#Roach has a head full of thoughts and a liver full of down bad

[ask-roachwithaflame]

The phone buzzed against the table like an accusation. Roach reached for the bourbon again, taking a longer swig this time. The burn was becoming familiar, welcome even. He nearly spit out his drink as he saw the other three messages come in though.

Roach felt something shift in his chest, equal parts alarm and want. This wasn't some random hookup fumbling through pickup lines. He would see them again — he's risking the possibility of being exposed, or worse, becoming attached.

He took another swig, longer this time, letting the bourbon make the decision for him. His fingers moved across the screen with the kind of reckless confidence that only came from expensive whiskey and bad choices.

[Gary: Mask stays on. Always.]

[Gary: And it depends how long you can hold out for.]

[Gary: Most people tap out before I'm even getting started.]

He hit send on all three before his brain could catch up and stage an intervention. The messages sat there on his screen like evidence of temporary insanity. His rational mind was screaming, but it was being systematically drowned by expensive bourbon and the kind of reckless heat that came from playing with fire.

This isn't how he'd expected tonight to go. If it were anything like the usual, he'd suffer through a conversation he couldn't care any less about simply in an attempt to get his dick wet. And yet, here he was stood at his liquor cabinet with a freshly refilled glass and smiling at the response.

Roach took the bait.

Phil: Bet I could do you one better

Purposefully vague - either an invite to turn coat or flirting back. There was a moment for Roach to question it before Graves sent another one, intent much clearer this time.

Phil: So the mask stays on during? Phil: Can't say I've tried it, but I'll do anything once Phil: If you want me to be the crowd, that is ;)

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part VI

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Geralt tried to make an effort after that.

It was a fine line to walk, of course. He wanted to be more vocal—more honest—about how much he cared about Jaskier. His deception about the nature of the ritual made him itch to tell Jaskier other things, to bury the lie under a heap of truths. The idea that Jaskier might not know how highly Geralt regarded him, might think that Geralt didn’t care, was unacceptable. No matter how uncomfortable it made him, he began to try and show Jaskier, in small ways, that he wanted him.

He just couldn’t show too much, couldn’t let himself speak the deeper truths of his heart. A fine line indeed.

Initially, Jaskier acted almost suspicious. They stayed by the ruins for three days while his head recovered. His ankle took longer, and Geralt could admit that he was coddling a bit. He forced Jaskier to sit as he made camp and cooked dinner, took away his notebook when Jaskier had been squinting at it for too long in the dusk light. He needed to rest, Geralt insisted, and he couldn’t do that if he was constantly at work. Jaskier was resistant, as always. Geralt had tended him a few times when he’d come down with a particularly nasty cold, and once when he’d been honest to gods poisoned by a rival bard. Jaskier was always petulant, irritated at being cooped up even when he couldn’t keep down anything thicker than broth. He was no better now, fighting Geralt every step of the way to recovery.

Geralt tried to retaliate with affection. He sat closer to Jaskier in the evenings, telling him the stories he craved, watching afterwards as he mouthed words up at the stars to fit new ballads. He told Jaskier that he enjoyed the tune he was humming, and Jaskier had blinked at him like he’d grown two heads. When they finally decided it was time to move on, Geralt offered to let him ride Roach, and Jaskier stood gaping at him.

“Excuse me?” he spluttered. “Did you just say you want me to ride Roach?��

Geralt sighed through his nose. “Was that not clear enough?”

Jaskier leaned against Roach, one arm out to steady himself on the saddle. His ankle still wouldn’t hold his weight for more than a few moments. “I should throw something silver at you,” Jaskier said, “or douse you in holy water. You’ve been replaced by a spirit.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s tone was a warning.

“A much nicer spirit,” Jaskier said as he began pulling himself up into the saddle. “A very kind spirit who lets his poor injured friend ride his very sweet, docile horse. Nice Roachy. Please don’t throw me off.”

“She won’t buck you,” Geralt snorted, hiding a grin. He took the reins and began leading them back to the main path, heading southwest. Their next destination, according to Triss, would be just outside of the Brokilon Forest. The last of the moonflax supposedly grew in that area, and hopefully the locals would know how to point them in the right direction. They found their way back to the main road easily enough, and it was several long moments before Jaskier spoke.

“I’m really fine, you know,” he said, and when Geralt glanced up at him, he found Jaskier staring resolutely down the road, a small pinch to his brow. “So you can stop being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Geralt said automatically.

“You are,” Jaskier insisted, looking down at him. His eyes squinted at Geralt as if he were trying to see straight through his skull. “And I know it’s coming from some misplaced guilt that you’re carrying around, thinking that it’s all your fault that I got hurt, as if somehow your witcher powers could stop a floor from collapsing—”

“I’m not—” Geralt started, and then bit back the words. He was guilty, and of course Jaskier could sense it on him. It just wasn’t entirely for the reason Jaskier thought. Instead he said, “It’s not about that.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows in an expression that meant he thought he was about to win an argument. “Then why are you being so nice to me?” he asked, jerking his chin forward cockily. Like he was already sure of the answer.

The question gave Geralt pause, literally. He stopped for a moment on the road, blinking up at Jaskier. His hair was backlit by the noonday sun, his eyes as brilliantly blue as the cloudless sky above them. It was a shame, Geralt thought, that he’d never before seen Jaskier from this angle. He’d have to let him ride Roach more often. “I realized I wasn’t really, before,” he finally said, haltingly. “I mean—I want to be. Nice. Nicer.” He grimaced.

Jaskier’s expression changed to one of blatant shock, and then smoothed into something softer that Geralt couldn’t identify. It made his breath quicken in his chest, catching in his throat. “You’re a good man, Geralt. You don’t have to perform social niceties for that to be true.”

“I meant to you,” Geralt clarified, shifting uncomfortably. They were stopped in the middle of the road now, and he knew he should probably keep going, because if he kept looking up at Jaskier during this conversation it was going to feel a lot more profound than it needed to be. “I don’t really care about what every farmer or lord I deal with thinks of me.”

“But you care what I think,” Jaskier replied, face once again open with surprise. He’d been making that expression a lot lately, Geralt had noticed. Like Geralt kept doing things that made him reconsider his entire worldview.

“Yes,” Geralt said simply, because it was true. “You’re my friend. I should be nice to you.” He quirked a smile, hoping to break the tension. “That’s what Ciri tells me, at least.”

