#2. my flatmate sadly does not appear to be gay though he offered me some weed one night & we had a very nice evening

[hardkinkbardkink]

My dude I am having the worst morning. I was getting take out for breakfast when I misstepped and sprained my ankle, so now I’m sitting in the urgent care waiting to make sure it isn’t broken. And I dropped my food :( But! From my disaster comes an idea! Jaskier injured himself, and took something to help with the pain. It makes him all loose limbed and easy,,, and Geralt can’t help but take advantage of his drugged state. I feel like I’ve submitted this before tho >_> ignore me if I have-🐼

i am. So Fucking Sorry it took so long to get a prompt fill up, and even more sorry it took so bloody long to answer an ask from my very favourite anon. honestly love it's been so long im sure you're fine now, fuck im awful

anyway i absolutely hate every word of this (just what i'd written, the prompt was lovely) but i invested so much time in it i ought to post it anyway oof

what's the opposite of aftercare? would it be called beforecare, if geralt takes care of jaskier and then proceeds to ride him hard and put him away wet? we'll go with that x

***

"Bard."

Jaskier turns to face him with an easy smile, though his eyes look somewhere beyond Geralt, fixed on a spot above his shoulder.

"Geralt," he says softly.

It's the little things that make Geralt frown in--worry worry worry--confusion. How Jaskier sits on the bed, slumped against the headboard as if he's a ragdoll thrown carelessly to the side, his usually immaculate posture forgone. How his eyes are only half-open, dull and unfocused. How Geralt's name on his lips doesn't sound quite right.

Geralt's nose itches at the faint, metallic scent of blood. It isn't as aggressive as it should be, had it been spilled on clothes or smeared over skin, but rather--

"What did you do."

He watches Jaskier's head roll from side to side against the wall before he sways forward, chin tucked to his chest. A muscle twitches in Geralt's jaw.

"Jaskier," he says sternly, barely masking his concern. Annoyance, that is.

"Got--got in a fight," Jaskier tells him, lips barely moving. "Think I--I'm broken? But you're here. Now. Geralt."

He smiles again, weak and unconvincing.

Broken. The word echos in Geralt's ears, bouncing around his brain, until he almost sees it spelled out, dripping red.

"Can I--hm. Can I see?" He gets his voice softer, now. Clearly Jaskier is in some sort of peril. Anger would be counterproductive, no matter how badly Geralt wants to put a fist through every one of the drunks downstairs, part their flesh with his blade.

"Y'don't--you. Don't have to." The way Jaskier grits his teeth and focuses on keeping the slur out of his speech is anything but reassuring. "Seen the--uh, the healer. Got me some--something. For pain."

This time, when Jaskier sways, he tips all the way to lay on his side, nearly hitting his head on a sharp edge of the low table pushed close to the bed. Geralt is next to him in a flash, leaning over his limp body, focusing for a moment on nothing but the steady, if somewhat slow, thud of his heart.

Geralt finds himself frantically undoing Jaskier's doublet before he can think about it. He doesn't like the way Jaskier winces when he pulls the thing off, so he keeps his touch gentle for the chemise underneath.

"Fuck. Fuck."

He didn't think--but then he did, maybe, because Jaskier always insists he doesn't need the healer, doesn't need help, doesn't need anything just so Geralt won't think he's weak. So he knew it had to be bad, this, but--

The sight of Jaskier's chest and abdomen stained ink-black with large, brooding bruises still makes his blood run cold. He touches one, finds it swollen and tender.

"Least they haven't--kicked in my teeth," Jaskier jokes, carrying the silly tune over his words.

One of the bruises seems to run low over Jaskier's hip, so Geralt unbuttons his breeches, too, slides them off revealing more injuries than he would ever think could fit on his bard.

He nearly reaches for his sword, ready to cut down every filthy bastard he can find in the inn.

Instead, he closes his eyes and gets a fucking grip.

Geralt's kit is stocked full with potions that could kill Jaskier if he as much as sniffed them, and an equal amount of mild to potent healing herbs that Geralt wouldn't admit he keeps just for Jaskier. He works quickly, picking the right ones, crushing them between his fingers rather than bother with a pestle. It feels good to crush something, frankly.

He overheats the water in his haste, makes it evaporate entirely and the clay mug shatter when he blasts it with too much Igni.

"Witcher magic," Jaskier slurs, moving slowly to lay flat on the bed.

