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seventfics · 4 years

Note

Love your writing. Prompt: Jaskier has abandonment issues, which he tries and fails to hide. Angsty shenanigans ensue

[Thank you! ☺️ I normally don’t do prompt requests but this is right up my alley of emotional suffering, so,]—x

So it’s true that Jaskier has everything anyone could ever want in life. He was born into comfort, held status and name, and had the fortune of education, though that last one was beaten into him mercilessly because he was not an easy child. He had it all—

He still has it all, if he wants it. Nothing stops him from returning to teach in Oxenfurt. No one will deny him his family title, of properties or inheritance. On the contrary, he’s earned even more renown by his lyrics and poetry and Continental ballads, his name known to every court and tavern. People flock to him for his tales of the White Wolf—and that too is part of his renown, for he turned the Butcher into a hero at no cost of his own but a few sore throats after eveningfuls of encores—

They invite him for festivals, banquets, courtly affairs. They propose to him, bed him, threaten him out of towns for having bed the wrong person. He is famous. He is the bard Jaskier. And when his fame and his charm are no longer a novelty, people are quick to move on.

In Lettenhove, in his early years, there was a tutor who praised him for his sharp musical ear. The old man spent many hours of the day showing him the value of the arts, something that left an imprint in his very soul. Not a year later, his parents sent him to temple school to learn his letters. He never saw the old tutor again—

In Oxenfurt, there was a girl who loved him for his voice. She was beautiful and sweet, her laughter like winter bells. By Summer’s end, she found a painter who worshipped at her feet like a dutiful priest at the altar of the gods. He doesn’t remember her name—

There were many like that girl since, and every time, he learned to accommodate a little better to keep them longer, to no avail—

In Posada, there was a witcher who huffed and groused at his company, and yet allowed him to come along on his journey. He was kind in a guarded way, a way familiar to Jaskier—the echoes of someone who has given himself up many times, only to suffer loss and rejection. Heartbreak hangs about him like a cape. And it takes Jaskier some time but he accommodates, learning the witcher’s limits, his preferences, what’s a jest and what’s a jab at old wounds—

“What’s this, you’re going to hunt the drowners now?”

The witcher is packing his bags neatly by the door. He offers a brief nod. “It’s early. They’ll be sluggish.”

“Give me a moment, I’ll come with.”

He’s given a strange look that says nothing of the sort will be happening. “No you’re not, bard. You’ll get yourself killed.”

Jaskier takes the threat of life in stride. “I’ll hang back, I swear, who wouldn’t want to see the great White Wolf in action!”

Sometimes the witcher huffs, indulging him. Other times, dreadful times, he orders him to stay put. So Jaskier waits in taverns, sitting on his hands. It’s the hardest thing for him to do. To wait. He does not sing, not while his gut twists and his fingers flutter nervously on wood. He simply waits and thinks about all the reasons why his company is but a burden on coin and travel, the witcher so used to traveling alone.

And every time Geralt comes barreling through the front door wet with gore, his mind and his chest empty of all aches.

“Oh thank the gods, you’re—still in one piece,” he says, because shouting you’re back, you’re alive, you didn’t die and leave me behind is far too much of a weight to throw on Geralt’s shoulders, he knows.

Geralt merely grunts, shaking off some of the grime. “Of course I am.”

It’s like that. The witcher leaves on a hunt, and on the times Jaskier cannot follow, he waits. Geralt always comes back—if not for him, then at least for the reward. It’s at the end of every crossway where they part face to face, never knowing if they’ll meet again.

And Jaskier continues his own journey, in search not of home, but its opposite. Of a place that will forever change to the years and the seasons and never bore him. Never bore of him. No one should know him any more than he is allowed to know another, except—

Except the witcher Geralt of Rivia who he meets again and again. Knowing him more with every meeting—

—A noise in the forest, distant, and Geralt gets up with his swords from camp.

Jaskier just fumbles, “You’re not just going to leave me here twiddling my thumbs in the dark, are you?”

“I’ll be right back, bard. I have to check—”

—A shared room on low coin, and never a problem between them. Jaskier stirs awake to the bed moving.

“Sum’thing up? Y’have to go?” He tries to mumble through a dry mouth. Geralt nudges his head down.

