#jaskier keeps saying sure hope he doesn't find out and he continues to not find out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inber · 2 years

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One Condition

A/N: Thanks for the prompt my bean! 1.5k of drabble. Some spoilers for S2, but not really. Just fluff nonsense involving Yen, Jaskier, and Ciri. Enjoy~

“Is this one poisonous, too?”

Yennefer exhales sharply through her nose. Behind her, she hears some vials clatter. There comes a mumbled, 'oops'.

“Why don't you put it in your mouth and find out?” She snaps, not turning around. “You're supposed to be helping me, Jaskier.”

“I am! You said you wanted... uh...”

She does not grind the herbs in the mortar harder. Her teeth do not pinch together tighter. “Yes?”

“Honeysuckle?” Jaskier guesses, lamely.

“Bison grass.”

“Close! I was close. Anyway, is it?” Jaskier holds the jar up.

“Is it what?”

“Poisonous!”

“Jaskier.” Yennefer drops the pestle and strides over to him. She stands at least six inches shorter, but she doesn't need height nor bulk to menace. Glaring, she snatches from his cradling hands, ignoring the miffed huff he makes. “This is mint, you dullard.”

“Oh-I. I know. I was just... testing you.” He smiles the sort of smile she knows he reserves only for her; either to soothe her, or to further aggravate her.

“Go find something else to do. I need to concentrate.”

Jaskier lifts his chin up defiantly. “I've as much right as you to be here.”

“If you were being useful, I might agree.” Yennefer says, turning back to her work.

“Fine, then. I'll leave, on one condition.”

“Which is?” She asks. It's quicker to indulge him than it is to berate him. This she learned long ago.

“A kiss.”

Yennefer whips her head to face him. Jaskier taps his cheek. “Here.”

A foreign heat climbs up her neck. Yennefer dislikes it. “I'll do you one better.” She blurts, gaze skittering away from the glacier-lake blue stare he's fixed her with.

“Oh yeah?” Jaskier's voice has dropped, raspy. That odd feeling flares hotter. Yennefer grabs a stone from the bench in front of her.

“I'll give you this magic stone.”

His interest is piqued, as she hoped. Hawkishly, he examines the offering. It's pale blue, veined through with glittering white streaks, small and polished pretty. Reverently, he picks it up.

“What does it do?”

“Brings luck, protection. It's a mage thing.” Yennefer speaks loftily, uncorking the jar of bison grass she found herself.

“Ooh. Mage secrets. Alright, deal.” Jaskier says, turning the stone over and over in his palm. “I'll see you at dinner, witch.”

“Not if I see you first.”

As he exits, Yennefer breathes a sigh. She's not sure if it's one of relief or frustration or longing--

Definitely not that, no. Frowning, she steps back to the apothecary bench, picks up the pestle, and continues to mix. She's made this poultice a thousand times in her life, but she suddenly can't remember how many stalks of grass to add.

Bloody bard.

Hopefully the harmless piece of larimar she gave him will amuse him for an hour or two.

--------------------

“And that,” Jaskier lofts a hand dramatically, “is the story of how your father saved both of us on the day we met.”

Ciri eyes him with scepticism. Underneath their boots, fresh snow crunches. “I've heard the song, yes. Geralt told me all the songs you sing are embellished.”

“Embellished! Your majesty, you wound me.”

“Quit calling me that.” Ciri shoves at Jaskier's shoulder, and he pretends to stumble under the force of it.

“Oh, such a violent monarch! Alright, alright. What would you prefer I called you?”

“Ciri. My name.”

“Boring.” Jaskier tells her, pausing their wander to pick a bit of frosted foliage that has caught his interest. “All the greatest heroes have an alter ego. Did you know that Geralt chose his name?”

Ciri's eyes widen. “He did?”

“Oh, yes. All witchers do, as I understand it. I believe Vesemir vetoed his first choice—ahh, but I should not tell you such a tale. He'd throw me off the mountain.”

“Now you must!” Ciri hops in place, hands clasped together. Jaskier grins at her. Sometimes she acts her age, and it's a welcome sight to see. “Please?”

“Anyway,” Jaskier says, dismissively keeping her on tenterhooks, “all poets embellish, a little. The real story makes for a less interesting song.”

He has her caught between learning a potentially embarrassing truth about Geralt's youth, and hearing a genuine tale about Filavandrel. Jaskier watches her struggle out of the corner of his eye, trying not to smirk. They continue their idle stroll at the edge of the forest.

“What actually happened? With the elves?”

The truth won out, then. Jaskier hums, a little surprised. “Honestly? He just talked to them.”

“He talked to them?” Ciri parrots.

“Yes. Actually, he asked them to spare me. Then he listened to what they had to say, and gave them advice. He was willing--”

A sharp screech cuts Jaskier off, and the two of them freeze. Something sleek and black dives through the canopy like an archer's arrow loosed. It digs huge talons into the meat of a thick branch, spreads wings that shimmer like ground obsidian – a good eight feet across – and fixes four crooked yellow eyes on them. It's something like an enormous raven, but when its beak parts, rows and rows of jagged dragon's teeth are bared.

“What the fuck is that?” Ciri whispers.

“I-I don't think we should ask it.” Jaskier responds, voice pitched higher.

The creature lowers its head, monstrous eyes darting in all directions. Slowly, Jaskier begins to toe his way in front of Ciri. It's unspoken knowledge that any sudden movement would probably be folly.

“When I give the word,” Jaskier murmurs through a tight jaw, “you run, Ciri. We aren't far from the keep.”

“I'm not just leaving you--”

Another cry; shorter, more precise. If Jaskier didn't know better, he'd think the monster was trying to communicate. But he does know better. He's seen far too many hungry things in his life.

“Fuck it.” Jaskier spits, fingers curling around the stone in his pocket. It's warm from resting against his leg. “Face a mage's wrath, you wretched beast!”

With a strong arm, he throws the rock. Protection, Yennefer had said. Jaskier's aim leaves something to be desired; the stone bounces on the ground, shining against the snow, and lands below the winged animal's perch.

All three of them stare at it. A bolt of sunshine rolls over the surface of the larimar, reflecting the pale ripples contained within it. The raven-thing makes a noise close to a growl, and bends lower.

“Fuuuck--” Jaskier shoves Ciri behind him, the both of them backing up on trembling legs.

With an astonishingly steady grace, the abomination bends down and plucks the stone from the snow. It tilts its head at both of them, and then just as it had appeared, it is gone with a few beats of its giant wings. Bewildered, Jaskier and Ciri stare after it.

Then they are sprinting, scrambling and unsteady, straight back to the safety of the keep.

--------------------

Yennefer looks up sharply as the hall doors burst open, two figures tumbling in. She had opted to take a meal early, telling herself she was hungry, and not that she was still avoiding the other occupants of Kaer Morhen. The witchers were nowhere to be found. It wasn't as though she was privy to their plans.

“What in the name—what happened?” Yennefer stands immediately, striding to check Ciri over first.

“Big bird... thing.” Ciri pants, hands on her hips. “I haven't seen it in any books yet. It was huge!”

Alarmed, Yennefer looks to Jaskier, who nods. “We weren't far, just walking--”

“It came down from the sky!” Ciri interjects, gesturing wildly with her hands. “It had claws and fangs and--”

“Thank the gods I had that stone you gave me, Yen.” Jaskier finishes.

Yennefer glances between the two of them. No one is hurt, which she is grateful for, but the fact remains that they'd been caught so unaware. So unguarded. Jaskier's words register. “The—what?”

“The protection rock... thingy. It saved us.”

Blankly, Yennefer blinks at him. It's easy enough to read his mind; the adrenaline racing through him makes for quick access, and within seconds she's up to speed. Through his eyes, she recalls exactly what happened. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“You really threw it?” Yennefer hisses, keeping her voice low. “You threw a rock at it?”

“Well, yeah. A magic rock.” Jaskier says. “And it worked great!”

“Can I have a protection stone?” Ciri pipes up.

Yennefer rubs her forehead with her hand. “Yes, yes of course.” Her voice trembles. “I'll make another. And another for you, Jaskier. Better ones.” That actually work, she thinks privately. “One condition, though.”

“What's that?” Ciri and Jaskier's voices mingle.

“Neither of you ever, ever tell Geralt.”

#the witcher fanfiction #the witcher season 2 #Yennefer #Jaskier #Ciri #yennskier #fortune writes

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blackcat9904 · 2 years

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I have a rather good geraskier fic idea but I'm too lazy-inexperienced to write it down. Any thoughts?

Well okay maybe I'm gonna write something...

"Where is he??" Geralt says as he threatens the man with his sword on his neck.

If only Jaskier had said that he's Dijkstra's benefactor, it would save him a lot of trouble! But unfortunately he can never say anything other than his usual nonsense!

