Chapter Text
Geralt wakes up feeling well-fucked and exhausted, Jaskier asleep on his chest. He barely resists the impulse to shove him off; he barely resists the impulse to pull him closer.
He's so tired.
Jaskier sleeps like the dead, fortunately, so escaping the nest—the fucking nest—without waking him isn't hard. Geralt considers just leaving, but there's a low, slow-burning warmth in his gut that tells him the heat's not done with him yet, and he doesn't relish the idea of riding Roach with cramps and nausea and all those other shitty side effects going. The road's dangerous enough without going out in piss-poor condition.
He wants to just go back to sleep and stay there.
Instead he cleans himself up with the bucket of water Jaskier brought in earlier, gets re-dressed, and eats the better part of a slightly stale loaf of bread. He refills the bucket with clean water, goes out to feed Roach, leaves out food for Jaskier in case the other wants it, and . . . doesn't know what to do with himself. His heat's receded enough that there's no reason to wake Jaskier, for the moment, so he doesn't.
He can't believe the bastard actually built a nest. Geralt's gone his entire life without nesting, and Jaskier just . . . does it?
He's an alpha, for fuck's sake. What kind of alpha builds a nest, even for an omega like him?
Especially for an omega like him.
Geralt exhales roughly, looking around the cozy little cottage that is so the opposite of anyplace he should ever be. He's only here because people are dead, though, so . . .
So.
Jaskier sleeps on, oblivious. Geralt thinks he prefers it that way. An alpha scent in the room to help soothe his roiling pheromones, but no accompanying questions or lies or anything like that to go with.
Yes. That's better.
He doesn't know why Jaskier thought he had to lie to him, but the other's . . . young, still, or fairly young still. He probably thought it was expected. Geralt doesn't like being lied to, though, even in heat. Or especially. He knows some omegas do, but for him . . . no, that’s never been a thing. He doesn’t want to be told he’s things he’s not or that someone’s going to do something they can’t or won’t.
Alphas always want to satisfy something immediate and never want to deal with the long-term. That’s how it is, at least for him. He understands that, and really, he doesn’t blame them. There’s nothing in it for them. He’s not the mating type. What would be the point?
There isn’t one. Obviously.
Geralt sits down at the table and waits. Jaskier sleeps. Geralt wonders how long he can sit out the heat before he has to wake him up again, and also why Jaskier’s even here to begin with. He could’ve left him to ride it out alone. Geralt’s done that before. It’s not his favorite thing in the world, but it’s a lot simpler than this has been. But Jaskier acted like it was a foregone conclusion that he’d stay, when that has never been anyone’s conclusion in Geralt’s life.
It’s pity, he supposes, or something else Jaskier should know better than to think he needs. Not empathy, because rut is nothing like heat, although he supposes after this he is going to owe Jaskier a rut partnering, if it ever comes up. It’s been a long time since he’s done that—a long time since anyone’s asked him to do that—but it’s not hard.
That’s assuming Jaskier would even ask, but then, he never has been properly afraid of him. He called him a butcher in cold blood and without the faintest hint of fear in his scent.
He’s not the cleverest man Geralt’s ever met, but he’s so damn single-minded when he wants something. So of course Geralt let him fuck him, and let him make him come, and let him lie to him.
He could only stand it for so long, but he let Jaskier do it all the same.
Stupid.
Geralt exhales. He misses Jaskier’s cock, which is a definite sign his heat’s rising again, but he doesn’t go to wake the other up. Not yet. He doesn’t need it yet. He can wait.
He misses it, though.
He doesn’t squirm in his seat, because he’s not a damn child, but it’s hard not to. Hard not to go over and wake Jaskier up, not to touch or suck his cock, not to sit on it until they tie again. The last round they fucked eye-to-eye, which was a mistake, but Jaskier seemed to like it. Geralt didn’t, because Jaskier got this fucking soft look on his face for it and the sight of it was . . .
Painful, maybe. Maybe that’s the word.
It’s not quite the right word, Geralt thinks, but he’s very used to things being painful. It’s the closest comparison he has.
