whatupbuttercup | Monster AU

Monster AU - Dead Dove Etc.

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?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"If you want a tavern, go find a tavern," Geralt grunted as he kept walking. He was beyond uncomfortable himself, even with his biology working for him, and the last thing he needed at this moment was Jaskier whining. The man could be downright insufferable when he dug his heels in and all their years together didn't always soften the edge of his cajoling-- especially when Geralt was already pissed at having to trudge over hill and dale for one fucking forktail in the summer swelter and the handful of coin that would come from it. "Unless you think that you can sing the beast to death, I don't need your assistance."

It was unkind. He knew it. The acknowledgement of his actions was one thing the years had given him, but he'd pushed Jaskier further and to little better result so behavior didn't always improve. The man was an idiot but by this point he was Geralt's idiot and the witcher was resigned to the fact. Here and now the best he could do would be to actually convince Jaskier that the tavern was the better place for him and that way they could both spend the rest of the afternoon in a little more peace.

He paused to examine some scrapes in the mostly dead grass and sighed. Dried soil slipped from between his fingers. Certainly furrows, roughly the right size. At least they were on the right track-- the only thing worse than being out in his heat searching for a monster would be to come back without its head. Roach had been left behind as a liability.

He would have left Jaskier as well, had the man allowed it.

"You've seen me take down forktails before. This can't possibly be more interesting for you than the bosom on that barmaid in town. Go write a ballad about her. Pillowy-ness." Geralt waved the word away and slapped his hand against his thigh to rid it of clinging earth.

"She did have quite a pillowy quality about her," Jaskier ceded with a wistful and slightly out of breath lilt to his voice. He considered it, perhaps for too long--what she would look like opened up on his arms, choking on one as he filled her from behind-- It was a good image, one that was dashed to bits immediately as the dull meaty sound of Geralt slapping his own thigh resounded through Jaskier's head.

Gods help him, the muscle beneath those black trousers had barely shifted at all--Geralt was solid of course, Jaskier knew that, and appreciated it. He'd appreciated it with himself on more than one occasion, but the image of that barmaid was so easy to replace with Geralt.

Was he strong enough to pry those thighs apart? Oh, certainly, but it would take a bit of effort--

Jaskier felt a bit hot under the collar, hotter than he had, and unbuttoned another button on the front of his shirt. It did little to help him cool down but the breeze was nice.

"I suppose I could head back--if you're certain it's just a forktail?"

He'd made quite a fuss about coming along. Too often Geralt's hunts ended up being spectacular and more nightmarish than expected, he hadn't wanted to miss out. But...it was also very, very hot and the thoughts of Geralt meandering through his imagination were...pressing. He wouldn't just leave--Roach was in town, that was a reasonable guarantee, so long as Jaskier didn't get...carried away.

In other circumstances Geralt wouldn't have cared how much chest hair Jaskier chose to show to the world but under the punishing sun and the boiling press of his own cuirass that extra button felt like a personal insult. "It's a forktail," he growled through his teeth. He could feel the slide of sweat between his shoulder blades and the slip of his temper with it. "Just go, for fuck'sake."

Fuck. He was going to have to make up for that later. Geralt rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. He looked at Jaskier and when he spoke up again it was with a curtness that, on Geralt, served as contriteness as well. "Jaskier. It's hot. Neither of us want to be out here. Just-- go. At least you'll be comfortable." He backhanded sweat from his temple. "A forktail isn't a challenge. I'll find it and be back well before nightfall. You can see a bath is waiting if you feel like you're without a job." He raised an eyebrow and waited for agreement.

Edited (i really CAN spell. sometimes.) 2021-04-10 14:44 (UTC)

Geralt snapped at him, almost snarling, and Jaskier was torn--the Witcher was attractive when livid, and Jaskier was already entertaining that train of thought, but his temper was enough to inspire an equal swell of waspish offense on Jaskier's part. Had Geralt not padded his demand, why, well, the day would have devolved quickly--

"Oh, but I do have a job, I've a ballad about pillowy tits to write," Jaskier replied but, despite his tone, they both knew he'd arrange a bath for Geralt. Or he would if he remembered to--if he had half a day (less after the walk back) he could properly debauch that barmaid. He was already planning it as he nodded to Geralt and spun on his heel.

"See you tonight, my dear friend, do try not to track too much blood into the room."

Perhaps it was spite, perhaps it was unlucky, but by the time the forktail was dispatched, Geralt was covered in quite a bit of blood. Most of it wasn't his own. The dracolizard had proved to be a nesting mother-- a point of fact that made her much more inclined to kill him and he, much less happy to kill her. The fight had not been heroic or clean and the crunch of eggshells underfoot had kept his foul mood close at hand during the trudge back to the inn.

He didn't give any attention to the eyes that turned at the sight of him as he walked through the downstairs, sticking slightly to the floorboards and caked with grime. Geralt was used to that. He took the stairs slowly, the entirety of his thoughts focused on a large, cool bath. Between the gore and the sweat he could smell himself and he wanted nothing more than to wash away both the dirt and the memory of the day. All of it was better off tossed. If only it wasn't still so cursed hot. It was spring, damnit.