“No, I just need to eat. You keep sleeping, Jaskier—”

—A storm, and they’re both holed in a damp cave. Geralt looks ready to throw himself out in the rain and hunt for the Kikimore queen anyway.

“Geralt, please don’t leave in—in this storm.”

Geralt does listen, perhaps because he sounds a bit more shaken than usual. They’ve already gone low on provisions because the rain soaked through their bags. They need the coin. And it would have been fine, if Jaskier hadn’t insisted they go through this town—

Foolishly, dangerously, he becomes attached. Years go by. A decade. Two. There is no one else Jaskier knows more in his life. Geralt’s mannerisms, his expressions, his disquiet. He knows them all in the silence across a campfire, and he hopes he is known in return.

He hoped at the banquet in Cintra, barely whispering of a need that he dared not tell anyone else.

He hoped in the chaos of Rinde, of the djinn and the witch, begging for the witcher to choose him first.

And he hoped in the mountains of King Niedamir.

And his hope is not enough.

Jaskier knows to bear smiles and jokes for the right crowds, and he knows how to be serious in certain company. He learned to accommodate a little better to keep people longer, of course, to no avail. Even with Geralt—

He should never have grown complacent, believing that things would be different this once. He became attached—beyond attached, beyond need, beyond affection—

“I'll go get the rest of the story from the others,” Jaskier says in parting on that mountain, because if he makes light of it, then it will sluice off his frame like water, undamaging. He can pick himself up to keep searching for that place—of that someone that will never bore of him, that will never forget him and throw him aside.

Despite his efforts, there’s a chasm in his chest. A breathlessness like a wound that doesn’t want to heal. And he lingers at the foot of the mountain when he sees Roach nibbling on dry grass, tethered by the inn’s poor stable poles.

He doesn’t know how long he stays with her, petting her coat. She indulges him, preferring his company over the stablehand’s. There’s a joke there somewhere, about her being as obstinate as her rider, but he can’t bear to say it. Can’t bear to speak through the stone lodged in his throat—

And he shouldn’t be with her, not if he wants to avoid the witcher who so clearly and plainly told him to take off for good. But Roach is sweet. For once, she doesn’t bite his wrists. Instead she nickers, snuffling his dusty doublet. Maybe she’s learned to accommodate for heartbreak too, as it seems to follow where Geralt goes, whether caused by his hand or brought upon him—

“Jaskier.”

He freezes in place. He cannot turn. To see his blazing expression would be too much—

“Sorry. I won’t be staying. I’m just,” his voice fades as it starts to shake. How can he explain why he’s touching the witcher’s mare, for the simple comfort that she offers in not shying away from his touch?

“Jaskier.”

It is a demand for him to turn. He recognizes it in Geralt’s voice. Jaskier clenches his hands on Roach’s mane—

Refusing doesn’t work, as the witcher takes his shoulder to pull him back—

There are no fixed smiles left in him. No jest, no shrug. He hurts too deeply to put forth the effort. He is the bard Jaskier, but in front of Geralt of Rivia, he’s just alone. He has everything anyone could ever want in life, and not a lick of it matters with no one to stay for him, no one to call a friend—

But Geralt is not angry. He doesn’t quite look like anything except intense, keeping his wide yellow eyes on Jaskier’s own as he grips his shoulder tight.

“Let me go,” Jaskier says because he cannot take being seen so deeply, so closely, and not being wanted—

“No.” Geralt’s grip turns painful. “You—don’t want me to.”

Something breaks in him at the words—the truth in them—and it burns in his eyes and it burns his throat—and burns to tears shed pressed to black leather, his hands scrambling at the hard surface of Geralt’s armor.

He doesn’t want to be let go. Geralt holds him to his chest and he feels like stone cracking under pressure. Like gravel being crushed—

“I was angry,” the witcher says, swallowing against Jaskier’s ear, “I didn’t mean it,” tucking his face into Jaskier’s hair, “I don’t want you to go.”

And maybe it’s cruel or greedy but he wants for Geralt to ache like he does. To feel terror at being left behind. At it being Jaskier who walked away—hurting, choked by his own surging feelings—from the mountain first, by his offense—

Another part is relieved. Because Geralt does know him, after everything, after Jaskier’s efforts to know the witcher. He knows him well to strike where it hurts the most. He knew where to tear into with harsh words—

And that by doing so he went too far and tore into Jaskier’s heart too—

There are no apologies, but there are amends. There is a wavering conversation and one more stay at the inn.