So yes. Painful.
He misses Jaskier’s cock. He wants it inside him. He wants it to come in him. He wants it to knot in him. He wants—
Geralt exhales. Inhales. Pushes the tension out of his body. He stays in his seat. He doesn’t need it. Not yet.
He looks at Jaskier, curled up naked in a nest he built because Geralt has no idea how to, and something in his gut burns.
He stops looking at Jaskier. He looks at the wall instead, and stays still and silent, and waits. When it’s too much—when it’s almost too much, he corrects himself—when it’s almost too much, then he’ll wake Jaskier. Then he’ll sit on his cock again, get him inside him, ride him ‘til the fucking bed breaks. And if Jaskier tries to lie to him again . . .
He’ll stop him. Obviously.
Something cramps low in Geralt’s gut and he represses a grimace, curling his hand into a fist on the table. It’s not as painful as it could be, with an alpha’s scent all over him and an alpha’s come inside him, but it’s painful enough. His clothes feel stifling. His hole feels empty. He feels . . . a lot of things, he thinks, but too many to narrow down to just a word.
If he woke Jaskier up, Jaskier would fuck him.
But he doesn’t need it yet.
Geralt concentrates on breathing, and not the heat under his skin and the sweat on it, not the tightness in his chest and throat, not . . . anything else. Nothing else. Breathing is simple. He can do that.
He doesn’t need to wake Jaskier up.
If he does . . . if he wakes Jaskier up, Jaskier will start talking again. Maybe use his alpha voice again, the one that makes Geralt so fucking wet every time he hears the faintest hint of it.
Maybe lie to him again.
Jaskier sighs in his sleep, and Geralt tightens the fist he has on the table. He doesn’t need to wake him up yet.
He could. Jaskier wouldn’t mind, he’s sure. He could take off his clothes and crawl back into that nest and tell Jaskier what he . . . what he needs, and Jaskier would do his damnedest to give it to him. At least for now. At least for the short-term.
He could.
He doesn’t.
He doesn’t need it yet.
Jaskier is still sleeping. Geralt still misses his cock, and . . . other things. His scent up close, his hands seeking safe places on his body, his alpha voice, just his voice—
Geralt wants him. And he knows how very, very dangerous it is to want people. He’s learned that lesson enough times by now, but apparently not enough to not have to learn it at least once more. Jaskier is laying there asleep and Geralt should leave, should grab his pack and go and not look back. He should suffer through the heat pains, suffer with Jaskier’s scent all over him, and leave this miserable little village and cozy little cottage far, far behind.
He should never, ever have let Jaskier touch him.
Wanting is dangerous. Dangerous and a waste. Wanting is foolish, childish, stupid—
Geralt breathes. He concentrates on breathing. He wants to touch Jaskier, to crawl into that nest, to put his hands all over him and get his hands all over himself in return. He feels like he’s never wanted to be touched so badly. He has, obviously—he’s wanted to be touched a lot worse than this, he’s sure, all the heats he’s spent alone—but it feels that way.
Jaskier just smells so good, and right now . . . right now, he smells like Jaskier. Like Jaskier’s his alpha.
Geralt bites the inside of his cheek; digs his nails into his palms. Wants, fiercely, but doesn’t—he doesn’t need it yet. He doesn’t. So he doesn’t crawl into the nest, and he doesn’t wake Jaskier.
He can wait. It’s fine. He knows he’s too demanding in heat anyway, knows he wants too much, so the longer he waits the better. He’s already made Jaskier go more rounds than a normal omega would.
He just feels so empty.
Jaskier keeps sleeping. Geralt’s not sure when he went back to watching him. He stopped for a while, didn’t he?
He wants him to wake up. He wants him to wake up and call him back to the nest and fuck him ‘til he doesn’t have to think anymore, ‘til everything’s simple, but it’s not that simple. He smells like he belongs to Jaskier, like Jaskier belongs to him, and it means nothing.
It means nothing, but it’s making him so wet.
Geralt buries his face in the arm he has on the table as another painful cramp comes over him, and his other hand massages his stomach. It doesn’t help, really. Only getting knotted or coming helps. It’s too soon to wake up Jaskier, though, and . . .
It’s just too soon to wake up Jaskier.
He could, though. He could wake up Jaskier and Jaskier would fuck him, fill him up so he isn’t so achingly empty anymore, get his scent all over him all over again. Make him smell like he belongs to him, as if he’s ever belonged to anyone. As if he ever could.
But he could smell like it, if Jaskier touched him. And he could feel like it, if he let Jaskier lie to him again.
Geralt curls his fingers against his stomach and exhales. Inhales. Exhales. Breathes.
He wants to be touched so, so badly.
But he doesn’t need it, not yet, so he doesn’t wake Jaskier.
He really is so wet. He thinks he’s soaking through his pants. He can’t help it, with Jaskier’s scent all over him; with Jaskier’s scent all over this cottage. If he wanted to lie to himself, he could pretend they belonged here. Pretend it was theirs, or at least Jaskier’s, and . . .
Never mind. Stupid. Stupid fucking thing to think.
Geralt bites his arm. He looks at Jaskier again, and gets even wetter. Too soon, he tells himself again. Too soon. He can wait.
Jaskier smells so good. Jaskier’s cock feels so good, so big and thick and fat. Geralt wants it in him again—his mouth, his hole, he doesn’t care. He bites down harder on his arm because not yet and shoves the heel of his hand against his own cock to just . . . just for a moment’s relief. Just a little bit.
It doesn’t feel like a relief.
He tugs open the front of his pants, slips a hand in, and just . . . touches himself, just a bit. He doesn’t need it yet, but he wants it so fucking badly. And if he comes again, it’ll be one less thing to ask of Jaskier; one less moment of too-much.
That’s better, he tells himself, and shifts his hips and slips his fingers inside himself. It’s easy, because he’s wet and slicked-up and well-fucked, and he shudders at the feeling. That's because of Jaskier.
Fucking heat.
Geralt hates heat. It makes him stupid and vulnerable and fucking lonely and it's dangerous, besides. A compromised witcher is a dead one. And he's made it all this time avoiding Jaskier when his heat was due, but of course this time it had to be fucking early, had to sneak up on him on an unsafe back road, when leaving Jaskier to his own devices might've gotten the damn bard killed.
He hadn't actually expected Jaskier to partner him, but he'd known he'd want him to. Want him to touch him, and scent him, and put that big fat knot in him. The only way this could be worse would be if he'd gone into heat around Yennefer.
No. Yennefer would've known better than to lie to him. And if Yennefer were here . . .
He squirms.
If Yennefer were here, they could both . . . they'd both partner him. Jaskier'd said. They'd both partner him and he wouldn't need to wait, because even if one was worn out the other wouldn't be. They'd be . . . they'd both . . .
He buries his face in his arm again and fucks his fingers deeper into himself. They make wet, obscene noises and his hole drips. It's not enough, not like Jaskier's cock would be, but it's something. It'll do.
He doesn't need it yet, so it's fine.
He just needs . . .
Jaskier sighs in his sleep again and Geralt fucks his fingers in quicker; pushes in another. It's almost enough. It's so, so close to enough. He just needs to come, and then he can wait. He can wait.
It's almost enough.
He bites down harder on his arm, squeezing his eyes shut, and curls his fingers inside himself. He's so close, but it still isn't getting him there. It's hard to come when he can't stop thinking about how much better it'd be if it were Jaskier's fingers, Jaskier's tongue, Jaskier's cock. How good it would feel to be back in Jaskier's nest, being touched by him and overwhelmed by his pheromones.
Jaskier would kiss him, probably. Jaskier seems to like kissing. Geralt . . . people never kiss him as much as he wants them to, but Jaskier almost did. Jaskier would do it again, he's sure. He wouldn't even have to ask.