It had the desired effect; Jaskier tossed his head back and laughed, and Geralt was forced to reconcile himself with the long line of his throat. His mouth went dry at the sight, and he forced himself not to move—not to reach out, not to pull Jaskier off Roach’s back, not to press his lips to the pale skin that peeked out of Jaskier’s loose collar. He stayed stock still, until Jaskier looked down at him with a grin. “Ciri is a smart young woman,” Jaskier said, “and I can’t find fault with her argument. Though truly, don’t make any great effort on my account. I know how difficult I can be to tolerate.”

Jaskier’s mirth made something relax in him, and Geralt found himself smiling back. He unstuck his limbs from the ground and turned to continue on, giving Roach’s reins a gentle tug. Jaskier leaned forward at the sudden movement, and Geralt allowed himself one touch, reaching out to put a hand on Jaskier’s thigh, stabilizing him. Wryly, he said, “You really aren’t.”

Jaskier looked down toward him, and leaning forward as he was, they were suddenly much closer than before, and Jaskier’s face was softened again in surprise and— something else. Geralt felt sure, for one crystalline moment, that Jaskier was going to lean down the last few inches to press their lips together. He held his breath in anticipation, and for a moment Jaskier wavered. And then Roach huffed and canted forward a step, and Geralt’s hand jerked where it was clenched white-knuckled around the reins. He leaned back and away, taking his hand off of Jaskier’s thigh, and felt cold despite the warmth of the day. Jaskier straightened in his seat, and when Geralt looked up at him again his face was blank, squinting up at the sky.

Geralt’s hand burned as he started forward again, leading them down the road towards their destination. He had been right, he thought, to avoid touching Jaskier. Every instance was like flying closer to the sun. He couldn’t survive it if he kept pushing his limits.

*

They stopped for the night at an inn. It was unusually vacant; they were far enough south now that the last vestiges of winter had faded behind them, and the roads had been plenty busy. On their way into town they’d passed a large band of travelers—merchants, a cobbler, several families—headed in the other direction, so it was likely they drove off any others passing through the area. The innkeep looked tired, a woman who couldn’t be older than Jaskier but had a full head of gray hair. She gave Geralt a shrewd look when they entered, but was quickly swept up in Jaskier’s charm, especially when he exaggerated the limp a bit.

“Afraid there’ll be no one to play for this evening, my boy,” she said, the thick accent of southern Velen making her words sound like chewed barley. “You’ll have to pay for a full night.”

The rate she gave was fair, not marked up for the presence of a witcher as far as Geralt could tell. They were well off on coin after a drowner contract he’d taken before the ruins. They were always particularly active in the spring, having grown hungry under the ice and snow all winter. Geralt had cleared out at least thirty of them from a lake and its nearby stream, gaining no more than a few shallow claw marks but a hefty bag of coin for his efforts. “The rooms are a touch small,” the innkeep said. “You’ll want two; no chance of sharing with this one’s shoulders as they are.” She nodded to Geralt, her gaze passing over his broad chest. He huffed, annoyed.

Jaskier hummed himself, a slight frown passing over his features. “Are you quite sure? We’re accustomed to sharing, and it would save us some coin—”

“We have coin,” Geralt said, slapping the money down on the counter. Jaskier made a noise of protest that Geralt silenced with a look. “I don’t want to risk fucking up your leg by lying on top of it. Two rooms, one night.” It was fine. They were in no danger of running low on funds. There was no need for them to spend a night in discomfort. “It’s this or the road, bard.”

At that Jaskier pouted and dropped the issue.

*

That night they ate dinner together in the main room of the inn. The food was good, hearty liver sausages with a thin vegetable broth to wash it down, and a loaf of dark oat bread. The ale wasn’t half bad either, even watered down as it was. Once they finished eating, Geralt allowed Jaskier to goad him into a few rounds of Gwent. He never understood why Jaskier wanted to play—Geralt always won handily. Five extra decades of experience and a long tradition of playing for his meals made him the better player by far, and his deck was tournament worthy. Yet Jaskier needled him at least weekly until Geralt gave in and pulled out the cards. Maybe he thought eventually Geralt would let him win. He would continue to be disappointed.

It was, admittedly, hard to concentrate on the game when the light of the fire backlit Jaskier just so, like the halo of some old god. His long fingers worried at the edges of the cards, a terrible tell he couldn’t seem to shake. He always played with the corners of particularly good ones in his hand. Geralt could almost use it to predict the end game totals by this point. Jaskier’s fingernails were a patchwork of color; he’d had them painted sometime while he was staying in Oxenfurt, and the dark burgundy was almost completely chipped away after a few weeks on the road. It was a miracle that the color clung on at all, or that Jaskier had allowed them to remain partially decorated when they lost their perfect shine. Maybe there was a poetic appeal. Something about one’s masks being slowly chipped away, or some such nonsense.

He won the first game. Jaskier begged for best three out of five, and Geralt won the next two games as well. Jaskier finally relented, and the smile on his face wasn’t that of a good natured loser accepting his lot. He said, “I suppose you win again, my dear,” and his eyes were warm as he looked at Geralt.

It was rare that Jaskier could be described as soft in any way. He was boisterous, and excitable, and generally prone to fits of dramatic romanticism or unbridled rage in equal measure. Sometimes he was melancholy, and other times—sometimes when he was very drunk, he was giddy, and he would rope Geralt into unwise activities like they were school children. He was almost never quiet. Even in moments of calm he would be busy moving, strumming his lute or scratching in the margins of his notebooks or singing a new line or two at the stars. But now he was sitting and looking at Geralt over a pile of cards, and he was still. Just looking, chin resting on one hand, as if Geralt’s face held the key to an interesting riddle he was trying hard to solve.

Geralt cleared his throat, feeling unmoored. “Time for bed. Early start tomorrow.”

Like that the spell was broken, and Jaskier rolled his eyes with a groan. “And for what reason? Roach, for one, would deserve the rest. We mustn’t always get up at the first light of dawn, witcher.”

“But we will,” Geralt said, feeling his lips twitch. He turned towards the stairs to hide it, hearing Jaskier’s uneven gait follow after him. He resisted the urge to turn around and offer his arm to assist, knowing that it would only annoy Jaskier and put them in close proximity. Something he was trying his best to avoid.