Perhaps he opened the door to the room with a little more force than was necessary but there was a small, spiteful thought that came from (he was perversely sure) some erstwhile ease with his present companion that made him less inclined to ignore Jaskier in favor of letting his mood dissipate until it was something more tolerable. If he was cranky, so be it. The bard had never proven less than immune to it.

Jaskier was normally not so petty that he would begrudge Geralt a bath or a small comfort, not intentionally, not after the man had a harrowing fight or two. Normally, though, he was not quite so...pent up as he was right then. Upon his return to the inn, Jaskier hadn't even bothered with frippery and bathing himself.

He probably should have, in retrospect, because even with all his charms he found it rather hard to convince the barmaid to join him.

Maybe he was just off his game. He had spent the return trip thinking about Geralt and, frankly, was only marginally interested in the woman in front of him. He was a wonderful flirt and an excellent orator, but Jaskier had never really been good at faking interest in a conquest.

In any case, it was nigh on two hours before Jaskier had even talked the woman into drinking with him and another, after that, before he convinced her to join him in their room. His bold assurances that Geralt would not be back before nightfall were drawn from thin air and, as so often happens with such claims, were proven incorrect at the most inconvenient time possible.

Geralt, drenched in ichor all but kicked the door in. Light spilled in from the hallway and haloed his hulking, dripping, stinking shape, and the barmaid, despite the dazed state she'd fallen into, startled alert. She shrieked and scrambled up, dislodging Jaskier's fingers from her cunt and rushed to both cover herself, stand, and flee all at the same time. In the tangle of sudden movement, she managed to unbalance the bard and knock him ass-first onto the floor.

That was, at the very least, a kindness as Jaskier was both entirely nude and ready for the proceedings. Being knocked prick first to the ground would have added injury to insult.

Jaskier could have talked books off shelves. It was a trait that Geralt admired-- from a distance, and especially when it managed to get them something they needed when they were skint. But Geralt hadn't asked Jaskier to talk books off shelves, or to talk himself wrist-deep into a barmaid-- he'd asked for a bath. Which seemed, at the moment, in short supply.

The maid rushed by him (or tried to; Geralt didn't move, which meant she stuttered to an awkward halt, dripping bedsheets, and then had flatten herself sideways with one hand compressing her aforementioned pillows as small as they would go in order to sidle between a broad, dirty shoulder and the doorframe) before spilling into the hallway. He didn't watch her go. Geralt took in the ungainly sight of Jaskier, prick-heavy, on the floorboards and his mouth flattened into a line.

Or perhaps it had already been there, along with the displeasure. It was hard to untangle the dislike of the sordid hunt with the dislike of the sordid use of the bed that he was supposed to sleep in by the man who had promised only an empty-headed sonnet and a full bath.

"Jaskier," he growled.

Jaskier stared, up from the floor, wearing nothing but a human shape and a startled expression, as his date shimmied gradually from the room. His head was swimming just so, he'd just started to get into the proceedings--but Geralt was standing above him rather than the woman he'd planned on fucking into the floor--it wasn't his fault if the images bled together--if he envisioned his slick hand buried in one instead of the other--his cock practically started weeping at the sight.

No.

He didn't slap himself, that would have been positively gauche, but it was a near thing. His mental chiding was sharp and, while that usually did the trick, he didn't usually have his cock out and ready and nearly a season of celibacy to make up for. His blank look of shock transmuted into something just this side of frustration and he burst into a flurry of movement. Jaskier didn't really make to cover himself, not beyond the most token effort to keep his aching cock from actually bouncing against his stomach as he scrambled to his feet.

"Geralt, you're early," Jaskier announced in a poor parroting of his usual charm. Geralt was not early, not nearly, his charms had just failed to secure him a bedmate before the Witcher finished his hunt. And he clearly had finished. He was a wreck, covered in blood, sticky with it, and how he stank of sweat and sun and blood--

Oh dear.

He wasn't fond of blood, he didn't like the texture or the taste, even if he was technically a carnivore. But Geralt? Bloodied an clad in black leather armor? Well, he had no need to fake his interest. It took literally all of his focus to keep from reaching forward. Unfortunately, his mouth tended to run whether he wanted it to or not.

"You look terrible. I do hope none of that's yours."

Fucking hells, was that why women loved Jaskier? One of Geralt's eyebrows began to rise before he could properly school it back down again. He'd seen Jaskier naked of course, but never aroused. He knew why a cock that would put Eskel's to shame made him more cross-- he'd fucking asked for a bath, not a spectacle-- but there was no reason for his mouth to feel so chalky. He wasn't a godsbedamned barmaid to be trounced for the price of an inane song. Geralt exhaled a heavy sigh.

"Shut up, Jaskier."