He leans heavier against the table, trying to fuck his fingers in even deeper, and can't get—it's not enough. Not a cock, not a knot, not enough. He wants more so badly and it's not enough.
He fucking despises heat. Any other time it'd be enough, it'd be plenty, it'd be fine, but in heat . . . in heat he wants all sorts of things he can't have.
Too many things he can't have.
His skin's so hot. His gut is aching. He's going to burn up, melt away, evaporate—
Geralt hisses very, very quietly and twists his fingers inside of himself and digs his nails into the meat of his palm. He doesn't look at Jaskier. He doesn't think about things he can't have. He doesn't—he doesn't—
He just . . . doesn't.
It's fine. It's fine. He can do this, he can come, he can stop thinking about what he wants long enough to fucking come. He doesn't need anything else. He doesn't. He just needs this, and he'll be fine.
Better this than being lied to again, anyway. Better this than pretending he's something he's not.
He doesn't need an alpha. He's been fine without one plenty of times.
He doesn't need Jaskier.
He doesn't need . . .
“What are you doing?” Jaskier asks as he sits up in the nest, and Geralt whines. He doesn't mean to, doesn't intend to, but it escapes him in a rush, and Jaskier leans forward and—"Geralt," he says, and Geralt finally, finally comes. Instinct has him trying to lock his slick-soaked fingers, instinct that expects Jaskier's knot, and he muffles a disappointed moan in his arm. He doesn't feel sated or satisfied. He doesn't feel better.
Jaskier gets up off the bed, out of the nest, and comes over and touches his hair. Geralt looks up at him blurrily, resisting the urge to lean into his hands.
"Geralt," Jaskier says again. "What are you doing?"
Geralt doesn't answer. It's obvious, isn't it?
"Geralt," Jaskier says with alpha in his voice, and an aftershock of orgasm shudders through Geralt. He tries to lock his fingers again and has to bury another whine in his arm.
There's nothing to say.
". . . can I touch you?" Jaskier says, and Geralt can't do anything but nod. Jaskier puts his hand over the back of his and slips clever fingers inside him with his own, and Geralt shakes. His legs spread wider without him even meaning to move them, and Jaskier strokes and rubs inside him and it's just—it's so—
It's barely any time at all before he's coming again with a stifled moan, and this time—this time feels better. This time it makes the burning soften and the tension leave his body, and he slumps against the table.
"You could've woken me up," Jaskier says.
Geralt grunts. Jaskier curls his fingers inside him, and Geralt groans.
"You could've," Jaskier says, then goes to his knees and starts kissing Geralt's stomach. Geralt puts a shaking hand on the back of his head. Jaskier pulls his pants down properly and puts his mouth on his cock. Geralt makes a noise he doesn't mean to make, thin and desperate, and Jaskier lets him fuck his mouth.
Encourages him to fuck his mouth, even.
"Jaskier," he manages, not even meaning to say it, and Jaskier hums, mouth vibrating around his cock. Geralt starts fucking himself with his fingers again, too urgent and too needy, and Jaskier matches his pace with his own. Geralt feels desperate and foolish and wanting, and Jaskier seems just fine with that.
He knows it's too much, knows he's being too demanding, but . . .
"Knot me," he chokes, and Jaskier leans back to stroke his own cock to hardness, and Geralt gets up and kicks off his pants and bends over the table. He won't have to look at Jaskier, this way.
Jaskier won't be looking at him this way.
Jaskier stands up and guides his cock into him, and Geralt grips the table as it slides home perfectly, like it's always belonged in him, like it always should belong in him.
"You're so—impossible," Jaskier grits out. That's right, Geralt thinks. He wants too much. Wants things that are impossible. "What am I here for, Geralt?"
"I don't know," Geralt says, because the question's so unexpected he can't help but let the truth slip out. Jaskier makes an indignant noise, then a frustrated one.
"You," he says. "That's what I'm here for. Don't just let me sleep when you need me."
"I was fine," Geralt rasps, his voice hitching as Jaskier thrusts a little harder.
"You needed me," Jaskier says. He puts his hands over the back of Geralt's and squeezes. Geralt nearly bites his tongue.
"I was fine," he manages again, and Jaskier makes that frustrated noise again too and snaps his hips into him. Geralt clutches harder at the table.
"It's heat," Jaskier says. "If you need me, I want to be there. Even if you don't need me."
"I didn't," Geralt says.
"That’s—fine," Jaskier says. He snaps his hips in tighter, and Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s fine. But I still want to be there.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He doesn’t have a better answer. He doesn’t think there is one.
Jaskier kisses the back of his neck, right where a mating bite would go, and Geralt shudders.
“Don’t,” he croaks. Jaskier squeezes his hands.
“I won’t,” he says. “I told you. Not if you don’t ask me.”
Geralt thinks he hates him for saying that. For implying that he ever would. He almost wants to ask for it, just to prove to them both how full of shit he is right now.
He doesn’t want to ask for it.
Jaskier kisses his neck again, and Geralt tenses. He’d meant—he didn’t want to be kissed there, he’d meant.
Obviously Jaskier wouldn’t want to bite him.
Obviously.
He doesn’t clarify, though, and Jaskier mouths gently at his neck and then drops a kiss on the back of his shoulder that makes him shudder for no good reason, except for that it’s Jaskier. He should tell him to stop, but he doesn’t, and Jaskier keeps fucking him, keeps laying soft little kisses on his skin, keeps being there.
Geralt can’t handle this.
It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s just like any other heat partner, it’s fine. Jaskier will treat him like this now and tomorrow morning he’ll be back to normal, like they’d never touched each other at all. All Geralt has to do is not do anything stupid in the meantime.
It’s fine.
“So sweet,” Jaskier says, and Geralt grits his teeth.
“I don’t need platitudes,” he bites off harshly. Jaskier nuzzles the back of his neck, the bastard.
“It’s not,” he says. “I mean it. You’re so sweet. Downright lovely.”
“Shut up,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s a liar, just like with all his made-up songs. Geralt doesn’t want to hear it.
It aches, hearing it. That’s the kind of thing alphas say to other omegas. Not him.
Jaskier doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the back of his neck again and fucks him harder and Geralt bites his tongue near to the blood. He thinks he hates him. Right now he wants to hate him. It’d be easier.
So much easier.
“Jaskier,” he says, not meaning to say anything. “Jaskier, Jaskier.”
Jaskier puts a hand on his hip and fucks him even harder, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Geralt curses at him; can’t help it. It feels good, and he wishes it didn’t. Wishes Jaskier would stop, and never stop, and kiss him again, and never kiss him again. Wishes that—wishes—
He doesn’t wish anything.
He doesn’t.
Jaskier is making noises against his back, his head dipped low. Geralt is just trying to stand it. Jaskier snakes a hand underneath him and gets his fingers on his cock, and it just takes a few strokes before Geralt’s coming again. He doesn’t know if he’s ever come so easily as Jaskier’s been making him. It’s not—it’s not right. It’s not safe.
He doesn’t even know what he means by that.
What does he mean by that?
“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps out as he comes, pressing his forehead between his shoulder blades. Geralt locks around him reflexively, clutching down on his knot, and Jaskier moans loudly. No surprise that he’s loud, really. Geralt almost wishes he were louder.
He doesn’t know why he wants that either.
He wants too many things right now, like he always does in heat. Wants things no one can give him. Wants things no one wants to give him. Just wants.
It’s always too much.
“Good?” Jaskier says hopefully, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck.
“Fine,” Geralt grunts, realizing he’s regretting this position already. It’s not the most ideal way he’s ever been knotted. He pushes himself up on his elbows and Jaskier wraps his arms around his waist and presses his mouth against the back of his neck again, which might be even worse. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” Jaskier asks.
“Touching me,” Geralt says. “There.”
“Should I stop?” Jaskier asks, and that’s the question, isn’t it. Geralt grits his teeth before the “no” can slip out, but can’t seem to force out a “yes” either. Jaskier slides a hand up his stomach, waiting for an answer. Geralt can’t find one. “Geralt?”