At the crossroads they’ll part again, but not with goodbye. Not with tears or screams or hidden fears. They’ll meet again, like they always have. Better than they always have—

Because this time, and every time since, they part with a promise to see each other again.

#reply #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #abandonment (:#prompt #did i go full into post ep6 fix-it? y eh #1k

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funkzpiel · 4 years

Text

Teeth (nsfw)

Regis/Geralt/Dettlaff OT3

Includes biting, vampires who love consent, being made to come in trousers and light manhandling.

Also available on AO3

“There are times I curse the trials for not making you invulnerable, Geralt,” Regis said, straddling Geralt’s lap like a lanky cat. Geralt peeked through hooded eyes, overwhelmed by Regis’ hands on his hips and Dettlaff’s curled around his ribs from behind. The higher vampire’s pupils were blown wide as Regis watched Dettlaff lap at the new set of impressions his teeth had left in the witcher’s shoulder – just this shy of breaking skin, angry and pinkened and puffy. “But it is times like this that I’m grateful for it just as well.”

Geralt opened his mouth for a witty retort, only for the words to crumble into a groan when Dettlaff reaffixed his teeth to those very same impressions – light enough only for Geralt to feel them against his skin – and sucked. Geralt’s toes curled. He hissed in a heady breath, sharp and stuttering in his lungs and against the tight band of Dettlaff’s arms around his chest. Secure in the arms of a creature that could suck him dry, but wouldn’t, he had no doubt of that. But it was the knowledge, the understanding of that risk, that made his erection throb in his trousers and up against the pert curve Regis’ scrawny ass.

His hands scrabbled for an anchor. One found Dettlaff’s forearm – not to pry away, but merely to cling to – and the other found Regis’ thigh.

A thin glossy trail connected Dettlaff’s bottom lip to Geralt’s shoulder when finally he pulled away, and Geralt felt his very body moved by the intensity of the vampire’s purring – tangible and rumbling against his back where he was held close to the vampire’s chest.

“We vampires heal too quickly to share such luxuries with one another,” Dettlaff said, his voice like the roar of the ocean over sand; level, consistent and lulling. Geralt pressed his head back against the vampire’s shoulder and shivered in his grasp, eyes on Regis all the while.

“Again,” Regis whispered, eyes fixated on the canvas of Geralt’s shoulder as thought Dettlaff were painting a masterpiece into his skin. In all his years, Geralt had been called many things – freak, monster, ugly, old. He had also been called handsome by those who bothered to look past the word ‘witcher’. He had never really lamented his looks or thought himself unattractive. Yennefer had not made her attraction secret, nor Tris. He knew, in his own way, he was handsome. But never had a man or woman looked at him as Regis was in that moment and made him feel so wanted, so beautiful. As though he were a fragile, fleeting thing. He nearly didn’t know how to react – and there was no way to hide, not when Dettlaff was doing his damnedest to keep him on display.

Teeth set into his shoulder again, overlapping the previous mark and sending an unhurried jolt down to Geralt’s crotch when pleasure mixed with the soreness of the previous bite – made all that much more sensitive by the sucking. Dettlaff gripped him tightly; the points of his fangs, even whilst retracted, pressed firmly enough so that Geralt could not mistake it for any human mouth upon his shoulder. Could not ignore the fact that it was a vampire that had him in their fangs and at their mercy. He gripped Dettlaff tighter. His cock throbbed.

The marks would be faded by morning, the bruises gone by tomorrow night. He knew that both Regis and Dettlaff were aware of it. It was why Dettlaff took his time to suck each bite so thoroughly. Why they overlapped and bit again and overlapped once more. Attentiveness bred results, and given enough effort, even a witcher would need time to heal from such dedication. He wondered how long they could make the marks last.

Geralt wasn’t about to complain. The process was hardly a sacrifice for him.

“Do you intend to make a collar of them?” He joked, unable to stop his tongue, only for pleasure to spear a tight coil in his belly at the way Regis stilled in his lap at that – pupils so black and so wide they appeared nearly inhuman.