Geralt steeps the herbs in some fresh water, keeps his calm even when he has to force it down Jaskier's throat. He exhales sharply, sitting down at the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress.

He should put Jaskier to sleep. It'd make the healing faster, entirely eliminate the pain that's merely dulled by whatever drug he'd taken.

Yet Geralt hesitates. It's a lot of bruising. A lot of internal bleeding. Some bone fractures, he wagers, though he'd have to feel to check. Privately, selfishly, Geralt thinks he doesn't want to forfeit the time with his bard if somehow this is the last of it.

It isn't.

It isn't.

Still, Jaskier's quiet humming is reassuring. Grounding.

Geralt spots a small pouch on the floor nearby, half-full of a fine, blonde powder. He sniffs it carefully, nods to himself, and dissolves some of it in more warm water. It won't mend broken bones, but perhaps they can get through most of the healing process without Jaskier feeling the brunt of it. This time, his bard drinks eagerly.

"Oh," he sighs after a minute. "Oh, 's nice."

Geralt almost huffs out a laugh. Of course it's nice when he's high out of his mind.

"Does it still hurt?"

Jaskier closes his eyes. Shakes his head.

"'s nice," he repeats.

Belatedly, Geralt realises it'd be the decent thing to do if he protected Jaskier's modesty in some way, no matter how little of it his bard possesses in the first place.

He reaches for a blanket, but his hand only hovers above it.

Seeing Jaskier's body like this still makes rage bubble hot and viscous in his chest, and yet--

Geralt breathes calmly, steadily, like he does when he meditates. Jaskier will be fine, because he has to be. Because Geralt's already failed him once, letting any harm come to him, and he won't do it again by letting the little bastard die. He'll be fine, and the brief, inexcusable panic retracts its claws from around Geralt's throat. Strangely, it leaves him with anything but the clarity he'd expect.

He blinks, and suddenly the bruises, the marks of violence seep away from Jaskier's skin. Suddenly, it's just Jaskier there, his bard; bare and pliant and so out of it he wouldn't notice anything amiss if Geralt were to--

There's a charge in the air that pops, crackles, fizzles. Grows and grows and thunders.

Geralt's palm rests gently on Jaskier's thigh, where the skin is still pale and unblemished.

Jaskier moans.

"Feels good."

It does feel good, is the thing. Something dark and shameful crawls up to the very back of Geralt's tongue, threatens to steal his voice and make it its own. Geralt stifles it, but only barely. He slides his hand up, in morbid curiosity, and presses his fingers into a bruise at Jaskier's hip. It gets him another moan, a happy sigh.

"Geralt."

And it's like a siren song when Jaskier calls for him, like he'd gripped Geralt's soul and torn it out to have for himself. It isn't as though he can't easily overpower the bard on any given day, hunt him and pin him down and take whatever pleases him in spite of any struggle. But there's something different about this, about the sheer helplessness that Jaskier's fallen into. About the lack of consequence if Geralt were to ravish him, ruin him. If he were to press his own marks into Jaskier's battered skin, fuck him as roughly as he'd ever wanted, not hold back--

Geralt lunges forward, hands roaming over soft, hot skin, lips messily against Jaskier's. It's barely a kiss, more a slide of wet, needy lips, but Geralt nearly goes mad even at that, at the feeling of Jaskier's open mouth letting him in.

"Does it hurt?" Geralt asks again dumbly, already knowing the answer. The beast inside him roars.

Jaskier keens, a faint smile never leaving his parted lips.

Geralt doesn't know, suddenly, how he finds himself holding Jaskier's legs spread, though perhaps it doesn't matter. He looks down at Jaskier's soft prick and lower, lower, lower, until he finds his slack, relaxed hole. Feverishly, he considers the fact that Jaskier doesn't seem to feel any pain, like this. He could--but he could--

When he lets go of Jaskier's thighs, they fall heavily on the bed, still apart enough for Geralt to see all of him, all of the hidden, filthy parts that Geralt aches to claim.

He wraps a hand tightly around Jaskier's prick and Jaskier whines long and high, his eyes half-open and unseeing. Geralt leans down, suddenly hungry for it, and puts his mouth on his bard with a need that borders on desperation. His cock stays soft and delicious on Geralt's tongue, and it's a sensation much more heady than he ever would've expected. Distantly, Geralt wonders if he could get Jaskier to come like this, without getting hard at all.

He massages the flesh with his tongue, stuffs himself silly as he can. Jaskier mumbles something when Geralt moans around him, feeling far too needy.

