#also Geralt is screaming because he doesn't want Jaskier to fall off again

[spielzeugkaiser]

[MASTERPOST]

[babylooneytoonz]

The Vessel [Pt. 2]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Chapter Summary: It takes two to make a baby, even with the Mage's spell and the Witcher's seed.

Warning: SMUT, 18+

[My Masterlist]

A/N- I wanted to wait until tomorrow to publish this but I got such an amazing response to first chapter i was emotionally tormented to post this. Thank you all. 💗✨

The Great Mount stood tall, the only place that Yennefer's portals could not open a door to— and this journey from Redania which had lasted over thirty days had finally come to an end.

And it was finally time—

Yennefer smelled like dirt and lavender at the same time, and not a single strand of her hair was out of place, as she hopped off Roach and you followed, getting off the mare so Geralt could tie her to a nearby tree.

The summit of the Mount didn't look unusual, like you had expected but you noticed how there were massive boulders lined in a circular shape with carved imprints on it.You remembered Yennefer telling you about this place once— it was like a sanctuary for the mages, a place that had its own sanctity, that not even the most powerful mage could open a portal to reach here faster. It was like all the spells and all the magic outside of this place was cut off, and the Mount stood disconnected from it all.

Your heart was now thumping wildly inside your chest, and Jaskier could feel it. You felt him place a comforting hand on your elbow and you turned towards him, giving him a frightened smile. You knew he could understand how you wanted to back out now, but you were too knee deep into this little tryst that even if you tried, Yennefer will not let you go.

You looked at the Witcher, noticing how he now sat against one of the shallow heighted boulders, sharpening his sword. It looked like he was least interested in what Yennefer was now doing, but there were times his eyes lifted and fixed on her and then he withdrew them again. You frowned, forcing yourself to look away as nervousness slowly drained your insides.

The man didn't even look at you— and it won't be long when this man will be ruining you, fucking his seed into you so you could carry their spawn.

Jaskier nudged at your arm, and it was only then that you realized that Yennefer was calling you, and Geralt was already there, "Jas', I'm not ready for this. Tell me I can run away." You whispered into his ears, and his low chuckle reached your ears.

"If you didn't have a viable womb, I would have said, run away and she won't follow you."

You knew the bard was right; you couldn't run away, Yennefer would find you with a blink of her eye. Slowly, you exhaled, your fingers nervously fiddling with each other as you walked up to where Geralt and Yennefer were, your steps slow and forced. Your knees felt like they were going to give up beneath you.

The minute you reached Yennefer, her hand lashed out, abruptly grabbing your wrist, her dagger slashing against the flesh on your palm. Instinctively, you let out a hiss, trying to yank your arm away but her hold on it was strong. She held a wooden bowl underneath your bleeding palm, letting all your blood collect until there was no more oozing out of the wound. She then let go off your palm, and you pulled it back, wincing as you pressed it against your chest.

You couldn't help yourself when you lifted your tear filled eyes, but found the Witcher's eyes fixed on you. He was standing face towards you, almost towering over you, his white hair messily sticking to the side of his face, but that didn't seem to bother him. His face held no expression whatsoever, but you could feel his burning gaze on you, that looked even more fiery because of the colour of his eyes. Geralt gave Yennefer his palm much more gracefully, and you watched as she made a cut on his palm and he didn't as much blink when his flesh was cut. He then squeezed the blood out into the same bowl that had your almost coagulating blood in it until the bowl was brimming with red until the top.

Yennefer moved away, holding that bowl in her hand until she was kneeling inside the circle of boulders. You could see her lips move, as though in an enchantment, her hands drawn out and hovering over the bowl.

After a few minutes, her chanting stopping. She stood up, the bowl still in her hand as she walked up to the two of you and her gaze turned towards you.

"Drink, both of you," her voice lacked any emotion.

"If this doesn't work—" Geralt began, in his low, irritated voice, but Yennefer's nostrils flared, and she looked at him with looks that could kill, causing him to grunt and stop speaking as she cut him off.

"It will work, Geralt. It has to work." She snapped, handing the white haired man the bowl. All the while, you remained quiet, but you could sense it— their relationship was not as ideal as it looked like, and there were cracks that were beginning to form. You watched as Geralt brought the bowl to his lips, and he swallowed a mouthful of the blood, until a droplet was trickling down the side of his lips. He then handed the bowl to you and you looked down at it, swallowing bile before your trembling hand brought the bowl up and you also took in a mouthful, although swallowing it was difficult than what you had imagined.

You thought it was awkward at first when not just one but two pair of eyes were gawking at your naked form while you and Geralt performed the ritual of being slathered by the remaining blood— by each other.

But you couldn't deny how soft Geralt's hands felt against your skin, his touch having a raw, tantalising effect on you. His fingers brushed adeptly over your breasts as he spread the coagulated blood over your ivory skin, and it wasn't like you didn't notice, but instead bit your lip to refrain from letting out a moan when a barely audible groan erupted from the Witcher's lips, the minute he felt how taut and erect your nipples were.

He guided you to the ground so now you were laying right in the middle of the circle, your face shot upwards towards the starry sky. His fingers moved, rather gently, from your breasts down your waistline until he was running his fingers against the insides of your thighs, causing a sudden heat to pool up in your core. You knew what he was doing— he was indeed preparing the lamb to be slaughtered, yet your body didn't want him to stop.

"Geralt, fuck her senseless and get it over with. Fill her up until there's not a drop left inside of you."

Geralt grunted in response to Yennefer's words, ignoring her as she walked off, grabbing the bard's arm as she pulled him along with her, something you were thankful to her for. You didn't want them to stay and watch the two of you fucking on display.

"Call me when you're done, my love," her cold, distant voice called out.

Geralt let out a throaty grunt, straight from the pit of his throat. There was no denial inside of you, this man was beautiful, beyond beautiful. But you had grown up to understand that all things that were beautiful on the surface were in fact, corroded from the inside. And so was the Witcher.

"Open your legs," he ordered, his voice low and overbearing, just like a command that you knew you had to follow. Geralt's eyes darkened when you listened to him, without hesitation, his wolfish stare fixed on you as you spread your legs for him, your core heated up and aching for him already. There you were, dripping wet for the man to take you, the way he wanted to and he grunted in appreciation, his slick finger sliding through your folds, making you arch your body and let out a mewl.

"Look at you, little pet, all wet for me already when all I've barely done is look at you," he rasped through your ear, while at the same time, a second finger slid through your folds and instinctively, your hands flew to the back of his head, your fingers coiling around his hair, your breathing hitched, and it surely didn't help when he began grunting and whispering against your ears again, "Goin' to fill you up until you're all swollen with my child."

And Yennefer's— You reminded yourself.

With a swift, almost effortless movement, Geralt grabbed you by your hips, lifting your lower body up and pushing your legs to rest against his shoulders, his raging, massive cock already lined with your entrance. This was it—

Without giving you a warning, he pushed his swollen head into you, trying to be as gentle as he could, for he was aware that this was your first time, thus giving you the time to get used to his size as he stretched you up. You couldn't hold back the scream that escaped your lips— a scream that was a mixture of your anguish and your pleasure both.

