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Geralt of Rivia is absolutely certain on three things.
- Witchers are to be paid in coin and nothing else.
- Roach is a perfectly good name for a horse.
- Julian Alfred Pankratz is not a human.
Jaskier plays the part well. Geralt has to commend him for it, the witcher was fooled for an entire year of their acquaintanceship. However, after those first twelve months, Jaskier was clearly comfortable enough with Geralt’s presence to let his human front slip and allow some… odd behaviors to surface. Nothing outright alarming, Geralt’s never smelt blood that didn’t belong to the bard, nor has Jaskier ever carried the aura of death that many beasts do, so while he suspected Jaskier wasn’t fully human he had no concrete proof.
Geralt started paying closer attention after Jaskier, who looks barely a day over twenty-five, claimed to be both eighteen and thirty-two in the span of two weeks.
He’s caught Jaskier ingesting nearly raw meat, blood still dripping from the barely seared skin. He’s seen the bard run faster than any human should be able to in his attempts to evade the irous fury of a cuckolded partner. Not to mention the way Jaskier always seems to vanish on the full moon and returns smelling of blood. Always his own, but occasionally there’s a hint of something more… monstrous.
So, Geralt determines that Jaskier must be a vampire.
Most likely a higher vampire, one who doesn’t require blood to survive but thrives off of it; whose heart still beats the liquid gold through his veins that he can share with others of his kind. It would be just like Jaskier to be adored and doted upon by many in exchange for a vial of his own blood while taking none in return. The vampirism is nothing Geralt takes issue with, but he does wish Jaskier would just tell him he’s not human instead of continuing to pretend as though Geralt was an idiot.
Of course, he can’t tell Jaskier that he knows Jaskier isn’t human. Firstly, that would be rude. And secondly, he would like the proof that Jaskier trusts him enough to divulge himself of this secret and include Geralt. In the meantime, though, Geralt continues to observe. Maybe he can figure out exactly what kind of vampire Jaskier is.
Novigrad is horrendously busy, as it always is, but today it’s even more appalling in the number of people crowded into the streets and alleys. Colors flash everywhere, the scents of unwashed bodies layering atop one another and mingling with the aromas of cooking food as voices overlap and laughter rings through the city. Geralt always forgets which days of the month are market days and, somehow, always manages to enter Novigrad on said days. He suspects the bard bouncing at his side has something to do with it.
He has the constant chatter of Jaskier helping to ground him in the hubbub and the hum as the bard comments on anything and everything in sight. Whether it’s the dress of the ladies milling about, the quality of the cobblestones beneath their feet, or the music dancing on the breeze from street performers hoping to earn a bit of coin from the masses, Jaskier has an opinion about it that must be voiced.
“--and I must say, while I recognize it as being a symbol of poverty due to being unable to afford proper trousers, the butchered pants look is quite dashing. It makes people’s legs look so much longer than they are, wouldn’t you agree, Geralt?” Jaskier’s blue eyes are glued on the dark skin of a peasant in short, fraying trousers, “It both saddens me and intrigues me. I think I could look rather good in that style, the current fashion trends make my legs look so much shorter than they are!”
And of course, as always, when Jaskier runs out of things to praise or pass judgement upon, he falls back on his favorite past time: complaining.
It was something that irritated the shit out of Geralt when they first started traveling together, nearly six years ago now; the constant whining and complaining and running commentary sounding almost like a shrill ringing in his ears. He didn’t understand how someone could be so-- so-- Well, so godsdamned happy all the time while being thoroughly annoyed by everything that walks, talks, lives, breathes, or exists in general. It wasn’t until he realized that Jaskier spoke primarily to fill the silence and put very little value in most of the things that spilled from his transient lips unless he was speaking with a very specific tone of voice that commanded attention that Geralt finally fell into the familiarity of the bard’s antics and became comfortable with them.
And if he has started resenting the silence when they’re separated that’s no one’s business but his own.
So lost in his thoughts is Geralt that he doesn’t immediately notice the lack of the very thing he was thinking about. It isn’t until the witcher hears a sour note from the nearest musician-- and being able to notice things of a musical nature is a newly acquired skill that Geralt’s not certain his feelings on-- doesn’t receive a snide comment that he looks around him in confusion. Of course, he doesn’t look confused, he could never give anyone the joy of seeing the Butcher of Blaviken wearing a dumbfounded expression, but befuddlement clouds his mind as he searches for his brightly colored companion.
Jaskier is nowhere to be seen.
Geralt groans heartily, earning some wary glances from the folks milling about within his vicinity who then take carefully measured steps away to give him a wide berth, before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. This isn’t the first time Jaskier has departed from his side in a marketplace, but this is certainly the first time he’s done so without loudly announcing his intentions to go dote his attentions upon a merchant who caught his flighty eye.
He casts his eyes around at all the nearest vendors, searching for the familiar shock of brown hair towering over the people around him. It was a shock when Geralt first realized that Jaskier really is just very tall and isn’t elevated much in height by the heels of his boots. The witcher doesn’t often meet people close to him in height who aren’t also mutants, and he determinedly doesn’t think about the few times the bard has actually worn heeled boots and stood taller than even Geralt himself.
He doesn’t spy Jaskier immediately by height nor hair, so he tries scenting the air, lifting his nose slightly and inhaling deeply at first followed by a few shorter sniffs. Through the miasma of sweat and body odor he’s able to catch the faint whiffs of Jaskier’s perfume weaving through the crowd. It’s already so faint, the bard must have been moving in a hurry. Where on earth could he be going?
Geralt follows the winding scent like a bloodhound, almost able to visualize a wafting yellow trail of dandelions through the crowd that leads him directly to his companion. His metaphorical line ends at a livestock vendor, the light perfume lost in the dense odors of shit and hay-- truly one of Geralt’s least favorite things to be smelling with how bitter and rancid the scents are when fouled by livestock-- but he needn’t have worried about finding the trail again, eyes catching the bright yellow of Jaskier’s outfit.
Or, half of the outfit anyway.
Jaskier is on his hands and knees, upper body disappeared beneath the cart that hosts squawking and squealing chickens as he roots around for something. Geralt allows himself a brief moment of weakness as he approaches-- with a deep set scowl on his face-- to appreciate the pert derriere filling out the creamy yellow fabric of Jaskier’s trousers before he nudges Jaskier’s ankle with his foot. Jaskier yelps in surprise, jumping and slamming the back of his head against the bottom of the cart with a loud thunk.
“Shit,” Geralt swears as he crouches down, extending a hand to help the bard out from beneath the wagon. “Are you alright?”
Jaskier’s face is twisted with pain as he rubs the back of his head, easily taking Geralt’s cool hand in his warmer one to be pulled to his feet. “I’ve been better. You gave me a fright!”
“Hmm. What were you doing under a cart?”
The bard blinks at him for a moment before all traces of discomfort disappear to be replaced by overblown rage, “I saw a fucking cat!”
“You… you saw a cat?” Geralt can’t stop the confusion from showing on his face this time as he looks at Jaskier with a furrowed brow and puzzled frown.
“Yes! Yes, I saw a fucking cat.”
“So you… crawled under a cart to do what, exactly?”
Jaskier’s hands, which had planted themselves firmly on his hips, falter and slip to his sides, “I’m not quite sure. I hadn’t figured that part out yet.”
