Chapter Text
It’s pitch dark outside when he crawls out of the hole. It closes silently behind him, leaving no trace of its existence. Covered in dirt, he slowly gets up, flexes his hands and rolls his shoulders. His movements are jerky and he sways a bit, unsure of how to balance himself in this body. With his right hand, he touches his left, wondering at the softness of his skin and carefully lets his fingers explore this strange body. His vision is blurry as always and he finds no small amount of relief in the familiarity, glad that at least some things appear to be as they always were for him. He wills his right leg to move and promptly his right arm shoots forward with such a force that he loses his balance. It’s ridiculous, really. He tries to catch himself and manages a step forward with his left leg, which doesn’t help him much. He falls face first on the ground and stays there for a second, his cheek pressing into the soil. He groans and inwardly curses his newly acquired legs and arms and seriously considers just crawling on the ground. It’s a tempting thought but he knows that he would instantly be recognized as something Other, should any human see him like this. He’s not that stupid, thank you very much! He reasons with himself that it was to be expected that he wouldn’t get the hang of using just two legs for walking instantly and resolves to just keep trying until he’s figured it out.
Over the course of the night, he makes significant progress and, once satisfied that no one’s going to kill him on sight for his apparent otherness, he decides to look for a village, so that he can finally talk to humans as one of them. Sure, the others are great but they don’t seem capable of the kinds of conversation he heard humans engage in and longs to have himself. He sees the trees surrounding him with clarity but anything beyond them is lost to his eyes. He inhales, tasting the smells on his tongue and using them to map out his surroundings. There are all kinds of insects in the trees and the ground below his feet, some deer in about 50 yards distance, and… There it is! Faint, but to his heightened sense of smell glaringly obvious, the smell of humans. Smiling to himself and only tripping every 50 feet or so, he walks towards it.
He meets Geralt after about 20 years of living amongst humans. Everything about the man screams power and Jaskier can’t help but be drawn towards him like a moth to the flame. It’s a delight to be around someone who, in interactions with humans, is even worse than Jaskier was on his first day amongst them. They’re at an inn in a shitty town somewhere in Redania, when Jaskier slips for the first time, after travelling together for about half a year. They sit alone in a corner, needing to lean forward to be able to hear each other over the chatter of the other patrons and Jaskier gets increasingly frustrated with every one-syllable answer the other gives him.
“Oh, come on, Geralt, I know you like to think that “hm'' is a full sentence but give me something to work with! I can’t write a song about you heroically slaying a bloodzeuiger and saving a beautiful maiden in the process without even knowing what it looks like!”
“Must be a pretty shitty artist if you don’t even have enough imagination for that.” He grunts. “Also, I don’t think you call maidens ‘it’, I think the preferred term is ‘she’.” At that last sentence, one side of his mouth pulls up slightly. It takes Jaskier a short moment to actually register what the other said.
“I- What?!” Feigning outrage, he clutches his chest, secretly delighted that Geralt made one of his rare jokes and that he apparently is in a good mood tonight. “Surely this wasn’t a joke! And in more than three words? Truly, it is a special day, it appears.”
Geralt grunts and goes back to staring at his mug, but over the last few months, Jaskier has gotten better at reading the other’s feelings and he is pretty sure that this was his amused tone. “Also, they’re called bloedzuigers, not… whatever you decided to call them.”
Jaskier immediately scribbles this new piece of information down in his latest notebook, which is already worn down from constantly being stuffed in his travelling bag. He feels a bit sorry about it, but you can never know before when inspiration is going to strike, so he prefers to be safe rather than sorry. Therefore, he’s too distracted to notice what’s happening. With every other person he could have prevented it but Geralt's enhanced speed and reflexes are nearly as good as his own. One second, he’s staring intently at his notebook, the next he hears Geralt’s fist hitting the table. He feels a twist in his heart as the cockroach that crept about on their table for the last few minutes dies, its little armour shattering under Geralt’s fist. Like a candle you didn’t even notice before in a room full of chandeliers, its life is suddenly snuffed out. Of course thousands of living beings die everyday, he knows that this is how life works, that nature has its own rules that must be followed, but this is different. His subconsciousness had felt the little one’s energy reaching out to him, their spirits connecting as its soul reached out to his. Normally, he can steer his little ones away from people with a gentle nudge of his mind, keeping them from straying near them, at least when he’s nearby. But he had been too absorbed in his notes, too focused to realise that while he enjoyed its presence, Geralt would most likely not.