“Dettlaff,” Regis croaked, inarticulate in a way that had Geralt harder than simply lying in the arms of two vampires had any right to make him. They had not even touched his cock yet, had not even freed it from his trousers. They were trying to unmake him with nothing but their teeth and their tongues and the unabashed focus of their attraction toward him, their possessiveness – and damn if it wasn’t working far more effectively than Geralt thought it might. Witcher potions and the trials had left their mark on him. While he was by no means unable to perform, he was no easy lay either. Or so he thought.

“Already ahead of you,” Dettlaff answered against Geralt’s skin.

Behind him, he felt Dettlaff’s attention change from heading toward the curve of his shoulder and instead peppered in toward the thick column of his neck. Gods above, they were going to do it. They were going to leave a ring of puffy, bruised claiming bites around his neck like a crown of flowers.

“Shit,” he breathed in a whispery inhale. His eyes flickered back to Regis when the man brushed a cool thumb over his bottom lip.

“You do not even know the treat you’ve given us,” Regis said, as though Geralt were some virgin offering his purity rather than a grizzled witcher baring his neck to his lovers. Dettlaff’s hands held him tighter, the points of faint claws digging into the tension of his skin and leaving pink little dimples behind.

He couldn’t fathom it. Just as he knew vampires desired blood and yet did not understand the calling, he knew Regis was right. Geralt could never possibly know the implication of allowing them this luxury, the weight of it. But he could guess. He knew the meaning of pack to them. He had seen the consequences of it firsthand. The concept of possession, the intimacy of bonds, what it meant to vow one’s self to another for eternity. It was the sort of promise that once drove the very man behind him to the brink when the person he had elected to share that bond with had betrayed him. It had driven him to a state of self-destruction so vast, there could be no arguing that a promise among vampires wasn’t defined as simply as humans knew it.

If the collapse of bonds could drive a man to insanity, he could only imagine how heady it must be to leave marks upon their mates. To claim them with their teeth and leave the puffy imprints behind for all to see so that no one could mistake the promise they had made. Geralt felt a sudden pang of pity that his lovers had been denied this amongst each other. That Regis could not bear the unique ring of Dettlaff’s teeth upon his skin and that Dettlaff in turn could not wear Regis’ like a brand upon his flesh. It was a novelty so common to humans, Geralt had never once stopped to imagine the implication it might hold among people who healed too quickly to enjoy it.

“If you like it so much, you’re going to have to reapply them tomorrow night,” Geralt said, breath hitching once when the implication happened to drive Dettlaff’s teeth in deeper with a little growl that spoke volumes to the wildness the trials had instilled in the witcher. “I may not be a vampire, but I do heal quickly.”

Regis leaned in, and what Geralt thought to be a chaste kiss turned into a wicked little nip – and oh, how like Regis that was, his kiss just like his words. Clever and eloquent, soft and steady, yet hiding a sharp playfulness that teased its edges if one bothered to look for it. Geralt licked that smarting little spot on his bottom lip where Regis had pinched it with his fangs – blood so close to the surface and yet his flesh whole and unbroken.

“Be careful of what invitations you extend to vampires, Geralt,” Regis said, his smile touched with a hunger that made Geralt’s hips buck impatiently up into the cage of Regis’ straddle. The lithe man just rolled with it, fluid in a way mortal men could rarely match. “We take such things quite seriously.”

It was a joke, of course. Geralt was far too learned in the way of vampires – even with the customs of higher vampires as guarded as they were – to think for a moment that the wives’ tales about vampires and invitations were real. But every tale had a seed of truth. Consent was a heady thing. The blood of a willing party was far more delectable and potent than that of a fearful, dying host. An invitation of consent was a promise of many delightful, pleasurable things ahead. And while there would be no blood to be had – at least not in front of Regis – the intent and implication lingered all the same.

“You’re already in my home, bit too late for that,” Geralt said, a little sucking gasp breaking his train of thought when Dettlaff moved to the back of his neck. He shivered as Regis reached to brush Geralt’s hair to the side for his lover, lest Dettlaff have to break the iron ring of his arms around Geralt’s chest – something the man seemed loathe to do. As though Geralt might disappear…

The witcher shivered as Dettlaff peppered the sensitive skin of his nape, then nipped at his leisure before finally sinking his teeth in with a groan. A groan that Geralt found himself matching, his lungs lulled into the sound by the way it rumbled in Dettlaff’s chest against his back.