You felt weird; on one side the burning was clawing out the tears from your eyes, but at the same time, the pleasure was making you begin to shudder, your hips automatically aligning yourself to his as you adjusted to him. His hands flew to your breasts, while at the same time, he released a grunt of pleasure and began rocking into you.

His thrusts into you were a mix of both— gentle when he thought that he was hurting you and quickly picking up pace when your nails instinctively dug into his sides, and he felt you trying to squirm underneath him, knowing that this was your body's way of telling him that it wanted— needed more.

"Fuck, so tight," he let out a groan, as he completely pulled out of you, leaving you all hot and heavy, your core throbbing wildly in rebellion against the sudden withdrawal, before slamming into you again, "Look at you, taking me so well."

You didn't realize when you closed your eyes, your vision going blurry as an overwhelming pleasure shot through you and your orgasm took you. You couldn't help but gasp, your jaw falling wide open into a perfect o, as a loud, screeching cry of pleasure shot through your lips. Your screams, in turn, were met with with even deeper thrusts by the Witcher, his cock ravaging you as he fucked you even harder at the sound of your cries— his own mouth unable to contain a chain of curses and guttural cries of pleasure that flowed effortlessly through his lips.

Geralt's movements finally became sloppy, until, with a guttural groan, he finally collapsed over your tiny frame, his sweaty face pressed against your blood caked shoulder until you felt his cock twitch inside of you, his hot seed filling you up. He rolled off and landed on his back next to you, the two of you staring blankly at the sky, the only sound the two of you could now hear was the sound of each other's breaths.

Neither said a word, until you didn't know why, you rolled over to your side, and let your head rest against Geralt's bicep, and what surprised you even more was the fact that he didn't shove you off, and instead, his heavy words invaded your ears, "Are you okay?"

This was the first time you felt any kind of warmth towards you from the Witcher, and you didn't know whether it was the after effects of sex, that you suddenly felt so emotional, tears brittlly threatening to spill from your eyes.

"I am, I, uh —"

You began speaking but immediately clenched your lips shut when you heard the familiar voices of the Mage, and the bard, getting closer and closer towards the two of you.

Geralt stood up, throwing out his arm towards you, and you looked up at him, your eyes meeting his amber ones briefly, and you placed your palm in his, effortlessly being pulled off the ground, when the bard finally emerged, with your clothing in his hands.

"Tell me all about it, later, " he winked playfully at you, having handed you your clothes as you began sliding your tunic on.

"There's nothing to tell, Jaskier." You pressed your lips together, not wanting to look into Jaskier's eyes. What were you supposed to tell him? How good it felt having Geralt of Rivia inside you?

The Vessel Taglist:

@kawennote09 @viking-raider @raspberrydreamclouds @pterodactylterrace

Let me know if you want me to add you to this list. 💗

[julilihatfun]

Prompty prompt: Geralt is really struggling in a battle and Jaskier can't just stand by and watch anymore, so he goes up there and kinda saves Geralt, giving him the chance to finally kill the monster...BUT Jaskier is hurt in the process which he doesn't want to admit, being the hero for the first time. He hides it until he just passes out and Geralt takes care of him, mad at himself for letting the bard get hurt, but also thankful. Sorry it's not very original, but hope you like it!

Prompt request: Jaskier hits his head and is concussed and ends up moody, disoriented, and uncoordinated, maybe a bit nauseous, but Geralt never saw him hit his head and has to find out through a careful insoection when he realizes his travelling companion is acting strangely. 

Hey guys - sorry for disappearing for a while :( Everything is just really overwhelming at the moment and well :((( but I hope you enjoy this and I really hope, that you are safe and well!!! (I combined two prompts for this, because it kind of seemed fitting)

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Jaskier watched Geralt fight – at first, in awe (as always, because honestly: how can one fight so ferociously while looking that graceful), but then in concern, because the Witcher seemed to be in trouble. And that was something that Jaskier had never seen before.

The giant creature loomed over Geralts head – all bloodthirsty and monster-like – while Geralt frantically scrambled away from it and towards the heavy iron sword that had been smacked away from him a few moments earlier.

“Geralt!”, Jaskier screamed and he sounded hysterical and panicked, but he did not care at all. This was a literal nightmare come to life. 

“Stay down!”, Geralt roared, not even looking at the bard, because he was too busy dodging attack after attack.

And it did not look like the beast was getting tired. Which, in turn, meant, that staying down was not an option if he wanted Geralt to actually survive this shit.

He did not even have to think about it then – just jumped up and out of his hiding place with a loud, screechy screaming noise, that kind of betrayed his fear, and stumbled towards the fight.

He seemed to be much less interesting than Geralt (highly offensive, if you asked him – he did not wear those ridiculously colourful outfits to be ignored like this), because the huge thing did not even take one eye away from Geralts prone form.

Geralt screamed at him to ‘get the fuck back’, while Jaskier searched the forest ground for something, anything, that he could use as a weapon. He had to be fast, because Geralt seemed to come no closer to gaining back control over the fight.

“Aha!”, he cheered, when he finally found something that could work.

And throwing a stone at the creature really did seem to finally do the trick, because it suddenly turned on Jaskier in an alarming speed.

“Oi!”, Jaskier bellowed, tripping over his own feet in an effort to get away faster. “Stop.”

He was not fast enough, of course, because he felt the thing yank his feet out from under him, making him fall hard. His head was catapulted forward in a sickening motion and bounced off of the moist ground, which definitely hurt a lot.

Jaskier turned around, seeing stars dance around his vision, just in time to see Geralt (who apparently was much faster than Jaskier) bring his sword down on the beast’s neck, effectively separating its ugly head from its massive body.

Jaskier barely had enough time to roll away when the thing started falling towards him and felt the ground shake beneath him, when the monsters mutilated form came down right next to him.

He stared at the beast for a long moment in silent wonder, then his gaze swept to Geralt, who was already staring at him.

“I take partial credit for this one.”, he said then, shakily, moving to pull himself up on a nearby tree.

Geralt huffed, still eying him grimly. He growled out a clipped: “That was incredibly dumb.”, which made the bard gasp in mock-hurt.

“Geralt how dare you? I practically saved your life back there! – quite heroically, if I dare say so myself.”, Jaskier snapped back jokingly. And he knew that he would have handled the situation better had he known even the most basic fighting techniques, but he did not have any skills and stuff somehow still worked out, so he felt pretty proud of himself.

Geralt closed his eyes in frustration and heaved out a heavy sigh, before surprising Jaskier with a grumbled: “I did not say that you did not save my life.” Geralt threw him a stern look. “But that does not make it any less stupid.”

Jaskier practically glowed with glee and pride. “I can already envision the glorious ballad! Brave Jaskier, the humble bard, fearlessly throwing himself into the raging battle of-“

“Jaskier.”

“Yeah?”

“You threw a stone.” Jaskier actually saw the bastards mouth twitching in the effort to hide a grin. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Hey! I threw that stone very bravely!”

Geralt actually huffed out a small laugh then, but when he took in the bards disgruntled clothes, smeared with dirt and grime, his face grew serious again. “You went down pretty hard. You hurt anywhere?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Warriors don’t get hurt.”