Geralt takes a moment to gather his thoughts before exhaling roughly and rubbing his forehead, “Let me get this straight--”
“That’s not something either of us can do, don’t fool yourself, Geralt.”
“--you chased a cat under a cart to just… catch it?”
“Well, it looked at me!”
“It looked at you.”
Jaskier crosses his arms and turns his nose up haughtily, “With quite the judgemental look, if I do say so myself.”
“What on earth would a cat be judging you for?” Geralt asks incredulously. He’s not sure if he should be exasperated or rolling on the floor right now.
Jaskier looks lost again as his hands wave vaguely, “I haven’t the faintest! I was hoping to find out.”
“So you chased a cat--”
“A judgemental cat.”
“--a cat, under a cart to find out what it was judging you for?”
“That sounds about correct, yes,” Jaskier nods once. Geralt opens his mouth to tell off the bard for being an absolute moron when there’s a loud meowing from beneath the cart, the green eyes of a tabby cat narrowed and glaring at Jaskier. “Come here, you bastard!” Jaskier cries and shoves Geralt aside to dive for the feline.
It is a rather judgemental cat.
The events of the Novigrad market stick with Geralt for a long time. He spends hours mulling over them, dissecting every word Jaskier said, every twitch of his hands and flicker of his expression, to try and figure out what kind of vampire the bard is. Cats aren’t overly fond of monsters, and are downright hateful of witchers-- really, they only tolerate humans and even that is just disdain mistaken for a personality-- so it would only make sense that the opposite is true as well. Although, that logic is cracked since Geralt, secretly, rather likes them.
He can respect the way that felines live their lives by their own sets of rules, rarely deigning to bend to the whims of mankind and laying in the lap of luxury when they do. Does he wish walking the Path could be like that? Maybe a little bit, when he’s feeling truly despondent in the wee hours of morning without Jaskier by his side, he thinks being pampered and pet would be nice. Although, Jaskier already does that for him, maybe a bit rough sometimes (a bucket of water dumped on his head after a selkiemore fight comes to mind) but he does still dote upon Geralt in his own way.
It makes the witcher feel warm in a way he doesn’t wish to investigate at this moment in time.
He wonders if he should be returning the favor sometimes, after all Jaskier is a very affectionate and tactile man, but every time Geralt has reached for the bard’s hair or attempted to do more than just a firm but friendly pat on the back Jaskier has dodged his advances. Geralt’s honestly not sure if it’s intentional or not, as Jaskier’s scent never changes to fear or anxiety, but it makes something tighten in his chest that he also doesn’t want to investigate.
At the moment, as he mulls over these things and pointedly doesn’t deliberate about the way the bard makes him feel, he’s cleaning his armor and Jaskier is seated on the floor by his knee, leaning back against the bed. His head is bowed as he scribbles in his songbook, occasionally sitting up slightly to hum a few bars and then add to or scratch out his notes. It’s a repetitive process, and one that Geralt begrudgingly accepts as a necessity despite the irritation of hearing the same six notes hummed over and over again if Jaskier is to create new music as per his profession.
The flickering light of the fire in the hearth makes Jaskier’s chestnut hair nearly glow with the golden strands woven throughout, a concentrated expression hidden by shadow except for the tips of the peaks and valleys that make up his face. Geralt could spend, and has spent, hours just looking at Jaskier, drinking in his soft jaw and strong chin, his big eyes and pointed nose. Wondering about the little scar above his left eyebrow, curious as to how many long lashes brush the bard’s high cheekbones. He’s staring now, he knows he is, but he can’t help it.
The slant of Jaskier’s neck, the curve of his back and hunching of his shoulders, the bend of his knees to balance the songbook as he leaves his messy scrawl in charcoal upon the pages, it all draws Geralt in like a hummingbird to the sweetest nectar. A bee to the brightest flower. He’s weak, and he’s wanting, as he looks at that soft golden hair and wonders how it would feel between his fingers. Is it fine and silky? Thick and tangled? Rough with the hints of curls were Jaskier to grow it out?
Before he can stop himself Geralt’s hand is buried in Jaskier’s hair and petting gently, letting the strands slip under his fingertips and against his palm. They’re silky and thick, the hair short enough that it doesn’t tangle even as Geralt curls his fingers to scratch the bard’s scalp with his short nails, more of a petting massage than anything else. Jaskier shivers but doesn’t pull away, melting back against the bed a bit more as he leans into Geralt’s hand with an almost inaudible hum and a happy sigh.
Clearly Jaskier isn’t averse to being touched by Geralt in a softer fashion than normal, so he wonders why the bard hasn’t allowed him to in the past. Now doesn’t seem like the proper time to bring that up though as he watches Jaskier’s eyes slip shut and his hold on the songbook and charcoal slacken. His shoulders slowly relax as the witcher continues to stroke through his hair and Geralt’s lips quirk up in the tiniest of self-satisfied smiles.
Now that he’s started petting the bard, he can’t seem to bring himself to stop. Not if the result is a puddle of Jaskier, and the warmth returns to Geralt full-force. His face feels hot as his chest burns with a flame fit to burst out of him at any moment, his heart far too large for his breast as it pounds against his ribs in time with the pass of his fingers through warm hair. Jaskier cants to the side, slumping against Geralt, and he can feel the light thrum of the bard’s own heartbeat as Jaskier hooks his chin over the witcher’s leg and his throat presses along Geralt’s knee.
Jaskier’s eyes are half-lidded, baby blues lazily looking up through his long lashes with an adoring curl to his lips and Geralt can swear the thumping of his heart is loud enough to be heard in the room, echoing dully against the walls of the inn. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that the rhythmic thumps actually are echoing through the room, but aren’t in time with the beat of his love when he spots Jaskier’s stocking-clad foot drumming on the wooden floor. Geralt’s no stranger to the strange ways Jaskier will fidget, but he can’t say he’s ever seen Jaskier audibly smacking the side of his foot against the ground, what with his leg tucked beneath him the way that it is.
In his surprise, Geralt’s hand stills and Jaskier whines softly, foot stilling and room falling silent save for the crackle of the fire. The bard’s gentle smile is gone and replaced with a petulant frown as Jaskier looks up at Geralt with large eyes, a clear request in the pleading expression. Geralt’s never been so thankful he can’t blush as he pointedly looks away while his fingers start to rub at Jaskier’s scalp again.
The thumping starts up again.
While odd, Geralt put the strange tapping of Jaskier’s foot down to Jaskier being, well, Jaskier. The bard has plenty of odd mannerisms, not the least of which being stopping to piss every hour or two or getting distracted by anything that moves in the bushes. More than once, Geralt has had to fish his friend out of the brush when Jaskier spotted a ‘particularly colorful bird and he just wanted to get a closer look at it, Geralt, honestly!’.
Besides, it doesn’t help him figure out what kind of vampire Jaskier is.
He’s ruled out bruxa, as well as katakan, he’s not bloodthirsty enough to be either of those nearly mindless beasts. Higher is still on the table, as well as lesser; but, Geralt’s having trouble figuring it out. It’s not that he particularly wants to invade Jaskier’s privacy by guessing, but he also doesn’t have anything better to do, and Jaskier isn’t telling him he’s not human still, so the witcher ponders and theorizes until proven wrong.
“Oh! Geralt, look! Look, look, look!” Jaskier jostles Geralt’s knee as he points at an oddly shaped tree trunk, the outline of it in the fading light of day looking vaguely like a person.