_______________________

He storms into the locked room, kicking the door open, to find Jaskier unconscious, tied to a chair. He steps closer. Grab his face gently, like he might crash his precious face with his hand and he slaps him as slowly as he can. Calling his name repeatedly. He can feel his own heart beating in his chest.

Yennefer comes after him, Geralt thinks, just for one second that the witch is worried. She puts her finger on Jaskier's forehead and closes her eyes, then open them. "They've been trying to extract information from his brain. He has probably passed out. You know, the pain."

Geralt growls. Angrily. He feels blood rushing through his veins. He grittes his teeth before taking a deep breath to calm himself with the thought of ripping Dijkstra's throat apart. Him and his stupid owl-witch who dared to hurt his bard.

He picks Jaskier up. Bride-style. Convinces himself that it was just the most comfortable way to pick a sitting man up, while he clearly knows he just don't want to get his eyes off of his sleeping face, too calm and peaceful for a man who'd been tortured.

_______________________

"When is he going to wake up?" Geralt says. Hoping Yen wouldn't hear the childish worry in his voice.

"He's only sleeping. He seems fine. Just give him some fucking time Geralt."

"Hmph."

Jaskier does wake up. Just when Geralt is about to go ask Yennefer to check on him for the hundredth time.

"Jaskier!" He calls as he tries his best to hide the relief.

"Ahhh...Geralt! Oh, Hi!" Jaskier's face just lightens up, in a way Geralt haven't seen, not after their reunion, not after the mountain.

"My head feels like it's being chewed by a camel..." Jaskier says as he brushes his hair off his face. Then continues. "What happened anyway? I thought we were heading to Caingorn for the dragon thing?"

"Ah yes, forgot to mention." Yennefer says as she comes through the door step. "He might lose his memory for just a day or two. Nothing important. What's the last thing you remember?"

J: "I remember looking forward to crash your fucking weird neck, witch. What the hell are you doing here?"

She lifts her eyebrow up and looks at Geralt.

G: "Just before the mountain, that's the last thing he remembers."

"Terrible timing then." She says, as she gives a meaningful look to Geralt. Who closes his eyes and goes out. No words.

And he doesn't come back. Not untill he's entirely sure Jaskier's asleep for the night. He gently sits beside him. Looking at his closed eyes. He wants to see the sky blue of them but he's too afraid of the moment that that cursed memory comes crossing his mind and breaks him, again. And it's his fault. All his fault.

He whispers to Yennefer. "I don't want him to remember..."

"Of course that makes it so easy for you. I'm sorry, but he will" and then she steps out of the room. Leaving him with the soothing, familiar sound of Jaskier's breaths and heartbeat.

He pets his hair, his face, his arms, and then he holds his hand, softly. Creating pieces of art had surely turn his own hand into one.

____________________

Geralt's still awake when Jaskier wakes up. It happens so much faster than usual. His heartbeat racing and his eyes wide open. Slightly painted with tear. And he keeps panting.

Geralt tenderly holds Jaskier. It's just an old habit for when the bard has nightmares. None of them complains. Jaskier leans onto him.

"Geralt- oh God I just- had one of the- fuck I had THE worst nightmare in my whole life-"

He struggles to tell Geralt about the nightmare. But the sobbing he feels, waiting to come out of his throat, or the tears fighting desperately to come out of his eyes aren't really helping.

"You were, yelling, at me. Telling me that, that I was always a, burden on your hands. And then you- you just left me. On a- mountain...? Or a...hill...?" He manages to bring out a little chuckle out of his mouth "but of course you won't. You know I would just fall or slide the way down at the best case. And that's only if I don't get myself killed by all the mons-" He stops as he starts to remember the rest of his nightmare- his memory. All the pieces of his mind just come together and Geralt's petting hand on his back has stopped. None of them is moving. Not in the slightest. It's like the time isn't passing anymore.

Jaskier leans back. Slowly... His eyes shine with his tears and the perfect blue of the cloudless sky. And he stares at Geralt. Unbelievingly. Like he's staring at some stranger he has never known or heard of.

"You-you really-did say those things to me... Didn't you...?" He whispers, as the first drop falls off his eye.

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leventart-den · 2 years

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The first part is here.

The second part is here.

The third part is here.

It was long again, so I've split it up and there will be one last part (I hope it will be the last one).

A continuation of how it all began for Rience and Jaskier in “the Brotherhood of Flames and Poetry” AU where they are not blood relatives but became close as brothers.

Warning - child abuse both physical and mental. Potion/Drug use. Punishment through whipping. Nothing very detailed, but it's there. (I hope I haven't forgotten anything else)

—-----

Part four.

—-----

Jaskier always wanted to have a friend. But even among his brothers, he was an outcast due to the fact that he was the only one who was allowed to freely "roam" around the town. You would think that they should all be close to each other, united by their shared experience and pain, but no. They hated Jaskier. He was too cheerful, he smiled too much, he talked too much, he was all "too much" for them. Of course, fights and skirmishes outside of training were forbidden and immediately cut down. But that didn't make things any better. Probably the only thing that saved Jaskier from being beaten or strangled while he sleeps was that they each had a room for two, and he did not get a roommate, so he was alone and propped up the door with a stool at night. If someone decided to visit him, he woke up and was ready to fight back.

No matter how many people were around him - Jaskier was alone all his life.

So when Rience asked if they were friends, Jaskier simply could not contain emotions that instantly flooded over him. He didn't even dare to hope that Rience thought of him as a friend too. So he just sat there crying into the other boy's hair like an idiot because of how happy he was.

And desperate at the same time. Because Rience can't stay here. It was time for Jaskier to tell him that he should leave the town. Jaskier hoped that he would not get angry with him and maybe in the future they could meet again. He took a breath to say it but couldn't. Just.. Not today. He just can't ruin this moment. It's too precious for him. For both of them, he knows. He will say it tomorrow. He would bring food for Rience and maybe find a warm hooded cloak. He will take him out of the town and maybe they will hug one last time and Jaskier will forever remember his warmth.

So he tells Rience that he has to go and hurries away without looking back. Because leaving him hurts too much and he doesn't know what he would do if he stayed even for a minute. He almost wanted to try and escape the damn city with him. But he knows he can't. He needs to clear his head, he needs to start thinking straight.

Jaskier does not want to go back to the mansion, but being alone with his thoughts seems even worse. He needs something to keep himself busy, so he's at the gate pretty quickly. He almost stumbles when he sees his father on the threshold of the house. His face is impenetrable as always, and his eyes are attentive, evaluating. Jaskier knows this look all too well. His heart is about to drop, but he swallows and pulls himself together.

"Come, Julian. We need to talk." That's all he says and Jaskier realizes - his father knows everything.

Rience will be caught. Maybe someone has already gone after him. He will think that Jaskier betrayed him and will hate him forever. This thought was unbearable. Jaskier realized that he was already in his father's office only when he spoke again. Immersed in his thoughts, he simply did not notice how he got there.

"As you probably guessed, I know about your new friend, Julian. And I'm disappointed that you could allow yourself to think that we were letting you into the town without any additional supervision. I thought we taught you better." His father started and Jaskier couldn't bring himself to even look at him from where he stood. He felt a creeping sensation on the back of his head. He wasn't sure he was breathing.

“It wasn't in my plans to tell you, but someone has already chosen you and paid for your "training" in advance. They want your social skills, your talents, and your ability to talk to everyone and everything, among other things. That's why we thought it would be a great opportunity to kill two birds with one stone and let you be outside. This tavern woman with her musical knowledge was a great addition too.. I heard that you would like to be a bard? Well. Then you will be glad to know that your future employer is willing to sponsor your studies at Oxenfurt.” The man continued and Jaskier felt that he might get sick. Someone had already bought him, and even the music, the only thing he loved and considered his only personal choice turned out to be someone else's plan. He was no longer sure that he wanted to go to Oxenfurt. He felt betrayed and disgusted. He wanted to leave this rotten town where he can't trust anyone and never come back.

He wanted Rience.. Oh. No. His friend. Jaskier finally raised his head, looking straight at his father. He felt fear for his friend, but more than that, he felt angry now.

"What are you planning to do with Rience?" He asked without even trying to hide his own feelings.

"Who?.. Ah, your friend. Rience." The man smirked in disdain for the name. "Well. We'll see, Jaskier, how much of a friend he really is, since you treasure him so much." His father answered, putting on gloves. Jaskier did not miss with what mockery his father pronounced the name he had chosen. He did not want to hear it from the lips of this man.

"We won't touch him. But if he comes - he stays. And it will be because of you Julian." Those words, no matter how venomous they were, gave him hope. Maybe Rience will decide that Jaskier left him and be angry with him at first and then just forget about him. As distressing as the thought might be to him, his friend's safety is more important. Jaskier saw that his father was smiling, amused at the hope that was clearly read on his son's face.

