In which our love interests meet for the first time and their fates become irrevocably entangled...
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Geralt smelled him and heard him long before the clumsy, foppish boy came into view. He was trembling in the chill of early autumn and his eyes were as panic-stricken and tearful as a lost fawn’s. The cursed Count softened for an instant but only for an instant. Only until he smelled the boy on the wind, strongly this time, and he recognized the de Lettenhove blood pumping underneath his pale skin.
The boy, for he was barely a man if he was still attending the nearby university, was limping; he favored his non-dominant foot strongly and he hissed through his teeth whenever his foot snagged on a root or fallen branch.
You could use this, some small part of his mind suggested. It was a dark thought, something truly evil in a way that Geralt had never considered being evil before, and the ex-Count grimaced. You could pay that sorry Redanian traitor back for his treatment of you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime; you could ruin the Viscount’s son, ruin his family’s reputation, and still be none the worse off for your efforts. What does it matter, Geralt? You’re already banished from court.
So, with the Angel on his shoulder mysteriously absent and his conscience sufficiently tamped down into silence, Geralt stepped into view of the young man.
“Who goes there?” the ex-Count asked, glaring down his nose at the wounded student.
“J-Julian, Milord,” the boy answered. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue Geralt had ever seen. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and he lost his breath for a single, heart-rending second; the Count had never been so caught up in the glory of one solitary color before. Is this what God had felt like when he held his finished work in his hands for the first time? Had he been as lost to Julian as Geralt currently was? The boy cocked his head to the side and his blue fawn-eyes pierced the Count in a new and terrifying way.
“What brings you here?” he managed to ask.
“My friends have - ah!” he’d tried to gesture in the direction of his friends but he’d lost his balance and his weight had shifted atop his ankle again. He hissed through his teeth and dropped to a crouch, stabilizing the limb with both hands while he breathed through the pain.
So Julian had experienced pain before and he’d learned to cope with it. Curious.
“Let’s get you laid down,” Geralt suggested, “And then you can tell me how you came to be lost on the lands of my estate.”
Geralt carried the young man all the way back to his crumbling manor house and marveled at how light Julian felt in his arms. Was he really so slight or was it another side effect of his monstrous curse? The enhanced senses he had adjusted to already, but improved strength? That was decidedly new. When the odd pair finally reached the house and pushed their way through the front door, Geralt made his guest comfortable. He laid Julian down on a chaise lounge before the sitting room fire and placed a bolster cushion beneath his injured ankle. “May I feel you for a sprain, Julian?”
“Are you a doctor?” the smiling boy inquired, reclining back to rest his head against the gold silk pillows. Sitting there in front of the fire, the apples of his cheeks glowing pink from exertion and nervous excitement, his brown hair mussed and shining in the low light, his sparkling blue eyes boring into Geralt’s...the boy might have truly been a portrait of Cupid brought to life. “Can you diagnose what ails me?”
Geralt eased into a more romantic mode of conversation, grateful for the easy opportunity to flirt; he hadn’t been well-known for his way with women at court. He prodded and poked and felt across the bones and tendons of Julian’s ankle, recognizing a sprain when he felt one. It was an easy fix, just bed rest and elevation for a few days until the muscles healed up. “You’ve sprained your ankle, Julian. I wouldn’t suggest taking a walk in the woods at twilight anytime soon.”
The young man startled and his eyelashes fluttered sweetly. “But Milord, I must return to my dorm! My friends will wonder what’s become of me.”
“Where were your friends when I came upon you?” the Count questioned, laying a thick woolen blanket across Julian’s lap. The boy blushed brightly yet again and Geralt marked it as another success.
“They spun me around a few times and all ran off in different directions. I was dizzy, of course, and I tried to follow Paul, but he was long gone by then. When Stephan called for me I went to follow his voice and tripped, twisting my ankle terribly. After that there was no keeping up; the sun was starting to set and I was beginning to grow worried for my safety when you rescued me. Thank you, by the way. You have a lovely home.”
“No need to lie to me, little fawn,” Geralt chuckled darkly. He stood from his place beside the settee and paced before the fire, gesturing around as he spoke. “I know exactly how rundown this place looks, Julian, I was a great Count once. The curtains here are moldy, the tapestries are moth-eaten and holey, and the mattresses have rotten all to Hell. This is the only hearth in the manor that I’ve gotten fully cleaned so far; I apologize for the mess. I was moved here rather suddenly, you see, and haven’t had the time to fix everything up yet.”
“Moved? As in, you did not choose to move but were translocated nonetheless?”
“To be blunt, little fawn, I was banished,” the Count drawled. He shot a quick glare in Julian’s direction and the young man withered beneath it. What had he done to anger his host in such a way? Was he safe here any longer? Should he try to run? If he did run, would he make it any farther than the doorway? The edge of the dirty elf-made carpet? Then the glare dropped away for a split second, revealing a flash of genuine pain and confusion, “Someone else at court wanted my job. They cursed me and hid me away from the world in order to take my place. They coveted power so much that they threw my entire life away without a second thought.”
“Oh, you poor thing!” Julian cried, holding his arms out towards his host. The confused Count stopped his pacing and turned to face the teary-eyed young noble. “Come here, Your Grace, and let me give you a hug.”
“That...wouldn’t be appropriate,” Geralt frowned. Julian deflated and let his arms drop back to his sides. His hands moved to fidget in his lap and he flushed yet again, embarrassed.
“My apologies, Your Grace.”
The older man steeled himself for what he had to do. Julian seemed like a nice boy, a perfectly pleasant nobleman all things considered, but this wasn’t just about Julian. This was about a corrupt family with incredible and unchecked power, running around at court and pulling the King’s strings, uncaring of the consequences beyond their own fortunes. Geralt had to teach them a lesson.
He slid back to a kneeling position beside the couch and took one of Julian’s busy hands into his own. He brushed his lips against the back of the young man’s knuckles and whispered softly, the way blue-blooded men had been speaking to empty-headed young women for hundreds of years, letting the skin of his lips tickle against the back of Julian’s hand with every syllable, “Take your rest here for the night, little fawn. I wouldn’t dream of letting any further harm come to you.”
And the boy did exactly as Geralt had intended: he fainted dead away.
the wolf bumps his head against jaskier’s shoulder, then lower, against his hips. jaskier is still breathless and reeling, struggling to keep himself steady, but he understands the gesture for what it is. he draws in an unstable breath and nudges the wolf’s head away, no longer concerned that it’ll bite his hands off for trying.
with a heavy chuff that jaskier feels in his bones, the creature withdraws, letting him turn over onto his hands and knees. he’s not surprised to find himself trembling, his limbs not entirely his own. jaskier sinks to rest his head on folded arms, knowing the beast will understand.
he expects the massive hands that come to settle on his waist, shivers with the feeling of the rough pawpads and sharp nails, the blood-matted fur that’s still soft despite it all. “now let’s be gentle, let’s - “
he does not expect the tongue that swipes up along his hole, getting him wet and dripping with a single pass. jaskier yelps aloud, moans in spite of himself when the tongue returns, each lick more deliberate, more focused on his entrance. canid tongues are soft and limp, he’s not surprised that the beast can’t press it into him properly, but fuck, does he wish it could. “oh, that’s - fuck, yes, that’s good, do that again - “
the monster makes a sound that jaskier guesses would have been a purr from any other thing, but jaskier hasn’t the time to contemplate this before it’s moving one of its hands, before the pad of one digit is pushing against his rim, and fuck, that’s good, that’s so fucking good, he can feel the scrape of a clawtip on his hole, but he can’t bring himself to care. how could he ever care, when the beast is lapping steadily against him, getting him so wet he feels spit dripping down his skin - when the beast is doing its best to prepare him to take something he knows will be bigger.
“can’t believe a - a monster is a more diligent lover than most men,” jaskier breathes out, and he can’t help but laugh at how strange a thought it is. the wolf’s answering chuff is - is almost a laugh, too, but it doesn’t give jaskier more than a heartbeat to marvel at that before it’s pushing its thick finger inside him. jaskier moans aloud, his sound only barely muffled into his forearms. the wolf’s claw is a heavy weight inside him, but he feels no pain - only nigh-overwhelming pleasure for an instant before, without warning, the wolf pulls its finger back out and lets go of him entirely.
jaskier gives a broken noise of protest, and he’s in the middle of turning to look back over his shoulder when one of the creature’s hands presses down at the top of his spine, fingers splayed wide to fit around the nape of his neck. jaskier winces, goes still. he knows better than to fight that grip, even though he knows - somehow - no harm is intended.
evidently pleased with his complacency, the wolf leans down, nosing into the hair at the back of his head. scenting me, jaskier realizes through a haze, just like geralt likes to do. and then, right before he can begin to wonder how geralt would react if he returned to this, the wolf shifts its grip, and massive teeth settle against his shoulder - not biting, barely even holding, merely resting.
almost... almost comforting.
jaskier breathes out, slow and shaky, and lets the wolf press him down into the earth with the weight of its grasp. he whimpers when the beast’s other hand comes to rest on his waist, and he whines aloud, doing his best to steady himself in preparation.
he quickly realizes that no amount of preparation could have helped - when the monster’s cockhead presses against his hole, he sucks in a startled breath of air, clawing at the grass beneath himself. “oh, fuck - “
the wolf’s grip tightens, and jaskier feels its breath burst out hot and wet on his skin. he moans aloud when the wolf shifts its hips to push inside. “gods, you’re - you’re huge, you’re huge, fuck - “
as if amused, the beast gives another chuff of air, grip on jaskier’s waist and shoulders tightening. it’s moving slow, taking its time in thrusting inside, in stretching him open around its cock. jaskier gives a broken, sobbing noise when the beast rolls its hips in deep, feeling his body give way. it should be impossible, this beast shouldn’t be able to fit, and yet -
and yet, with one last, sudden snap of its hips, the wolf is inside him.
jaskier’s answering moan is quite nearly too loud, and he thinks, brief and wild, that he could die in this fashion and be entirely content. he could die like this, speared open on a monster’s cock, and be happy with his fate.
the wolf, however, does not seem inclined to leave him much time for contemplation, for no sooner than it bottoms out does it draw back out, the drag nearly maddening. jaskier’s fingers curl more tightly into the grass, and he yelps out an aborted little cry when the beast thrusts back in, deep and hard. that’s all the adjustment he’s allowed before the wolf sets its pace, thick shaft forcing his body to give way even though he feels like he can’t possibly take more.
distantly, he wonders what geralt would say... wonders, and then forgets to wonder, for the wolf is bearing down on him all the harder, pressing him into the earth with its weight alone. he whines when he feels those teeth grip his shoulder a little more firmly, when the hand on his spine squeezes firm at the nape of his neck. as the wolf settles more firmly onto his back - mounts him - he feels, through the thick, warm fur, something cool and metallic against his skin.
jaskier shivers with it, only barely able to discern its shape as circular, its surface as uneven, and - and almost as if sensing his thoughts, the beast readjusts once more, turns its huge head to butt against jaskier’s own. the growl it gives is low and raw, breathless with exertion, but that’s... that’s almost a word, almost -
it’s almost his name, and just as the monster changes up the angle of his thrusts to drive right in against his spot, just as jaskier arches back and cries out, high and desperate, he realizes -
“geralt,” he sobs, and fuck, he was aroused before, but he’s unbearably so now, he feels halfway drunk on his own desperation at the realization that it’s geralt above him, against him, behind him, inside him -
his wolf growls, only it’s almost a roar, and its grip is just as firm as ever when it pulls jaskier’s hips back harder, squeezes to keep him in place -
the sound jaskier makes is damn near inhuman on its own when he feels something huge and thick and hard and hot pressing at his rim, pressing, pressing, demanding entry -
the medallion is icy against his skin when he arches, squirms, writhes beneath his wolf, tries his gods-damned best to take its knot -
and then, suddenly, it’s inside him.
jaskier is certain he’s never taken anything bigger, will never feel anything better. he knows he’s moaning, whimpering, whining, sobbing, geralt’s name and a litany of curses falling like benedictions from his lips as his wolf grinds its knot in deep, as his wolf squeezes his hips and neck and shoulders, holds him in place - as his wolf spills hot and overwhelming inside him.
that hot, dripping tongue runs up the side of jaskier’s neck, his jaw, his cheek, and then a cold, damp nose shoves its way into his cheek, and jaskier can only barely muster a laugh through his ragged moans. his wolf isn’t even moving, is just resting, its knot keeping its seed deep inside him, and, fuck, surely jaskier is imagining the way he can feel its seed swelling him...
“geralt,” he breathes out again, weak and faint, as his wolf continues to nose and sniff at his shoulder, neck, his face. his wolf’s grip has lightened, and he whimpers when he feels those rough pawpads ghosting down his spine, his flanks, his thighs. “oh, my wolf, my beautiful wolf...”
his wolf chuffs again, rolling its hips once, and jaskier keens.
I’ve been very shy until now, just a ghost flitting around Tumblr, but I would love to write fic for people! The only problem is, I’ve been so shy on here up until now that I have no one to send me writing prompts. So please! If there’s anything you want to read, I would be more than happy to scratch that itch for you. Check out my main if you want (baby-holdmyflower). I’ll be posting my fic from all of my fandoms to there in case you want to check that out.
when geralt had warned him that the moon cycle brought with it changes in witchers that made them even more inhuman, jaskier had thought little of it. why would he concern himself with it, when geralt was so terribly fond of making himself out to be some horrific beast in the hopes that jaskier would finally grow to be afraid and leave for the sake of safety?
unfortunately, as happens to often be the case, jaskier has found himself proven quite wrong.
geralt had been growing progressively more and more aloof, restless, snappy as the moon drew nearer to full. each and every night as they’d set up camp, he’d done his best to warn jaskier, saying over and over again that witchers became more akin to wolves than ever when the moon was at its roundest, insisting that jaskier let him drop him off at the nearest town and come back for him when it was safe...
and jaskier, well, he had ignored him.
they had made camp quite early in the day, and only when jaskier pried had geralt confirmed that, yes, it was for jaskier’s sake. no amount of wheedling coaxed geralt into saying anything more. when geralt left the camp midway through the afternoon, the only reason he’d given was that he needed to be far, far away when the moon rose high. jaskier was told in no uncertain terms to stay put until geralt returned, no matter how late into the next day that happened to be.
so, thoroughly convinced that geralt was exaggerating, jaskier made himself right at home in their camp far from the nearest road, setting to strumming away at his lute and trying out varying tunes on roach, tethered nearby. nothing odd at all.
he remained thoroughly convinced of that fact until dusk began to fall, scarcely thirty minutes ago.
now, as darkness encroaches slowly on the light cast by the crackling campfire, jaskier finds he has far less motivation to keep playing his lighthearted songs. it’s been quite some time since he faced a night without geralt nearby, let alone a night in the woods...
“well, roach, nothing for it but to make the most of it,” he says aloud. the mare nickers in his general direction, though she’s more focused on the grass at her hooves. “some conversationalist you are, dear.”
he sighs and sets his lute aside, back into its case. geralt always positions them near a stream if he can help it - surely no harm will come of wandering a short ways in any direction, as long as he keeps the glow of the campfire in sight. perhaps i should have asked before he ran off.
it is not yet full nightfall, but the woods around their little clearing are dark and deep even still. shadows creep ever closer to the campfire even as he stands, making to head past roach into the dark. perhaps he should have thought to clean the dust of the road from himself before the sun started its descent, but hindsight is perfect vision, as they say.
he makes it no more than ten strides into the forest before, off in the distance, something howls.
jaskier freezes, then backpedals until he’s safely within the firelight again. “perhaps it’s best not,” he says with a shaky laugh. roach flicks an ear toward him.
funny that she doesn’t react to the beast in the woods. even though she’s brave as can be, she will still get a little restless when monsters come a-calling.
well. maybe geralt asked her to take special care of him, or... or something.
with another sigh, jaskier unravels his bedroll and lays it out as close to the fire as he possibly dares, both for warmth - it’s nearing the days of samhain, and the air has gone cold - and for the comfort of the light. he settles himself crosslegged atop the fabric, deciding he may as well shine the wood of his lute while he waits for it to be late enough to truly slumber.
nobody, particularly not roach, needs to know that, suddenly, he is far too nervous to sleep.
he manages to lose track of time, the polishing of his lute long since having become a repetitive motion meant to keep the monsters at bay.
he loses track of time, that is, until a low growl comes from the trees at his back.
jaskier freezes, lifting his head.
across the way, roach doesn’t seem to give a fuck.
bracing himself to face his death, jaskier slowly turns to look over his shoulder.
his heart drops.
the beast at the edge of the forest’s depths is more wolf than man, easily the size of a fucking draft horse, though it’s bent low to the earth, powerful legs folded under itself in a strange mockery of a normal stance. jaskier knows better than to label it a werewolf - he’s seen those before with geralt, and this...
this is something new.
its thick, heavy pelt is a shade of white that all but glows in the moonlight, though there’s... there’s blood, he realizes dazedly, staining its maw and sharp-clawed hands.
it crouches low just beyond the firelight’s reach, unnaturally golden eyes fixated on jaskier.
jaskier is afraid.
“h - hello, wolfie,” he stammers out, setting his lute aside as slowly as he can. he pivots to face the beast fully, grimacing when the wolf’s lips curl back into a snarl. “okay, not moving, not moving... maybe you’d rather have, uh... uh, rabbit? surely there’s plenty of those around - “
the growl the creature gives is loud enough that jaskier feels it in his fucking bones.
“maybe not rabbit, then... i can’t offer the horse, geralt would kill me - “
the beast cocks its head to one side, and its growl subsides.
jaskier scarcely has time to wonder at this before the wolf is in motion; he doesn’t realize the ensuing scream comes from himself until he feels his throat ache with it. this is it, this is the end -
a heavy weight bowls him over, and the air is fucking punched from his lungs; jaskier feels dizzy when he realizes the wolf’s strange hand is large enough to cover his damn torso in its entirety. he sucks in a shallow, frightened breath as he is pinned flat, as he feels the tips of massive black claws dig into his ribs.
“surely we can bargain,” he wheezes, praying to the fucking gods that geralt heard him scream. “surely you don’t intend to eat me, i taste horrid, i...”
he trails off when the wolf lowers its head to level with his own. cornflower eyes lock with unholy amber. the wolf breathes in deep, and jaskier knows it’s not just his imagination - every puff of air is growing rougher, more shallow.
something heavy and cool knocks against his chest when the wolf closes the rest of the gap between its snout and jaskier’s face; a rough tongue laves its way up the side of his neck and jaw. jaskier splutters out an indignant sound, though he’s still as good as fucking paralyzed with fear.
tasting its prey, no doubt.
but rather than bite his head off, the beast moves lower down jaskier’s frame, those thick and powerful legs and arms flexing as it maintains its low crouch. the hand braced against his torso stays planted there, and jaskier knows better than to fight. maybe it’ll lose interest.
he flinches away when the beast’s wet nose shoves up into the hollow of his neck, bewildered by the unmistakable way it’s scenting him. “if you’re going to eat me, by the gods, get it over with - “
he breaks off with a startled gasp when the wolf’s nose slides lower, when he feels the scrape of massive teeth against his collarbone where his chemise is open as always. “were you never taught not to play with your food?”
the creature gives a snort that sounds rather irritated - and rather familiar - and jaskier immediately silences himself.
fear morphs into confusion when the beast’s hand curls, when the point of one claw hooks into the open v of his chemise and pulls. jaskier fights his own indignation when the fabric tears, leaving his chest bared.
in the next instant, he’s gasping aloud, hands fisting tightly into the grass at his sides, for the wolf’s tongue has swiped over his left nipple, with far too much deliberation for it to be a monster toying with its prey. “what are you - “
the wolf licks him again, slower now, and jaskier blames adrenaline on the strangled whine he gives. seemingly satisfied, the wolf moves its hand lower along jaskier’s bared torso, and he trembles in spite of himself at the feeling of its paw pads dragging against his skin. he gasps again, louder than before, when the creature braces its hand across his hips, the heel pressed firm to his cock - which, he realizes now, is stirring in spite of himself.
where the everloving hell is geralt when you need him?
the creature is moving lower on his body now, licking steadily over every point that makes him tremble and whine. jaskier’s hands itch to grab at the fur growing thick on its head when it laves its tongue along the thin trail of hair leading to the waist of his trousers; whether to push it away or draw it closer, he doesn’t know. “not that i’m c - complaining,” he breathes out, only to whimper when the wolf moves its hand lower still and noses against his groin, “but what the fuck?”
surely he’s imagining the exasperated look in those eyes when they flick up to glare at him.
surely he’s dreaming this all.
before jaskier can work this out with himself, the wolf’s claws are hooking into the waist of his trousers; oddly enough, it seems that the beast actually is making an effort to pull them off the proper way, though its claws inevitably catch, and the fabric inevitably tears.
thank the gods it wasn’t my cock, jaskier thinks wildly, pushing himself up onto his elbows to watch with wide and disbelieving eyes as the beast noses against his inner thigh. the touch is icy cold, and he whimpers aloud, reflexively drawing away - only to freeze when huge and heavy hands brace on his thighs, pushing them apart and pinning them down. “right, right, of course...”
the brush of the beast’s tongue along his half-hard length is enough to make him yelp in earnest, fists going tight in the grass. “no, no, let’s not, let’s not - “
but it’s too late. the wolf is already at work, laving its huge tongue over him steadily; there isn’t much room for finesse with a canid tongue that’s more limp weight than true muscle, but it’s large enough to cover jaskier entirely with a single swipe, and it’s goddamn maddening.
jaskier hates himself for growing hard in mere seconds.
hazily, in the instant before he drops his head back and moans, he thinks he sees the silver of a chain glinting around the beast’s neck, among its fur.
the brush of teeth makes jaskier go tense, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to protest, but it’s too late, yet again. the beast is already slipping his cock into its maw, and the wet heat surrounding him is enough to make jaskier keen. he gives up on staying upright, on resisting, and lets himself fall back flat, his hips arching into the sensations.
the beast’s hands tighten on his thighs, and he knows he doesn’t imagine a low, reassuring growl, for the vibrations around his cock make him sob out another moan. his hands fly down to tangle into thick white fur at the base of pointed ears.
the wolf groans, and jaskier feels it in his bones.
it takes all the strength he has not to rock up into the creature’s maw; only the fear of those sharp, sharp teeth keeps him restrained. he can only lay there arching and crying as the wolf works him over steadily with its tongue, as the wolf swallows around him and makes him see fucking stars.
his senses are overloaded far beyond their limits; he feels as though he’s going to break apart, as though this otherworldly beast is going to ruin him, here and now.