They parted ways at the doors to their rooms, set next to each other in the hall. They were almost identical, and Geralt wondered if at some point a wall had been constructed down the middle of a room to provide the inn with more to rent out. The result was two cramped spaces, with only enough room for a small bed pushed up against the wall and a trunk across from it. Geralt had deposited his things in the corner before heading back down in search of dinner earlier, and he now set about making sure that his equipment was taken care of. There was a spot on his armor that needed to be reinforced after a drowner had scratched it. The leather was still supple from regular oiling, but he would need a professional to look it over soon. Even so, he was capable of making his own minor repairs until then, backing the fragile spot with spare pieces that he kept for this purpose. The work was grounding in its familiarity. Once he was done he set about sharpening his swords as well. The silver would soon need a new coating; Geralt could see a few places where the darker iron core shone through, where he’d blocked the swipe of a griffin’s talon a month back. A problem for another town.

He could hear Jaskier in the room on the other side of the wall. It was thin enough that there may as well have been no barrier between them whatsoever. He could hear the bard humming to himself, the rustle of cloth as he tossed aside his clothes for the day. No, not tossed—Jaskier was meticulous about his clothes unless roaring drunk or in a haze of academic preoccupation, which tonight he was not. Geralt could almost picture the other man as he carefully folded his doublet over the back of a chair, set his undershirt to hang near the window where it would dry out after the sweat of the day. His pants would be pressed into a neat square and put into his bag alongside his other colorful finery. His hose would be draped near the doublet, his boots neatly set by the door. Dressed down to his braies, he would slip into bed.

The creek of the mattress came from closer to Geralt’s room than he might have expected. The beds must be pushed up against the same wall, mirroring each other.

Geralt slowly and methodically finished his tasks, sliding his swords back into their scabbards and putting them under the bed, within easy reach. With a flick of his wrist, he extinguished the lone candle in the room. He could hear from the noises filtering in from outside that Jaskier’s room had been the one graced with a window. No matter; he could see fine without the added help of the moonlight.

By the time he slipped into the small bed, Jaskier’s breaths had evened out in sleep. His heartbeat was loud through the wall, louder than it usually seemed in their small campsite, with the sounds of the forest drowning it out. The bed really was too small for two, Geralt thought, rolling over to stare at the wall. If they’d shared, they would have had to sleep practically on top of each other. Geralt would have had to wrap himself around Jaskier just to keep him in place. Put his hand over the bard’s heart and felt the rhythm drum out under his fingertips.

He turned around, pressing his back to the wall, listening to the sound of the bard on the other side. His chest ached. The bed felt huge and empty, big enough to swallow him whole. A ridiculous fucking notion. The thing was tiny.

Geralt wondered, really and truly, when it had gotten this bad. When he’d let it get this bad. He pressed his back more firmly against the wall, and fell asleep to the symphony of his own heartbeat matching Jaskier’s one to four.

[destiniesfic]

132 Hours, Chapter 9

“Don’t kill Cardan.”

The Bomb cocks her head to the side. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I… don’t.”

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Read chapter 9 on AO3, or read below:

The Bomb returns sometime later with a liter bottle of spring water and Tylenol. “Prescription strength,” she tells me, dispensing two pills into my open palm. “Good stuff.”

“Whose prescription?” I croak, sitting up. It feels like every ounce of liquid in me is squeezing itself out as sweat or something else. Masturbating only helps so much—the only thing that abates the worst heat symptoms is mating with an alpha. And since that’s not happening, it’ll just have to run its course.

Oblivious to my true suffering, she winks at me.

I throw the Tylenol back and wash them down with a swallow of cool water, then keep drinking. My mouth has grown so dry. But I wrench the bottle away from my mouth and say “Leave it” when the Bomb moves to take the pills back.

She gives me a look. “I’ll be back to give you more later, but I’m not leaving this with you. For all I know, you’d shut down your liver to make us take you to the hospital.”

I blink at her, wretchedly aware of the heat of my skin where my eyelids press together. I hadn’t even thought of that.

“Crap,” she says, fumbling in the plastic bag. “I should have taken your temperature first. Hold on, maybe we can still get it before the meds kick in.” She clicks her tongue. “Chemistry I like fine, drugs, sure—but nursing isn’t my area.”

“What is your area?” I ask. I don’t really feel like talking to anyone, but my curiosity is strong enough that I push through it. Anything to learn more about the people who’ve taken us.

The Bomb holds up her prize, a thermometer still in its plastic packaging, and grins at me. “I like blowing stuff up. I dabble in hacking. Basically, if there’s a wall, I want to bring it down.”

I shift in my blankets. It’s an endearing answer, but I worry that any positive feelings toward our kidnappers is budding Stockholm Syndrome. “This must be a boring job for you.”

“It was supposed to be, yeah.” She wrestles the thermometer out of the plastic and hands it to me. “You have a way of keeping things interesting. And Cardan’s a riot. I hope we don’t have to kill him.”

The beep of the thermometer turning on immediately after that statement makes me jump. “You said you wouldn’t,” I protest. “You said you’d take care of us.”

“I know. Our employer’s anxious about how much you’ve both seen and heard. But we can’t kill you, so there isn’t much of a point to getting rid of him. And between you and me, the Roach is very fond of him.”

“So—”

“Stick that thing in your mouth,” she says. “We don’t have all day.”

I glare but stick the cold tip of the thermometer under my tongue and wait for it to start beeping again.

The Bomb leans over, reading the lit-up display—red, already a bad sign. “One hundred point nine,” she announces. “No wonder you’re miserable.”

“No real danger though,” I sigh, pulling it out of my mouth and giving it a little shake. Would they really take me to the hospital if my condition deteriorated? Maybe I should consider trying to dehydrate myself. That’s the real danger of going through heat without a partner. I could do it, I think. “Forget” to drink, drive the fever higher. But our current circumstances are already precarious, and there are a million ways this might end badly for me. The headache is pulsing stronger over my left eye already, and the last thing I need is a full-blown migraine. I take a sip of water and silently will the Tylenol to kick in faster.

“We’ll keep an eye on you,” she affirms.

I wipe my hand on the back of my mouth, already feeling a little more like a person instead of a sweaty blob of hormones. “Don’t kill Cardan.”