“You broke a toe dancing last month.”, Geralt noted dryly. “Well, come to think of it, I guess you did not get hurt as you’d already be whining about it if you did.”

“Hey, that toe-thing hurt.”, Jaskier pouted. “I normally am very pain resistant.”

“Sure are.”

And they left it at that. Although Jaskier knew how immensely grateful Geralt really was, when he offered him a spot on Roach (which Jaskier, obviously, happily accepted).

Riding, for some weird reason, made Jaskier kind of dizzy, so he could barely force down three bites of his stew, before he surrendered and pushed his plate towards Geralt.

“Can you get horse sick?”, he asked dreamily and immediately felt Geralts boring stare on him. He looked up. “What?”

“You’re sick?”, Geralt inquired suspiciously, having been wary ever since Jaskier fell oddly silent as soon as they had mounted Roach.

“I never said that.”, Jaskier exclaimed defensively. “It’s probably the adrenaline wearing off.”

“Hm.”

“Nothing a good pint of ale won’t be able to fix, right? And a good night’s sleep – we should really think about sleeping in real beds more often. You know, to get proper rest and socialize instead of wasting away in the forest.”, Jaskier rambled on, desperate to change the subject in order to not have Geralt on his case all week because of a bit on an upset stomach.

“Hm.”

“Spoilsport.”

They separated for the night shortly after; Geralt immediately retreating to their shared room and Jaskier spending some time wooing the small audience with carefully composed songs and mirror-practiced charms. Though, Jaskier did call it a night unusually early too, having promised himself that healing sleep will free him from all ailments that came with kind-of fighting alongside Geralt.

And well, he was wrong.

He woke up to a splitting headache.

“Yikes.”, he groaned as he sat up, bringing up both hands to massage his temples.

“Had a drop too much?”

And as Jaskier thought about it, he came to the conclusion, that he actually had no idea how much he drank the evening prior – not the normal blank he drew, when the evening blurred together in a mass of pints and shots and girls and… no, this was a complete memory lapse.

To him, it was annoying more than scary, really.

“Screw you, Geralt.”, Jaskier snapped, because Geralt sounded way too smug for his liking. Also, no matter how hard he tried, he could not draw up a single memory.

“Touchy, aren’t you?”, Geralt asked with an obvious smirk.

Jaskier snorted. “Are we leaving?”, he asked then, when his gaze fell on Geralts packed bags; took in the Witcher’s general impatient demeanour.

“Yeah.”, Geralt confirmed his fears. “Took you long enough to wake.”

He looked at Jaskier for a moment, as if searching for something. “Breakfast is on me.”

Geralt’s way of showing gratitude. Jaskier knew, that he should be immensely happy, but he just felt… kind of weird and muddle-headed. Also, still very nauseous.

“I feel so loved.”, he cheered weakly, mostly out of habit. He could probably stomach some food anyways – most times, it even helped him get over a hangover.

When Jaskier had packed up and they stepped out of the inn and into a small tavern, the smell of freshly cooked eggs and beans wafting their way, Jaskier changed his mind.

“Know what:-“, he choked out, dizzily. “I guess I’m not hungry after all. I’ll just… stay with Roach. Outside.”

“Hm.”, Geralt grunted dangerously. “You barely ate yesterday evening.”

“I’m watching my figure.”

“Jaskier…”

Geralt watched the bards face take on a greyish-green hue and he grabbed Jaskiers upper arm roughly, dragging him outside, and nearly pushed him into a bush off the beaten path, away from prying eyes.

“Do what you have to do.”, Geralt said, and it almost sounded compassionate.

“I’m fine.”, Jaskier gulped, despite all logic and appearance. “Jus’ hungover or somethin’.”

“Hmm.”

“Seriously.”, Jaskier mumbled, still breathing heavily in an attempt to fight off the nausea.

“Right.”, Geralt sighed, watching Jaskiers face slowly morph into a more healthy-looking colour. “If you think so.”

“You going back in?”

“No.”, Geralt said, eying Jaskier warily. “Let’s just leave. We can eat later.”

“Alright.”, the bard sighed. His head still hurt and he suddenly felt exhausted. “Let’s, then.”

They walked towards Roach in silence and – unusually enough – it was Geralt who finally broke it, when he strapped his bag onto her back. “You wanna ride with me?”

Just the thought made Jaskier feel terribly ill again. “Hard pass.” He knew that walking would be tough on him too, but there was something distinct to the jostling motion on the horse’s saddle that made it particularly unattractive to him that day.

Geralt eyed him suspiciously. He did not often offer, but when he did, Jaskier never refused.

“You’re acting strange.”, he noted. “Well, more so than usual.”

“Ouch.”, Jaskier said, already a few steps ahead of the Witcher. “I’m great, and you know it.”

So they walked – or well, Jaskier walked. And he kept walking, even when he kept getting dizzier and more disoriented and his head started pounding in earnest.

It was when stars started dancing around his vision, that he knew that he was in real trouble. “Geralt-“, he breathed, hearing his own voice tremble and crack.

And he saw Geralt stop abruptly and turn out of the corner of his eye, before his vision went entirely black.

 When Jaskier woke up, the first thing he noticed was his still-pounding head. Then, something weird, wet on his still-pounding head. “Th’fuck.”, he mumbled in disgust, slowly moving to sit up.

“Stay down.”, a low voice growled.

“G’ralt?”

“Don’t want you doing more damage than you already did.”

“Ow.” Jaskier sat up despite Geralts warning because honestly, that’s just the kind of person he was, and one of Geralts old shirts, all wet and bunched up, fell into his lap with a splat. “Huh.”

He heard Geralt sigh. “Stubborn bastard.” Then, Geralts face was only inches away from his own.

“Uh, Geralt.”

“Look at me.” Geralt stared more intently into his eyes.

“You’re scaring me.”, Jaskier mumbled weakly. Focusing on Geralt was exhausting and the sun’s brightness was only making him feel worse.

Geralt straightened up again. “You hit your head yesterday.”

“Is that supposed to be a question?”

“Not if we both know the answer.”

“Right.” Jaskier continued squinting at Geralt. “I might have hit it.”

Geralt let out a big sigh. “Thank you for telling me right away instead of fainting in the middle of our journey.”

Jaskier furrowed his eyebrows (which made his head pound more fiercely, but well: worth it). “Are you… being sarcastic right now?”

“You were out for hours, Jaskier.”, Geralt snarled, clearly signalling that he was not to be joked with right now. “Wouldn’t wake.”

“I…”, Jaskier began, before letting his head fall into his hands. “Can we do this when my head does not feel like it’s splitting in two?”

He felt a warm hand on his back, lowering him back down, before it vanished for a second and returned with Geralts wet shirt, draping it over his face. Jaskier sighed in pleasure. The ground beside his sleeping mat rustled and he felt Geralt lowering himself down next to him.

There was awkward silence where Jaskier would normally chatter away. But he was to achy and tired to do so then.

“I should have noticed earlier.”, he heard Geralt grumble after a while, mostly to himself, as it seemed. He frowned.

“Stop, your self-pity is making my head hurt.”

“Your concussion is making your head hurt.”