“I’m looking, Jaskier,” Geralt sighs fondly (fondly) as he looks at the trunk, “Anything in particular you liked about that?”
Jaskier squints at it, shoulders high and body tense before he suddenly exhales, “It’s just a tree.”
“Mhm, what did you think it was?”
“I thought perhaps it was a person.”
“And that would get you excited… why?”
Jaskier blinks, clearly thinking about the question. Geralt figured he’d have an easy answer on the tip of his tongue, something about loving people or getting to have a conversation with someone more verbose than Roach, and the fact that Jaskier has to deliberate over his answer is perplexing and even more of a peculiarity than usual. Geralt glances over at him, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.
“I’m not sure, I just thought it was exciting,” Jaskier settles on with a shrug, “You think we’ll make it to a town tonight?”
Geralt looks away and scents the air, searching for the hints of shit and smoke that usually indicate a settlement and, to his relief, smells them in the light breeze. “Hmm, we’ll reach a village of some sort soon. Probably before dark.”
Jaskier nods with a well-timed yawn that cracks his jaw, not bothering to hide it behind his hand as he would in polite company. There’s a lot of things Jaskier does around Geralt that he would be caught dead doing in front of other socialites, which Geralt knows because of the amount of complaining Jaskier does in the spring about having to keep his face clean-shaven and wearing fresh clothing every single day which leads to more laundry to be done since he doesn’t trust the laundresses with his doublets.
Allegedly, it’s because he spends a lot of money on them and only trusts himself to wash his garments, but Geralt’s felt the fabric of Jaskier’s clothing and it all has a very specific feel to it: like cotton silk. He’s never seen Jaskier wear anything made of any other fabric other than his performance doublet for the Cintra banquet which was made of heavy satins and silks that Jaskier looked veritably miserable in. He wonders if it has something to do with a skin sensitivity.
A symptom of vampires.
They reach the town-- well, really it’s a village, barely more than a hamlet, but Geralt calls it a town for politeness’ sake-- just before dark as the fading light of the day turns into brilliant streaks of pink and orange across the sky, gilding the clouds in fools’ gold and easing into the deep navy of star-speckled night. The streets are quiet, most residents have already retired to their homes for the evening, but there are a few stragglers walking through town carrying goods from shopping or buckets of water from the well in the center of town. Luckily, this tiny settlement has an inn so Geralt dismounts to bed down Roach while Jaskier secures them a room.
When he enters the common room of the inn, which doubles as a tavern much to Geralt’s relief, he doesn’t spy Jaskier so the bard must have already retired for the night. A bit unusual, but not wholly out of the ordinary if his friend was already feeling fatigued; there’s not much of an audience in this town to entertain tonight anyway, he’ll have better luck tomorrow night if they stay once word has gotten around that the famous bard Jaskier is here. Geralt stifles a yawn of his own as he tromps up the stairs, uncaring of the noise his boots make on the wood on his way to their room.
He finds it with ease, the sounds of Jaskier moving around inside in addition to the bard’s musky travel-worn scent indicating to him the room as well as a lit candle would have, and knocks before entering. The curtains are drawn over the window and the room is almost uncomfortably warm from the fire burning in the hearth and the steam rising from the tub Jaskier is filling with water that was boiling in a cauldron over the flames. For ease of breathing, Geralt drops his gear in the corner and then goes to the window, pulling back the coverings and opening it. The cool summer air flows in with the scents of dewy grass and wildflowers.
“Alright, Witcher, you first,” Jaskier finishes dumping the last bucket to fill the tub, “You like your water much hotter than I do and should, in theory, be not nearly as dirty as normal since we bathed in that river a few days ago. However, I will be quite cross if, upon my turn, I find the bath water has turned completely black and will require a full change. It took time to fill the tub, Geralt.” His voice trails off in a pathetic whine as he tosses some salts into the water. Geralt just grunts in response, efficiently stripping off his armor and divesting himself of his clothing so that he can sink into the scalding bath with a satisfied groan.
Geralt spends a few minutes just soaking with his eyes closed, allowing the heat of the water to loosen his tightly wound muscles and ease the aches and pains of his lifestyle, just listening as Jaskier shuffles around the room while humming softly or occasionally singing little snippets of song. Based on what he hears, he suspects Jaskier has tidily stacked Geralt’s armor and folded his dirty clothing to be washed tomorrow; little busy work things as he waits for his turn to bathe.
Jaskier’s footsteps abruptly stop and the sharp scent of adrenaline pierces the air, cutting through the heady smells of the salts and steam. Geralt opens his eyes as he sits up, already half out of the tub when he looks around the room. There’s no threat, no one in the room except for himself and Jaskier, but the bard is standing stiff as a board as he looks suspiciously at the dark window. Geralt frowns and gets the rest of the way out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his hips and walking over.
“What are you looking at?” Geralt murmurs, stepping up behind his bard.
“Who is that?” Jaskier’s tone is clipped, distressed and antagonized as he glares at the window, “Who’s looking into our room?”
Geralt turns his attention to the window, peering out of it into the darkness. It’s a bit difficult with the reflection of the sconces on the glass but he doesn’t see anyone outside at all, neither does he hear nor smell any strange people in their vicinity.
“Are you sure there’s someone out there?” Geralt glances at Jaskier, placing a hand on the bard’s shoulder, “I don’t sense anyone.”
“He’s right there, Geralt,” Jaskier gestures and then jumps back, crashing into Geralt’s chest, “He moved!” The witcher steadies him as he looks back out the window again. He huffs and then uses Aard to blow out the sconces, plunging the room into darkness save for the burning fire and making it easier to peer through the glass.
“Jaskier, there’s no one there.”
“There is,” Jaskier is sounding more distressed by the second, “There’s someone right there! He’s looking in at us and copying everything I do!” The bard is gesturing as he speaks, eyes trained on the window still.
Then it clicks.
“Jaskier, there’s no one out there.” Jaskier’s mouth drops open to argue but Geralt quickly cuts him off, “That’s just your reflection.”
“My… reflection?”
Geralt hums and nods, “Look.” He lights the sconces again with a careful Igni and then waves at the window, “See? Am I standing behind the person?”
Jaskier clears his throat, ears turning pink as an embarrassed flush spreads across his face and creeps down his neck. “Oh,” he says a bit faintly, “Well, I have to admit that I feel quite foolish now.”
“It’s alright,” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s shoulder in, what he hopes is, a calming gesture, “You’re tired, it’s easy to mistake things when fatigued.”
“Right, yeah,” Jaskier glances back at the window again before shaking his head and blinking away, “Anyway, back in the tub with you, Geralt. I refuse to share a bed with a person more mud than man.”
Geralt looks at him for a moment longer before nodding. He has a fair point, the dirt under the witcher’s nails will probably require a small knife to clean out; and besides, Geralt has a new piece of information to ponder. Jaskier doesn’t recognize his own reflection, which is a rather serious side effect of being a vampire.
Perhaps bruxa is back on the table after all.
Geralt hates banquets.
He really does. He hates the noise, the crowds, the confined space, the fancy clothes. He feels like he can’t breathe half the time and the other half he’s lonely standing in a corner without company while Jaskier entertains the masses that refuse to talk to him. Granted, he doesn’t make conversing with him easy, but he wishes there were more humans like Jaskier: fearless, willing to approach a witcher even as said witcher gives him a death glare, stupidly fanciful and sinfully beautiful and just so utterly human.