He’s on his feet in an instant, grabbing Geralt by the collar and hauling him up. His fists are shaking in barely contained rage, his eyes ablaze with fury and his face is twisted, hard lines contorting his usually soft features.
“How dare you!” Bits of spittle leave his mouth and fly in slow motion through the air until they land on Geralt's armour. “Think you’re so high and mighty that the life of one tiny insect is nothing? That you can just crush it and no one will notice?”
His breathing is ragged and he can feel himself slipping, feels, that if he doesn’t stop soon, he will begin to lose control over this form. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If he looks at it from a rational point of view, he knows that it’s not really Geralt’s fault, that Jaskier is mostly angry at himself and not the other. It’s silent, too fucking silent in the room and he feels the eyes of every patron on him. He needs to leave, needs to find a convincing excuse that Geralt will believe. His skin is crawling and he feels too big for this body, for this room. His eyes find Geralt’s and Jaskier internally winces. The witcher's eyes are sharp and focused, cataloguing his every movement and his body is tense, ready to spring into action at even the barest hint of danger. What had he been thinking? Had Geralt wanted to, he probably could have killed Jaskier right then and there, or at least badly hurt him, just out of reflex. Slowly, carefully, he loosens his grip without breaking eye contact and lets go of Geralt, taking a cautious step back, clumsily bumping into his stool.
“Well, what a lovely evening! Nice weather for this time of year, isn’t it? I’ll simply go for a walk, autumn nights are particularly inspiring for ballads, as everyone knows!” He tries for flippant but it comes out sounding rather desperate. There’s no reaction, so he grabs his lute from beside the table and walks out of the tavern, all too aware of the way his back is exposed. Whispers begin to arise, suspicious voices talking about him and it takes every bit of concentration he has left to remember to walk like a human. It feels like his skin is covered in millions of ants and he feels the need to find his own, to have them close and know that they are safe. He deliberately does not think about Geralt. He truly hates himself at that moment. For being too slow to save the cockroach, for risking everything by losing control in front of Geralt, his friendship and the life he so carefully built for himself. It would be oh so easy to just let go of his control but he can’t, not while there are still people milling through the streets and lights behind the window curtains. He needs to get away, at least so far out of sight that no one can spot him from the village. His lute keeps him anchored as he makes his way down the main road, one agonising step after the other, towards the nearby forest. His mind calms when he breaches the barrier of the first trees. The whole forest seems to call to him, to welcome him and he carefully sets his lute down, before letting go.
It’s early morning, when Jaskier returns to the inn. He feels better now, having rested under the earth for the first time in months. He feels refreshed, his senses sharper and his mind clear again. He stops in front of their room, not sure how to approach the entire situation. Multiple times, he raises his hand to knock, only to drop it before he finds the courage to actually do it. It gets to a point where he seriously considers simply leaving to never come back but something in his chest tightens uncomfortably at the thought of never seeing Geralt again. A fly lands on his face and buzzes encouragingly and he makes up his mind to simply get it over with. He shuts his eyes for a second, tenses his jaw and raises his hand.
“Jaskier”, comes the gruff voice through the door before his fist even connects with the wooden door. “I know you’re there. Pack your things, we’re leaving in half an hour.” He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden sound of Geralt's voice and takes a moment to compose himself. He takes a few calming breaths, then he enters, giving the man his best disapproving stare and crossing his arms over his chest. He’s quite sure Geralt can see straight through his ruse with his witchery senses but he did study at Oxenfurt, he knows how to play a role.
“Now, you really did that on purpose to scare me, didn’t you?”
Geralt sits on the bed, already clad in his armour, and actually has the audacity to smirk. “Maybe”, he admits.
Jaskier opens his mouth and is about to start off on a truly epic lecture about why you simply cannot startle people like that, and anyways, do you have no manners whatsoever, when Geralt pulls a dagger from under the covers and throws it. It slices through the air, coming directly towards his left arm.
Time seems to slow down and Jaskier hastily considers his options. Not reacting, in order to fool Geralt? No, out of the question, he has faster healing abilities than most people but he needs both his arms to play the lute and, to be honest, he isn’t all too keen on finding out how Geralt would react to seeing his translucent blood. Also, a dagger buried in his arm ought to hurt like a bitch So, catching the knife it is. Of course he could just as easily sidestep the weapon but really, where is the fun in that? Anybody that ever met him could tell you that he has a flair for the dramatic, probably after knowing him for less than ten minutes. He likes to show off, and as Geralt obviously is suspicious already, what does it matter which option he chooses? Both will reveal his reflexes.