Jaskier sighed, trying to snuggle closer to Geralt in search of comfort. A big hand settled on his shoulder. “Maybe that, yeah.”, he agreed, putting his own hand over Geralts.

The Witcher breathed out a gentle laugh. “Rest, Jaskier.”

[jaskiersvalley]

I JUST READ SALT IN OUR WOUNDS. Chair feeling alone on a battlefield, surrounded by brothers in arms, but not at all his brothers. Feeling ostracised because he doesn't want to see the murder of innocent people. Coming across Eskel as he escapes Nilfgaard, and the two bonding from there. Eskel making his own family in Cahir! Eskel defending Cahir from the other witchers when they're cold to him! I love your writing, it always makes me feel so many things 🧡🧡

Have I ever told you that I love you? Because I do. This is exactly the kind of follow-up I had been thinking about. And I adore the fact that you all but reached into my heart and pulled this out as a prompt. Thank you.

CW: The whole of Kaer Morhen’s residents are selfish idiots.

Not once in his long life had Eskel thought he would rather be on the Path than back at Kaer Morhen. But there he was, relieved to be out of the old keep and grateful that his loneliness was the regular kind that he had grown used to. The isolation of winters with his family had been a new kind of hell that he didn’t really cherish. At least out on the Path, his alienation from the rest of society was the usual, he expected that. But not in his own home.

Over winter a lot had happened. Nilfgaard spread more and Eskel’s usual area for work was now the front line of the war. He discovered it the hard way, could hear the fighting and smell death but curiosity still got the better of him. He crested the small hill and watched as the battle wound down. Nilfgaard was victorious once again and the army cheered wildly as surrender was conceded.

The apparent leader of the Nilfgaardian army approached the enemy who was on his knees. The soldiers pressed close, bayed for blood. While every instinct in Eskel screamed to intervene, to protect the defenseless, he didn’t. Witchers didn’t get involved in human affairs. In the end, his meddling would have been superfluous as the Nilfgaardian general lowered his sword and gestured to the battle field. The enemy would be allowed to collect their injured and dead.

Any breath of relief Eskel may have had was snatched away as the Nilfgaardians started rebelling against their general. Not outright assault but there were murmurs, a few comments of “spineless bastard” and “wet blanket” which carried over the fields to Eskel.

Out of curiosity, Eskel stayed and watched. The armies cleared away the bodies and worked methodically. However, he only had eyes on the general. Nobody seemed to talk to him, once or twice when he tried to initiate something he was scoffed at or outright ignored. By the evening, when the army settled in their camp, Eskel saw an all too familiar story. The soldiers were all huddled up in groups, sharing food, joking and laughing. Meanwhile, their general was sat on the peripheral, a lone figure huddled over a bowl of food. Eskel almost smiled at the way his head dropped forward once or twice as he nodded off.

Eskel himself settled down for the night, telling himself he was there to make sure no nasties came about as a result of the battle. A handful of wraiths would be quite unfortunate after all. He woke up to shouting and jeering. The fires were still burning bright in the camp and Eskel could see a group half carrying, half pushing a reluctant figure. They locked their general in an iron maiden and laughed merrily as they set it closer to a fire.

Witchers didn’t get involved in human affairs. Eskel decided there was still enough human left in him that he could ignore that rule. Without a second thought, he took off towards the camp.

Soldiers backed away from him, probably finding him too monstrous to dare challenge. For the first time, Eskel’s looks and demeanour worked in his favour. He barged into the camp and marched up to the iron maiden, ripping it open.

“By the Law of Surprise I claim him,” he declared, pulling a sweat soaked and weak body from the chamber. It wasn’t how Law of Surprise worked but it didn’t matter. Eskel couldn’t stand by and watch someone be humiliated and tortured for being a decent human.

In the end, Eskel had to carry his human rescue out of the camp because he was too weak to move. Obviously the battle then being stuck in a metal torture contraption near a fire had taken their toll. Back at his own camp, Eskel laid the man on his bedroll and offered a few sips of water every once in a while. When the shivering finally started up, Eskel was there, tugging an old horse blanket over him.

“Thank you,” the man managed to force out of his throat before falling asleep.

The next morning Eskel watched the Nilfgaardian army pack up and move out. He didn’t notice until too late that his rescue was lying on his side and watching silently with him.

“I don’t think they’ll bother you again.” Eskel said by way of greeting. “But you can stick around with me for a few days to be safe.”

A few days turned into a week. Then two. Cahir seemed perfectly at ease, keeping the company of a witcher. When pressed, he simply shrugged. “You’ve treated me with more humanity than anyone before.”

The unspoken “I like you” was still heard all the same. Months went by and still Cahir was by Eskel’s side, choosing the hardship of the Path day after day, even when there had been ample opportunity for better futures for him. A man of his skills and talent would find no problems getting a job in a court.

Seasons changed, the heat of summer gave way to the cool of autumn. All too soon, Eskel was going to have to head towards familiar mountains for winter. He was surprised to find he was dragging his feet.

“What happens if you don’t go?” Cahir asked. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go all winter either. So Eskel did the right thing.

“Come with me. Spend the winter in the place I used to call home?”

The past tense wasn’t lost on Cahir but he didn’t mention it. Instead, he graciously accepted the invitation.

Come winter, they ascended the mountain together. It wasn’t easy for a witcher so it was downright impossible for a human but Cahir doggedly followed. Their reception at Kaer Morhen was as frosty as the weather. Ciri had screamed and Geralt scowled. If those two were unfriendly with Cahir, logic followed that Jaskier and Yennefer wouldn’t be enamoured either.

Training was difficult, especially because the others seemed to not want to train with Cahir. They had each other where they could unleash their full might and if they wanted to go easy, Ciri was still needing education. It left Eskel to clash swords with Cahir though, more often than not, they ended up hiding in the battlements and looking over the others.

Any hope of Lambert or Aiden proving to be a bit more open were dashed on the second night when Aiden made a passing comment about Nilfgaardians needing to be put down like sick pigs.

“Just as well I’m of Vicovaro,” Cahir had said softly. Not that it made a difference.

Eskel’s last hope was Vesemir and Guxart. Except they cornered him before he could ask.

“I’m glad you’ve found a companion, it was about time you stopped being alone,” Vesemir started.

Guxart finished though. “But did you really have to settle for a human?”

“Jaskier’s human,” Eskel bit back.

“Jaskier’s also ingratiated himself with a powerful sorceress and Ciri adores him. Between them and Geralt, they’re bound to find a solution.”

“I still think that boy has Fae blood,” Guxart grumbled. “Our point is, even Lambert managed to find someone suitable.”

Eskel’s eyes burned even though witchers couldn’t cry. Even worse was the fact that they were in the kitchen and within full hearing of everyone in the dining hall.

“I think you’ll find that Cahir is suitable enough for me.” He’d finally had enough. “He chose me. He wants me. And you know what? I want him too. Being able to love him is enough for me.”

Vesemir stared at Eskel, unused to having resistance from his golden witcher. The obedient one who always nodded. He looked to say something but Eskel was on a roll.

“You’ve all found yourselves a slice of happiness, a family. And I was so happy for you even when you forgot about my existence in favour of those you loved more.” Taking a deep breath, Eskel’s voice dropped to a hiss. “So don’t tell me what my happiness looks like. And don’t you dare try to take it from me.”

