Monster AU - Dead Dove Etc.

[whatupbuttercup]

Jaskier was a man of truly voracious appetites--he reveled with the best of them, drank, smoked, sang, and ate with a truly impressive and open gusto for life. He savored, luxuriated, and wallowed in excess whenever he was given the barest opportunity. He was always eager because, frankly, he was always hungry.

Just this side of starving, really, but that was a price he cheerfully paid. Wandering around on land was a real treat, a buffet for the senses, a kaleidoscope of experiences and stimuli--what was he supposed to do, languish away luring sailors to craggy rocks and eating raw tuna all day?

Pass.

At first, it was no real problem, keeping himself sated enough to flit about and enjoy the scenery. Humans adored music and they would all but throw themselves at him if he so much as hummed a tune. He could sample freely--food, drink, flesh--and sample he did. He'd long ago lost count of how many barmaids and young poets he'd positively decimated to satisfy the gnawing itch under his skin. They'd all been satisfied in the end--some rendered unconscious by his overwhelming prowess--and they never really remembered what happened beyond the bruises and bone-deep exhaustion anyway.

Pity that, or so he'd always though, but the vague stories they spun about him did result in his having quite the reputation.

That was a mixed bag, particularly after he met his glorious, grumpy muse.

Geralt was, of course, one of the most stunning men to walk the face of the earth. Jaskier had clinged to him at first sight and never let go, like a barnacle wedged into a hospitable crag. Unfortunately, Geralt did not savor life like Jaskier did. He didn't like parties, or revelry, or indulging in barmaids and stableboys, and he certainly didn't appreciate Jaskier having a taste for those things. At first, Jaskier was fine, he could tolerate a bit of a meager fare for a while if it meant sticking with the Witcher.

But, a few weeks turned into a few years and Jaskier went from hungry to ravenous. His starvation diet (metaphorically) was wearing thin and the occasional tumble with a human was not--he--well, for lack of a better term, his balls were a dreadful and nigh painful shade of blue. That itch under his skin was constant and Geralt, his best friend in all the world, was utterly to blame for it.

It was...problematic.

He could have wandered off, found the nearest human, and used them until he was spent, but there was no telling how long that would take and, honestly, Geralt never remained in place for very long. He'd be missing out on the Witcher for a year or more if he left him just because summer got his blood up and he had a taste for sweat and skin. The very idea was galling, that he couldn't talk a man into doing something when he tried, but that was half of why Geralt was appealing.

He was, as far as Jaskier could tell, completely immune to his charms.

He had never met anyone who was immune to his voice and, honestly, that was what kept him coming back.

"Geralt," Jaskier whined, because he had entirely given up on the pretense of gently cajoling his friend into giving in. His skin itched and stifled, and he could feel his pulse where it rubbed his shape wrong. "Even a...what was it, forktail? Even a forktail would not want to be out in this miserable heat. Surely we can find a tavern, drink some cool ale, enjoy some company--must we keep trudging up this mountain? Can't we even find one with some shade?"