#jaskier’s first experience with cats v geralt

[bluedillylee]

Jaskier learns cats don’t like witchers

[goldandlights]

the white wolf’s pelt

rating: teen+ pairing: geraskier, brief mention of jaskier/some-other-guy tags: established open relationship (will I ever write anything else anymore? unlikely.), casual sex, body hair (lots of it), scent kink, sad!Geralt, tooth-rotting fluff and crack

In which Jaskier makes a terrible decision and his Witcher pays the price.

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Geralt is truly addicted -to Jaskier’s body hair, that is.

When they're in bed the Witcher will nose and scratch at the thick mat of hair on the bardlings front, greedily sucking in the musky rich smell of him like there is no finer scent in all the world. Hell, Jaskier is pretty sure the only reason Geralt hasn’t yet tried to physically roll in it is because such an action would surely crush some ribs and Jaskier needs those intact! Thank you very much!

It is kinda weird. Maybe a lot weird even. But then again, Jaskier is probably even weirder for getting off on it so much. There are few things which can make him as instantly, desperately hard as having his darling lover reduced to a growling mess, pawing at Jaskier’s body eagerly, almost reverently. It makes him feel loved and wanted, deeply flattered at the shameless display of desire from his taciturn companion.

Sadly he takes neither of these things into consideration, when, one rainy summer morning in a tiny village at the ass-end of the world, Jaskier decides to shave it all off .

Geralt is out on a contract, gone for four days and likely not to be back for another two or three. Jaskier would be out of his mind by now, close to death by acute boredom, if it wasn't for the handsome blacksmith with whom he enjoys himself at every possible opportunity (which are many… Jaskier can be quite persuasive).

This blacksmith though, himself a tall, broad, hairy fellow, quite clearly has more of a taste for boyish sort of men. And Jaskier might look the part while all donned up in his colourful, pretty minstrel clothes but not so much when those clothes come off . The smith is too sensible to say anything of course, yet Jaskier can feel the slight hesitation whenever wandering hands encounter a patch of his thick, dark body hair.

So, with literally nothing else to do but wait for the next round of fucking or Geralts return (whichever comes first), Jaskier borrows a nice, sharp knife and goes to work.

After three painful little cuts in his armpits and one by his hips, he wisely decides to leave his pubes untouched. Accidental self-castration would be quite exciting but he’s not that desperate yet.

Otherwise though, the bardling ends up nice and smooth, skin pink and flushed from the unfamiliar irritation. It’s actually quite pleasant to touch and he spends some time exploring the new sensation before presenting himself to his bedfellow. Predictably, the blacksmith goes absolutely crazy, taking Jaskier right where they stand in the middle of his workshop and then twice more on the way back to the bed.

Living in a secluded, mostly conservative little village like this must be an intensely frustrating experience. Jaskier can’t relate but for the time being, he's happy to help out.

Regret sets in 48 hours later, which is when the lovely feel of baby smooth skin has fully turned into the burn of itchy stubble. It becomes complete after yet another day when the clopping of hooves announces his White Wolf's victorious return.

Depending on how a hunt goes and how much distance there was to cover, Geralt will usually be either horny as hell (if it was too easy or just challenging enough to get him pumped but not to tire him out) or exhausted as hell (mostly when customers lie to drive down the price and two drowners turn out to be a whole pack of werewolves). This is one of the horny cases.

Apparently the Nekker nests were both well hidden and unexpectedly large; It took Geralt two whole days to find them, a day to form a plan of action and another four days to prepare, carry it out and return to the village trophies in hand. Not a hard contract but definitely a tedious one. Especially since it's been raining cats and dogs for weeks and every square centimetre of uncovered ground has turned into ankle-deep, stinking muck.

The Witcher standing before Jaskier looks more like a drowned rat than the strappingly handsome hunk that left here a week ago and the bard insists on a bath before any reunion ravaging is allowed to happen.

He feels a bit sorry now for having allowed the blacksmith such frequent use of his body; it will be a few days before his hole can take another pounding (even more so because Geralt’s huge girth is a challenge at the best of times). Luckily though, Jaskier knows about a hundred ways to satisfy the itch under his Witcher’s skin. He will endeavour to make full use of that knowledge tonight. For better or worse, the White Wolf, bless his affection-starved little heart, is not particularly picky about the loving he receives.