He waits until the tip of the dagger is just a few inches away from his body, then he grabs it by the hilt, preventing it from injuring him in any way. He takes in Geralt's narrowed eyes and deliberately turns his gaze towards the weapon in his hand. He is by no means an expert in weapons, having never needed any to defend himself. Its weight is unfamiliar, heavier than expected but the worn leather grip is smooth in his hands. He notices the silver glint of the blade. Well, that certainly answers the question as to what Geralt thinks he is. It really shouldn’t surprise him after his little mess up. Honestly, he’s not as much of an idiot as Geralt likes to think, he knows that his little stunt yesterday was stupid and dangerous. He would have been more surprised if Geralt hadn’t taken any kind of action to try and find out what he is. No, what surprises him is that the other did something as harmless as throwing a small dagger at a non vital part of his body instead of full on attacking him.
But it also gives him hope that maybe, just maybe, their travels don’t have to end here, that maybe, he can still have this life as Jaskier, the White Wolf's bard. Fine, he relents, so Geralt now knows, or at least strongly suspects, that he is definitely not human. He still won’t tell him what he is. The latest turn of events at least assured him that Geralt wouldn’t instantly kill him for being inhuman. That doesn’t mean that Jaskier’s going to take any more chances now. If anything, yesterday's events made him even more determined to not let anything more slip, to keep a very strong grip on his human appearance and to not let Geralt find out what he is. Let Geralt investigate and test him all he wants, Jaskier is determined not to acknowledge any of his attempts.
He turns the weapon in his hand so that the hilt faces Geralt again. “Looks like you dropped something there”, he says with feigned casualty and looks over to Geralt. The man shows no sign of hesitation as he gets up and makes his way towards Jaskier. As he gets closer, Jaskier can see the furrow of concentration in his brows as he scans Jaskier’s whole body for any trace of otherness. His skin prickles under the scrutinising gaze and he feels uncomfortably seen. They’re standing close together, their bodies mere inches away from each other. He dares not take his eyes off of Geralt. Of course he knows that the man is dangerous but he’s never had Geralt’s attention on him quite like this and, if the heat pooling in his belly is of any indication, he quite likes it. His heartbeat quickens and his tongue darts out to wetten his suddenly way too dry lips. The air feels charged with electricity and Jaskier seriously considers simply taking a step forward and closing the distance between them.
Geralt’s eyes widen almost comically as he takes in his flushed face, blown pupils and the pounding of his heart. Jaskier briefly considers feeling ashamed of his desire but promptly decides against it. He never fully understood why humans often were embarrassed by their own wants and feelings, it was after all rarely a conscious decision but something that you simply felt. Of course, he’d always known that Geralt was very good looking by human standards and had privately agreed but until now, there had never been a situation where he truly felt any sexual desire towards the man.
But now, he couldn’t help himself but wonder how it would feel to be pressed against the wall, calloused hands gently cradling his face. Would he gently lower Jaskier onto the bed or would he be rough, push him down and take him hard and fast? A small groan escapes him and he feels that his cock is painfully hard and straining against his breeches. Much to his delight he sees Geralt’s pupils widen until the yellow of his irises is barely visible anymore, nearly completely replaced by his blown pupils.
And then, he’s all over him, one hand pulling him in by his neck while the other grabs hold of his waist. Their lips crash together and it’s sloppy and kind of awkward, they don’t have the right angle, their noses bumping into each other and tongues battling for dominance, neither of them willing to give in. It’s absolutely perfect.
Geralt picks him up and carries him to the bed, where he unceremoniously dumps him. Jaskier barely has time to think that, alright, so he’s that kind of lover, before Geralt is over him, pressing their bodies together and oh, his cock is also hard, pressing against Jaskier’s thigh. Geralt claims his mouth again and this time, he lets him. He kisses back with enthusiasm, one hand gripping the other’s silver hair and using it to pull him closer. At that, Geralt growls and Jaskier feels his cock twitching at that noise and he swears to himself to make Geralt scream one day.
But not now, now he only needs Geralt against him, on him, in him, hard and fast. He sneaks his other hand in between them and fumbles with the buttons on Geralt’s trousers, the need to truly feel him without any kind of fabric between them growing stronger with every passing second. Luckily for him, Geralt is a smart man. Despite Jaskier's protests, he stops kissing him and makes quick work of his pants while Jaskier clumsily tries to wiggle out of his own. It really doesn’t help that Geralt starts kissing his neck, stopping every once and then to suck small hickeys onto his skin, occasionally biting down hard and soothing the aches afterwards with slow licks of his tongue. It feels incredible and Jaskier moans loudly as he lifts his hips up to get more of the delicious friction of Geralt’s body against his cock. The other seizes the opportunity to free Jaskier of his pants and, once they’re both naked, grabs one of his ankles and turns him over, so he’s laying on his front.