Pulling his back straight, Eskel’s nose scrunched up in disdain and he turned, head held high as he marched out of the kitchen. Nobody dared look at him except for Cahir who quietly rose from the table and followed him out.

Not twenty minutes later they appeared downstairs again, bags packed. Going down the mountain wasn’t going to be easy but they would risk it. Eskel didn’t want to spend another minute in the keep amongst those who begrudged him his choices. At least they had a destination in mind, Cahir had described his home in Vicovaro, they would try and make it there.

“Where are you going?” Yennefer asked from the doorway. The others were obviously eavesdropping behind her.

“Anywhere but here,” Eskel bit out, unwilling to share information with her.

“I’ll open you a portal, name your location.”

Cahir was the one to ask for Vicovaro. They were allowed to grab their horses and Yennefer, bundled up in a coat, followed them out. She opened up a portal and offered them a nod.

“I hope you have a good rest of winter.” As aloof as she had been, Eskel knew she wasn’t the real issue. “And I hope to see you both again next winter. I might have something by then to help your predicament.”

It was a nice enough sentiment but it was too little too late. Eskel stepped through the portal with Scorpion behind him, followed by Cahir and his steed. Somehow, he didn’t think he would be back.

[hardkinkbardkink]

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.

[fancifulwhump]

i'm LIVING for your jaskier fics omg!! would you be at all interested in writing a prompt where Jaskier is riding Roach because he's not feeling well, but Geralt doesn't realize how bad the fever really is until he falls off? (if that's not interesting or too specific, I can try again! no pressure to write this!)

anonymous asked:  would LOVE to see a sick Jaskier with a cold while they’re traveling, and how Geralt would treat him being feverish and sniffly/how Jaskier would complain lol

AN:   absolutely! so sorry this took a hot second, but here you guys go  ---  hope you enjoy!  ;)

The language of Jaskier is above all a loud one... but just as subtle as any beast’s dialect, filled with intricacies and rhythms that Geralt cannot help taking note of the more he listens. It’s really not the same thing, of course. Non-speaking monsters really can’t use their words; they have no way to express how they feel, except by eating you. Jaskier hasn’t tried to do that. Yet. (Sometimes the way he eyes Geralt in the bath leaves him feeling the day’s not far off.) 

To the contrary — if anything, Jaskier is too verbal. He doesn’t know how to shut up.

Getting used to this took longer than Geralt would have liked. It also demanded considerably more patience than he realized he had. Somehow, staking out a monster’s lair for days in complete silence is bearable... but Sitting through one of Jaskier’s endless rambles is asking too much. Even Witchers can only endure so much.

“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt demanded one day, cutting off the motor-mouthed fool in the middle of another tangent.

Jaskier blinked at him, as though seriously considering the question, then shrugged. “Not a talent of mine, really.”

Miraculously, he did, for a moment. Despite all his instincts screaming to the contrary, Geralt nearly allowed himself to believe his outburst had worked... until Jaskier steppes on a twig, just a bit too loudly, then said, “I was asked the very same thing in bed not too long ago, actually, by this glorious milkmaid — granted, her accent was too thick to make out a word, so she might have been asking me to pass her my ruddy lute, who knows. But she was very enthusiastic —“

And that started him up all over again. Damn the gods.

In spite of it all, Geralt would be lying if he claimed to hate Jaskier’s blathering too much. Sometimes it’s... unique, not being constantly surrounded by silence. He wouldn’t call it nice, not be a long shot, but... it isn’t altogether unpleasant. Jaskier can make for entertaining company in his better moods, and he does keep things interesting. A routine pack of wargs can turn into a colorful job, so long as Jaskier is along to elaborate on it later. Geralt doubts he cuts such a striking figure “swinging his sword to the leaping beast’s belly”, as Jaskier’s latest gig claims, but...

Sometimes, it is nice not to be surrounded by silence. Even if that means putting up with Jaskier’s mouth more than he would like.

Case in point:

“Geralt.” A whine, then a cough, then a passionate sniffle. “Can we slow down? Please? I’ve asked thrice already —“

Four times. Geralt’s been counting. 

Gritting his teeth, he urges Roach a bit faster, conscious of the sound of struggling bard trailing a bit behind him. Jaskier makes no effort to be discreet when he moves, so Geralt can hear everything in perfect detail. The crunch of twigs beneath his heavy feet; the strain of his breaths, a bit more labored than they should be, a bit more congested; the way his chest rattles when he launches into another coughing fit. Even with a nasty cold, Jaskier’s loud.

“Just because I can’t catch it,” says Geralt once the latest fit has passed, “doesn't mean you need to cough on me.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ll be sure to aim my dying gasps towards the wilderness next time.” Backtalk is a talent Jaskier can’t help himself honing, even sick as a dog. His brows, foreword with childish petulance, draw even tighter together as he wraps both arms around himself, hunching in. A shiver courses through him; Geralt distinctly hears the rattle of chattering teeth. The second Jaskier catches his eyes lingering, however, he plays up his misery for the perceived audience, pouting and wiping at his face. Geralt rolls his eyes, looking away.

Geralt understands the patterns of many beasts, but Jaskier’s language was one of the easiest to learn. The Law of Jaskier: as long as he’s talking, he’s fine. 

And he hasn’t stopped talking since early this morning. No, not talking — complaining. Gods help him, Jaskier hasn’t stopped complaining.

He still stubbornly follows Geralt out on the road, however; in spite of his red nose and phelmgy cough, Jaskier refuses to be left behind. It wouldn’t be the first time he chose to linger in a particular village which Geralt went on ahead, but Jaskier insisted the last one one didn’t appeal to him — “Everyone looks half-starved there. No wonder, the food tastes like shit. At midnight I half-expect them all to gather into a mob, hunt down the nearest visiting bard, and fry him on a spit. I have just enough meat on my bones, Geralt, but I wouldn’t be tasty —“

That rant devolved into a coughing fit that left Jaskier doubled over on the side of the road for five minutes, gasping and heaving. Geralt actually had to stop and wait for him. By the time Jaskier recovered, raising himself shakily up from his knees on the dirt road, he looked a mess. His face was bright red, tears lingering at the corners of his eyes; his chest still heaved. That was the moment any sensible person would have turned back… but Jaskier simply steeled himself and carried on.

Fool of a bard, Geralt thinks now, listening to Jaskier’s heavy footsteps behind them. He’s lagging, slowing them both down. His scent has picked up something unfamiliar, an edge of sour sweetness that can only be a fever. At least he’s walking on his own… but he’s not walking fast, is the thing, and they have to walk fast if they want to reach the next town before nightfall. As it is, the prospect looks doubtful; Jaskier has slowed them enough already.

“As soon as we find a bed, I’m collapsing in it —“ Jaskier pauses to sniff again, and clear a hoarse throat. “Then not getting out for a year. A year, Geralt. You’ll have to — drag me by my feet or something.”

“Something,” Geralt agrees, his mind flashing to images of swords and steel. Oh, he’d get the damned bard out of bed.