What Jaskier didn't prepare for is the look of damn near devastation on Geralt's face when he, scrubbed pink and clean, finally allowed to embrace his much-missed bard, greedily pushes his hands up under Jaskier’s loose white shirt and finds only prickly stubble instead of the usual magnificent pelt.

Oh, it should be funny. And Jaskier will laugh about it later, but at that moment, the utter betrayal on his partners face makes it seem like breaking all four of Roache’s legs would have been the lesser offence by far.

“Uhm, I can explain?” he tries tentatively, “You know, there was that smith that I told you about and he seemed to-”

“What you do with your body is none of my business.”

Hmhm. Yeah, that's what Geralt says and Jaskier appreciates the sentiment, really. But the strangely forlorn way his hands still roam the bard’s belly, dipping under the waistline of Jaskiers trousers and relaxing almost imperceptibly at the still intact thatch of hair they find there is... well, it's just sad and makes Jaskier feel quite terrible.

“If it’s any consolation, my hair always grows really fast?” he ventures, trying to console his distraught Witcher, “I shaved just a few days ago, see, it's already coming back quite vigorously…”

“Hm.” Geralt grunts. It’s not working.

“Oh come onnnn…” Jaskier whines, putting both his hands on his beloved's dour face and pushing at his cheeks obnoxiously in a vain effort to cheer him up. “It’s just some hair. Is it really so important?”

“Smells like you,” the squished Witcher replies with a grumble.

“Uh, yeah. And it's actually kinda rank sometimes. I don't get how it doesn't bother you with your enhanced senses.”

It’s true, Jaskier has been curious about that for a while now. Releasing his hold on the Witcher’s face, he moves to card his fingers through the invitingly soft strands of hair instead. Geralt shrugs lightly in response before turning his head to nose at Jaskiers wrist.

“It's you. So it's good,” he murmurs, muffled against the skin.

It is such a simple explanation but might just cut to the very core of the matter. Jaskier’s chest swells with warmth and adoration. He knows to listen for the words that Geralt does not say.

“Alright,” Jaskier peppers feather-light kisses from the Witchers' cheek down to his mouth. When their lips meet, it’s like rain after months of drought. A week apart was a week too long.

“Tell me how to make it up to you, darling,” another kiss, “Wanna suck my cock? You can fuck my thighs later.”

“Mmmh.”

They’re moving again. Stepping lightly over hastily dropped clothes to the bed allocated to them in one of the empty cottages.

Jaskier will never really get used to staying in the houses of the dead but in villages such as this, where there is no inn or tavern, it’s vastly preferable to whatever barn or stable they’d be offered instead.

“Was he good to you?”

“Hm? Who?”

Jaskier’s last piece of clothing falls to the floor. The bed is soft and Geralt less so, mouth sucking bruises into vulnerable skin.

“The blacksmith.”

“Oh.” Jaskier has already forgotten him, “Oh yes, he was very nice. It’s always amazing to meet someone even less talkative than you.”

The low growl rumbling through the Witchers broad chest makes Jaskier giggle and push closer. He wants to feel those vibrations in his own body, through every centimetre of his skin. Geralt's cock jumps where it’s pressed against his hip, already wet at the tip.

Yielding easily to the bard’s hand pushing on his shoulder, the Witcher soon starts moving downwards, nipping reproachfully at Jaskier’s plucked-chicken chest all the way. The human huffs out a laugh, painfully fond; may the Gods save him from the wrath of this grouchy creature.

Geralt visibly (to the trained eye at least) perks up when he reaches the v between the bardlings legs and settles in, immediately pressing his face into the nest of pubic hair. He hums happily and breathes in deep, nosing at the base of Jaskier’s swelling cock. Propped up on his elbows, Jaskier can see the Witcher’s hips twitching down into the sheets already. He’s sure to come like this at least once, mouth stuffed and all senses overloaded with Jaskier’s taste, his scent and the lovely sounds spilling from his bitten-red lips.

Fucking adorable is Jaskier's last haphazard thought before Geralt swallows him down to the root and stars burst behind his eyelids.

fin.

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