Regis licked his smarting lip and said in a purring hush, “There is great power in consent, Geralt.”

Geralt took the initiative to lean forward against the tight band of Dettlaff’s grip and kiss Regis in the way of witchers – hot and searing, blunt and intent – and grinned against cool lips when it had its intended effect of surprising the confident man.

“I trust you,” Geralt said, amber swallowed by black pupils, leaving nothing but a thin ring behind.

It was not what Regis had expected, not in vein with the witty comebacks, the playful acts of deliberate distraction or the sultry teasing. It was raw and honest. It was everything either vampire had been too modest to ask for, yet Geralt had seen them dancing around the question for weeks now.

“Geralt,” Regis said, voice reduced to a heady, untamed rumble. The vampire bore down on his lap, hips driving his ass down on Geralt’s erection to make the man gasp, head lolling back quite on instinct, giving Regis the window of opportunity he sought to latch onto the pale skin of Geralt’s collarbone.

The witcher whined, head spinning with the gravity of it all. For Regis to bite him, to control his fangs and bare blunt teeth into his flesh, to be so close to blood and yet resist because it was not the high he wanted, but Geralt – the witcher keened and writhed, forced still for his own safety by Dettlaff’s hands.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, the end bleeding into a sound he’d rather not put a name to for his own sake as Regis mouthed and teased at his throat and rolled his hips with practiced ease against his crotch. Dettlaff was hard behind him, his cock an iron brand against his ass and lower back. With Regis’ mouth occupied, Dettlaff instead relinquished his teeth from Geralt’s flesh – now at his other shoulder – and pecked a kiss onto the mark left behind.

“Do you know how long he pined for you, little wolf?”

Geralt’s nails dug into Dettlaff’s forearm, into the thin column of Regis’ rocking thigh. He shifted his grip, dug in again, but his nails left no crescents in Dettlaff’s skin.

“F-fuck,” was all Geralt could manage, one eye squinting shut, the other barely peeking. Dettlaff nosed against the corner of the witcher’s jaw and the silky fall of white hair, inhaling in a way humans simply did not do – not to breathe, but to scent. To both know Geralt’s and leave his own behind. That had Geralt throbbing. To be owned by teeth and scent. He rocked up into Regis as best he could, but Dettlaff’s hands moved from his chest to his waist, holding him with the sort of ease that should have made a witcher worried – and yet just left Geralt moaning.

Regis bit him a little harder, as though to confirm to himself that it was in fact Geralt’s skin beneath his teeth, his collarbone in his mouth. The witcher bit his own lip, heat burning high in the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose, and felt the soreness of Regis’ nip aching pleasantly in his bottom lip like an echo, throbbing with his pulse.

“When I remade him from nothing but a smear of blood, I took that onto myself, Geralt,” Dettlaff whispered against the buzzing skin of one of his bites. “I felt it, all of it. Every wayward glance you didn’t catch. Every wound he feared might end you, every sacrifice. Years of companionship and longing, stitched into the very fabric of my being as though I too had lived and longed for you. I have never known love such as this.”

Geralt shivered as though he might come apart at the seams. He knew the extent of Dettlaff’s love. He had seen it almost raze a city to the ground. He knew from Regis’ mouth itself that Dettlaff felt more deeply than any being Regis had ever known. To hear from him that Regis’ love had exposed every feeling Dettlaff had ever known before to be shallow twisted something fiercely in Geralt’s chest. To be loved so intensely, so beyond the limits of human comprehension – he took in a shuddering breath, and with an aborted little wiggle of his hips that Dettlaff clenched to stillness, he wheezed, “I can't-"

He was going to come. He was close. His ears burned hotter, his flush reaching down to the flesh that Regis was currently marking with pearly teeth, making that bruised skin darker. He was going to come from nothing but teeth and words of confession and the knowledge that everything these two immortal men revealed to him this night was so much more than the face value that he could ever comprehend. He was going to come with nothing touching his cock but his own trousers and the grind of Regis’ ass against him. From nothing but the iron hold of Dettlaff’s hands and the understanding that he, a mere man, had given them something vampires could not offer one another.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. His hands scrabbled for purchase against both of them, either of them, as Regis rocked atop him and Dettlaff murmured blunt affirmations of their love for him against his skin as though the words might tattoo themselves into the indents of the bites they left behind and leave him with a collar he may never remove, never forget.