The Bomb cocks her head to the side. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I… don’t.” I cap the bottle, looking down at my hands. My cheeks are hot again, which at least means some blood in my body has decided to circulate instead of pooling in my groin. “But I don’t think he deserves to die. He didn’t do anything.”

“Hmm,” says the Bomb, mulling it over.

I jerk my head up, but she’s smiling at me. Teasing. I flush again. “I’m just saying. I don’t see you guys as killers, anyway.”

Her voice has a dangerous edge to it when she asks, “You don’t?”

I shake my head to clear it. I may be sick, but I can’t allow myself to forget where I am and who I am with. The Ghost shot me already, and it’s easier than I’d like to imagine the Roach’s twisted features contorting further as he plunges a knife into someone’s back. “Maybe just you?” I offer.

“Well, you’re not far off. Murder is a messy business. I prefer to set the charges and wait at a safe distance. But we all do what we have to.” She shifts, and I must look worried, because she adds, “He’s probably going to be fine.”

“Probably,” I echo, and then sigh. “His family’s even more messed up than mine.”

“Well, your dad is Madoc.”

“My parents are dead,” I say.

“Oh,” says the Bomb. But no apology, no condolences. I kind of appreciate that. I learned a long time ago that no amount of apologies would bring my mom and dad back.

“And my sister—never mind.” I shake my head. I really must be addled if I’m spilling my guts to a stranger. Is this Stockholm Syndrome? Is this how it starts? “At least she’s not trying to kill me.”

“It’s another level of family drama,” she agrees. “The Kardashians have nothing on the Greenbriars.”

I try to work out why I feel comfortable around the Bomb. I think her frankness reminds me a bit of Vivi. She never bought into the pretensions of our new life—she wanted out as soon as she was in. And she talks about it like she really is outside of it. The Bomb is like that. She says what she means. She isn’t bowled over by anything.

“How can you do it?” I ask. “How can you do this kind of work for them? Is it really just the money?”

The Bomb blinks at me, her eyes large and luminous in the dark. Her brows draw together, and she looks past me. I seem to have struck a nerve, and for a moment I think she isn’t going to answer my question. Then, at last, she says, “It isn’t just that. The Roach and I—we owe them a lot. I think if… we might not be alive now, if not for what they did.”

“That’s worth kidnapping for? Maybe killing for?”

She looks back down at me. “I know you’ve had shit happen, Jude. I’m not interested in a competition there. But I think Madoc’s kept you from a lot of bad stuff, given you options. Some of us aren’t so lucky.”

“I know that,” I protest. How many Designation Equality Club meetings had Taryn and I attended in our time? Vivi was president for a little while, I think to spite Madoc. “I know it’s not all mansions and parties. And you know, bad stuff can happen in parties and mansions too.”

“Sure. We are the bad stuff.” She flashes me a grin, then says, “Just think about what could have happened if Madoc hadn’t been there to catch you guys. Where you might have ended up. What you might have done to get out of it.”

My stomach twists. I have, of course, thought about that, but it’s an alternate universe that I can’t look directly at, like a solar eclipse. It’s easier to think about two branching possibilities: parents alive, or parents dead with Madoc intervention. Thinking about Madoc never showing, about Taryn and Vivi and I getting put in foster care, maybe separated… it’s so dim and distant.

“I’m not interested in a competition either,” I tell her. “I mean, I am judging you a little for kidnapping us. I will judge you harder if you kill Cardan.”

“No one’s going to kill Cardan,” the Bomb says, patting my shoulder. “You should lie back down. I’m surprised you’ve been upright this long.”

I scowl, but my head is already beginning to feel swimmy, so I settle back into my blankets. “I’m really stubborn.”

“I got that.” The Bomb gathers up her things, but leaves the water bottle within reach. I am grateful.

Just before she can put her hand on the doorknob, I call softly, “If you kill Cardan, I’ll kill you.”

She looks back over her shoulder at me, looking oddly fond. Maybe a gang of kidnappers and thieves respects threats. “Yeah,” she says. “I got that one, too.”

---

Cardan somehow manages to con his way into spending a lot of time outside of the cell. I am not sure how long, because I am curled up toward the wall and barely notice the light from the window wax and wane. But as the day passes his scent starts to go stale and sour, and I pick my head up every time someone opens the door.

It’s always the Bomb, returning to give me more Tylenol or hand me fresh fruit—not fast food, therefore a luxury. It occurs to me then that they kept buying us stuff from a drive-thru or grocery store because they didn’t think they would have us for long and didn’t bother stocking up. But someone must have thought to buy one a bag of mandarins this time, because I am given a couple to nibble on after each dose.

“Boosts the immune system,” the Bomb says when she drops off the first one. She seems in a good mood, probably because the medication has managed to wrestle my fever down to a balmy ninety-nine. Achy and hollow, I just give her a nod. My hands shake when I peel it, but I can peel it, and I’m grateful for that. I have been so humiliated already, and I can probably take more, but I don’t want to.

I slip into a weird daze for the second half of the day. Even though the fever is gone and my cramps are easier to bear, I find myself cursing Cardan’s name. I am pretty sure his presence made my heat worse—just the presence of an alpha, a desirable one, has convinced my body that there’s a chance I might mate, so it’s punishing me worse for abstaining. The longer he’s gone, the more clearheaded I feel, to the extent that my head can clear. And I am angry, at him for intensifying my misery, and at myself, for being like this in the first place.

By the time he returns, any trace of sunlight is gone. He walks slowly, shuffling behind the Bomb. Even as she talks to me and I nod along, sticking the thermometer in my mouth, my eyes track his progress as he settles in his corner.

His hair is damp, his scent shot through with the floral soap from the bathroom. He showered before coming in. I am unreasonably jealous of him. My hair is plastered to the back of my neck with sweat, and my thighs are basically stuck together with dried—anyway, I haven’t left the room all day, not even to pee. I feel like a damp towel someone wrung out and left to dry over the side of a sink.

After I’ve taken the Tylenol, the Bomb hands me a paper napkin with two more pills folded in it. “In case you wake up in the middle of the night,” she explains.

“It’s night?” I ask.

“We sleep in shifts. If there’s an emergency, have Cardan pound on the door.”

“Why me?” Cardan asks. He’s assumed his usual posture, with his leg propped up and his arm balanced casually on his knee. I wonder if the Bomb notices the rigidity in his shoulders, the tension in the line of his mouth. I do.

“I don’t think Jude’s going anywhere anytime soon.”

I sniff derisively, which is a bad move, because I get a fresh whiff of Cardan and am forced to bury my face in my pillow to smother a whimper.

“Point taken,” Cardan says. “Night. Thanks…” I imagine the rest of his sentence curling up and dying at the novelty of him thanking anybody for anything, but he manages to continue. “Thanks for taking care of her.”

The Bomb dusts off her knees as she stands up. “No problem. If she dies, we’re extraordinarily screwed.”

“I know. Still.”

She nods, then leaves. This time, I hear her lock the door behind her. Cardan and I are once again stuck together, alone.

I turn over and curl toward the wall again so I don’t stare. It’s not like heat gives you night vision, but for a couple of seconds he seemed to be a crisp outline in the near darkness of our cell. I don’t want to be tempted. I don’t.

“How, uh.” Cardan clears his throat and tries again, awkwardly. “How was your day?”

“Sucked,” I mutter.

“Yeah.”

“Yours?”

“Sucked less, probably.” He pauses. “But still sucked. I, um, I wanted to check on you.”

“It’s okay.” I shift my head. There’s a twinge in my abdomen, but at least it’s not another full cramp. “Did you learn any neat card tricks?”

“Yeah, actually. The Roach says I’m a fast learner.”

“High praise from a career criminal.”

Cardan chuckles, and my heart jumps. I made him laugh. I don’t know why that affects me the way it does. It must be the heat, another weird side effect. “I should’ve brought the deck in. To show you.”

“If we get through this, you can show me another time.”

“Oh yeah?” I can tell he cracks a smile just by the way his voice picks up. “You’re still gonna want to hang out when we’re out of here?”

I press my lips together to keep from echoing a smile. “I don’t know,” I say to the wall. “Maybe I’ll be too busy with my cool new friends from college to make time for you. And maybe you’ll be too busy hanging out with the Roach. Although that’s honestly an upgrade from your normal crowd.”

“Ouch.”

“He’s not a douchebag alpha,” I point out.

“I don’t know what he is.” I can picture Cardan shaking his head. “I sat next to him for most of the day and I still don’t have a clue. He sounds like an alpha, but he doesn’t really look like one. He doesn’t smell like anything. He and the Bomb seem to have some kind of communication going, but I don’t know if that means they’re mated, or… just close, I guess.”

“I think the Bomb’s an omega,” I say. “Like me. We kind of had a moment earlier.” I screw up my face in thought. “It bothers me that I still can’t get a clear read on her scent, though. Especially now. That’s weird. What do they have to hide?”

“Maybe they’re all betas,” Cardan suggests. “They don’t give off the same pheromones we do.”

I snort. “That’s not possible.”

“Betas exist.”

“Yeah. They’re one in a thousand. The odds that there would be three in one place...”

“Impossibly low, yeah. You’re right.” He sighs. “Well, we’ve seen their faces, but maybe they don’t want to leave scent markers around so they can be tracked that way. That seems like a smart crime thing… to do.”

My lips twitch again. “A ‘smart crime thing?’”

“Oh, like you could do better.”

I snicker, but then the cell falls quiet. We have officially exhausted every subject that will keep us from facing our circumstances, and we know it.

“So,” Cardan says, “now what?”

I don’t know. I cannot imagine spending the night in this cell with him, like this. But I am supposed to be the one with the plans.” “Um, I guess we try to sleep.”

“Right, right. Will it hurt your foot if I take the pillow under it? I’d ask to borrow a blanket, but…”

“No, I get it,” I rush. The blankets are in no condition to be lent, but I’ve left him without any bedding and anywhere to sleep. “Definitely take the pillow.”

There is silence, in which I can imagine him nodding, then the rustle of his clothes as he crawls over to take the pillow propped up under my leg. His hand skims my foot, and it’s like an electric current zings up my body. I hold my breath, waiting for something else to happen, but I just hear him move back to his corner.

“Do you want, um, my sweatshirt?” I offer.

He scoffs, “I don’t think it’ll fit, Duarte.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re such an asshole. To keep your arms warm, because you don’t have a blanket.”

There’s a longer pause than the situation calls for, and then he says, “Yeah, toss it over.”

I make myself sit up so I can unzip it, then ball it up and fling it toward him as hard as I can. I am not feeling very strong, but the room is short, so it lands at his feet anyway. He picks it up and buries his face in it.

“Oh, you pervert,” I scold, even as my stomach does a flip. I am surprised to find I’m not mad. I’m not even annoyed. What had I thought was going to happen when I threw it over to him? It’s saturated with my pheromones.

And my scent. Which he’s supposed to hate.

“I just,” he says, taking another sniff. There’s a fuzzy edge to his voice. “I thought it would help. Since we can’t—I don’t know, I just thought it would help.”

I force myself to lie back down and turn around and not watch, even though I am unbearably curious. My face is hot, and heat gathers between my thighs again. It’s just the pheromones. It’s just the circumstances. If my mind were less addled, maybe I could make more sense of all this, but I cannot.

A minute or so later I hear him shift again. “Yeah, it’s a good blanket,” he says. “Thank you, Jude.”

“Sure.”

Then all is silent again, and I think he has fallen asleep. It seems impossible that he could. I am so weary, but my arousal is skewering me like a hot spike, and I keep listening for him on the other side of the room. There’s no way I can seek relief with him here, and no way I can sleep like this.

“Cardan,” I say, breathily. “Are you awake?”

He whispers back, “Yeah.”

I shift. It’s like parts of my body flare to life at just the sound of his voice. “What do you think would happen if you came over here?”

“You don’t—want that, right?”

I don’t know what I want. I think I am closer to wanting him—to wanting at all—and then the memory of Valerian using his knee to try and wedge my thighs apart comes back. I pull the blankets tighter around me. “This sucks so much.”

“Yeah.”

“Less for you, right?”

“You think so?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you flooded with adrenaline or whatever it is that theoretically enables you to keep thrusting for days on end?”

Cardan chuckles. “Wow. You must really be far gone if you’re willing to put me and ‘thrusting’ in the same sentence.”

My cheeks warm. “I meant ‘you’ as in ‘alphas.’ Don’t be dumb. And aren’t you used to this?”