"Now.. To your punishment." He handed Jaskier a small bottle with a familiar bluish potion and waited for him to take it and drink it. Jaskier knows its effect all too well - it messes up your mind, makes you woozy and weak, you can't control your body either. And he hates it so f*cking much. But of course he swallows it anyway and tastes the sickeningly sweet numb feeling on his tongue. Tears well up behind his eyelids and he really wants to throw up in disgust. His breath hitches as his father's hand nudges him reassuringly towards the door.

“Downstairs, Julian. And I really hope you learn the lesson I'm about to give you. You didn't just lie to us and hide your friend from us. You acted stupidly and naively. I am extremely disappointed.”

It's a blur for him already. He's just a puppet walking down the stairs. He can't do anything. It's dark, as always. He hears the closing of a heavy door, he feels the metal on the skin of his wrists, he hears the whistle of a whip and then his world explodes with colors. This could be beautiful, he thinks for a second before the pain is too much.

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TBC…

The fifth (final) part is here.

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tagging: @witchersgoldenbard

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I'm sorry this whole thing is so long. I don't know how my original plan for writing a short concept turned into this. -.- The fifth part is almost completed and I hope that it will be the last.

#jaskier #rience #jaskier whump #jaskier&rience #rienskier brothers #rienskier friendship #the Brotherhood of Flames and Poetry

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sirensmojo · 4 years

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Hunted Species - Geralt x Reader x Yennefer

Summary: During the quest of a Dragon which could grant any wish, Geralt keeps an eye on Yennefer that keeps an eye on you that keep an eye on Geralt, which leads to unforeseen outcomes.

Warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of sex & comedy II sassy!reader, witcher!reader, love triangle

Word count: 2,476

A/N: kind of rewriting episode 6.

Masterlist

When you heard about a hunt of an old dragon, you thought it was a great deal, a great purchase, or just a way to get away from here and discover uncharted territories. Even if you never allowed yourself in those areas for another witcher was already occupying the territory and to one witcher belonged one area, it was either ignoring precepts and instructions or living a life full of boredom and sorrow. You’d even heard a mage will be there, a so-called Yenefer and as if it wasn’t enough, the witcher will join the team, Geralt Of Rivia.

You’ll probably look like a supernatural scout band.

At the moment, you’d preferred focusing on gathering your essentials and get mentally prepared for this new challenge. Although you hated to stay in one place and fulfilled the need to always be on road as soon as you could, neglecting the sedentary life, the kingdom became too small. You soon enough got fairly tired of it, this whole trip was the only exciting sparkle you could hang on in your life, not to be overly dramatic.

On the J day, your bored self paced up and down the streets of the main city you’ve worked in, Chastisey. With such a name, no doubt why you were chastised. On your back was hanging a large hessian bag with some spare clothes and utensils for when you’d sleep in the forest. The thin material collided with the sheath of your huge sword at each of your heavy steps. No need to mention you couldn’t wait to drop foot in the other kingdom.

***

Two days and a half later, here you were, facing the Witcher Geralt Of Rivia. His eyes widened when hearing you too were a witcher. Not that you've waited for another reaction from him... or anyone.

"Is that you the witcher of Chastisey who people talk about?" Asked Yennefer, suddenly interested in you for the first time since you got in here. Every head of the areas turn to you and the mage, as she gladly continued her tail "Your people say of you you're the fiercest of all, human and creatures put together, they seem to respect you very much," she giggles, her voice dripping in sarcasm. "Yeah, we share a strong bond," you nodded.

They all start to laugh and give you sympathetic looks and smiles while he chuckles. "I bet you know what she's talking about, huh? What about you, Mr. Of Rivia?" You raised a brow. Yennefer muffles a laugh as your stare pierce Geralt's imagining shield. His head abruptly turns to you before dropping down as he grunts. "Yeah that's exactly what I'm talking about," you added out loud as if nobody was here. "A man only speaking by groans and curses, what a reputation," you finished as the murmurs stop. The previous looks of sympathy changed into worry as their eyes flickered between you and the other witcher. Yennefer squinted her eyes, what were you trying to do? She thought. "And you, a mage that gave everything to end up wanting everything back to have the only thing you could never have," you chuckle as you lift your cup to your lips. A giggle escaped your lips before you sip your mead.

Now everyone was uncomfortable, Geralt looking at you, eyes narrowing as the mage in question looked at the fire in desperation.

"Can I ask what was that?" He asks as you were laying with the horses. "She wanted to play, I just gave her a taste of her own medicine. Don't worry she's a big girl, she'll be alright," you bluntly let out without an ounce of bitterness. Geralt didn't know if he should laugh or be mad at you, so he reluctantly grunts remembering you made fun of that too. "That was a bit much, for the first words leaving your mouth since we meet," "First impression if everything Geralt, don't you live with humans?" You asked wincing as if he said the stupidest thing ever. He looked over at you, confused, but didn't add anything. "Are you not traveling with your boyfriend, Jaskier?" You ask out of nowhere, which made the man frowning even more, "boyfriend?" He raised a brow. "A man, singing praises of another man in order for him to be liked by other people, a boyfriend," you explained with ease. He choked on his drink as you glimpse of the smirk drawing at the corner of his lips. "So he not here?" You ask again, running out of patience. "No, he is" He let out as motioning his hand to Jaskier talking to some men. Geralt hassled to give you what you wanted, expecting you to leave him alone after that.

He was wrong.

Three days later, you were still stuck with him as if your life depends on it. He wasn't so sure how to react, if it was only on him he would ask you to back off but as Yennefer seemed to be occupied with her little pet accompanying her. What he didn't see happen were you to be with her anytime you weren't around him. Saying you were above being glad that you came here, even it if was to search for a Dragon that you didn't even believe existed, was an understatement. Indeed you found life with other non-humans more than satisfying and full of unforeseen development. Whereas it was the glares that Geralt throws to the man that seems glued to Yennefer or even the desperate stares he would throw at her, hoping she would come back. You found it even funnier that you could discuss the witcher's deeds with Yennefer when she felt lonely at night. Not that she will ever admit she felt lonely all the time. After the death of her escort, she kinda let herself be herself around you, even more seeing you were patient with her, but still being sassy at times, making her laugh.

"I could never catch those looks you're talking about Y/n," she shook her head. "Come on, don't act like that with me. I know you see it, more often than you'd like to say." Your brows raised as you filled your cup with more mead. "It doesn't matter anyway, not now." "Why not?" "Does anyone ever told you to stop getting into stranger's business?" She snapped. "You are no stranger, neither is Geralt," "Lies," she hassled to retort.

"How?" She lifts her glimmering eyes to you, a glimpse of curiosity dancing behind her facade. "How can I lie Yennefer?" "I don't understand" "It's you lying now," you titled your head, brows high looking her up and down.

She suddenly got up and started to walk away, "Okay! How can you be that annoying but still speaking the truth!" She turned to you and closed her eyes a bit before coming near the fire again and sat beside you. "People lie, that's all they do," "So you surmised I could lie," "Don't you?" Her eyes find their way to yours, even if her head stayed down. You shook your head and for the first time, a smile curled your lips. "Humans lie, but even their kin still find a way to believe in each other anyway." You lowly let out. "I thought you were just making fun of me the whole time." "I was" You agreed. "That doesn't mean I don't see the truth lying behind you livid eyes and the walls you think you build up high," You sing, quite pride of the fact you managed to make it through her guards. "I don't like you," wrinkles appearing at each side of her eyes, looking at you. "Yeah? I don't either," you shrug.

"So you see my truth? If I follow your statement," she engaged the conversation back, ignoring your comment. You give her a steady look, as she swallowed. How uncomfortable you could make people around you was something you never understood, but that you gladly welcomed at this moment, as long as she'll be uncomfortable, she'll open up to you. That was all that mattered. "There was something between us for a time, but there's nothing left of it now," she throws a bough in the fire. You remained silent, looking at her movements. "What can lovers bring, I wonder. Besides silly pleasures, it seems anything life has to offer is deception." She exhaled deeply, shaking her head. "You're disappointed in me?" You suddenly demand, out of the blue. Her eyebrows joined before she stops moving, still gazing at the dancing flames. "It's not like I wait for anything from you," she nonchalantly shrugs. "Indeed," you nodded. And before her mind could even get the meaning of this, her body that understood turns to you, her lids fluttering. A second later, she frowned even more before glancing at the woods in confusion. "Yeah," you spoke. "I don't even know what I could expect from you," She openly speaks. "Nothing, honestly," you chuckled. She looked at you again and neared her face to yours. "I didn't mean tha--" You tried, as she kissed you. She pulled away before you could even close your eyes. "I let you in before I could even think about it," she murmurs for herself. Her lips came crashing onto yours once again. As you were about to kiss her back, she pulled away once again, "Because I didn't wait for anything from you," she continued mumbling.