“I couldn’t fathom those memories until I met you,” Dettlaff said, licking one of the bites, making Geralt writhe. “You could have asked him anything, he would have done it for you. You did not even know the power you had.”

“I didn’t—I never wanted—I wouldn’t—“ he tried to speak, each word plucked from his lungs between the clench of Regis’ teeth and the rocking of his hips and the friction of his pants against his cock.

“You’d never take advantage, I know,” Dettlaff said into the shell of his ear. “You spared me. I heard of what you’ve done for your own pack. The lengths you’ve gone to for your chosen daughter, your Cirilla. A man has never understood us as you do. What it is to have a pack you choose. I knew I could love you when you had Regis spare me, not because you let me live, but because you did not ask him to choose between his love for you and his pack or his kin. It would have torn him asunder, Geralt, and yet knowing that, he would have done it had you asked. Instead you stayed his hand. You spared us both.”

Geralt’s own hands moved to the wrists that held his hips still, squeezing and helpless. When next he spoke, Dettlaff’s words were softer, nearly missed beneath the harsh panting of Geralt’s stuttered breathing.

“I knew I loved you this morning when I woke. You burrowed further into me, seeking lost heat when Regis stood to stretch his legs. A witcher made soft in the arms of two vampires. Aware of all that we do, all that we’re capable of, and yet sleeping between us. Your heart was so slow, so unhurried. Even Rhena, openminded as she was, had never been truly at ease with me. I had never known I could expect more, have more, until that moment.”

Geralt remembered the vial Regis had him drink. The memories he had shared with Dettlaff – the way he had taken to the man at the shoeshine merely because of his friendliness. How Syanna had captivated him merely because she had not shied away. Attracted so dangerously to acceptance in a world that feared his kind, unable to go home. Spurned time and again for the attempts he had made, however fumbling. Geralt knew what it was to long for acceptance. He had never thought he would be the one to provide a balm to that wound for someone else.

He reached up one hand to cup the back of Dettlaff’s neck, fingers entwined with the fine, short locks at his nape. He spread himself open between them, exposing his vulnerable belly, his neck.

“I trust you,” Geralt repeated, now to Dettlaff. He felt a ripple go through the man behind him. Felt fangs extend against his skin but not pierce. Dettlaff’s breath huffed against his throat in heavy gulps even as the man had no need to breathe. A mimicry of humanity, a habit they could pull on and take off like a coat. All because of Geralt’s words. Regis peeled his teeth away from Geralt’s skin as at last the final bite was laid. His neck was a buzzing, hot, agitated mess of nerve endings and puffy, saliva-slick skin. A bright, pink halo that shone against the milky paleness of his throat and hair. Regis traced the markings with a finger, then a thumb, and Geralt twisted in Dettlaff’s grip, each indent so sensitive it felt like static against his skin.

“You are beautiful, wolf,” Regis said, awed and hushed as he took in the collar he and Dettlaff had pressed into Geralt’s very flesh. Admiring the way it lingered. “And to think you’re ours. Extraordinary.”

Geralt’s breath hitched. And the vampires, damn them, caught it. Dettlaff’s teeth retracted. He smiled against the skin of the witcher's shoulder.

“Ours,” Dettlaff agreed, hands squeezing Geralt’s hips, skin pinkening beneath his fingers.

“Our witcher,” Regis murmured, laving a hot tongue across aching bites. Suckling gently.

“Our little wolf,” Dettlaff said, and it still astonished Geralt that anyone could make him feel little, and yet sandwiched between two immortals, he felt exactly that. It stoked a fire in his gut. Made his balls tighten and pull close. To know they could lift him easily when it took two mortal men just to drag him. To be shorter than them both when no man usually ever came close. He didn’t think he’d enjoy it as much as he did – but it sent a jolt to his cock every time they reminded him, every time he noticed again the small difference in their height, every time they lifted him or manhandled him. He bit his lip to swallow the sound it inspired in him. Hips held still by Dettlaff as Regis ground into him, drove him closer and closer to handless climax within his own breeches. He sucked in a breath and knew he had no chance. Knew that all along, the two of them had every intention of getting him to ruin his own trousers in their laps.

