head as he pulls back, but it's hard to be present enough to do a good job. Mostly he just lets his jaw go slack as he whines around his length, lets his mouth and throat be used as Geralt presses in until he bottoms out, Jaskier's nose pressed to his pubic bone and buried in coarse white curls.

"Your throat's so tight," he groans above him, working his hips in short little circles as he bumps against the back of his throat. Jaskier's gone lax--he can feel the fullness, but it's only distantly uncomfortable. His fingers flex in the fabric of Geralt's trousers and his dick pulses hotly and he just...floats.

"You want me to come down your throat?" Geralt asks, breathless, and Jaskier whines, unable to respond. He does, he does, but-- "Words, Jaskier."

Geralt tugs him off his length, the red, swollen head of his cock bobbing enticingly before his lips as he pops free of Jaskier's mouth. He's enraptured with the slickness of it, the way precome beads needily at the head, the string of saliva still connecting his swollen lips to the plumpness of him.

"Words, Jaskier," Geralt repeats, tone severe, and it breaks him out of it, just a little.

He glances up at him through his eyelashes, mouth hanging open. His dick aches and his throat aches and he wants so badly for Geralt to find his pleasure in using him--wants to be good.

"Please," he forces out, "come down my throat, sir."

It's all the encouragement Geralt needs. He growls roughly as he shoves his dick back between Jaskier's lips, and Jaskier sucks and laves greedily at him, desperate to feel his release hit the back of his throat.

"Not gonna be long," Geralt warns, voice rough, and Jaskier moans brokenly, fingers tightening in his trouser fabric again.

Geralt shoves his hips against Jaskier's face twice, three times, before spilling. It's messy and thick and more than he was expecting--he chokes a little even as Geralt pulls back, gives him room to swallow.

"Shh," he's soothing, grip gone gentle in Jaskier's hair, "I know, 'm sorry, sweetheart. Swallow, love, you're fine."

Geralt's thick fingers wipe the tears from his eyes, the ones he didn't know were there, as he swallows, panting roughly.

"You did so well, Jaskier," he murmurs when Jaskier's mouth is empty again, breath rasping in his lungs, "so good for me, thank you, sweet." He shivers.

They don't move for several moments. Geralt guides Jaskier's forehead to his hip, lets him rest his head there as he catches his breath and presumably decides what to do with him. He's so hard it's painful and he can barely breathe for how badly he wants Geralt to finish him off.

Despite that, he's also aching for Geralt to deny him, to tell him he was good but not good enough, to have him sit, ignored and untouched, until his arousal dies, until he's no longer burning for it.

"How should I reward my good boy?" Geralt asks, fingers carding gently through Jaskier's hair, and he can't help but whine. Maybe someday he'll tell Geralt about how badly he wants to be denied, but right now-- "what do you want, Jaskier?"

"Wanna get off," he slurs, voice wrecked. He hardly sounds like himself.

"Do you deserve for me to jerk you off, or should I let you rub against me instead?" he asks, and the thought of that, of not being given what he really wants--

"Please," he mumbles, unable to give voice to it, "please, sir."

"You'd like that?" Geralt asks, tone conversational. Of course he knows Jaskier would like that--they've talked a little about his need for denial, talked about how hot he gets for humiliation. Geralt obviously doesn't know quite the extent of it and Jaskier had thought Geralt was choosing to go easy on him. Now he knows he's just playing the game.

Geralt steps back, settling on the client couch, and widens his thighs. Instinctively, Jaskier shuffles forward to press between them before Geralt hauls him up to straddle his thigh, knees resting on either side. He threads Jaskier's arms around his neck and Jaskier shakes with his effort to hold still.

"You don't touch yourself," Geralt says softly, "you keep your hands around my neck. I'll touch you if I want. You can move, but you're going to come in your pants, understand?"

The shivers trembling up his spine intensify and he nods, hiding his face against his arm and Geralt's neck. "Yes, sir."

"Good," he says, palms settling on Jaskier's hips, "get going, then."

Geralt's hands fall to rest on the swell of his hips, just holding, and Jaskier has to encourage himself into movement, rocking forward gently. Geralt doesn't reprimand his speed or give him directions, so he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to bite back a whine. He doesn't want to upset Geralt, wants to be good, wants--

"Hey," Geralt whispers, lips brushing Jaskier's temple, just a gentle graze, "follow what your body wants, Jaskier. There's no rules here." It's exactly what he needed to hear and he whines openly when Geralt encourages him to move faster, to chase that white-hot feeling burning in his gut.