This time, you pulled her arms towards you, before your mouth encountered hers in a blissful kiss. She kissed you back, with as much haste and appetite as you, lips moving together in a moment that failed to pass. You finally let go, out of breath, your eyes snapped open to her. "I didn't put you in a case," she continued her thinking. You rolled your eyes and came to her lips again to definitely shut her up, your hand dawdled on her thigh as your free one find refuge on her cheek.

The next morning, you woke up all naked in a bed and a tent that had nothing to do with yours. After you moved away your hand that was initially shielding you from the rays of the sun, you catch sight features you knew you previously touched and kneaded feverishly. "Yen?" "oh you're finally up, then get changed and out of my space," she hissed between gritted teeth as placing her fur on her shoulders. "Oh come on!" You deeply huffed as you dropped your head back on the pillow.

No need to mention you spend the rest of the day together, even though she made some teasing remarks here and there to annoy you. You knew that game and were heartily playing it with her.

"I don't think it is necessary," "Ask Y/n about what's necessary," she giggled thinking about the nasty things you did earlier, while eating like she didn't say a thing. The group exchanged some stares before glancing at you then the mage as wrinkles appeared at the corner of your eyes, in anticipation of Geralt's reaction. He swallowed whatever was in his mouth and clenched his jaw throwing the rest of the meat on the ground. Jaskier looked at him in frustration.

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hardkinkbardkink · 4 years

Text

hi babes x so this isn’t a prompt, but i started this fic some months ago with the intention of posting it to my regular ol account. i just finished it in a fit of divine intervention & thought it might fit here better x

it’s a fuck or die in which geralt gets cursed with a knot and goes into rut, please don’t think about the logistics too much because there’s about two paragraphs of setup and then nearly 6k of porn x

as a sidenote i fucking Love the idea of just a regular witcher-human verse and only the wolf witchers have knots, like,,, that’s mint mate honestly

a prompt fill should be up tmrrw but for now please enjoy this xx (it’s also on ao3)

***

He's—fuck, so warm.

Like he'll sizzle out of his skin. Burst at the seams and set molten iron to spill in his stead.

The day is chilly, he remembers vaguely. Frost had caught in his hair and his fingers had gone numb, stiff around his sword, but a thrill had settled in his chest, kept him warm through the fight. The sun in his eyes, a faint crackle of magic on his skin, raising the hair at his nape. And then the gentle swish of his blade through the air—the steel one, for humans rotten beyond saving. The spray of arterial blood high towards the heavens. Silence.

Each chance he gets to kill a mage, Geralt enjoys it greatly.

Mages with their meaningless chanting and knowing grins, like they find the prospect of death enthralling. Mages that have more merit to them than the mindless beasts he's used to slaying, yet feel less human, more—deserving. Mages with their perverse spells, parting curses that he can never quite catch. Nor avoid, for that matter.

Geralt fucking hates mages.

It's the last coherent thought he remembers having.

He doesn't recall much after he'd pulled his sword free, slick and glistening red. Suddenly each breath was a gulp of scalding hot water in his lungs, flooding his insides from head to toe, to the very tips of his fingers.

Mounting Roach had been a feat bordering on impossible, achieved solely by force of habit. He rode hard and he rode fast, not entirely sure of what it is that he's chasing but unable to go another excruciating second without it.

It's not a tangible heat, not one easily done away with. He leans his cheek against a wall; the stone is cold, but brings him no relief. He shrugs his swords off, flinching as they clatter on the floor. His own desperate hands tug at the straps of the armour that's so oppressively tight, even though it'd served him time and time again without such issues.

Geralt presses the heel of his palm over his cock. Rubs it through the leather breeches. Fuck.

"Fuck."

It helps, a bit, or maybe it makes everything worse.

He should've ridden straight for the brothel, he—

His clothes are stifling. The air sits too heavy on his skin, catches at the back of his throat. He gives his cock a desperate squeeze, and for a heartbeat he can breathe.

Fuck, but he's hot.

He's halfway through tearing out of his undershirt when footsteps sound in the corridor. They set his mind racing. The thought of being seen like this—no, gods, the very thought of another person, of a warm body, of—

"Geralt?" Jaskier calls as he shoulders the door open. He doesn't knock, of course he doesn't, when had the man ever done anything decent? "Everything taken care of?"

The linen shirt rips beneath his fingertips like it's nothing more than aged parchment.

He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't. Mistake, mistake, mistake.

Jaskier doesn't turn, doesn't leave. He lets the door fall shut behind him. He stares. He gawks. He—

"Don't," Geralt says when Jaskier crosses the room in quick strides. "Don't touch me," even as his body screams the opposite, screeches at him to take take take.

He feels Jaskier's gaze heavy on him. On the shirt clinging to his shoulders. On his cock hard and straining against the fastenings of his trousers.

"Are you—" Jaskier swallows anxiously, but his eyes stay calm. "Quite well? Shall I fetch a healer?"

The pink of Jaskier's slightly open mouth is enticing. Geralt wants to reach out and touch, trace his lips with gentle fingers, bite down and draw blood. He takes a breath to steady himself and fuck, he doesn't mean to groan out loud, but he'd never quite realised just how divine Jaskier smells. He wishes he could touch his cock, just to take the edge off, take it out and shove it between Jaskier's perfect lips—

"Don't know what's happening," he chokes out as he scrambles to move away, away from Jaskier, away from the deliciously sweet scent of him.

"Geralt," and he comes closer, the fool, closer and close until Geralt's head spins and his mouth waters, and maybe he can sneak a hand down between his legs, just for a second.

Jaskier touches his forehead, an innocent gesture that Geralt would scoff at on another day.

"Oh." Both of Jaskier's hands move to his cheeks. "You don't always run this hot, do you?"

He turns his face slightly, presses his nose against Jaskier's wrist. Inhales. It's intoxicating. It's overwhelming. He wants and he needs and—

Jaskier jerks away with a startled noise before Geralt realises his teeth had sunk into the thin skin.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't—"

He stumbles back in a daze. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he collapses onto it without much grace. Geralt frantically gathers the sheets in dire fists, hoping to regain the control that's escaped him. Hoping to rid his mind of Jaskier's scent.

It's absolutely beyond him why Jaskier stays so close. Why he takes a tentative step toward the bed. Why he swipes his tongue over his lower lip, like he's tasting Geralt's desperation.

"Can I help?" The words are barely out of his mouth before Geralt barks a sharp no.

The bed dips, creaks under Jaskier's weight.

"Why do you never listen?" It comes out a breathy thing. He turns his head away from Jaskier as his nostrils flare. There's not much fight left in him, but he clings to the shreds of it all the same.

A hand on his knee nearly burns a hole straight through him.

"Geralt." Jaskier leans in, his breath hot in Geralt's ear, sending an electric current through his spine. "I hope you realise that there isn't much I wouldn't do for you." The hand moves up, up, up his thigh, dangerously high—

"Whatever you need."

Vesemir would strike him, had he known how little self-control Geralt would grow to display. How easily he'd succumb to the temptation laid in the curve of Jaskier's jaw, or the timbre of his voice, or the warmth of his hands.

Grabbing a fistful of Jaskier's hair, Geralt hurls him backwards, crawls over him driven by instinct more than purpose.

"You smell so good," he groans, face tucked behind Jaskier's ear. His scent is so much stronger there, so much more alluring.

When his lips claim Jaskier's in a kiss, it's like breaking the surface at last after being underwater for too long. The air in his lungs had turned lead-heavy, but the swipe of Jaskier's tongue forces a new life into them and he can breathe again, and it's everything he'd ever wanted, and he craves more.

He's kissed plenty of people before. Fucked plenty of people. More than he can count, more than he cares to recall. But it was—never like this. Never this real.

Never Jaskier's hands on his bare shoulders, pawing at his back, never the heated whisper of anything, anything you want.

And Geralt does, he does want, he wants so incredibly much when Jaskier reaches down to unlace his breeches and the mere brush of his fingers is enough to set Geralt rutting, grinding his hips into the pressure and fuck, fuck.

He growls when his seed spurts from between the laces, onto the embroidered silk of Jaskier's doublet, and he wishes, he needs it to be on Jaskier's skin instead, so he snatches Jaskier's hand and presses it against the head of his twitching cock and he comes, he comes on his palm and his wrist and it—

"Fuck, gods, fuck—" because it brings him no relief, only makes him ache for more, so much more and he has to take it, he'll take it from Jaskier, he will.

He'll wreck him, he thinks, and the concept leaves him ravenous.