“And everyone will know it too, come morning. They’ll see your lovely throat and there will be no doubt that the white wolf of Kaer Morhen no longer wanders alone.”

His hips hitched helplessly in Dettlaff’s hands. The man pressed a kiss behind his ear apologetically.

“Please,” Geralt finally gasped when it became obvious that neither vampire planned to take pity on his grunted attempts to ask without asking. “Please.”

“Show us that you’re ours, Geralt,” Regis said against his lips, breathed into his mouth, “Come for us.”

He hadn’t come in his own trousers for decades. Not since he had been a young lad in training, not since before the trials. Yet here and now, well along in years, he writhed between the hard bodies of two immortals and lost control within his own trousers. His cock arched against the prison of his pants, pressing against Regis’ ass as the vampire ground down against him, and unloaded. His toes curled. Hit finger nails bit deeper into his lovers. Orgasm thundered in his chest with a rolling, rumbling moan. He felt that wetness seep into the crotch of his breeches. Wondered if Regis could feel it too.

He melted back into Dettlaff, eyes closed and head resting against the vampire’s shoulder. Felt two mouths kiss the many, many bites they had buried into his throat. Dettlaff’s hands pet his belly, traced a thumb down over the trial of fine hairs that led to the hem of his trousers. Finally, blessedly, Regis’ hips stilled above him. A cool hand brushed against one pectoral, a nail snagging only once against a nipple – only for Regis to chuckle apologetically at Geralt’s resulting whine.

“Were you serious, Geralt?” Regis asked curiously as he traced that puffy ring of bites again, “About reapplying?”

There was more than just a question there. It was more than simple idle curiosity. Beneath the eloquence and the satisfied, unhurried tone, there was a plea. One echoed in the tightening of Dettlaff’s remaining hand upon his waist.

“However often you need,” Geralt said, loose and satiated in the cradle of Dettlaff’s body. “Speaking of need…”

He glanced down at the hard-on tenting Regis’ breeches. All too aware of Dettlaff’s hot length pressing against his back.

“The night is young,” Dettlaff said, pulling his hair aside to kiss the knob of his spine.

“Indeed,” Regis agreed, working at his belt, “We fully intend to put your witcherly stamina to the test, Geralt. We’re far from done.”

Geralt’s cock twitched against his ruined trousers.

The next morning, Geralt woke late to an empty bed. No doubt his restless bedmates had chosen to let him sleep however long his body had felt the need to.

He chose to wear a loose collared shirt down to breakfast. The shirt didn’t last long.

#the witcher #regis/geralt/dettlaff #geralt of rivia #Emiel Regis #Dettlaff van der Eretein #vampire witcher sandwich #witcher writing

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occassionalfanficwriter · 4 years

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Part 2 of Young Geralt vs. 60-something Geralt

So this takes place between Post Dragon Mountain and the Fall of Cintra, with Jaskier and Young Geralt already travelling together for 3 years without parting.

By this time Geralt has already clued in that Jaskier is the only human he likes and the rest are tolerated, if not outrightly reviled (Valdo Marx is placed on a different category along with the obviously inferior Geralt).

Jaskier still doesn't have a horse because this Geralt is an opportunist so they share Roach and basically this young Geralt is a manlet that is riding a horse with a twink on his back. Anyways they're riding the horse and its ambigiously romantic at the same time platonic enough that Jaskier doesn't have a sudden crisis because he is a decent person. This Geralt has become so familiar with Jaskier's morals and thought process that he has no trouble anticipating what Jaskier would do (wonderful side effect of being together 24/7 all year round).

Which is why Geralt absolutely just stopped Roach before Jaskier could even ask him, the moment they found a homely little cottage in the middle of the woods.

Was it probably a Witch's Cottage? Probably.

Did Jaskier care for that? Absolutely not.

Will Geralt stop him? Nope.

"Please don't piss off the Forest Witch." Geralt had somehow managed to make his tone something ranging between fond and exasperated pleading.

"Of course not, my dear!" Jaskier answered as he clambered down off of Roach and excitedly went over to the cottage.