Geralt just . . . doesn’t know what to say.
So he says nothing, and Jaskier does nothing; keeps his arms around him, but loosely, and doesn't speak. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his silence. For once in his life he feels like he should fill it, but . . .
He doesn't. He shouldn't.
He's so tired, he thinks, closing his eyes and letting his head slump forward. He never should've gotten out of bed to begin with.
That's why he misses Jaskier's mouth against his neck, he tells himself. He's tired, and heat is making him stupid. That's all.
Heat always makes him stupid.
Jaskier pulls his softening knot out of him, and Geralt hisses at the loss of it, his fingers curling against the table. Come and slick drip out of him and he grimaces, and Jaskier wipes it all away with a soft cloth and softer hands, which makes Geralt stiffen. He straightens up, jaw locked against whatever his mouth might try to say, and Jaskier puts a hand on the small of his back, lightly.
"Nest?" Jaskier suggests as quietly as Geralt's ever heard him say anything, and Geralt . . . goes.
He doesn't know what else to do.
He strips off his shirt and lays down in the nest and turns his face into the blankets, and Jaskier strokes a hand through the loose tangle of his hair.
"May I come in, omega?" he asks.
"No," Geralt says, just to see what he'll do. Jaskier hums in disappointment, but keeps stroking his hair. He doesn't come in.
Geralt's so tired. How is he supposed to do this? How is he supposed to let Jaskier touch him like this, make him feel like this, and then go back to normal?
He never should've let him in the cottage. Should've shut him out and told him to go find a room to rent until his heat was over. But he did let him in, and now the place smells like he belongs here, and . . .
Jaskier draws his fingers through his hair again. Geralt bites the inside of his cheek.
He doesn't know what to do.
Jaskier keeps stroking his hair, and Geralt catches him by the wrist and squeezes tightly.
"Should I stop?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt closes his eyes and just . . . exhales.
"You talk too much," he says, and drags the other into the nest. Jaskier lands on top of him with a surprised noise, and Geralt shifts to cradle the other's body with his own. He misses his cock again already, but it's too soon to ask for it. Humans only have so much stamina, and alphas less than omegas on top of that. He can't expect Jaskier to keep up with his hormones.
"I just want to do what you want," Jaskier says, which—he's an alpha, of course he'd say that. Alphas always want to do what an omega wants, right up until it's not worth it.
It's been not worth it pretty quickly, in all of Geralt's experiences.
"I don't need you worrying about what I want, I just need you knotting me when my heat spikes," he says irritably. "That's it."
"That's very hard to do, you realize," Jaskier says. He braces a hand against the mattress and lifts the other to smooth Geralt's hair back out of his face. Geralt turns his head away, and Jaskier hesitates, then drops his hand back to the mattress.
"I know," Geralt bites off. He knows he asks for too much. He's doing his best not to, dammit. "Just—do what I ask, Jaskier. Tomorrow this will all be over and you'll never have to worry about it again."
"Never?" Jaskier says.
"Yes," Geralt says. He won't let himself get caught out like this again. Won't be so stupid again.
"Mm," Jaskier says, a strange expression on his face. Geralt grits his teeth, trying not to think about how easy the other could slide his cock back into him, how good it'd feel, how it'd open him up and—
He inhales. Exhales. Breathes.
It's fine. This is fine. He doesn't need it again yet, he can fucking wait.
"What if I want to worry about it again?" Jaskier says. All Geralt's thinking about is getting him inside him again, and it takes him a moment to actually register what he's said.
"What?" he says blankly, staring at the other in confusion. Jaskier flushes, then looks guilty.
"Nothing. Sorry," he says. "That's not something to talk about when you're in heat."
"Heat isn't?" Geralt says.
"No, I mean—" Jaskier struggles for a moment, then just shakes his head. Geralt can feel their bodies pressing together and it's so, so hard not to grab his cock. Jaskier isn't even hard. "I want to help. That's all."