And Jaskier doesn't say anything, when Geralt continues to helplessly thrust his still hard cock against him. Jaskier lies under him, quiet and trusting, his eyes wide, his chest rising in quick pants as he accepts whatever Geralt gives him, and it sends Geralt's head reeling.

But then Jaskier takes him in hand, strokes him like he doesn't mind, and Geralt's arms shake, struggling to support him.

He keeps his eyes on Jaskier's face in a bout of unadulterated adoration, so he sees the shift when Jaskier looks between them, when his eyes widen even more and his hand falters.

"Geralt, what—"

Geralt glances down as well. He's—he's had this body for nearly a century, now, he's fairly certain he knows what he looks like, and this—surely he's just delirious, burning with an improbable fever, surely—

But Jaskier sees it, too, and his breath hitches as he studies Geralt's face, and,

"It's a—a knot," he says before he can think about it, the words popping into his mind, rolling off his tongue like he'd been born knowing them.

"A knot," Jaskier echoes breathlessly, like the concept isn't wholly, utterly mad. His fingers tighten around Geralt's cock, around the—

"Like hounds have," Geralt adds between desperately ragged pants.

And he hangs his head in shame, his skin burning in an entirely different way, with embarrassment instead of need, until Jaskier, the cunning bastard, says,

"Like wolves have."

Geralt moans at that. He does so again, when he sees Jaskier's eyes glaze over, his lips part. He smells—gods, indescribable. Geralt feels half-feral with it. Why do curses have to be so carnal in nature?

Jaskier squeezes the—the knot, and it's a punch to the gut like he'd just downed a potion, like he's seeing colour for the first time in his life, everything sharp and vivid and he collapses heavily on top of Jaskier as his arms finally give out.

"Does it feel good?" Jaskier asks as if it isn't apparent in the way Geralt groans right into his ear.

He remembers, through a thick haze, remembers a night, months, years ago, when he'd stepped through the door, found Jaskier on his knees and elbows and the inkeeper's son balls-deep in him. Remembers the arch of Jaskier's back before he scrambled to cover himself. Remembers pretending before him and before himself that he didn't enter the room on purpose, that he couldn't hear Jaskier's moans from downstairs. Remembers coming into his own fist behind the stables thinking about exactly what Jaskier would let Geralt do to him.

He needs that now, he realises. Nothing will quench the dreadful heat except the tight clutch of Jaskier's body. Geralt trembles at the thought.

So he rolls off of Jaskier, laying flat on his back, chest heaving unnaturally, cock throbbing. He throws an arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the sun that steals into the room.

"Jaskier," he says to the air, to the ceiling above them, to the gods who'd abandoned him and the ones who still listen.

Jaskier shifts next to him, sits up. Geralt can hear him undressing, the sound of fingernails on ivory buttons and the rustle of cotton that follows.

"Anything," is spoken, softly, and the fever spikes so suddenly he nearly chokes on it.

Incredibly, blessedly, Geralt feels the weight of him when Jaskier settles astride his thighs. Warm hands guide his wrists to press into the mattress above his head, timid, doubtful, and Geralt thinks, this isn't right, but his eyes snap open and he can't think at all, anymore.

Because Jaskier—he's—

"Like it, do you?" and there's a teasing lilt to his voice even though his chest heaves still. "You got me pretty damn well."

And he had, he very clearly had, because there's a bruise, dark and swollen, spilling up the side of Jaskier's ribcage from when Geralt jammed the hilt of his sword there to get Jaskier to run, to get away, and suddenly Geralt can't shake the thought of mine mine mine from his clouded head, and it's hard to breathe again.

Jaskier's grip on his wrists isn't hard, is far from unbreakable. It makes it so deliciously easy to snatch his hands free, to push at Jaskier until he tumbles back on the bed, underneath Geralt, where he belongs. So easy to press his famished mouth over where Jaskier's skin is purpled and tender. So easy to dig his fingertips into the flesh, listening to Jaskier's hiss of pain and,

"Careful there, wolf," his voice quiet, breathless.

But there's no careful, not anymore, only need and hunger and undoing Jaskier's wretched trousers in a frenzy to get at his cock, so he can bury his face between his legs and smell him, scent him, fuck.

And he smells so, so good, like the most decadent feast, and Geralt has to taste him, he has to or he'll perish, surely, so he fits his mouth over the head of Jaskier's leaking cock, hears Jaskier whine above him—

"No, no, don't, Geralt, too close, I'll come, I'll come," and there are fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him away, except Geralt has never wanted anything as much as he wants to make Jaskier come, right now, to wring this pleasure out of him like he never had before, and then to do it again and again until Jaskier can't give him any more, until he has to take more, has to pry it from between his trembling thighs.

He will. He has to.

"Geralt—" Jaskier sounds distressed, he sounds panicked as he tugs roughly at Geralt's hair.

Geralt, for his part, had never been this desperate to suck dick. The pain of having his hair nearly pulled out serves only to make him go faster, to rut against the bed and take Jaskier's cock so very deep he'll feel it when it's gone. He'd choke, if he could, but as is he merely lets the head pop into his throat and out with a satisfying shift. He thinks he moans, maybe, but it's difficult to hear over the rush of blood in his ears.

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—" Jaskier's got such a pretty voice. Even prettier when it climbs up high, breaks around Geralt's name. He burns with a scathing desire still, but the noises Jaskier makes when he's coming, the feel of it on his own tongue—it makes something release in his tight chest, drives a horribly possessive part of him to satisfaction, if for a moment.

He doesn't want to move. Jaskier struggles underneath him, twists his hips and claws at his forehead, but Geralt relishes the taste, the weight of him. It makes the heat almost bearable.

"Mercy, mercy," Jaskier breathes, and regretfully, Geralt releases him.

He's so hot.

It's worse, somehow, than before.

Geralt doesn't remember the last time he'd been dizzy, but he thinks he is now. The bed spins and the room spins and fuck, he needs to come again, so he rests his cheek against Jaskier's thigh, gets a too-tight fist on his cock, and he'd cry if he could. Maybe he can. He feels like he might.

Jaskier touches his other cheek, and it almost sizzles. He feels Jaskier's gaze on him as he fucks his own hand.

"Gods, will you—breed me? Fill me with your pups?" Jaskier's voice rings clear through the fog in his head, makes him snap up to look at him.

"Jaskier," Geralt growls in response. His own voice sounds foreign, too deep, too threatening. Jaskier squirms against him, eyes wide.

"I want it." And he tips his head like he's inviting. "Want your knot. Want your pups. Want you."

Geralt marvels for a second—that Jaskier is so eager against all odds, that Jaskier wants him even with this bizarre curse (he doesn't dare wonder if he'd be wanted on another day, on a normal day)—but takes the invitation. He leaps up the bed, puts his lips to Jaskier's bared throat, to the place where his pulse rushes loud and hot. An angry red mark remains in the wake of his mouth, and he knows, he knows it'll bloom into a purple matching the splotches on his side, except higher, where everyone will see.

Everyone will know.

They'll look at Jaskier, prancing around, draping himself on fair maidens, rugged blacksmiths and distinguished lords—and none of them will want him, because they'll know Jaskier is his. They'll see him marked and bruised and they'll know Jaskier belongs to the scary witcher they all cower before.

"Mine," he rumbles into the skin of Jaskier's neck, just to be certain, and follows it with a scrape of teeth.

"Yours."

Fuck. Is it hotter, now that he's so close to having?

"Jaskier." Please, he almost adds, but that would be too much. Too dangerous.

He helps Jaskier kick his trousers off and to the side, before he gets his hands under his thighs, pushes them blindly apart far as they'll go. Settles between them, and his dick drags against Jaskier's, and Geralt doesn't whine, not consciously, but he wants to.

"Ge—eralt," Jaskier does whine, voice cracking around the name just as his legs tighten around Geralt. "I've—I've done something indecent. Naughty."

Geralt can only look, mesmerised, as Jaskier's mouth moves, his pink, wet tongue peeking out, threatening to drive Geralt wild. He traces two fingers along his lower lip—thinks, fuck it, and pushes them in.

Jaskier's eyes widen but he seems to fall calm, sucking on the fingers, licking between them. Geralt moves his hips in little aborted moves, thrusts his heavy cock against Jaskier's abdomen as he watches, listens to the contented moans Jaskier gives. Fuck.

Geralt doesn't often dream, not good things, not pleasant things. He dreams of death and suffering and loss, because that's what he knows. But now, now—Geralt thinks this could be a dream, the way Jaskier sucks his fingers as if they are a cock, the way he lets himself be kissed breathless when Geralt takes his hand away.

He rubs spit-slick fingertips over the head of Jaskier's half-hard cock, just to make his bard writhe in sweet agony.

Geralt doesn't whine, but when he manages to slip two fingers inside Jaskier without any resistance he thinks he might scream.

"Jaskier."

He needs to touch, and he needs to be close, and he leans back all the same to watch Jaskier's greedy hole open and eager for him.

"I've, ah—I had a bath, while you were gone," Jaskier breathes.

Geralt can't tear his eyes away from where his digits dissappear into the intoxicating heat of Jaskier's body.

"Just my fingers, and I—I thought about you. I usually do."

His skin is prickling, itching to touch, to have, to claim, his blood threatening to boil over in his veins, and still he just looks. Jaskier is moving his hips, up and down and up, fucking himself on Geralt's fingers, moaning like he can't get enough.

Jaskier—fuck, Jaskier touches himself waiting for Geralt to get back, thinking about him. He leans in close. Lets his fingers slip free. Red-hot sparks of static crowd his vision, multiply until he's blinded. He thrusts against the crease of Jaskier's thigh. Presses Jaskier's leg closer to his chest, makes it tighter for himself. He goes faster. Jaskier is looking up at him with clouded-over eyes. Faster.

Geralt's second orgasm proves more satisfying, only because it paints Jaskier white from his hip all the way to the hollow of his throat.

"Fuck." It shudders out of him. He shudders all over.

His come glistens on Jaskier's skin, caught in his chest hair. It rolls off the side of his ribcage, over the bruise that's bloomed there. Geralt wants to lick it up. He wants to rub it in, brand Jaskier with it. Make it stay. Fuck.

The knot's filled again. Geralt doesn't feel it, not really, not until Jaskier's fingers come to squeeze around it. Then he feels like he's dying, like he'll never breathe again. Like he doesn't ever want to.

"It's so big."

And Jaskier sounds—amazed. Awestruck. Geralt sees how the tips of his long, shapely fingers don't quite touch. Fuck, it is big. Every time Jaskier's hand tightens around it, Geralt feels like he's coming all over again. Maybe he is. It pulses out more of his spend. Gods. And Jaskier said—

Want your knot.

He'd said—he'd asked Geralt to put it in him. Fuck, Geralt wants that. He needs that. He'll stuff Jaskier full of his cock—his knot—and he'll keep him round with seed and he'll never let him up. Maybe it'll take.

He thinks he's about handled it, even if each insistent touch leaves him breathless, weak with a dizzying surge of pleasure. He thinks he's about handled it, but then Jaskier looks him in the eye, his pupils blown entirely black as he says,

"You're such a good pup, aren't you?"

And he looks confused, is the thing—like the words crawled up his throat, forced themselves on his tongue. The perfect words, the exact words that send Geralt into a frenzy, that make it seem as if the whole thing hadn't been frenzied already. He whimpers, whimpers and lets his teeth nibble on the corner of Jaskier's jaw. The skin there is rough, like Jaskier hadn't shaved in a few days, and that makes Geralt even more mad, somehow, more desperate.

"Jaskier," he says, and it sounds like a plea. Maybe it is. His hands shake. They—they never shake. He slides them over Jaskier's sides and they come away sticky. "Jaskier."

"You can—fuck me, Geralt. Have me."

Have the bitch, a voice calls from the darkest corner of his mind, a voice that sounds too much like his own. Take him, take what's yours.

Geralt groans as the last dam holding him back creaks, splinters, shatters in front of him.

He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't, because he knew Jaskier would be here, waiting and willing.

His eyes slip shut for a moment against the realisation. Geralt takes a steadying breath, drowning in desire that belongs as much to him as to the beast that claws at his skull and cries for him to breed, to own.

Jaskier tells him something—unimportant, Geralt wagers, because it's accompanied by the press of an ornate glass bottle into his trembling palm, and then he's got a slick hand on his cock, and Jaskier is holding his legs wide open in the filthiest invitation, and Geralt blacks out for a second when he pushes in.

It's a different heat entirely, the sweetest fever he wouldn't mind succumbing to.

He'd go slow, normally. He'd pause to let Jaskier get used to the stretch. He can't. He can't. The last of his fragile composure slips as he thrusts forward, quick and rough.

He barely feels Jaskier's nails rake down his arms, the sting secondary, irrelevant against this pleasure. "Geralt—"

Geralt knows what Jaskier wants to tell him, he knows—but he can't give that to him, can't stop, can't slow down, can't hold back or he'll die, fuck, fuck.

"I'm sorry, sorry, Jaskier, sorry—" he mumbles against Jaskier's temple when he tastes tears. They burn on his tongue, pierce his soul with an ugly guilt. He licks them up all the same, drives his cock deeper without meaning to. Faster. Fuck.

"It's fine, it's good, you—" Jaskier sobs, a horrible, shuddering thing, but his palm comes to rest on Geralt's cheek. It's—grounding, somehow. "Don't hold back."

Claim the whore. Yours. Yours.

Geralt prays for strength, then. For clarity and restraint.

He finds neither.

Instead he finds a bottomless, insatiable hunger—so overwhelming it steals his thought altogether, leaves him mindless and weak and craving to scratch an impossible itch.

Jaskier feels so good around his cock. There are tears of his own threatening to brand his skin. It's—

Jaskier's so tight, oh, so tight and warm and—

Heat had been the thing that drove him to madness, before, but now, now—

It's a cure, a blessing, it's—

"Do it," Jaskier whispers as he surges up to press his parted lips against Geralt's. "Put it in me, knot me, Geralt."

"You want it? You want it?"

"Fuck, I want it—"

"Beg for it," he manages before he has to start kissing his bard again. Yours. "Beg for it."

Jaskier nods, his teeth pinched around Geralt's lip until it nearly splits. "Please, please, I want it, I need it, give me—your knot, put it in me, oh, oh—"

The knot swells, and Geralt thinks he might go crazy. The knot swells, and he thinks it might tear Jaskier to pieces. The knot swells, and it presses close close close against Jaskier's rim, and it pops in, and then he doesn't think at all.

Can't—can't think even if he wanted to. He'll never hold a thought again. Not a single thought other than how blindingly good it is to have Jaskier tight on his knot, to be locked together as he fills his bard with come. His teeth ache, so he clamps them down on Jaskier's shoulder. It doesn't help much. It's almost like—like there's another place he should mark. A place he could sink his canines into that would bind them, somehow.

His head spins. He's vaguely aware that the knot expands inconceivably more as it pulses. He grinds desperately forward. It feels so good. He whines. Maybe this'll never stop. Maybe he'll float in this impossible ecstasy until the end of time.

The flutter of his heart is the first thing that filters through his dazed mind. It's not meant to flutter.

As though across a dream, he hears Jaskier calling his name. He laps at the dents his teeth had made. Yours.

He doesn't expect Jaskier to get even tighter around him. It knocks the breath straight out of his lungs, and that's not meant to happen either.

"Gods," Jaskier whispers somewhere next to him. Geralt agrees.

The air is thick around them, but not with the curse; it's heavy with sweat, with unwavering arousal. The smell of Jaskier's spend. Fuck.

"You—" he says, voice hoarse.

Jaskier laughs, breathless, and Geralt can—he can feel it around his cock. "Sorry."

A look down the length of Jaskier's body, the sight of his bard still covered with seed—Geralt's, his own—sends him rutting forward without much say in the matter.

"Fuck. Fuck."

Geralt doesn't allow himself pleasure often. Only if its lack proves distracting. This, now—he doesn't know how he's ever done without it. He doesn't know how he'll manage to let Jaskier off of his cock, his knot. Perhaps Geralt just needs to keep him like this. Always open, always ready. Always dripping with come. Always—

His head feels clearer, maybe. Clear enough to keep his eyes focused, to see the wince twisting Jaskier's features. Dread grips his heart in a vice, his throat growing too tight to breathe.

"Jaskier."

The only thing more frightening than the thought of hurting Jaskier is the sudden, cold shiver of realisation that Geralt couldn't get himself to stop. Not now, not if Jaskier cried and begged him to. Not at all, not ever.

Gods, Jaskier's big blue eyes, rimmed-red and gleaming even more as he chokes on tears, chokes on pleas and protests, but Geralt keeps taking his pleasure in spite of it all, keeps—

"Geralt?" He snaps back to a feverish reality and finds his fingertips resting against the wet skin of Jaskier's cheek. "Oh, don't worry about it. Four orgasms in one day will do that to a man."

Fuck. Geralt has to grit his teeth to keep still.

"—four?"

The smile Jaskier gives him is almost bashful.

"You were gone a long time."

Geralt bows his head to mouth absent-mindedly at the soft, bruised skin of Jaskier's neck.

"Not—not that I'm not enjoying myself, but—why now? What brought this on?"

Don't ask, Geralt thinks miserably. Don't ask lest I slip.

"Curse," he manages to say. It's the truth. Part of it. Should've ridden for the brothel.

"O—oh. All of it?"

"Hm."

"The, uh. The kn—"

"Hm."