it comes as no surprise that he lasts only a few minutes before it all becomes too much to bear; his hips finally convulse when he comes, but the wolf’s teeth avoid him somehow. jaskier lays there, sobbing and gasping, as the wolf swallows him down.
he’s still catching his breath when the beast draws off, moving back up the length of his body - though it doesn’t need to move far, considering it’s easily twice his size. he opens his eyes, though his vision is still hazy, meeting golden orbs that have gone dark with desire.
this time, when the wolf runs its tongue up the length of his neck, he tilts his head back immediately, baring himself entirely. when he feels the wolf shift its stance, when he feels a hot and heavy weight against the length of his hip, he breathes out a weak and ragged moan, closing his eyes and letting his legs splay limp.
there’s no point in fighting, after all, not when he already knows he’ll beg and whine like a bitch in heat for the beast above him.
Heyo bouncy, coming to collect my fic for the Geralt with w/ nip piercings edit! Can i get some monster-ish looking geralt (or go full monster cryptid if ya want) with a jaskier who loves him v much fangs claws and all? Spice level up to u, just pls dont make it super sad as I cry like a lil bitch. (Also feel free to hit me more tat/piercing edits and ill do my best to deliver!)
(Ayyy thank you so much for that edit by the way. Excellent addition to the Tiddy Discourse)
it will be fluffy as fuck, my friend
featuring a real British cryptid that I have appropriated for my purposes (this is NOT related to my BATB crossover series)
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Jaskier whistled a jaunty tune and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he picked his way over fallen branches and twining roots. The wind was starting to pick up and he felt the biting cold in his face and hands; hopefully he was growing close enough to summon his lover’s aid.
“Geralt?” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth, “Geralt, where are you?”
There was a dark flash of shadow from the corner of Jaskier’s weak human vision and then there he was in all his shaggy, canine-heavy glory: the Beast of Bohdren Moor.
Geralt stood just over six-and-a-half feet tall, even when he stooped his shoulders forward to seem more menacing. His hair was a wild, snow-white mess; though it was more tamable now that it had been when Jaskier first stumbled upon the strange creature’s lair. He made sure to braid it back and out of the monster’s way whenever he returned to humanity.
“Jaskier,” the Beast snarled, stepping closer and reaching out his claw-tipped hands. The young bard fell against his lover’s chest and sighed. The creature buried his nose against Jaskier’s hair and breathed in deeply. “Smell good. Like fruit.”
“I am a little on the fruity side,” the bard giggled. He shivered then, and burrowed closer to the furnace that was Geralt. “It’s cold out here, love.”
“Cave, then.”
“Alright.”
The giddy bard allowed himself to be swept off his feet and carried the short distance between the clearing and Geralt’s cave, babbling all the while about his latest lessons and new compositions and look Geralt, I’ve brought you some wine and a new blanket for winter.
“You don’t have to do these things,” the Beast asserted, placing Jaskier back on his feet at the mouth of his cave/home.
“I know, but I enjoy it. There are very few people left in my life that I want to spoil, Geralt, please allow me to take out that frustration on you. There’s nobody more deserving of gifts and affection than you, my darling creature of the night.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier pulled the wine from his travel basket and allowed Geralt to pop the cork with his impressively sharp teeth. “Well done, lover mine.”
“Hmm.”
One of Geralt’s sharp claws made its way down the outside of Jaskier’s clothed thigh and the younger man shivered. “Later, darling. You’ll get what you want later; let’s have something to eat and drink first. And you can tell me all about the people you’ve frightened and the monsters you’ve dispatched from the area.”
“Hmm,” the Beast hummed yet again and reached out to pull the bard closer. Jaskier allowed himself to be folded and maneuvered safely onto Geralt’s wide lap. “Stay.”
“Well,” the young bard smiled, cuddling close to his darling wild-man. “I can’t argue with that, now, can I?”