The trail gets rougher as they make their way further into the mountains. Even Geralt stumbles in places, and he’s built for this sort of travel. He’s wearing the boots for it.  Jaskier is distinctly neither of these things. As Geralt’s must focus more of his attention on their way forward, he almost misses what’s going on behind him — the harshness of his companion’s breaths growing more and more labored, the way Jaskier’s coughs pick up force and frequency, the times he must stop — physically stop — to sneeze or hack his lungs out. Geralt tries to ignore it. He really does. But the fact that he almost manages, for about fifteen minutes, is what alerts him to a much more alarming fact.

Jaskier has stopped complaining.

As soon as Geralt realizes this, he jerks to a halt on the trail. Roach follows his lead… but Jaskier, his head down, doesn’t notice. Instead, he walks straight into Roach’s backside, nearly toppling off his feet. 

“Agh — damn it, Geralt.” Even his indignation sounds listless. “Give a man warning next time, will you?”

“How,” asks Geralt, through gritted teeth, “do you feel?”

Jaskier blinks, appearing to weigh the likelihood that his companion is genuinely concerned or just annoyed. Whatever he decides, he isn’t wrong. Instead of offering an answer, he makes an inarticulate ‘hmm-mmm’, shrugging his shoulders. Geralt’s hard gaze bores into him. Jaskier shrinks under it. After a moment, the pressure grows too much; he breaks. “My head is pounding, to be honest. Feels… dizzy. I don’t know. It’s cold out here.”

“You have a fever,” Geralt observes. 

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, then laughs softly, like he’s not surprised. “Right, yep, that makes sense. Figures you know me better than I do…”

He breaks off into another fit of coughing, which leaves his entire body quaking. Geralt has to actually grab his shoulder to steady him, just in case Jaskier should tumble over. As soon as he’s regained some kind of composure, though, Jaskier pulls away.

“I’ll be fine.” This time, there isn’t a trace of whine in his voice; he isn’t scraping the barrel for pity, but being deadly serious. “Not too long to the next village anyways, is it? I can make it.”

Geralt eyes him for a long moment, weighing the likelihood of getting there in a reasonable amount of time with Jaskier lagging behind. It’s not good. They’ve been making poor time as it is, because he’s had to slow his pace for the damned bard, but Geralt would prefer not to camp along the road overnight. (Because he doesn’t feel like sleeping on hard ground; not because Jaskier in his current state needs a warm bath and bed. Absolutely not.)

He sighs through his teeth. “Get on the horse.”

“What?”

Either Jaskier’s fever is high enough that he can no longer comprehend the common tongue, or he really is an idiot. “The horse,” Geralt emphasizes, patting Roach’s hindquarters in preemptive apology. “If you ride her, we may make it to the nearest village before nightfall.”

This is the one and only time Geralt has ever offered his precious horse; Jaskier knows this, as well as he knows this chance will never come around again. Maybe he’s just an opportunist. Maybe the promise of a roof over his head is that tempting. Either way, Jaskier doesn’t weigh his options for long before doing the sensible thing and getting on the damn horse.

Roach whinnies, making her displeasure at the entire situation clear. Jaskier isn’t helping matters, a dead weight on her back. The horse stamps her hooves, shuffling in dismay, but a look from Geralt chastises her. For the moment, getting the bard out of the woods will have to be more important than her dignity.

No, Geralt doesn’t like it either. One look at Jaskier’s face, though — the hollow-eyed pallor, and the distance, as though he’s drifted out to sea already — reminds him why it is necessary.

This time around, they are able to set a much faster pace. Roach keeps up, just as Geralt knew she would, even carrying the burden that is Jaskier. The sick man doesn’t help his case; rather than ride, Jaskier has both arms braces against Roach’s neck, clearly focused on just keeping his balance. There’s a precarious list to his posture which Geralt keeps an eye on, but he doesn’t actually fall; every time it seems like he might, he rights himself, and a new dawn of clarity rises over his face. It lasts only a moment, of course, before fading away… but it’s something.

It isn’t long before the woods begin to thin out. Geralt tracks their location by the trees, and by the hues of purple and gold beginning to blend together on the horizon. They haven’t far to go, and enough time to do it. Unless they run into any roaming monsters on the way…

He takes his eyes off Jaskier, and there’s the mistake. He forgets. When Jaskier was complaining, at least he was present; by airing his grievances he ensured that he could not be ignored. This quiet Jaskier is a foreign one, and Geralt isn’t used to him. So, he makes a mistake. He looks away, and doesn’t look back… until a gruesome thud echoes from behind him.

Geralt stops dead in his tracks. Roach lets out a distressed whinny. Jaskier says nothing at all.

“Fuck!” Geralt hisses, rushing back to the bard’s crumpled body. Face-down in the dirt, Jaskier makes no attempt to pull himself up. When Geralt hauls him upright with both hands on his shoulders, Jaskier groans, head lolling against his own chest. 

Mud stains his cheeks, and a bruise is sure to form where he hit the ground hard. Even when Geralt seizes his face, though — and damn it, he’s on fire, worse than Geralt thought — Jaskier proves incapable of focusing. An incoherent murmur passes through parted lips. It does exactly nothing to alleviate Geralt’s minor panic.

“Jaskier! Wake up!” Is he even asleep? Geralt can’t tell. “Say something!”

He means it, and the realization comes as an icy shock — never did he imagine he’d ever miss the bard’s incessant prattling. Yet in the sudden absence of Jaskier’s voice, silence rings louder than ever, and it’s smothering Geralt to death. He should have seen this, should have known, should have realized, damn it —

“Jaskier,” he hisses, hauling his companion to his feet. The full weight of Jaskier’s limp body melts against his own. When Jaskier’s burning forehead falls against Geralt’s shoulder, he shrugs, trying to rouse him… but nothing does the job. Even when Geralt, grumbling furiously, is forced to haul Jaskier back up onto Roach and leap up after him, the fever permits Jaskier to do little more than melt against him. His head lolls, eyes half-open and staring into nothing. Worse than it all, he is completely silent.

For once in his life, Geralt misses the damned bard’s complaining.

[jaskiersvalley]

So I just read through your whole blog in basically a day and uhm, you're an incredible writer first off. Secondly, maybe like a thing where because he's so sensitive to everything, Geralt knows when Jasker is about to have a migraine/panic attack/something like that. And it's the first time anyone's actually helped Jaskier because everyone else doesn't know what to do and hasn't thought to just ask??

I am super flattered you went through the whole blog in a day! It always brings a smile to my face when people enjoy my writing. As for your prompt...a quick content warning before we launch in.

Content warning for (not named) epilepsy.

It was just a fact of life for Jaskier. Sometimes, for no rhyme or reason, he lost snippets of time. If he was lucky, it wasn’t anything more than a span of time that he simply couldn’t remember. One minute he’d be doing something then there would be this funny feeling of something rising in his stomach.Then he’d be blinking as if shaking off some fatigue. Other times as that feeling rose, he knew he needed to sit down. Sadly, he didn’t always manage to stumble to a quiet corner. Those times, he either came back to people fanning and fussing over him, or stepping around him. He didn’t always know which was worse.