"Ah. Pity."

Pity, Jaskier says, because he's not really interested in Geralt, only the horrid, monstrous part of him. A part that's not even his own.

Geralt knew this isn't real, and he—he'd still—

"I'll—" It chokes him, but he's already come this far. He'll see it through. He'll see it through, because he'll die otherwise. Just for survival, this. "I'll need you. Again. In a minute."

Jaskier mutters something at that. Geralt sees his lips move, but he can't hear the words. His vision swims, like a heatwave, melting Jaskier's expression into a soft, malleable thing. Could be anything. A burning want, not unlike Geralt's own. Fascination, maybe.

Love.

No. No.

He pulls out too harshly, too quickly. The knot is still half-swollen, the drag of it the sweetest torture. The only thing sweeter being the sight of his seed gushing onto the sheets in his wake. Gods. Gods.

"Take whatever," is what Jaskier tells him as Geralt plugs his stretched hole with two shaking fingers. "Just don't—don't make me come. Please. I am but a mere mortal."

He sounds eager, still, if tired. Geralt is tired, too.

And so, so very hungry for more.

Rolling Jaskier onto his front is the easiest of tasks. Geralt grips knuckle-white at his hips and his hair and drags him up onto unsteady knees. A growl rises in his chest as he watches his spend drip down Jaskier's thighs, his pert balls. He'd never been quite so interested in—in breeding someone like this, planting his seed, marking Jaskier up inside and out, and now, now—

"Fuck."

He pushes back in and it feels like coming home.

Like it's meant to be.

Like Destiny, in her infinite wisdom—

"Fuck."

The snap of his hips knocks the air out of Jaskier, a little hitch of breath that slips into moans and whimpers. Time ceases to exist. Geralt isn't even certain that the inn still stands where it'd been—they might be floating in a bottomless void and Geralt wouldn't know. He wouldn't care.

Maybe it's that, that he doesn't care. Maybe it's because this isn't real, beyond the raw carnal need, because it doesn't matter, that he asks through clenched teeth,

"… talk to me."

Jaskier's got his fist shoved halfway in his mouth, Geralt sees now, so all he gives in response is a confused hum. Damn him.

"Say you—say you want this." Say you want me. Lie to me.

The bed's frame creaks dangerously, yet Geralt can't get himself to slow.

"I want it so much, gods, my wolf, have mercy, I—" a gasp, a whimper, the slap of their skin, "Your knot feels so good, so—" a tremor in Jaskier's shoulder, twitching muscle and wet moans, "I want it in me forever, please, I'll stay on it and you—you—"

He lasts longer, this time, the pleasure cresting slowly, but Jaskier's words make his hips snap forward brutally, his knuckles white around Jaskier's hips.

"—you can breed me full and keep me tied to the bed and I'll thank you for it, gods, just let me have it, let me sit on your knot until I can't remember what it's like not to be full—"

It's too late, when his release hits him like a punch to the chest; the knot's already full, fuck, it'll never fit, except, except Jaskier's asked for it so sweetly, so beautifully, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and throws his leg over Jaskier's hip and forces the bloody thing in with a roar.

Jaskier screams. Geralt can barely hear it through the buzzing in his ears. He watches Jaskier's thighs shake, his fingers twist tightly around rumpled sheets.

They pant together for a moment, desperate gulps of air. Then, when Geralt's cock finally stops pulsing come, when thinks he's picked up all the pieces of his shattered composure,

"Can you fuck me with it?" Jaskier asks in a small voice, sounding drunk, fucked-out.

Geralt's head spins. Surely Jaskier doesn't mean—

"It's—so much when it pops in. But—" He shudders. Geralt can see it in the curved line of his spine. "Please. I'm sorry. Please."

Red bleeds into his vision. Jaskier arches his back more, shakes his hips and makes Geralt near-delirious.

He tries to pull out. The knot won't budge and it's—so fucking good. His hands shake, again, and he braces them at the base of Jaskier's spine and pulls out with considerable effort. He watches Jaskier's hole stretch so incredibly wide around the knot, watches it pulse and flutter around the thickest part of it. He keeps still. Just looking.

"Fuck," Jaskier whines feebly. "Fuck, that's—"

Geralt pulls his hips back, slipping out of Jaskier's body completely. Jaskier stays open, gaping, leaking spend. He shivers violently.

Pushing his swollen, oversensitive knot back in is a feeling so intense Geralt nearly doubles over.

Jaskier says something, his voice hoarse, but Geralt can't hear it, can't hear anything but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He puts his thumbs against where their bodies connect and pulls out again, slowly. The muscles in Jaskier's thighs spasm.

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—fuck, that's so good, so—please make me come again, please, oh—"

The echo of Jaskier's words sounds in his head, asking him precisely not to do that, and when he reaches to touch Jaskier's cock he finds it only half-hard. Jaskier squirms away.

Geralt squeezes the head of Jaskier's prick harshly and shoves the knot it again and Jaskier goes so very still before he spills over into Geralt's palm.

The vice-tight grip of his body makes Geralt lose his bearings and he collapses forward, forces Jaskier to splay flat on his belly with Geralt plastered to his back.

"Gods," Jaskier wheezes, and Geralt's so horribly hot all over again.

He grinds the knot forward, tries to get it deeper, deeper, deeper, feeling like he might come again even before the knot's gone down. Jaskier still contracts around his cock, and Geralt's—so close, so close, and he ruts frantically forward, and he sinks his teeth in the back of Jaskier's neck and spills again so violently that tears roll down his cheeks, the smell of ozone heavy in his nostrils, a faint crackle of Chaos against his skin.

It takes a long moment for his heart rate to trickle back to its usual sluggish thud, but when it does, when Geralt releases the skin between his teeth—

The fever recedes so suddenly, it's like he put his head in ice-cold water. Frigid air rushes to his lungs, cools the sweat on his skin. At last he can think clearly.

He tries to roll off of Jaskier, but finds them bound together still, Jaskier's ruined hole clinging to him weakly. Seems like the knot is a permanent feature, then.

"Leave it there," Jaskier mumbles, sounding on the edge of consciousness when Geralt goes to pull out as gently as he can manage.

An overwhelming exhaustion seeps into his bones at once. Geralt settles on his side, still inside his bard, pulls him close to his chest and drifts off into a calm, dreamless sleep.

#cw dubcon #i guess? since it's a curse #cw knotting #cw breeding kink #it's filthy but also a wee bit soft

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dancedelion · 4 years

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40 and 41 for the prompt thing, geraskier. I'd love it if Jaskier said 40 to geralt who completely doesn't believe him but by the end of the story geralt says 41 to jaskier

40: “I know you’re trying to push me away, but I won’t let you.” 41: “The only person I need right now is you.” Thank you for the prompt! I hope you like it. (Link to ao3) Past should stay passed, Geralt always thought. Some things were better buried. The before and the before the before – before the Djinn, before Jaskier, back when the world was easy – and before that there was Kaer Morhen – a castle filled with blood, bad odds and dying dreams. Grave's scattered across the continent, filled with Geralt's worst mistakes, with so many people he never managed to save.

And here she was – not his past, small mercies for that, but past none the less. Engulfed in a green shine, she hovered a few feet above the ground, her dress laced with finest jealousy. She bared her teeth to him like an animal would, straight and pale-green and not the least bit sharp. Gone was all sense of poise or elegance she possessed in her mortal life. Geralt had seen women like her before, born into nobility. She must have had everything. And now she felt entitled to it.

She floated toward him and instinctively, Geralt stumbled back. He teetered on the edge. A glance down quickly reminded him that they were on the highest floor of a five-story building. The contractor, Mr. Lewandowski, pressed himself further against the wall and he stared at her with an intensity only someone haunted could muster. He had been calm and unfazed when Geralt had first spoken to him, arrogance straightening his spine, but deep-seated cowardice in his eyes.

Geralt kept a tight grip on the cold handle of his sword, but made no move toward the spirit. The problem was not the number or the strength of the enemy, it was the number of people to protect. Mr. Lewandowski's mistress wailed quietly on the floor, already beaten down and bleeding from her forehead. But the worst part of it, the part where Geralt felt his eyes darting around, where he felt his movements become frantic, where he felt irrationality slowly taking over his brain, was Jaskier in the corner of his eyes. Idiotic, reckless Jaskier who could not keep out of trouble to save his life. Geralt would be damned if that became literal today.

“Darling,” the spirit said, her voice sweet as sugar, “do you remember the stars that night?”

Even though her words were directed at Mr. Lewandowski, she kept her eyes on Geralt, probably because he was the one with the sword.

“They were sparkling so beautifully, and no better place to watch than from the roof top, isn't that right?”

It would be so easy for Jaskier to run, the stairs were right behind him. He was not hurt yet, there was nothing keeping him from getting to safety. The wraith was not interested in him.