“From—oh. The O?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, that’s different. They alter it somehow, on a chemical level. All of the euphoria and adrenaline, none of the, uh… the aches or the erections lasting longer than four hours. You know, stuff you want to avoid if you’re not in rut for real.”

“Right, makes sense.” I hesitate. “So, you are? I couldn’t tell.”

“What?” He sounds incredulous. “Yeah, yes, I am. Of course I am. There’s like no space between us and no ventilation. It would be impossible for me not to be.”

“Alright, alright.” I squeeze my pillow a little tighter. “You just seem so…”

“So…?”

“Clear,” I finish. “And calm. Calmer than this morning, at least.”

Cardan is quiet for a second before he asks, “Remember this morning, you asked if I was afraid of you?”

My heart thumps. “Yeah?”

“I’m not. I’m afraid of me. I’m afraid of… of...” He grasps for words. “I’m afraid of all the stuff I want to do. Because I’m coming to a realization that’s very painful and you can’t laugh, but I am, and it’s, it’s important—I don’t want to be like Valerian. Or like my brothers. Or even like Locke. I want to be different. I don’t know if there is a different, but I want to be it.”

I am so bewildered that I don’t reply. For as long as I have known Cardan, he’s never been anything other than a bully, a terror, delighting in other people’s suffering, reigning from the top of the food chain. He always seemed to enjoy being an alpha, relish it. I can’t make heads or tails of what he’s telling me now.

Is he saying he doesn’t want to hurt me? He’s never cared before.

But I think about him tucking the blankets around me, gingerly propping my foot up on the pillow this morning, and I wonder.

“It wouldn’t be like Valerian,” I whisper, but he must have fallen asleep, because he says nothing.

Next

[geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek]

smells like you love me

geraskier | explicit | 3.4k | abo au, alpha!geralt, omega!jaskier

today jaskier still smells of oranges and honey, but there’s something else underneath it that geralt can’t quite place. It’s not bad, per se, but it leaves him feeling on-edge, a tightness in his skin and tension in his muscles that’s different from the usual, and he just knows something is going to go wrong.

it always does, with jaskier.

( read on ao3 )

When Geralt opens his eyes that morning, he knows, instinctively, that the day is going to go to shit.

He can smell Jaskier from across the campsite, scent sweet but not saccharine like most omegas Geralt has met—they’re too sugary, too flowery, like candy with too much flavoring or perfume applied too heavily.

(His alpha senses don’t like it as it is, but his witcher senses on top of it makes his nose scrunch until he's scowling and then it all sours into fear and it’s not any better, but at least fear doesn’t make it feel like his teeth are rotting from it.)

Jaskier, though—his scent is softer, orange blossoms and honey, with a hint of something crisp, like the air when rain is on the horizon. It’s clean and fresh, and it doesn’t make Geralt gag or the alpha in him recoil in disgust when he gets a whiff of it on the wind. He also doesn’t smell of fear, the sour, acidic notes never present in his scent when he’s around Geralt, and that is something Geralt will never admit he treasures.

Today Jaskier still smells of oranges and honey, but there’s something else underneath it that Geralt can’t quite place. It’s not bad, per se, but it leaves him feeling on-edge, a tightness in his skin and tension in his muscles that’s different from the usual, and he just knows something is going to go wrong.

It always does, with Jaskier.

(Geralt tries not to think about what it says about him that he lets it happen anyway.)

They’re heading north up the continent, if only because they’ve already been to the south and the west and the east, and making a circuit is as good a plan as any. They haven’t seen each other in a few months, and Jaskier whines about not having any new material in that brief interim, and he tags along because he’s a fool who lacks a sense of self-preservation and finds a witcher to be good company.

Geralt...doesn’t hate it.

Their coin is low, as well as their food supplies, but there’s a town a few days’ trek away, and that’s their next immediate destination. He hasn’t been up this way in a while, long enough that another monster or beast might have moved in to terrorize people, so Geralt figures they might be in need of him (whether they want to admit it or not). Jaskier claims he hasn’t been through this part either, and that he’ll get to spread his songs to yet another town full of ears ripe for listening.

It starts as a nice enough day—but so do all the others before they go to shit. Today is no exception.

They have a quick, sparse breakfast before setting off. Geralt walks beside Roach, her reigns in hand, and Jaskier trails behind him, singing snippets of lyrics that come to mind, but never a full song. He’ll play a chord only to scrunch his nose up at it and play another, and Geralt finds amusement in occasionally glancing at him to see it. The orange blossom and honey scent follows them, surrounds their little bubble of space when they stop to have lunch, and it puts Geralt at peace, relaxes his shoulders.

They stumble across the cockatrice toward dinnertime.

Well. Jaskier stumbles into it and Geralt rolls his eyes as he pulls him back and puts his swords between the beast and the idiot. It’s not a big one, and it already looks wounded and weak, dripping blood as it screams at Geralt and lunges for him, and it goes down easy enough, but then the mother comes screeching out of the trees and suddenly the day goes from not too bad to utter shit.

“Fuck,” Geralt says with feeling, and braces himself for a fight.

The stench of beast blood fills the air as he throws himself into taking off the thing’s head, and it gets in a couple of good swipes but nothing his natural witcher healing ability and the last of his salves won’t fix right up. The acrid smell of fear— along with something cloying, something thick and heavy—mixes with the orange blossom and honey and permeates around him, and he grits his teeth and keeps himself between the cockatrice and Jaskier as much as possible.

In a show of rarely-demonstrated intelligence, Jaskier scrambles off and finds a tree to climb up into to stay out of the way. Geralt has one sense out for him but keeps most of his focus on the cockatrice until he takes its head off too and its body slumps to the ground, dead.

Adrenaline pumps through him and Geralt glares at the dead creature for a long moment, letting it pass. When his head is clearer, he sheathes his swords and goes to pluck what feathers he can from the cockatrices. He considers digging into them for their livers and tosses the idea aside because he really, really doesn’t want the smell of cockatrice guts all over his clothes for three more days.

Speaking of smells—

Jaskier has climbed out of the tree, eyes wide and hands fluttering about while he chatters nonsensically about the attack. His scent has lost the fear, but it still has that cloying and heady undertone beneath the orange blossom and the honey that’s dug itself under Geralt’s skin and refuses to let go.