Jaskier looks over his shoulder and gods, the heat in Geralt’s eyes makes him groan the other’s name. Then there are two fingers in his mouth and Jaskier sucks on them, coating them in his saliva. He feels there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to get his mouth on Geralt’s cock, circle the rosy head with his tongue before taking as much of his length in his mouth as he can. The feeling of a finger gently stroking over his hole as another hand pulls his cheeks apart pulls him out of his daydream and he relaxes his muscles, simply letting himself take in all the sensations. He feels Geralt pushing in, first one and in quick succession a second finger and he whimpers.
“Please, Geralt, I-” The rest of the sentence is lost as a third digit breaches him. He muffles the sounds he makes by pressing his face into the pillow, his body pushing up against Geralt’s fingers, driving them deeper inside of him. It’s still not enough, he needs more, he needs- “Geralt!” He whines as the fingers are suddenly pulled out of him. In the back of his mind he notices that Geralt rummages around in his pack and resumes touching him after what could have only been seconds but feels like hours.
“Jaskier”, he says and oh, fuck, his deep voice is all raspy and even lower than it usually is. “Jaskier”, he repeats, a pained edge to his voice, “I need you to tell me you want this. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
Hearing Geralt say these words only heightens his arousal and he moans, reaching behind him and taking hold of his cheeks, pulling them apart and presenting himself to Geralt. The sound the latter makes is inhuman and Jaskier lifts his head to look at him. He’s sure he must be quite the sight, lips swollen from kissing, eyes wide open and pupils dilated, a strand of spit on his chin. Geralt just finishes slicking his cock with the small vial of oil he apparently procured from his pack. There is so much hunger in his face, his eyes clouded with lust as he stares down at the smaller man laid out beneath him, taking in every detail.
“Fuck me, Geralt, I need you so badly, please”
Their gazes meet and Geralt takes one of Jaskier’s hands away from his ass. He intertwines their fingers and with his other hand, gives his cock a few strokes before positioning himself in front of his hole. Agonisingly slow, he pushes in. His lips fall open and his eyes widen.
“Gods, Jaskier” he grinds out. “You feel incredible.”
“Geralt, please” He can’t help himself, he needs this, it feels so good and is yet nowhere near enough. “Move, please move, need you, need you to fuck me”
That seems to do it for Geralt. He moves his hips, hard and fast, moving in and out, all the while holding Jaskier’s hand and with the thumb of his other hand, stroking slow circles over the small of his back. If anybody asked him later on, he wouldn’t be able to tell whether they fucked for hours or if it were mere minutes even if his life depended on it. His body is unable to move, he simply takes in the feeling, lets Geralt thoroughly fuck him. He takes the hand which isn’t currently holding Geralt’s and sneaks it in between the sheets and his body, gripping his cock and stroking it in time with Geralt’s thrusts. He moans, the pleasure slowly building and all too soon, he feels his orgasm approaching.
“Geralt, I- '' gods, when did it become so hard, pun fully intended, to form coherent words, let alone complete sentences? He tries again, panting harshly. “I’m going to -oh fuck- come, Geralt, please!”
“Come for me, Jask” he hears Geralt’s answer and fuck, if that doesn’t to wonders to him. It’s such an intimate command and in combination with this nickname… It truly shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody that after that, it only takes a few more strokes to push him over the edge. His muscles clench as his body spasms and his orgasm hits him full force. Geralt follows suit, burying his cock deep inside Jaskier’s arse. He lowers himself down so that they lie on top of each other, every inch of their skin touching and their bodies still connected. The only sound in the room is their ragged breathing, slowly evening out as the minutes go by.
“So,” Geralt says after some time. “An incubus”
It takes a few seconds for Jaskier’s brain to catch up with the fact that Geralt just said something and then a few more to actually identify what he said.
“An incubus? What about it?” He asks, his voice raspy. He clears his throat, not sure where exactly Geralt is going with this. He can’t see it but he’s almost certain that Geralt is rolling his eyes at him.
“You, Jaskier. You are an incubus.”
The bard whips his head around and looks at his… lover? Are they lovers now? His face is set in determination and Jaskier gawks at him. “An incubus? You can’t be serious.” Then, he bursts out laughing.