There's saliva pooling in Jaskier's lap, drying on Geralt's chin. He bobs his head faster, sneaks his hand down to rub circles behind Jaskier's delicate balls, until he feels him twitch and pulse and finally, blissfully, drool thick seed at the back of Geralt's throat.

Geralt pulls away swiftly so he can watch it spill, sticky-white on Jaskier's soft, bruised-black belly. It keeps throbbing in his hand for a long time, moans and whimpers falling from Jaskier's parted lips without restraint. Geralt presses his nose to the underside of Jaskier's jaw, catching his breath and catching his bard's scent. He drags his fingers through the spend slipping over Jaskier's skin, pooling in his navel, and he--

"Guh--G'ralt?"

And there isn't a hint of hurt in his voice, in his face, in his scent, and Geralt groans as he pushes two come-slick fingers into Jaskier's pliant body with no resistance.

Geralt's composure snaps in twain like a particularly fragile twig.

Later, Geralt won't recognise himself in the tremor that sets into his hands as he paws at Jaskier's skin, or the undignified way he pries open his own trousers, or the roar that rumbles in his chest when he presses forward, in, sinks into Jaskier deeper than he has any right to be.

It's a heady sensation, the way Jaskier's body parts around him, loose and relaxed and so very open. Geralt nearly comes on the spot, has to grit his teeth and suck in a harsh breath and even that stands barely a chance when Jaskier moans so prettily.

But a mad thought comes to him unbidden; that he doesn't need to slow, or hold back. Because it's hours before Jaskier becomes lucid; days, perhaps, and until then--

Well, until then he's nothing more than a warm body for Geralt to drain his balls into.

With a roar springing forth from his throat, Geralt snaps his hips forward, ruts into Jaskier with a single-minded fervour, his one purpose to fuck, come, breed. Stake his claim and have it stay.

"G--Geralt, Geralt--" Jaskier whimpers on a weak breath, though his eyes stay cloudy and unfocused. Geralt sees his hand twitch at his side, like he's trying to lift it but finds the weight too cumbersome.

Geralt bares his teeth and sets them in Jaskier's shoulder, harsher than he ever would normally. The skin gives beneath the sharp points of his canines.

It's less fucking and more a deep, desperate grind when Geralt doesn't want to leave the intoxicating heat of Jaskier's body even for a moment. He mouths at the stubble on Jaskier's jaw, hastens his pace and whines like a wounded pup when he spills so very deep inside his bard he's sure it could catch.

His cock doesn't get a chance to grow soft, though a delicious pain edges into his pleasure. Geralt sits back on his haunches, pulls Jaskier's hips into his lap with a strong grip. Keeps him spread open and filled to the brim and when he pounds his delicious little hole again, Geralt revels in the way his seed gets fucked even deeper. He wants to pump Jaskier so full he wakes up swollen and heavy with it, wants to watch the bruises fade from his taut stomach and see it rounded with Geralt's ownership.

Jaskier keeps mumbling quietly, every one of Geralt's thrusts knocking a moan, a sigh, a slurred word out of his chest. It's maddening, to finally have the thing he'd quietly, privately ached for without ever fully acknowledging it--and to have it so wholly, so--

"Fuck."

Realisation seems to come over him in waves, and suddenly Geralt wants. Wants so much, wants things he'd never given mind to before. Wants to have Jaskier and keep him, do horrible, unspeakable things to his bard. Beat him black and blue and nurse him tenderly back to health.

"Fuck."

Geralt strokes Jaskier's limp prick almost reverently, thinks about wrapping it up in ribbons and ropes and having Jaskier beg to come.

Another time.

Another time, because Geralt's had a taste of something beautiful and sick and forbidden, and he'll never let it slips through his fingers.

His pace grows erratic once more, and once more he finds his teeth wandering. They settle snugly at the side of Jaskier's throat, clamped so tightly he can feel the sluggish thud of his bard's subdued heartbeat.

Jaskier moans weakly and Geralt sees red when he spills again, his balls slapping heavily against Jaskier's body in a final thrust. He strips Jaskier's prick viciously, then, until his bard comes, his spasming hole milking Geralt's oversensitive cock in a raw shock of ecstasy.

There's blood on his teeth and a thrumming in his ears and Geralt collapses on top of Jaskier, still buried in him. He lays a gentle kiss to the top of Jaskier's head, but by then his bard is unconscious.

All the better, really.