He snaps his hips forward, grinding his cock along the press of Geralt's thigh, shifts to grind harder up against his stomach for a minute before resettling along his thigh, panting hard.

"There you go, Jaskier," he breathes, squeezing his hips gently, and Jaskier could cry for how good it feels, "good job, sweetheart, just take what you need."

"'M close," he gasps out, twisting his face to press his lips to Geralt's cheek. He hadn't been asked to kiss him and he hadn't been told it wasn't allowed, so--

"Yeah? Come on, Jask, what do you need?"

"You," he sobs out, and Geralt turns to meet his lips with his own, kissing him slow and sweet as Jaskier grinds hard against his thigh and comes in his pants, shaking and gasping into the kiss.

He rides out the feeling with shocky little rocks of his hips, eyelids fluttering, and Geralt holds him through it, palms sliding up his back and then back down, even and controlled. It's grounding and it's exactly what he needs to force himself back into control, to pull himself out of the fog of needy subspace he'd fallen into.

When he pulls back, finally, Geralt's watching his face closely before he breaks into a soft smile. "There you are," he says, voice soft and reverent, "how was it, Jask?"

"Good," he says. The word is inadequate to describe the way his entire body feels light and fuzzy, the wave of tiredness suddenly tugging his eyelids down. Geralt smiles.

"Yeah, I bet," he leans forward to kiss him, quick, "I was...okay?" Oh. Oh.

"You were perfect, love," he says, because it's true, "thank you. I wouldn't...I wouldn't trust just anyone to dom for me anymore. You did a very good job." Geralt doesn't respond outwardly with more than a nod, but Jaskier can see the way the praise lights him up from the inside, the way his smile pulls a little wider, eyes crinkling just a little more at the corners.

"Thank you, I'm...not as comfortable. Domming." Jaskier knows. They've talked about it, a little bit, about how Geralt doesn't really get the idea of finding pleasure in the power. "This was...good," he says haltingly, and Jaskier perks up.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he affirms, before ducking his head, blush spreading up his cheeks, "I...liked seeing you take your pleasure...because of me." Ah.

"You just love to spoil me," Jaskier mumbles, cupping his face and leaning forward to kiss him, soft and sweet, "no matter what role you take. My good boy."

"Ah--" Geralt makes a soft noise at the praise, pressing into Jaskier's kiss for one quick, heated moment before he pulls away, "we should...uh. We should go. I could take you home?" Geralt asks, voice low.

"Sounds like a plan, darling," Jaskier can't help but grin. His pants are sticky and uncomfortable, come rapidly cooling, and he's not looking forward to the walk back to the car, but--

"Here," Geralt says, pulling away to move to the other end of the room and rifle through a set of drawers, "go change." It's a simple skirt, colorful but not flashy, and Jaskier can tell just from looking at it that it's his size. His heart skips, chest tightening.

"You made this for me?"

"Mm," he's not looking at him, "I did." Jaskier laughs breathlessly and he feels...so light.

They leave the studio a few minutes later, Jaskier's soiled pants in a bag. In the front office, Aiden's behind his desk and Lambert's across the room in one of the waiting chairs. Interestingly, his hair is mussed and his shirt buttons are a little off.

"Lambert, don't harass my employee," Geralt burrs, tugging Jaskier after him, their arms linked, "Aiden, you can go home early, whenever you're ready."

"Will do, boss man. Thanks!" He catches Jaskier's eye and fucking winks.

He doesn't say anything about it until they're in the elevator.

"So Aiden and Lambert," he starts, not intending to give away their game but just...prod Geralt's own assumptions (he's not sure how Geralt doesn't know they're fucking, honestly) but Geralt breaks him off with a groan.

"Aiden and Lambert are...weird. Especially together. It's best not to think too hard about it," Geralt says, and Jaskier's lips twitch. They're in for a long con, alright. "So, my place or yours?"

"Mine," Jaskier purrs, leaning up to nip Geralt's jaw. Beneath his lips, Geralt shivers, "we haven't got to use my bed yet."