“Gods, Geralt, that was magnificent!” His pulse races in his veins, heartbeat quick but calming already. “Terrifying, as well, but magnificent! It nearly ate me! I could be nothing but the digested shit of a cockatrice by now if not for you! Really, what would I do without you?”

“You said it yourself,” Geralt mutters as he wipes his hands on his pants, tying the feathers he’d gathered together and heading for Roach. “You’d be cockatrice shit by now.”

Jaskier gives him a look as he follows Geralt back to where they’d left Roach but doesn’t dispute it. His heartbeat sticks at something just above sedate, his face and neck flushed, and his scent is strong, pheromones spilling off his skin in waves. Geralt inhales deeply on reflex, eyes closing, filling his lungs with the familiar, calming smell, and catches the undertone again. It smells like—it smells like lust, like need, thick like molasses and just as sticky sweet.

His own skin goes hot, the alpha in him keening, and his eyes snap open. Jaskier is muttering again, looking anywhere but at Geralt, pulling at his tunic and breathing heavier than is really necessary, and it hits him—

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier cuts off mid-sentence and looks at Geralt, eyes wide and bright and so, so very goddamn blue behind the haze beginning to settle over them.

“You’re in heat,” Geralt says, and it’s not a question.

Jaskier huffs and rolls his eyes, pulls at his tunic again. “Thank you, I would never have guessed it,” he snaps. The flush deepens, and Geralt catches the lemon-sour scent of embarrassment. “I’m trying not to think about it, because that just makes it worse, but fine! Let’s point it out, shall we?”

Geralt’s brow furrows, his chest expanding as he inhales again, tasting honey and orange and molasses. Blood flows right to his cock and his pants are way too tight now, his skin tingling and the urge to touch almost too much to ignore. Bad idea . He grits his teeth against it all, swallowing thickly. “Why would you come with me if you knew you were going into heat?” he spits out, and he’s not angry, just exasperated, but it comes out more biting than he intends.

“It wasn’t supposed to hit for another week!” Jaskier exclaims. He’s breathing even more heavily, panting almost, pheromones so strong now Geralt is having difficulty concentrating on his words—too focused on the light sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the evening light, the way he bites his lip, the tent in his own pants. “We were going to get to the next town, and I was going to bid you goodbye and we’d be on our merry ways, and I’d deal with it like I always do, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation!”

He takes a deep breath, and Geralt doesn’t miss the soft whine that breaks out of his throat—he can smell Geralt and the answering pheromones of an alpha responding to him, but he holds himself still (barely, by the way he leans towards Geralt).

“Outside stressors, however,” he continues, looking petulantly at the remains of the cockatrice some yards away now, “can sometimes cause a heat to happen early.”

Geralt blinks, takes that in, and gives him his most deadpan, unimpressed look despite the way his alpha is begging to go to him and press his nose into the scent gland on Jaskier’s neck. “You scared yourself into heat, is what you’re telling me.”

“I scared myself into my heat!” Jaskier laments, throwing up his hands in defeat. The movement wafts his scent toward Geralt, and he can’t stop the growl that escapes him, low and predatory. His skin is tight over his bones, and his alpha wants—it demands this omega beneath him, writhing and keening and stuffed full of his cock and his seed.

Mine.

Geralt wishes that thought surprised him more, but of late he’s looked at Jaskier—his blue eyes and his soft skin, his scent that entices him instead of repelling him, his unwavering loyalty and brave spirit—and wanted it to be true.

He takes a heavy step forward, towards Jaskier, and forces himself to a halt when Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, head tilting back in invitation. Geralt forces himself to think with his head instead of his dick.

“How long do your heats usually last?” he asks, voice rough, almost a bark. It does nothing but make Jaskier shiver, and Geralt knows it’s not in fear (there is definitely no fear here now).

Jaskier takes a moment to think through the haze no doubt clouding his mind. “Um, four days, I guess? Longer, if I’m just coming off suppressants, but I haven’t been on those in years. Shorter with a partner.”

“How much shorter?”

“About two days?” he says, like he isn’t sure. “Day and a half at the shortest.”

Geralt tries to think, lust clouding his own mind (because dammit if he isn’t, hasn’t been, and won’t always be attracted to this idiot of an omega). They’re about three days out from the next town, but traveling in the middle of a heat is probably the most unpleasant thing an omega can do—impossible, really, because they’re nearly incapacitated with the desire to fuck.

But having a heat in the middle of goddamn nowhere with monsters roaming around and drawn to the smell of heat pheromones isn’t a whole lot better.

Unless—

He doesn’t even think as he slides his swords off his back and lets them fall to the ground at his feet. His alpha pants in anticipation, impatient. Jaskier watches him with lidded eyes as he stalks forward, coming right up to him and crowding in close. Those blue eyes flutter shut for a moment, and he leans into Geralt as he dips his head down and presses his nose to that scent gland.

“Wh-what are you doing,” he gasps when Geralt places his hands on his hips, tugs him closer. Geralt noses against the gland, inhaling the scent from the source, and feels his chest rumble with a growl. He lets his nose trail lightly up the side of Jaskier’s face as he brings his head up, meeting his eyes.

“We’re too far out to travel with you like this,” he answers, “and your pheromones will start attracting who knows what kind of beasts the longer into heat you go.”

Jaskier mewls when Geralt dips back down and licks his neck, tasting that sweet and enticing scent for himself. “But,” he continues, voice rough with growing passion and want, need rising inside him, “they’ll keep their distance if they smell me on you, smell you claimed. ”

“Gods, yes, ” Jaskier moans, and he tilts his head back to let Geralt at him, going boneless and weak-kneed in his arms. His own arms come up around Geralt’s shoulders, fingers sliding down his collar to dig into the skin of his neck. Geralt reaches down, grips his ass, and feels slick soaking through his pants.

They go to the ground, Geralt above Jaskier and between his legs where he rolls his hips and grinds their cocks together. Jaskier moans again and returns the motion, spreading his legs wider and urging Geralt closer by pulling on his shoulders. Geralt keeps his nose buried in his neck, teeth lightly scraping over his skin, nipping at the bolt of his jaw and his collarbones, drawing blood to the surface and leaving pinpricks of bruises.