Which is quite ironic considering that Jaskier isn’t human.
Golden eyes track the glimmering blue of the bard’s doublet as Jaskier dances around, fingers keeping time as they jig upon the strings of his lute and his feet waltz across the floor, voice soaring higher than the most delicate of court dances and ringing stronger than even Skellige’s naval forces. Geralt’s face feels warm as he realizes he’s thinking quite poetically about his bard, and he forces himself to focus his attention elsewhere. Like perhaps getting a plate of food together for Jaskier since the bard is spending his time on the job and not getting to eat. Surely he’ll be famished by the time he can take a break.
Geralt meanders over to one of the banquet tables, gathering a plate and starting to pile it high with proteins and vegetables and starches: serving Jaskier a helping of roast pork, garlic potatoes, butter carrots, onion bread, and a dessert of a chocolate pastry-- a delicacy that none get to indulge in often as cacao is sown and grown in Zerrikania. Geralt himself has a bit of a sweet tooth; it’s not something he indulges often, but with the special treat of chocolate at this banquet he’s allowed himself to have quite a few pastries and squirreled several away into his pockets.
Jaskier is flushed and dewy as he skips over to Geralt, a large grin splitting his cheeks and stomach gurgling loud enough for Geralt to hear it over the din of the banquet. The bard spots the plate in Geralt’s hands and the beaming grin brightens impossibly moreso.
“Is that for me?” He nods his head at the plate and Geralt hands it over with a nod as his stomach flips and his heart flutters, “Thank you, Geralt! That’s very kind of you.”
Geralt hums and sips from the flagon of lukewarm ale in his hand as he leans against the wall, “How has your performance been going? I haven’t seen anyone try to castrate you yet tonight.”
“An absolute win in my book, dear witcher,” Jaskier crows as he pops a piece of chicken into his mouth, “Mm, this is delightful! It’s been so long since we’ve had a decent meal.”
Geralt raises his eyebrows pointedly.
“That was prepared by someone other than ourselves,” Jaskier rushes to add, “Of course our food is the greatest I’ve ever indulged in due to it being the labors of our love--”
“Enough,” Geralt snorts, “I hunt and you roast. You’re right, this food is better than our normal fare.”
Jaskier sighs in relief and tucks into the chicken, talking around the food in his mouth, “Oh good, I’d hate to have offended. I know how much you do for me, Geralt.” He looks up at the witcher and Geralt has to look away as his face burns bloodless. What right does Jaskier have saying something like that while looking at Geralt like that?
He grunts in response and Jaskier takes the dismissal for what it is, changing the subject and chattering on about the various pieces of gossip he has overheard as he performed and danced around the tittering ladies and chittering men, everyone airing everyone’s dirty laundry for the world to pass judgement upon. Geralt listens and hums in the right places to indicate his attention is still upon Jaskier even as his eyes watch the room, and when it sounds like Jaskier is done eating Geralt looks over to ask what the bard thought of the chocolate.
The pastry is still sitting on his plate alongside the garlic potatoes, even as the rest of the dish is picked clean of chicken and carrots.
“Don’t like potatoes?” Geralt asks, nodding his head at Jaskier’s supper.
“Hm? Oh, no I love potatoes. I’m allergic to these potatoes, you see.”
“Allergic?”
Jaskier nods, “It’s the garlic. Makes me sick like nothing else.”
“Have you never had chocolate before either? Seems like something you would enjoy,” Geralt eyes the pastry and Jaskier smiles wryly, holding out the plate to him.
“If you’d like to indulge in the chocolate you may and I’ll pass.”
Geralt’s eyes snap up to Jaskier’s as he scents the air. Perhaps a doppler has replaced his bard, because Jaskier would never part with perfectly good food like this. Many things his friend is willing to share with the witcher, but food has never been one of them. Geralt’s never asked why, as it’s none of his business, but he does wonder on occasion what events could have led to Jaskier being as defensive of the meals he eats as he is. It has made Geralt happy to see some meat get put on the bard’s bones in the nearly two decades they’ve known each other, remembering how stick thin and wiry of a teen (allegedly) he was when he first attached himself to Geralt like the world’s most stubborn barnacle.
“What-- what are you doing?” Jaskier’s brow furrows as he tilts his head adorably in confusion, watching Geralt sniff the air. “Are you smelling me?”
“Hmm, making sure you’re not an imposter,” Geralt narrows his eyes at the bard, “Jaskier would never share food.”
“I would if I couldn’t eat some of the food!”
“You said you couldn’t eat the potatoes, not anything about the pastry.”
Jaskier sighs and rolls his eyes, “I can neither eat the garlic potatoes nor the chocolate pastry as I have allergies to both. The garlic makes me sick as a dog and the chocolate could kill me.”
“Kill you?"
“Kill me.”
Geralt frowns, “Why would it kill you?”
“It’s hereditary,” Jaskier shrugs, “Can’t eat it. Neither of my parents could eat it either.”
“And the garlic?”
“Same thing.”
The witcher hums again and nods, plucking the chocolate pastry off of Jaskier’s plate anyway. There’s no reason to waste perfectly good food after all. Now, the hereditary allergies of odd ingredients… there’s something to think about. Only a few kinds of vampires are born and not made and, once again, Geralt is leaning towards Jaskier being a higher vampire. He’s back at square one then, as that was his original guess, and there’s just too many things that aren’t quite adding up right for the evidence to be damning just yet. He’ll have to keep observing.
And then came a mountain.
It wasn’t as much of a problem as Geralt thought it would be.
He was sure that Jaskier would make him grovel, drop to his knees and beg the bard’s forgiveness for the hurtful things he said in his frustration, but Jaskier had just smiled and welcomed him with a tankard of ale and an open seat beside him at the bar. And that was that.
It makes Geralt a bit uncomfortable, feeling as though he should be atoning for his poor behavior even as Jaskier has moved on from the entire thing, so he’s started being kinder. Really, he should have been kind the entire time, and he feels shame for the way he’s treated his friend for two decades, but he can rectify it now; and the expression of surprised delight on Jaskier’s face every time is a joy.
And now he’s taking his best friend up to Kaer Morhen to spend the short days and long months holed up with the rest of his small family, hidden away from the bitter winds and icy snows, curled up together under warm furs in front of blazing fires, the sweet scent of dandelions dancing through his head. Or, at least, that’s what Geralt fantasizes about as they camp in the woods with the threat of frost looming over their heads in the form of turning leaves, brilliant reds and oranges shadowed by the dark.
They make it to the keep hours before the first snowfall, a heavy blizzard blowing in shortly after the gray skies darken and flakes flurry up against the windows as the howling gales scream at the doors. Jaskier is mildly jumpy the first few days, both from the nerves of getting to know new people and the unfamiliarity of the keep-- he tells Geralt that the way sounds just echo through the stone walls are what put him on edge the most-- but in no time he’s settled in: Eskel showing him how to dye wool, Lambert teaching him to bake, Vesemir walking him through the intricacies of alchemy, Aiden introducing him to the secret passages that still remain standing, Coën demonstrating how to whittle.
Jaskier repays them all in story and song, his voice soaring and filling the empty spaces left behind by witchers long past. On more than one occasion Geralt has gone searching for the bard and only had to follow the haunting echoes of hymns ringing through the halls to find Jaskier standing alone, eyes closed and arms hanging loose at his sides, head back as he sings duets with the ghosts. It always makes something tighten in Geralt’s chest, a vice gripping his lungs, his heart thrumming with golden fire through his veins and burning his eyes.