They both knew that he wasn't early and they both knew most of the blood wasn't his; Geralt couldn't find it in him at the moment, confronted by a member stiffer then the excuse given, to offer platitudes. The door was kicked shut with a boot heel and a crack of wood and Geralt turned away from the bard, already reaching for the stays on a pauldron. Lacking a bath he'd peel out of the leather and go stick his head in the horse trough-- perhaps spend the night in Roach's stall as well, just so he didn't have to smell all night what had been done in the bed. He wasn't about to waste the piddling coin he'd fetch for the forktail on separate rooms.

Geralt kicked the door closed with a sharp slam and the sound bounced through Jaskier's chest like an invitation. He was already well past flustered, his hard cock making a nuisance of itself was evidence of that, but his attention just zeroed onto Geralt with that snap of movement. (He was not food, idiot hindbrain--though, that did conjure images of Geralt in his mout--)

"I do have a rag and a pitcher," Jaskier offered abruptly and, as Geralt started peeling out of his leather, the rest of the bard's attention evaporated. His pulse was hammering in his head as Geralt turned his back and it was harder and harder to keep in his normal mindset--was it hot in here? How long had it been since he'd fucked something? It was hot in here and it smelled like blood and sweat and sex. Oh, this was bad--he should--

"I should--" Jaskier said, to himself mostly, and broke line of sight. He turned to fetch the pitcher and rag, anything to distract himself as his mind started to fog up. Fuck. Sharp mental chiding wasn't going to cut it anymore and, damn it--he didn't indulge because Geralt would go on without him, but he couldn't indulge with Geralt--

He turned to see Geralt already out of his armor and his swords set aside and, for some reason, that was the fact that frayed the very last of Jaskier's human thought. He stared at the Witcher, still looking dreadful and sticky, and swallowed.

"You, uh, should probably leave, Geralt," he suggested, almost light-headedly.

"Yeah. You've made yourself at home, obviously. Suppose I'd just be a third wheel." Geralt couldn't-- and didn't want to-- keep the nastiness from his voice and couldn't Jaskier-- or didn't he want to?-- put on some bloody trousers? It was hard (fuck) to keep his eyes away from that thing; it seemed to take up all the space in the room. "Give me a minute." Even with Jaskier's cock chasing him about, he refused to yield so easily.

Keeping his shoulder to the bard, Geralt pulled the leather straps of his hip pouch free of its buckles, thigh and waist, crouching down next to the saddlebags with the whole piece in hand. "I don't need the pitcher," he growled as he plucked free the potions from their holsters. His opposite hand made a feeble attempt to scrape his hair up off the back of his neck just to let it fall again. The heat was absurd. "I'll use the trough, since a bath seems beyond us tonight."

Jaskier definitely neither heard Geralt's answer, nor even noted his tone--his pulse was in his ears and the smell of sweat and sex and blood had his brain in a fog. His people had long since grown past the frenzy instinct when they tasted blood, it was beneath them, they had language and culture--Geralt scraped his hair off his neck and Jaskier swayed in on reflex.

When had he crossed the room?

Why was he holding a pitcher?

"You smell delicious," Jaskier mused through his daze--Geralt didn't want the pitcher, right? It was taking up a hand, humans liked hands, he shouldn't be wasting this one. He dropped the pitcher without preamble and instead reached for Geralt's filthy, sweat streaked hair.

The fingers reaching for his hair were felt only as a glance across his shoulder; firstly the pitcher met the floorboards with a crack and spray and even Witcher reflex could only move Geralt so fast. He was on his feet in a moment but it didn't save his ass from getting wet. The potions having been safely tucked away he was perfectly at liberty to swing around on the bard. "What the fuck--"

Something was wrong. Jaskier looked dazed, his eyes slightly unfocused, though the rest of him seemed normal enough. Skin color, heart rate. A poisoned man certainly couldn't have continued to sport such an erection. The medallion at Geralt's chest was ordinary, still, warm from body heat-- which narrowed the problem away from obvious magics-- but Geralt's eyes moved to the remnants of the pitcher on the floor. "Jaskier."

Usually it was Jaskier on the reaching side of any contact between them but Geralt didn't dislike touch, only the abundance of it for no reason. He reached out and grabbed the bard's chin in callused fingers, lifting his face in an attempt to lift his gaze, to focus him on something. "Jaskier. Did you drink anything before I got back?" Geralt's lips thinned and a glance was spared for the door. The barmaid didn't seem the type to drug someone but in his opinion, innocence rarely had anything to do with intent.

Jaskier's last thread of reluctance and sense fled him as Geralt took him by the chin. Only a moment passed after Geralt asked his question before Jaskier, ill advised and driven on instinct, pressed forward and crushed his mouth against the Witcher's. Geralt tasted of sweat and blood and some strange tang--a potion, anger? He didn't focus on it.

To call Jaskier handsy in this moment would be a vast understatement--Jaskier's hands immediately set to task getting under Geralt's shirt, moving without their usual deftness but with an overabundance of enthusiasm. He reached for skin contact like he needed it to live, like he couldn't breathe without it, and in his desperation all but shoved Geralt back against the wall.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Monster AU - Dead Dove Etc.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject