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?"

Comments

[whatupbuttercup]

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."

[monsterbytrade]

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.

[whatupbuttercup]

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.

[monsterbytrade]

"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."

[whatupbuttercup]

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.

[monsterbytrade]

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.

[whatupbuttercup]

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.