It feels right to have Jaskier here.
“What’s your bard allergic to again?” Lambert asks him one day as he’s preparing the base for lebkuchen, a cakey dessert made with molasses and various dried fruits. It’s a delicacy they don’t get to enjoy often, but Lambert and Aiden had made their way out west to Skellige this year while Coën convened with Gerd and some of the other bear witchers down south at the border of Nilfgaard, all of them collecting various spices and treats ordinarily unfamiliar to the northern populace.
“Hmm, chocolate, macadamia, almond, dates, and grapes.”
“Raisins are grapes, right?”
Geralt nods, watching Lambert mix the batter as he mends a pair of Jaskier’s pants that were caught on a stray nail and torn the day before. He wasn’t going to do anything about it but then Jaskier lamented the fate of his poor trousers-- and maybe mentioned that he only owns two pairs of winter-appropriate bottoms-- and now Geralt is carefully stitching the rather large tear with a hidden stitch. Once he’s done, it’ll be impossible to tell that the fabric was ever torn at all.
“Great, I can make the lebkuchen without dates or raisins, then. It’ll taste fine still, I’m sure.”
“With the dried pineapple and coconut, I’m certain it’ll still be plenty flavorful,” Geralt hums and his brother nods in agreement, folding in the fruits and then pouring the batter into the pan, “What’s the weird smell, though? I don’t recognize one of the spices.”
“Anise! Eskel got it from Toussaint. It’s from out east past the desert or something is my understanding,” Lambert turns and holds out the wooden spoon he was stirring with, “Want to taste?”
Geralt drags a finger through the batter, popping it in his mouth thoughtfully. It’s sweet and sticky as it coats his tongue, the molasses adding an almost sort of bitterness to it as it deepens the taste. Spiced with cinnamon and cardamom, and the licorice anise, the flavors are almost like gingerbread but stronger and more mixed in taste. Geralt hums in interest, “It’s good. Probably even better once it’s cooked.”
“Damn right,” Lambert nods, sliding the baking tray into the baking compartment of the hearth, just above the open face where the fire burns. “Vesemir’s making venison stew tonight so this will be a fucking good treat after it.”
Lambert predicts correctly as well; after the richness of the stew, the savory potatoes and onions-- left out of a smaller batch made for their food-allergy prone human-- the sweetness of the lebkuchen is a welcome change. They’re all just barely holding back moans of pleasure as they devour the dessert, the witchers easily polishing off the large batch of pastry and Jaskier keeping up with an eagerness Geralt is well familiar with. And if Jaskier’s pupils have started to dilate, well then that’s probably just from the sugar, right?
It’s not from the sugar.
It can’t be from the sugar because Jaskier’s eaten sugar candies before and been totally fine, he’s eaten molasses chips and had no adverse reaction, hell he’s had dried coconut and pineapple the last time he and Geralt were down near Novigrad-- granted it was almost a decade before, but do humans develop more food allergies with age? Regardless, it’s been nearly two hours and Jaskier is laying flat on his back as he stares at the ceiling, with a huge grin, his eyes nearly black with only a thin ring of blue iris surrounding his blow pupils. Every now and again the bard will snort to himself and start giggling, or get into a frenzy of flailing limbs as he rearranges himself on the floor. Eskel made the mistake of running his fingers through the bard’s hair while trying to keep Jaskier company and he nearly got his hand taken off when he tried to move away.
“What did you put in those things again?” Geralt demands for the fifth time of Lambert. Aiden has dutifully taken Eskel’s place on the floor beside Jaskier, deftly dodging the wild movement of the bard’s arms as he growls and and rolls onto Aiden’s folded legs, the cat patiently moving him again so just Jaskier’s head is resting in the crook made by the witcher’s legs.
“I told you, Geralt,” Lambert grouses, arms crossed as he watches Aiden caring for Jaskier, “flour, sugar, molasses, eggs, buttermilk, butter, anise, soda, cinnamon, salt, cardamom, cloves, lemon, orange, coconut, and pineapple.”
Geralt rakes a frustrated hand through his hair, “None of those things Jaskier’s allergic to.”
“If he was,” Coën says calmly, “he’d have died by now from the anaphylactic shock. Humans can’t ingest the foods they’re allergic to unless it’s a very mild allergy.”
“Yeah, well, Jaskier isn’t human.”
All sound stops as three pairs of golden eyes and one of chartreuse turn to him. Jaskier giggles softly.
“What?” Geralt scowls, crossing his arms defensively.
Eskel sighs, placing a hand on his hip and pinching the bridge of his nose, “You didn’t think to tell us that your bard isn’t human?”
“I didn’t think it was any of your business,” he growls.
“Of course it is, because now we’ve got a bard flying higher than a gull in reaction to something he, most likely, ate. Unless it was something else?”
“Jaskier doesn’t imbibe in fisstech.”
“Well, then I’m out of ideas,” Lambert throws his hands up into the air before stomping out of the hall. Vesemir enters quietly as his youngest storms out, a heavy book in his arms.
“Geralt…” Jaskier sings softly, waving his hand at the White Wolf as he grins over at him. “Geeeraaalt.” Geralt’s never heard the bard be so willingly quiet just to get his attention, and he feels rather bad that something has potentially poisoned Jaskier and they don’t know what, so he crouches down at the man’s side.
“What is it, Jask?”
Jaskier hums, looking up at the ceiling again and squinting as he sorts through whatever mess is in his head to find the words he needs, “What… what day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“No, silly,” Jaskier snickers, “No, what day is it?”
Geralt frowns, “The seventh of December. Why?”
“Hmmm… seventh, huh? Why’s that sound so familiar?” Jaskier ponders, squinting harder at the ceiling, murmuring the number ‘seven’ to himself over and over again as though it holds the answers to the universe, “Seven for a secret, eh, Geralt?” He looks over and winks and Geralt glances up at Aiden who shrugs.
“It’s a full moon tonight, Jaskier,” Vesemir pipes up from behind Geralt.
“The full m--” Jaskier blinks as his eyes widen comically, “The full moon?” Geralt glances up at Vesemir questioningly and when he looks back Jaskier is struggling to his feet, swaying in place as he stands, “I’m not feeling very well, I’m afee-- afraid I need to go have a lie down.”
Aiden stands as well, a concerned frown on his face as he holds his hands out to potentially catch the unsteady bard, “Why don’t I help you--”
“No! No, that’s--” Jaskier bows and nearly pitches forward, only regaining his balance by a stroke of luck, “That’s quite alright, Aiden, darling. Thank you.” Without another word, Jaskier staggers out of the hall and Geralt immediately turns to Vesemir.
“What was that about?”
“Your bard, he isn’t human. It’s quite the glamour he wears, that’s for sure, able to mask his scent and also the evidence of magic? Powerful stuff.”
Geralt sighs, “Yes, I know he isn’t human, Vesemir. He’s a vampire of some sort, I haven’t figured out what kind yet.”
Vesemir arches an unimpressed eyebrow at Geralt, “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten that bad at identifying non-humans, boy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Geralt, that lad is no more a vampire than I am.”
“Then what is he, Ves?” Geralt snarls, “This style of conversation is incredibly unhelpful, just so you know.”
“Hmm, maybe so, but it’s quite dramatic, wouldn’t you agree?” Vesemir’s lips quirk up into a sly smile, “I’m quite taken with the theatrics of your bard.”
“Vesemir, get on with it, please,” Eskel chuckles, glancing towards the doors Jaskier stumbled through. Geralt nods in agreement, crossing his arms tightly as he glares at the eldest witcher. Vesemir calmly holds his gaze before he sets the book-- Lycanthropy: Born Under a Full Moon-- down upon the table.
“Jaskier is a werewolf.”
A werewolf.
Jaskier is a godsdamned werewolf.
Geralt is an idiot.
All the signs were there: the undercooked food, the weird relationship with cats, not recognizing his reflection, the strange alertness towards unfamiliar sounds and sights, the food allergies. Hell, it’s probably the anise in the lebkuchen that’s made Jaskier high as a kite-- it’s like a catnip for dogs. Gods, Jaskier is probably terrified of him, it’s no wonder he never told Geralt he wasn’t human despite having met Regis and Detlaff. How many werewolves has Geralt cut down in their long friendship? How many of them were potentially Jaskier’s brothers and sisters?
His heavy footsteps echo through the hall as he hurries up towards Jaskier’s room, following the scents of mild distress and airy ambrosia, a side effect of the anise no doubt as they stutter towards the stairs that wind up the western tower. Geralt’s about to ascend the stairs when he catches a whiff of the cracked winter air, fresher than it should be unless something was left open. He changes direction, following the draft, and starts to find pieces of Jaskier’s attire tossed to the floor, starting with the deep maroon doublet and ending in the bard’s fancy boots on the front steps of the keep that he likes to wear in winter because of the way the heel clicks on hard surfaces.
It’s good for dancing, Jaskier says.
There’s a light snowfall drifting down from the black clouds that cover the sky, only a faint lightening of the cover where the full moon resides behind them, and Geralt can see the way human footprints in the snow on the ground shift and change to the padding of paws-- a bipedal creature falling forward onto changed hands, claw marks dug deep into the frozen earth as the tracks become spaced out, shallow divots through the snow where hind paws would have brushed the surface in a sprint.
With his heart in his throat, Geralt follows the tracks into the woods, watching them weave through the trees with the ease of familiarity; like this isn’t the first time Jaskier has hurtled through dense vegetation while in this form. Or perhaps he’s just much more powerful like this, sight better and mind moving faster. They were always told that lycanthropes couldn’t control themselves while in their wolven forms, their minds hardwired for the basic survival of the wild, barely more human than their canine cousins. Geralt’s unsure if this will hold true, he’s only seen werewolves when they’re either starved and half-mad or desperate to survive his silver blade. Which he’s just realized he left back at the keep.
Stupid. What if Jaskier attacks him? He stumbles as he realizes what he just thought; no, Jaskier would never hurt him, not intentionally anyway. He can’t be thinking like a witcher right now, he needs to find his bard and be Jaskier’s friend, not his enemy. It doesn’t take much longer to find Jaskier anyway, the tracks slowing to a walk before he enters a moonlit clearing, the clouds having parted in the time he spent between the trees.
The snow is pure and glittering beneath the pale light, the tracks Jaskier left in it darkened with shadows. At the far edge of the clearing, curled up in the hollow of a tree’s roots, is Jaskier. He’s massive in this form; the bard having been nearly of a height with Geralt while human and the witcher can imagine that, as a werewolf, Jaskier probably towers over him. Dark, chestnut fur covers his huge body, and there are deep claw marks in the bark of the tree he lays beneath. Jaskier’s breath puffs out in white clouds from beneath his leg, but he isn’t asleep, his ears raised and cocked towards Geralt’s footsteps as they crunch through the snow.
“Jaskier?” Geralt asks quietly and the werewolf raises his head, brilliant blue eyes peering up at him as he flattens his ears and whines softly. The witcher cautiously approaches, lowering to one knee as his eyes raked over Jaskier’s body. Broad shoulders and a barrel chest, thick arms and thighs like tree trunks… Geralt carefully runs his fingers through the fur atop Jaskier’s head and is amazed at how soft it is. He can’t help but imagine what it would feel like were that fur to brush against his back, his rear, as those strong arms wrapped around him. His cock stirs at the thoughts and Jaskier’s ears perk up as his nose lifts, scenting the air.
Can he…? Geralt’s suspicions are confirmed as Jaskier’s eyes darken and he shifts to mirror Geralt, lifting his clawed hands to delicately cup Geralt’s face in his massive palms. Jaskier leans forward slowly, giving the witcher plenty of time to pull away, but Geralt lays one hand over one of Jaskier’s, the other going up to scratch behind the bard’s jaw. Jaskier’s eyes slip closed and there’s a muffled thump-swish sound as his tail whumps against the ground before the werewolf leans even closer.
And licks Geralt’s nose.
He wrinkles his nose in response and Jaskier huffs out a breath that could almost be a laugh as his tail wags more and he noses beneath Geralt’s chin, cold and damp snout pressing against the witcher’s throat. Geralt freezes, holding completely still as Jaskier snuffles at his skin, his pulse spiking when the rough tongue of the werewolf drags across his neck and he exhales shakily, “Jaskier…”
The werewolf stiffens, pulling back to look at Geralt and whining softly at the back of his throat.
“I-- can you understand me?” Geralt needs to know if Jaskier is in there, even as his blood boils at the thought of being dominated by a mindless beast. He wants, gods does he want: to be bent in half and impaled on a massive cock, to be thrown around like a toy, to feel small for once, to be completely at the mercy of another. He wouldn’t be able to do that if it weren’t with something he trusts though, and who else does he trust more than his bard?
Jaskier dips his head once, ears flattened and eyes lowered in what could be called shame if it were anyone else; Geralt knows better, though, and his bard is most likely only mildly embarrassed by the thought of misreading the signs Geralt was giving him.
“And… and you’re certain the decisions you’re making are your own?”
The werewolf’s blue eyes snap up and he nods quickly, running his palms down Geralt’s shoulders and arms to lightly wrap clawed fingers around the witcher’s wrists. Geralt glances at the way the claws press against his pale skin, digging into the flesh just the slightest amount, and shudders. He glances down and, were he able to blush, knows he would be turning as crimson as the tip of the tapered cock that’s beginning to emerge from the canine-like sheath between Jaskier’s legs.
He has to be certain, though. “You’re sure you want this?” He whispers and Jaskier whines, leaning forward to lick at his nose again. Geralt, instead, tilts his head up and catches Jaskier’s tongue between his teeth, making the werewolf snarl playfully as he pulls his tongue away and nips at Geralt’s chin. Geralt huffs a laugh that sharply changes to a moan as his pulse quickens when a clawed hand paws at his half-hard cock, still trapped in his trousers and smalls. Suddenly, he feels like he’s far too clothed, and stands to divest himself of his shirt and pants but Jaskier stops him with a hand on his arm.
“What is it?” Geralt looks up (up) at Jaskier. The bard looks pointedly at the snow on the ground and then tugs on the witcher’s shirt with his teeth. Keep your clothes on, he seems to say, it’s cold out. If Geralt is interpreting correctly, and he hopes he is, despite not speaking werewolf, his heart melts at the care being shown to him even now. Jaskier noses at his jaw again before cocking his head curiously and wuffing at him as though to ask what Geralt wants.
“You,” the witcher says almost breathlessly, hands reaching up for Jaskier’s face and pulling the werewolf down to press their foreheads together, “Anything, everything. I want you to ruin me.”
Jaskier whines and Geralt can smell his arousal just as he’s certain Jaskier can smell Geralt’s, looking down again at the werewolf’s heavy cock, fully unsheathed and red and shining. Jaskier still seems to be hesitating so Geralt drops to his knees, uncaring of how the snow melts and freezes his legs-- he needs to feel, to taste, to be allowed to have this so he can know exactly what’s going to be pounding him into the ground later. He wraps his fingers around the shaft, exhaling roughly as his fingers and thumb just barely meet, and Jaskier’s cock jumps as Geralt touches his tongue to the tip of it, licking away the bead of precum that glistened in the moonlight.
It’s salty and bitter on his tongue and he knows he makes a face if the way Jaskier huffs another laugh at him is any indication, but Geralt has eaten less pleasant things for far lower reward and he sinks down on the hot cock, wrapping his lips around it and pressing the flat of his tongue against the bottom of it. Jaskier harshly whines, the sound cutting off into a short bark as Geralt pulls back, hollowing his cheeks and dipping the tip of his tongue into Jaskier’s slit.
Geralt begins bobbing more earnestly, letting Jaskier’s cock hit the back of his throat even as he chokes and gags on it, tears springing to his eyes. He strokes the bit of cock he can’t stuff in his mouth in time with his head, reveling in the way his jaw starts to ache from the wide stretch and his tongue starts to grow sore with his ministrations. Jaskier is panting above, tongue lolling out of his open jaws and thick saliva dripping onto Geralt’s arms and hair. He can’t find it in himself to care, however, as drool drips down his own chin and coats the side of his hand.
Jaskier’s claws are buried in his hair, scratching almost painfully at his scalp in a way that grounds him, keeps him in the moment and focussed on enjoying the task at hand. His palm rests upon Jaskier’s furred thigh, the muscles jumping beneath his fingers as the bard gets close, and Jaskier barks in warning as he pulls Geralt off of his prick, the witcher gasping and coughing slightly. Jaskier bends down and starts licking at Geralt’s face with concern but Geralt reaches up and tangles his hand into the fur on Jaskier’s head as his other hand continues to stroke Jaskier’s cock, pressing his lips to the werewolf’s snout and pushing his tongue past Jaskier’s sharp teeth to explore as much of the bard’s mouth as he can.
Jaskier pants and whines, nipping lightly in as close an approximation to kissing as he can manage in this form, sliding his hands back down Geralt’s body and lifting the witcher to his feet as he paws at the waist of Geralt’s trousers. The witcher is almost painfully hard, his cock tenting the front of his pants shamelessly and his hips buck into Jaskier’s fingers as claws pass over the straining bulge.
“Gods, fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt groans, getting impatient and ripping open the buttons that Jaskier’s claws were struggling with, “I want you to ravage me, to breed me like a bitch in heat. I want to feel this for days , bard.” Jaskier hesitates again and Geralt grabs his face, forcing him to look the witcher in the eyes, Jaskier nearly going cross-eyed from how close their faces are. “Jaskier, I want you to take what you want from me. I don’t care how fucking rough it is, you can’t hurt me.” He takes a shaking breath, the heady aromas of their arousal thick in the air, “ ruin me, wolf.”
Jaskier’s lips pull back in a snarl as he spins Geralt around and drops into a crouch as he tries to take the witcher’s trousers down. Geralt helps him by shoving his pants and braies halfway down his thighs and, before he’s gotten a chance to get his bearings, he’s bent over with Jaskier’s arm wrapped around his hips to hold him in place, the bard’s cold nose pressing at his ass. Geralt gasps as his hard cock rubs against the fur of Jaskier’s arm and the werewolf’s tongue drags over his hole, licking at the tight ring of muscle before pressing his strong tongue in.
Geralt grunts but it turns to a moan as Jaskier’s tongue breeches him, just a little bit at first, moving slowly and steadily to ease Geralt into the experience. He can feel just how fucking wet he’s getting from the werewolf’s saliva, Jaskier slobbering messily over his ass and in his hole as he fucks deeper into Geralt with his tongue. The witcher groans and can’t stop the way he rocks back onto Jaskier’s tongue, hands grabbing at Jaskier’s arm as his weeping cock dampens the bard’s fur. Jaskier laps at his hole with increased vigor, loosening and stretching him as best he can until Geralt is panting and moaning and writhing on the werewolf’s tongue, rutting against the arm that holds him in place and nearly sobbing from being just shy of the amount of stimulation needed to come.
“Please, Jaskier, fuck! Fuck, please fuck me,” he begs, letting his head hang down for a moment, white hair curtaining his face. Jaskier’s tongue curls and tugs at Geralt’s rim as he pulls out and noses up Geralt’s back, snow crunching beneath him as he stands up again. Geralt tries to turn around but Jaskier’s jaws clamp over his shoulder to hold him in place, making the witcher shudder bodily at the display of dominance. Jaskier’s hands slide down the backs of Geralt’s thighs until they’re hooked behind his knees and Geralt finds himself being lifted, knees bent up to his chest and baring his ass and cock to the world.
Jaskier shifts him so that one large arm is wrapped around him as he’s bent in half, the other hand slipping down to guide himself into Geralt’s exposed hole. One of Geralt’s hands grabs at Jaskier’s arm, and the other reaches behind him for Jaskier’s head as the bard lowers Geralt onto his cock, Geralt’s rim stretching around the thick girth and burning a little. He inhales sharply at the mild pain, Jaskier immediately freezing up and whining softly as he licks at Geralt’s jaw and neck.
“Keep going,” Geralt gasps, tugging on the fur tangled in his fingers, “It’s good, fuck, Jaskier you’re so fucking big, gods.”
Jaskier whuffs at him and jerks his hips in little stuttering motions as he continues to allow Geralt to sink onto his hot cock. Geralt feel so fucking full, Melitele’s tits he feels like he’s being split in two and he loves it. He’s going to be ruined for any other cock than Jaskier’s ever again, and he wonders if the bard is a born werewolf or cursed; because, if born, then they can do this whenever they’d want to. They both groan as Geralt is seated fully upon Jaskier’s cock, the thick base pressing tantalizingly at Geralt’s stretched rim, and Jaskier pauses to allow Geralt to adjust to the feeling of his thick cock inside of him.
After a few moments of panting and groaning and wiggling to loosen himself up, Geralt nods and lets his head fall back on Jaskier’s shoulder, “Fuck, you’re so fucking big, Jaskier.” The werewolf growls low in his chest, the rumbling a pleasant sensation against Geralt’s back. Despite the chill of the air at his front and exposed cock, he can’t say that he feels cold, not without Jaskier’s warm fur pressed against him and the strong arm wrapping around him. “Jaskier, move.”
Jaskier growls a bit louder before drawing his hips back and snapping them up, Geralt crying out and scaring a few birds from the trees as Jaskier’s cock is angled perfectly to drag along the witcher’s prostate with each brutal thrust. His mouth hangs open, drool dripping from the corner of it as he turns his face into the fur on Jaskier’s neck and moans wantonly, louder than any whore ever has in his own presence, heat pooling in his gut and legs twitching and tensing with his rising orgasm. It swells within him, stronger than any ocean wave, and Jaskier’s free hand goes to paw roughly at Geralt’s cock, making him jerk and scream his ecstasy as his orgasm comes crashing down on him, coming into Jaskier’s fingers.