However, as he got older, those little episodes seemed to become less frequent. And he’d worked out that sometimes stress, fatigue or hunger could bring it on Not always and he still had blips where he wasn’t any of those but still lost time. It wasn’t something Jaskier allowed to rule his life. Oxenfurt still called to him, he wanted to be a bard and he was going to be the best the Continent had ever seen. With such stubborn determination, he get there. His songs were reaching new renown and Jaskier was successful. Even if people still gave him funny looks if he had a bit of a blip. Only twice in his career had he had a spell where he felt the all too familiar rise of his stomach while on stage and found himself on the floor with people screaming.

Then along came Geralt. He was someone Jaskier saw as a new challenge, a project. His own fame was enough to get by on and he wanted something fresh. To change the Continent’s view of witchers, now that sounded like something worthy of his time. Especially when his path crossed with the infamous Butcher of Blaviken. To say that Jaskier rose to the challenge was an understatement. Unfortunately, his heart also rose in hope. Because it was so much easier to sing the praise of someone you were head over heels in love with than someone who you viewed as a project.

There was also the unfortunate complication that trailing after a witcher came with three things: stress, exhaustion and hunger. Because they didn’t always have the coin for food, contracts were stressful and scurrying after a witcher was not exactly a relaxing, energy conserving hobby. So really, Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised when he started feeling that rise in his stomach again.

“Keep up, bard!” Geralt’s words helped draw Jaskier back into the world and he blinked tiredly before hurrying to catch back up. At least Geralt didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss.

Things kept going as before. Jaskier sang and pranced around taverns, earning coin and turning the tide so witchers were regarded with at least acceptance if not admiration for all they did and sacrificed. It was fun, even if it was after a long day of travelling and jumping out of the way of a couple of very insistent drowners. Jaskier was coming to the end of a song when he felt the familiar almost flip that signalled another episode.

“I’ll be right back, even a bard needs a break!” He even managed to settle on a bench before things fell away for a few long moments.

The room was still warm and chatter filled it when Jaskier was hauled back into awareness. At least it meant there wasn’t a lot of time he had lost. Tired but confident the worst was over, Jaskier pulled himself to his feet with a smile and strummed his lute again.

“Refreshed and rested, I am back to my finest. Now, did I hear a request for Toss A Coin earlier?”

Nothing changed. Even if Geralt gave him a long, hard look, Jaskier had no idea what it meant. They travelled together, their relationship was still at that peculiar level of undetermined. Not quite together but reluctant to be with anyone else. The hesitant, almost shy kisses shared were tantalising yet not enough.

Even though it felt like nothing had changed, Jaskier slowly realised something. Whenever he had an episode, Geralt was no longer up ahead and impatient. Rather, he and Roach were next to Jaskier, sometimes still talking as if he hadn’t noticed Jaskier had fallen slack and unresponsive. Rather than address it though, Jaskier tried to pretend it was the norm. Even when he woke up exhausted after a full night’s sleep. It was okay, Geralt was just being Geralt.

That lie couldn’t be kept up when Jaskier was walking alongside Roach and felt a wave of something pass over him, rising in his stomach. He knew it was going to be an episode he was going to have to sit down for.

“It’s prime time for a sit down and a nap,” he announced, veering off the road and towards a clearing. It was too far though, he knew he was never going to make it no matter how determined he was. “Oh dear.”

Coming to, there weren’t the usual aches of freshly obtained bruises from falling down. Instead, there was a cloak stuffed under his head and he was laid in the clearing he had been eyeing up. His confusion was only worsened as he sat up and a warm hand supported his back with a murmur of “take it easy”.

“What?” He asked and twisted to look at Geralt.

“You had another blip. Bit of a bigger one than usual.”

Shame flooded through Jaskier at that. Because it meant Geralt had known all along. But he hadn’t said anything, never once mentioned it.

“How?” There were so many things Jaskier wanted to ask.

“Your smell changes. Turns to that of slimy, decaying metal.” Which was all kinds of embarrassing and Jaskier looked away, speechless for the first time in a long while. “You had it handled usually, there wasn’t a point in saying anything.”

Which was true, Jaskier was an old hat at dealing with his own moments of malfunctioning. It was so very different though, knowing that Geralt had been aware. And he’d been doing his quiet best to offer support too, now that Jaskier thought about it. On the road when he didn’t pull ahead. In taverns, he started sitting closer to the performance area which meant Jaskier always had somewhere to sit down if he needed. There were nights where Jaskier woke disoriented and as though he’d just come to from a spell of his even though he had been asleep. And Geralt was sat next to him, wiping a cloth over his sword as though he hadn’t been able to sleep.

“I don’t know what actually helps,” Geralt offered, seemingly a little bashful at admitting he didn’t know something.

“Actually, you’ve been perfect.” Jaskier leaned into the solid warmth of the body next to him. “It’s not something that can be helped. Just worked around.”

Only, the more he thought, the more he realised that Geralt had been trying to help in his own way in other aspects. They didn’t push on as hard, taking it easier so fatigue didn’t catch up with them. Stopping in taverns as often as possible where Jaskier could choose to play or rest on a proper bed. And when taking contracts, Geralt was especially protective of Jaskier, trying to minimise the stress. But not once was Jaskier told he couldn’t or shouldn’t do something. Which was a blessing because there were so many who found out about his affliction and immediately started trying to control what he could and couldn’t do.

It wasn’t perfect, even with all the compromise, Jaskier still had episodes as before. But now he could reach out, blindly grab for Geralt in warning. And in turn, Geralt could slip from Roach or turn to offer a hand to Jaskier when the tang of changing scent caught his nose. It didn’t stop the occasional time Jaskier went down while performing, Geralt too far away or not paying enough attention while Jaskier was too stubborn to stop in the middle of a song. Even though he knew he was going to stop whether he wanted to or not. However, if that happened, Jaskier no longer came to, to find people screaming or stepping over him. Instead, he had a cloak or thigh under his head and Geralt asking firmly for some water. He’d even glare at the helful idiot trying to fan Jaskier, making him shiver with cold.

It was also the last hurdle of their relationship, Geralt gained more confidence as he kissed Jaskier, now comfortable that there were no more secrets between them. Even if it hadn’t been a true secret to start with.

[julilihatfun]

prompt time!!! feel free to ignore this if it doesn't speak to you, but: what about something where jaskier keeps asking for a break and geralt thinks he's just whining about being tired, but really, he's been hiding a serious wound, which may or may not be infected, and he's actually UNDERreacting? :D if you don't like this, i can try again!

Thank you so much for this prompt - really loved writing it and I hope that I did it justice!

————————————————————————————

“Geralt.”, Jaskier tries again. His voice is slightly wobbly, but Geralt does not seem to really care.

He just sighs again, really, making Jaskier feel like the biggest burden on the planet. And he tried powering through – he really did. But he started feeling dizzy and disconnected hours ago and every step sends shivers of pain through his body.

“No.”, the Witcher growls eventually, making Jaskier wince.

“Please…” He tries, desperate for a little rest. “I-“

“Damn it Jaskier!”, Geralt roars then, a clear sign of the stress he had been experiencing in the past couple of days. “People are dying – we can’t rest every time your feet hurt.”

Jaskier is positive that he is dying, too, but Geralt probably has a point, so he keeps his mouth shut. His feet don’t hurt, actually. His left side is giving him trouble though – the one where the huge, hideous flower-thingy (he’s pretty sure that Geralt called it an Archespore, but it’s not like Jaskier really cares about that right now) that they encountered a few hours prior, shot some sort of thorn or- or leaf (honestly, what the fuck?) at him while Geralt was already burning it to the ground (Jaskier thinks, that it’s exactly what the thing deserved). And it hurt.

Really, really hurt.

Jaskier had stifled a scream, gasping dramatically and putting on a whole show for Geralt, but his Witcher barely glanced at him and Jaskier kind of abstained from telling Geralt, due to the pain gradually having lessened in intensity after he had pulled the thing out of his flesh. It had been barely bleeding, too, so he had just kind of assumed, that he would be fine. They desperately needed to get to Velen before the sunrise of the next day. And Geralt had been stressed and on edge for a whole week. It probably was a combination of a lack of sleep and the uprise of person-eating monsters in villages all over.

The pain came back with a vengeance a while later, while Jaskier was distractedly strumming his lute. He had hunched over with squeaky huff and the instrument produced a horrible, off-tune sound, that had Roach neighing in indignation. Geralt had thrown him the look. Had not commented though.

And the pain had not subsided since then.

Jaskier can feel beads of sweat trickling down his neck and back and his whole body feels awfully heavy and shaky. He would categorize this as a class A emergency, so he tries to get Geralts attention again.

“I really think that-“, he starts, then stops abruptly to swallow heavily. His throat is parched. Huh. When did that happen?

He tries coughing in order to find his voice again, but that just leaves him winded.

“Swallow a bug?”, Geralt huffs, and he does not quite sound amused, but definitely not concerned either. Jaskier shakes his head and clears his throat, trying to finally share his struggle in this moment of attention from Geralt.

“No.”, he grounds out, sounding shaky. “Feel weird.”

Geralts face seems to soften. “I know that the past days have been hard on you too.” He pauses slightly. “You can have plenty of rest as soon as we reach the inn.”

And Jaskier is so busy basking in the glow of Geralts niceness, that he misses his opportunity. The Witcher is already several steps ahead of him again.

And Jaskier really tries to hold it together then. Imagining himself licking his wounds in the comfort of a real bed. He can feel his legs tremble and every jostling step hurts.

When his vision starts blurring on the edges, he decides to bring this whole mess up again.

“Rest”, he wheezes. “Need- really have to…”

And then he sinks down dramatically, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Geralt in a silent scream for help. The man swings down from Roach much more graciously than a man his size should be able to and rounds on Jaskier.

It really stings, when the Witcher shakes his head in anger. “Dying, Jaskier. People are dying.”, he growls yet again, and it makes Jaskier feel even worse.

“I know, I’m just-“

“Tired. Yeah. Imagine how I feel.”

And Jaskier really hopes, that Geralt does not feel as bad as he does. He does not think that it should be legal for anyone to feel like he does right in this moment.

“Please, Geralt.”, Jaskier begs and this time, Geralts face hardens.

“Would have thought that you would have more empathy.”

Jaskier desperately shakes his head. He needs Geralt to understand. Because something is wrong. Very wrong, and he is starting to feel scared.

“Rest. Might be able to catch up with me later.” And to Jaskiers horror, Geralt turns around and walks back towards Roach before he can even get another word out. And now – now he feels absolutely terrified at the prospect of having to handle this all by himself.

“NO!”, he hears himself scream and it sounds shrill and hoarse and just as panicked as he feels. “Please don’t leave me.”

Then, he starts to sob desperately, tears blurring his vision.

As soon as he has blinked some of them away, he looks directly into Geralts eyes.

“Sorry.”, he croaks. Geralt shakes his head yet again, but this time, the hardness is missing from his face. He gives Jaskier a once-over and furrows his brows.

“Something is wrong.” He states the obvious. “What.”

“Feel…” Jaskier swallows hard. “Real’ weird.”

“Yeah, I need you to be more specific.”

“’T hurts.”, the bard gasps then and Geralt closes his eyes in frustration for a second.

“How is that more specific?”, he asks.

Jaskier really does not have the energy to roll out the whole story, so he just shrugs, feeling more exhausted by the second, now that he is no longer on his feet.

Suddenly, there is a cold hand on his cheek, and his eyes snap open. He finds Geralts eyes again and then latches on, grasping the Witchers wrist tightly.

“You’re burning.”

Jaskier slumps forwards, resting his heavy head on Geralts clothed chest. It kind of grounds him, and he closes his eyes, wanting to just… rest.

“I need to know what’s wrong. Jaskier.” Jaskier hears the urgency in Geralts voice, but he can’t bring himself to react. “Are you ill? Or is there something else? Jaskier!”

The bard groans, Geralts wrist still held tightly between his fingers, which makes everything more uncomfortable, but he is not letting go anytime soon.

He cracks his eyes open slightly, and the disorientation lessens lightly. “Ugly plant.”, he mumbles. “Shot something at me.”

He gestures awkwardly towards his left side and Geralts eyes move to the medium sized hole in his shirt, that is bloody around the edges.

“Shit.” Geralts springs to his feet so fast, that Jaskier slumps forwards.

And when the Witcher runs towards Roach, the full-blown panic is back. Jaskier hears himself screeching something as he tries to prop himself up, whimpering in pain unconsciously.

But then Geralt is moving back towards him, helping him sit up again, and Jaskier finds his wrist again, clasping the Witchers shirt with his other hand this time. Just to make sure.

“Drink this!”, Geralt urges. “Now!” And then he tips some kind of milky liquid down Jaskiers throat so fast, that it leaves the bard gasping and sputtering.

After that, Geralt kind of just stares at him, as if expecting some sort of reaction.

Jaskier just lets himself fall forward again. They remain in that position for minutes until:

“Are we waiting for something?”

Suddenly, Geralt moves away again; this time to fret over Jaskiers wound.

“Fuck. Not poison then.”, he says, sounding a bit too hysteric for Jaskiers liking. “I can’t fix a fucking infection Jaskier.”

Jaskier tries to huff incredulously. “Your makin’ ‘t sound like ‘tis ‘s on me”

“You should have said something.” Geralt sounds tired and frustrated, so Jaskier feels pretty bad when his whispered: “Tried to”, makes Geralts entire face fall in guilt.

“’M sorry.”, he adds, because he can’t with the fucking puppy dog eyes.

After that, everything is a blur. He feels himself being heaved onto Roach, being carried up to a room. Feels cold cloths on his forehead and his chest. The bandages around his torso. Being urged to drink different sorts of teas and liquids. Nightmares, that leave him sobbing and heaving.

And through all of that, Geralt remains a steady presence. Sometimes, when Jaskier is somewhat coherent, he can see the Witcher watching him from his position on a terribly uncomfortable looking chair. When he wakes from the bad dreams, it’s Geralt who pulls him into his strong arms, muttering reassurances in a way, that is entirely unlike Geralt but also kind of not.

It’s Geralt, who makes him tea and brings him soup.

It’s always Geralt.

And it makes Jaskier feel warm and safe and at peace.