As for Geralt, he was left sitting on Roach trying to get his heart beating back to normal witcher heart beat and not that of a regular human heart beat. 3 years of travelling and the novelty of being called endearments had yet to fade and he strongly suspected that it never would. Jaskier's unhesitant love of life never failed to make him smile, and Geralt thought that maybe one day he can grow to love life like Jaskier did.

"Ger-alt! Come over quick and meet our new lovely friend!" Jaskier calls him over and he goes.

3 years of travelling together also means that Geralt has gained a godlike perception on whether or not Jaskier starting shit becomes an adventure or a misadventure. (Geralt thinks that if Jaskier just flirted with him everything would be an adventure because Jaskier isn't ending 5 years or so of other people's marriages)

So now the Witch in the cottage was judging them and Geralt can see that this was one of those rare witches that was fond of Jaskier so he relaxes a bit. (This Geralt has a very bias and flawed view of if people like Jaskier they're good if not they're trouble). And then the Witch hires them just to get some peace again,

Jaskier was offended but quickly pacified when the witch said, "Honey, you're the loveliest voice I've ever met but I moved into this forest for a reason and you're disrupting it."

Geralt laughs at that and Jaskier pouts but 3 years of travelling means he has some means of coaxing Jaskier (in the depths of his mind it's a bit like coaxing a wife but he'd rather suffer another round of Witcher Trainings that admit that)

So its simple find the herbs job, relatively safe which means Jaskier is playing soft tunes to suit the ambiance of the forest and Geralt is basking while gathering the herbs with the occasional input from Jaskier

("a little bit to your left Geralt!"

"where?"

"move your hand to the front little bit more"

"mm...thanks")

Everything is peaceful and its just two bros hanging out in the woods and gathering herbs. Very chill. So Geralt ends up asking about Jaskier's former travel companion, the older Witcher that shared his name and Jaskier becomes a little bit sad. Not the hurt angry grief from before but the kind where we've made our peace about it but it still hurts.

So this is where Geralt learns about the Other Geralt and he's just the slightest bit of jealous that someone can meet Jaskier and have them for so long but still do such things to Jaskier. Because 3 years is a short time for a Witcher but 3 years of Jaskier loving you and all of your flaws is a long enough to lessen the self hatred. He's inhuman abilities doesn't make him a monster, he's just a cut above the rest.

He doesn't have to pretend to understand social constructs because Jaskier is there to explain and yeah they go on short intellectual discussions about it and it's nice to see the flawed parts of Jaskier because he never really stops growing as a person and Geralt finds that there's nothing wrong with that.

They've spent winters on the coast and Geralt has listened to the cadence of Jaskier's voice long enough to the fondness that belies the hurt and disappointment when this other witcher is mentioned. He still isn't good with playing nice with humans or comforting jaskier but he tries and more often that not he is rewarded for it, so he goes and clumsily jokes,

"So how many adventures do I have to give you before I become your favorite Witcher?"

And like a well practiced dance, Jaskier shots back, "Might have to find something better than getting kidnapped by elves?"

"Alas, my bard friend will just have to settle for cooking attempts."

"No more onion soup!"

Geralt laughs and turns to look at the pouty face Jaskier would have in his face and it takes all of his Witcher training to not let Jaskier see how beautiful he looked with the soft morning rays of the sun filtered through the leaves of the forest.

The thing is, whether it be this young Geralt or the Older Geralt, they can be oblivious to the soft tender kind of love, Pragma, that Jaskier has for them.

Jaskier isn't blind to the affections people have for him. Love was love regardless of what kind, from Ludus to Agape, Jaskier could see it all. He was an artist foremost.

He didn't know what kind of love this Geralt harbored for him but he reciprocated the only way he knew how through small actions, and dedications of songs and poems for this young Witcher that shined so bright in a world covered with grief.

'If I were to go down in History,' Jaskier thought as he smiled softly and lovingly to his new muse 'Let it be as a Bard for the Witchers.'

Because there is something in his new travelling companion that screams of a story that is meant to be known to the world perhaps even greater than the Conjuction of Spheres

#geralt of rivia #geraskier #the witcher #jaskier #mini fic #im on mobile so i can't link the first part #its tagged tho so u can find it in the blog

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