He clenches down on Jaskier’s cock, the base of it feeling like it’s thicker than it was as it pushes past Geralt’s puffy rim with a pop that rocks the witcher to his core, hole seizing and fluttering around Jaskier’s prick. The bard’s hips lose their rhythm, falling into an uncoordinated jerking until he throws his head back and howls, pulling Geralt down and pushing in as deep as he can get with the release of his hot spend into the witcher. Geralt groans loudly, a dry sob ripping free of his chest as his grip on Jaskier tightens and he feels stretched even further than before.
They both are panting and gasping for breath, chests heaving and hearts thundering as they come down from their respective highs, Jaskier’s grip on Geralt remaining sure and steady as he doesn’t pull out. Once Geralt has his shaking breathing under control-- or at least enough that he won’t sound like he’s on the verge of tears-- he takes a breath and shifts with a small wince at the tugging sensation on his rim.
“Jaskier,” Geralt whimpers, “Jaskier, what is that?”
The bard whines softly, sounding almost ashamed as he hooks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder to duck his head down, ears flat against his skull. Geralt releases his grip on Jaskier’s fur and reaches down to feel his hole, shock and a strong wave of arousal rolling through him at the feeling of something swollen and firm just inside him. “Did you--” Geralt chokes out, his spent cock twitching with interest, “Am I… am I knotted on you?”
Jaskier whines again, closing his eyes and rocking his head back and forth; not to shake it no but because he’s unable to move any other part of him without jostling Geralt. The witcher experimentally clenches around the cock in his ass and Jaskier exhales harshly, teeth bared at the sensation. Geralt can feel the knot swollen at the entrance to his hole, and the way the bard is still stiff and hard within him.
“Are you still hard, Jaskier?”
Jaskier whuffs softly with a nod.
Geralt’s cock is definitely still interested, already at half mast as it valiantly rises to the occasion with the famed witcher refractory period assisting him. He wiggles his hips and Jaskier growls in warning, nipping at Geralt’s jaw. So the witcher does it again, just a tiny roll, gasping quietly as the knot tugs at his rim and his cock hardens fully. Abruptly, Jaskier sits down on the ground, releasing Geralt’s legs, and the witcher cries out at the rough movement, hands flying to his stomach and freezing there. With wide eyes, he lifts his shirt up and exhales shakily at the bulge in his abdomen, pressing his fingers to it and pushing down.
Jaskier whimpers and his hips give a little jerk beneath Geralt, the mass beneath his fingers moving with it. It’s definitely Jaskier’s cock, and the witcher feels a bit dizzy with the desire that rips through him, shaking him apart at the seams as he comes again with barely more than the grinding of the bard’s knot against his prostate and his hand on the cock pushing at his stomach. White ropes of his cum land on his trousers, still only halfway down his thighs, and he slumps back against Jaskier’s chest, eyes falling shut.
The bard noses at his jaw worriedly and Geralt lazily reaches up to pet Jaskier’s snout. “I’m okay,” he murmurs, “Gonna fall asleep though.”
Jaskier huffs quietly.
“You can keep using me, if you want to,” Geralt knows his words are slurring as fatigue settles over him like a thick fur blanket, “I’ll be your little cocksleeve, even asleep.” Jaskier doesn’t make any noise but slips his snout under Geralt’s chin as the witcher succumbs to sleep.
When he wakes up he can hear the crackling of a fire and the weight of blankets on top of him, a pleasant soreness in his behind and muscles as he stretches with a groan. There’s the sound of another heartbeat in the room, the gentle whooshing of lungs filling and exhaling and the light tapping of a socked foot against the ground in an anxious rhythm Geralt would recognize anywhere. He opens his eyes to see Jaskier, human again now, sitting in a chair beside the bed and holding open a book on his lap that he’s very clearly not reading. Geralt clears his throat and Jaskier looks over, blue eyes wide with nerves.
Then they both speak at the same time:
“So, you’re a werewolf--”
“I’m sorry I never told you--”
Jaskier blinks and flushes dark red, looking away again as he closes the book and sets it aside, not even bothering marking his place, “You first.”
“What happened? After I fell asleep?” Geralt shifts so that he’s leaning against the headboard, the soft light of dawn gentling the harsh lines of his room and smoothing the worried creases around Jaskier’s eyes.
“I stayed there with you until my ah… well, ahem, my knot had gone down enough to, erm, extract myself, if you will,” Jaskier blushes darker. Geralt thinks he looks very cute.
“I remember telling you that you could use me,” Geralt coughs slightly, also feeling mildly embarrassed, “while I slept. Did you?”
“Of course not, Geralt. You were barely conscious when you told me I could, that wasn’t a confident enough vote in favor of somnophilic activities for me to feel comfortable.”
“Okay,” the witcher nods and leans over, taking Jaskier’s hand in his own, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have been upset had you decided to do what I told you was allowed, but I do appreciate you caring about me like that.”
Jaskier looks up at him, almost shyly, through his lashes, “I’ll always care about you, Geralt.”
Geralt’s eyes drop to the bard’s lips as he leans forward, “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Jaskier murmurs and then presses their lips together.
The kiss is tentative, almost perfectly chaste, the two of them like children in a schoolyard exploring their boundaries in the shadow of the schoolhouse. It nearly makes Geralt laugh, how timid and delicate Jaskier is being after the night they had together, and the witcher wraps an arm around Jaskier’s waist to pull him onto the bed and kiss him more passionately-- he’s been dying to do this for some time now and can’t hold back his emotions any longer. Jaskier moans softly into the kiss, arms looping around Geralt’s shoulders as he melts into it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt asks some time later. They didn’t go any farther than a thorough make out, Geralt still feeling much too tender and Jaskier clearly struggling with something internally. “That you’re a werewolf, that you’re not human.”
“I… Well, I thought you’d figured it out, to be honest. Or, at the very least, you knew I wasn’t human,” Jaskier admits quietly, “And it felt like… I mean, I was worried, I suppose, that if I spoke the truth into existence you might not have desired my company any more.”
Geralt pulls Jaskier closer to him, the bard laying with his head upon Geralt’s chest and fingers tracing delicate patterns onto his shirt, “So, it wasn’t because you were afraid of me? Scared I would hurt you if I knew you weren’t human?”
“Not at all,” Jaskier says firmly, turning his face into the witcher’s chest, “You’d never hurt me, Geralt, I trust you. I just… didn’t trust me, is all.”
“Jaskier…” Geralt presses a tender kiss to the bard’s hair and then guides Jaskier up to kiss his lips again, something terribly soft and loving being silently whispered into Jaskier’s skin.
“I love you, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs into the kiss, brushing Geralt’s hair back and tucking the white strands behind the witcher’s ears, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“If you had, we could have been having spectacular sex like that already.”
Jaskier clicks his tongue and pulls back to swat at Geralt’s chest, “You’re awful, why do I tell you nice things when you’re just going to be rude to me in return, hm?”
Geralt grins at him, all sharp teeth and glittering eyes, “You’ve just said why.”
Jaskier blinks at him before rolling his eyes with a groan, slumping back down on top of the witcher’s chest, “I suppose I did. Take pity on a poor old bard, will you?”
His laughter rumbles through his chest, low and quiet and full of love as he pulls his bard closer, tucking Jaskier beneath his chin and petting his fingers through chestnut hair. “I love you, too,” he whispers.
Jaskier’s foot thumps against the mattress.