“You've always been a romantic, that's why I fell for you. For wedding nights, spent watching the stars at night.”

But of course, Jaskier's unhealthy fascination with dangerous things kept him rooted to the spot, had kept him rooted at Geralt's side for years.

“So you, great appreciator of beautiful things, was my hair not golden enough for you? Does she buy you the prettiest jewellery? Do the stars shine brighter now that I'm gone?”

Mr. Lewandowski, perhaps remembering that he had once loved her, or perhaps still loving her, slowly stepped away from the wall and took a small step towards her.

“It wasn't my fault,” he said, voice rough, “I didn't know the roof was slippery.”

“But you did know it had rained the night before.”

“You – she's lying -”

“I say nothing I do not believe.”

“She slipped from my grasp, I would have done anything to pull her back up,” his voice was shaking, his whole face was doused in sweat. Her face lit up in anger, she was consumed with it. Could only violence bring her peace now? If Geralt only had more time -

She charged toward the woman on the ground so quickly, it almost felt like nothing more than a gush of wind.

“Hey, beautiful,” Jaskier said and Geralt's head whipped around. He had gripped a broken chair leg, and threw it forcefully at the wraith, who snarled at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt said, snarling too.

“I-improvising?” Jaskier said and finally – finally – stumbled backwards, a few steps down the stairs when the wraith started lashing out in his direction. Geralt tried to concentrate and focus on the wraith, though it was hard when he always had a clumsy idiot to keep track of. He lunged at her with the sword and kept going. Geralt tried to fight the panic off he had felt when she had moved towards Jaskier, but the stupid nerve connection between his brain and his legs made his next steps a bit sloppy. He tried to cast Yrden when his hits wouldn't land, but the wraith quickly slipped out of the way. This was just a fucking wraith, an easy one and Geralt was acting like a boy before his trials – what was wrong with him?

“You -” Geralt shouted to Mr. Lewandowski, “make yourself useful. Find her veil.”

He could see him starting to search for the veil while he continued to charge at the wraith. She was quick, but usually Geralt was quick, too, what was going on, why couldn't his gaze ever stop searching for Jaskier, who still wouldn't run, he wanted to yell, but yelling never worked, Jaskier always stayed and there was nothing he could ever do about it.

“I won't allow you her sweeter kisses,” the wraith asserted and made for the woman and when Geralt swirled around she was already falling and they were always falling and Jaskier was human and weak and fragile and just a gush of wind could have pushed him over the edge -

“I've found it!” Mr. Lewandowski yelled.

Geralt fought and he fought and he never won – they always fell. And Jaskier was always, always too close to the edge.

Mr. Lewandowski threw the veil when the wraith came toward him and Geralt ran to catch it.

“Helena -” “It never slipped,” she said raising her voice and finally shouting. “You let go of my hand. You let go of my hand!”

She was almost about to reach him when Geralt cast Igni on the veil and it went up in flames. The green blazes consumed the wraith almost in an instant and Geralt let out a harsh breath. She was gone – and so was that woman.

“That was close,” Mr. Lewandowski said after a while. “And all that, just to burn a veil? What did I even hire you for?”

Why was it always men like Mr. Lewandowski who survived?

“Your wraith is gone. I held up my end of the bargain.”

“I suppose. I would expect the higher the body count, the more you shave off the cost.”

Geralt sighed very deeply.

“You lost your – woman... and you are worried about money?”

Mr. Lewandowski shrugged a little and smiled – the unsettling smile of someone who had gotten quite good at lying to himself. Geralt pressed his lips together. At the end of the day, monsters were monsters and humans were humans. Or maybe it was the other way around? Geralt had lived so long that he wasn't quite sure any more. ____ “Whew, that was an adventure,” Jaskier said when they were on the road again. “This is why I will never get married.”

Jaskier was always too - there.

“Hm.”

“You're lucky I was there. Nifty trick with the chair leg, don't you think? You can always rely on your best friend to save you -”

Jaskier was not enough yesterday and certainly not enough tomorrow.

He was too human. Too being.

He was too little of too much. “We're not friends.”

And he always tore at Geralt, tore at everything, until there were a thousand tears in Geralt's skin, and worse, a thousand tears hidden in his eyes, because witchers never cry.

“Gee, what would you call it after all these years? Careful acquaintanceship? I beg to differ -”

And Geralt had had enough of it.

“You are nothing, nothing to me.”

He'd had enough of the smiles, the smirks, the twinkle in Jaskier's eyes.

“You are the last person I ever want to see.”

He'd had enough of the touches, the distractions, the closeness.

“The only reason you've followed me around for years is because I've never found a way to fucking get rid of you.”

Enough of this strange, unfamiliar feeling in his chest.

Jaskier had left Geralt raw. Exposed. Like he had stripped away Geralt's skin and then his flesh until all that Geralt was was teeth and bark and bite. And he was not soft after Jaskier was done with him, he was harsh and hard and there was no sight more harrowing than that of Geralt's skeleton hand reaching out to him – so very fragile, but were they too fragile to – strangle? How hard can bone fingers squeeze?

How could Jaskier leave him so breakable?

He had stripped Geralt of everything, one shove and he would have a clutter, a clusterfuck.

Give me one look and you will have me in shambles, touch me and I will be smithereens.

Geralt pressed his teeth together and he would keep pressing until he heard something break. Jaskier was staring at him, nothing but staring, and how much do I have to hurt you before you leave? How far do I have to reach into your soul and destroy whatever I find before you finally see?

“I know you're trying to push me away, but I won't let you,” Jaskier said finally. Jaskier had loved a hundred people before and none of them were here now.

“Of course I'm trying to push you away, how else would I get you to finally leave?”

(I dare you to find my skeleton in the mass grave you left behind, can you tell human from witcher?)

Jaskier was a leaver and Geralt was – a leavee. He was always being left behind, why would this be different?

Humans were usually fickle, so if Geralt only pushed in the right places... Even someone as stubborn as Jaskier would eventually cave.

“I don't need you, I've never needed you, you're a nuisance, nothing more.” “Geralt, it's okay. It's okay to need people. You don't always have to walk alone, you know.”

Jaskier should keep his pretty lies to himself, Geralt didn't need them. Everyone left. And Geralt was a witcher, not easily deceived.

Geralt pressed his eyes closed, like that would make it all go away, like the image of her falling would vanish.

Slowly, he opened them again and looked at Jaskier, who was still gentle, even though Geralt didn't deserve it and never had.

You will die one day and come back to haunt me, won't you?

(You are already haunting me.)

Jaskier stepped closer carefully. In the face of a thousand lies Geralt almost told him – I hate you, I hate you, I hate you – all Jaskier did was – come closer. Shocked, Geralt stepped back.

“You're always distracting, you're always so irritating, you don't make any fucking sense -”

I push and I push and you, impossible human, come closer.

“I'm staying. Don't you know that, Geralt? If you let me, I will always stay.”

What, so you can push me off the edge -

“Geralt, you don't really want me to go, do you?” Jaskier said softly.

“You will,” Geralt said, all false anger suddenly drained out of him. “You'll go. And I won't be able to stop you.”

“Why would you say that?”

Jaskier slowly reached out and touched Geralt's hand – Geralt could barely keep himself from flinching away.

“Because you're human.”

And Geralt knew, of course he did, what that strange feeling in his chest was, what was so hard to contain but even harder to set free.

Geralt had never loved someone as fleeting as Jaskier. Jaskier flickered from one moment to the next, always a hair's breadth away from flickering out.

Do you think I can stomach that? Do you think I will ever stop seeing your shadow?

(You make me so breakable.)

(You make me more human than anyone else.)

And then Jaskier seemed to see something in Geralt's eyes.

“Oh Geralt. You...”

The shameful truth of it burned in Geralt's throat.

“I don't mean to.”

“But you do.”

“Hard not to.”

“Yes. It's the same for me too.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt's hand gently. It was a firm grip, one not easily broken.

“I'm sorry,” Geralt said quietly, and no matter what Geralt said, Jaskier came closer.

“I know.”

Jaskier deserved so much more than this, so Geralt was going to try.

“The truth,” he started and broke off. “The truth is. The only person I need right now is you.”

“That's okay,” Jaskier said and squeezed Geralt's hand. “I'm always here.”

It was a promise, and Geralt, who was more of a fool than he would like to admit, believed him, at least a little bit. For just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that this touch would not haunt him years from now, and drew Jaskier in closer. He kissed him, then, and did not think about how there was a last for every first and pain for every bit of joy Geralt had ever dared to reach for. He kissed Jaskier and thought not for a single second about the repercussions.

The stars above them were shining brilliantly.

Some people can reach for the stars and they will fall, but falling upwards is just - flying.

#witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #witcher fic #ask

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