“Mine,” he growls, and Jaskier nods frantically, clawing at him in increasing desperation. It pumps through his veins, the urge to mate fuck claim mate mate mate. They struggle to get their clothes out of the way, coats and tunics discarded, belts undone and pants kicked off.

“Yours,” Jaskier breathes, throwing his head back. Geralt can’t resist the urge anymore—he bites down, sucking the skin into his mouth and worrying it between his teeth, careful not to break it. Jaskier keens, long and high-pitched.

The sun is low on the horizon, golden rays shining off the sweat on their skin as they move together, finding their rhythm. Jaskier is dripping slick, thighs covered in it, soaking the ground beneath him and Geralt as he presses his cock, hard and thick, knot already beginning to form at the base, against him.

Jaskier chokes on another mewl, thrusting up, legs around Geralt’s hips to urge him closer. “ Please, please, please, ” he begs, rolling his hips, his own leaking cock pressing against Geralt’s stomach, smearing precome. It makes Geralt’s cock slip against him, the tip barely breaching him before slipping away again. Geralt bites him again, snarling, and Jaskier just moans again and pulls at his shoulders. “Oh, fuck, please, Geralt, just fuck me!”

“You smell so good,” Geralt says, rough and deep. He presses hard kisses into Jaskier’s skin, tasting him—orange blossoms and honey and rainstorm and molasses—trailing from his collarbones up his jaw to his mouth. “Never scared, just clean. Should be scared, but you’re not. Oranges and honey. Rain. Like it.”

Jaskier pulls back—and oh, no, his alpha doesn’t like that—just enough to meet Geralt’s burning gaze, his own blue eyes shining with haze. His mouth hangs open, panting, and Geralt’s eyes are drawn to it. He watches as a tongue wets those lips, watches them move as Jaskier whispers, hotly, enticingly, demanding, “Fuck me, alpha.”

Take what’s yours, he doesn’t say, but Geralt hears it. He crashes his mouth onto Jaskier’s, claiming those lips, that tongue, and fucks into him in one motion with a roll of his hips, his cock sliding into that wet heat, knot catching at the end. He swallows the keening noise Jaskier makes and keeps kissing him as he sets a hard, fast pace, skin slapping loudly in the waning evening, stars beginning to come out above them.

It’s hot and rough and near goddamn perfect. Jaskier takes him like he was made for Geralt, like his body was crafted just to let him in and keep him there. He kisses back desperately, biting at Geralt’s mouth, licking against him to taste deeper. Geralt lets him, wants him deeper, inside him so far he’ll never leave again and Geralt can protect him always.

It’s over almost too soon, because this is just the first round of many they’re going to have tonight.

Geralt fucks hard and deep, drawing out the most incredible sounds from Jaskier’s mouth and swallowing them right into his chest. They’re soaked in sweat and slick, bruises dotting Jaskier’s collarbones and neck and scratch marks sting down Geralt’s back where Jaskier’s nails had dug into him. With one particular thrust, Jaskier finally comes, shaking as he spills between them, and the smell of him and the sounds he makes—begging, please please please fill me up alpha I want it I need it—has him pressing in as deep as he can go and finding his own release, knot growing and locking them together, a deep, satisfied groan leaving his throat.

He slumps down minutes later, still pumping seed into Jaskier, but no longer in possession of enough strength to hold himself up. His knees are scraped from the ground, and he thinks Jaskier’s back probably feels the same, but the contented humming he’s doing as he runs fingers through Geralt’s hair says he doesn’t mind.

“That,” Jaskier says, voice breathy, “was fantastic.”

Geralt just gives a soft hm, letting his body relax. The night air is cool, and he feels Jaskier’s skin starting to pebble as the gentle breeze catches his sweat. They’ll need to start a fire and set up camp properly just as soon as they’re not tied together anymore.

Jaskier’s scent has now lost that thick hint of molasses, though Geralt knows it’ll be back soon. It’s clean again, just orange blossoms and honey and rain, and he buries his nose in Jaskier’s neck again, inhaling it deeply. It makes Jaskier let out a soft sound, but he just holds Geralt tighter, and they fall into silence.

Sometime later, as Geralt’s knot finally goes down, Jaskier breaks the quiet. “I could never be scared of you. You know that.”

Geralt turns his head to peer at him, still too sated to work up much skepticism. “Hm.”

Jaskier brushes hair from Geralt’s face, fingers lingering on his cheek. “All those witcher senses, and you don’t know why?”

Geralt does know. It’s rare in this world—nothing that has a particular scent, just a...a hint of something, something natural and inherent. It’s clean and simple and pure, uncomplicated. Different for every person who feels it.

Love on Jaskier smells like orange blossoms and honey and rainstorms.

Geralt shifts, cock slipping out of Jaskier, making him suck in a breath. He pushes himself up, worn and tired, muscles aching but in a good way. Jaskier sits up after him, making a face when come and slick rush out of him onto the ground. He wipes at the mess on his chest.

“Gods, look at me! I'm filthy! Disgusting! I hate this.”

He continues muttering to himself as Geralt finds them a place—away from that particular spot—to set up camp. He feels Jaskier’s eyes on him as he goes to Roach and starts pulling out their supplies, trailing over his naked body shamelessly. It makes the alpha in him preen and his cock twitch again.

He gives Jaskier a look, eyebrow raised and mouth curled in a smirk. “Like what you see?”

“Always,” Jaskier replies, meeting his eyes. He returns the smirk with one of his own. “But that’s not news to you, surely.”

It’s not, but it’s nice to hear, anyway.

By the time the fire is going, Jaskier’s scent has molasses mixed in it again, and Geralt lies back and lets him sit in his lap, doing what he pleases to get himself off. They collapse together afterwards, Jaskier sprawled on top of Geralt, trailing nimble fingers, bard’s fingers, over his chest, tracing scars and other inane patterns.

“You have ruined me for all others,” Jaskier says conversationally, dramatic as always. Geralt just grunts in response. “You have! There is no other on this planet—nor any others, I’d imagine—that pleasures me as you do! Is it a witcher talent or is it just you?”

Geralt reaches a hand up to Jaskier’s face, tilting his chin with a finger so that he’s looking in his eyes, and kisses him deep and lingering just to shut him up. Jaskier hums in content and lets himself be kissed.

Geralt figures it’s a decent end to a day that he knew was going to go to shit.