"Fine," Geralt says. He doesn't understand. That's what Jaskier's already doing.
"I mean I always want to help," Jaskier says. Geralt . . . pauses.
"What does that mean," he says. It's not quite a question, but it's definitely a question.
"It means whatever you want it to," Jaskier says. "Anything you want."
Geralt tenses, clenching his jaw. Jaskier looks down at him, expression . . . soft, Geralt wants to call it, except he really doesn't want to call it that. He wants it to be anything but that.
Jaskier lays a hand on his chest, fingers curling against it. Geralt doesn't want anything. He wants everything.
He wants Jaskier to stop looking at him like that and fuck him.
"Well?" Jaskier asks after a long moment of uncomfortable silence. "What do you want, Geralt?"
"Your knot," Geralt says, like an impatient idiot. Jaskier's expression flickers.
"I can do that," he says quietly. Geralt wants to tell him he doesn't have to yet, that he can wait, but . . .
But he doesn't, he supposes.
That's all. He could, but he doesn't.
Jaskier kisses the corner of his jaw and smooths his hand down his chest and stomach to his cock, and Geralt groans as he reaches it. Jaskier strokes it, and he buries his face in the other's shoulder because it's better than looking him in the eye. He feels immediately overheated again, and the ache of emptiness between his thighs is a painful thing. He grabs onto Jaskier without quite meaning to and then can't bring himself to let go. Jaskier mouths down his throat to his collarbone, and Geralt tips his head back on his neck, panting. Jaskier feels so good. His mouth, his hands, every part of him.
"Jaskier," he stutters roughly, pushing up into the other's hand and mouth. "Jaskier, Jaskier, ah—"
"I'm here," Jaskier says, nuzzling his collarbone and then biting down his chest; stroking his cock with languid efficiency. Geralt could come again so easily, he already knows, and it's easy to grind into Jaskier's hand and dig his nails into his back. Easy to just think about how it feels, and nothing else. Easy to be easy, and not think past that.
Thinking is the last thing Geralt wants to do right now.
"Jaskier," he says again, and "Jaskier."
"I'm here," Jaskier repeats. He strokes him harder. Geralt tries to stop thinking. He's in heat, it should be easy to stop thinking.
It's not. He clings tighter to Jaskier, maybe too tight, and Jaskier mouths at his chest and strokes his cock just right and makes him come. He feels better, almost, but there's still a fire in him. Still that bit of too much.
He whines, and Jaskier ducks down low and puts his mouth around his cock. Geralt fumbles at him, his hands slipping off his shoulders and then coming to rest on the back of his head. Jaskier makes an encouraging noise and lets him fuck up into his mouth. Geralt does, probably harder than he should, but Jaskier doesn't complain or pull away. Geralt feels hot, stifled and aching, and he wants more.
He hates heat so fucking much.
Jaskier makes him come again, and Geralt collapses against the bed, panting for breath. Jaskier looks up at him and licks his lips, and Geralt moans at the sight alone.
"So pretty," Jaskier husks, smoothing his hands up his thighs. Geralt bares his teeth at the lie, but only weakly. He's still shuddering through his aftershocks, and it's hard to do anything else. "I like touching you so much. You feel so good."
"Shut up, Jaskier," Geralt grits out. Jaskier pushes his mouth into his hip; digs his fingers into his thighs. He keeps looking at Geralt's face, but he doesn't say anything.
Geralt doesn't know if he likes that or not.
Geralt doesn't know . . . too many damn things.
He exhales, raggedly, and drops his hands away from Jaskier's head. Jaskier makes a soft noise, but still doesn't say anything. Geralt strokes a hand back over his hair, half-apologetic. Jaskier's just trying to be a good alpha. He just . . . doesn't know better.
"You don't have to say that kind of thing to me," Geralt murmurs. "Alright?"
"Why not?" Jaskier says, sounding frustrated. "I just want to treat you right."
"I'm a witcher," Geralt says. Other omegas might be able to hear that kind of thing and appreciate it, but it's something he'll never have, and he just . . .
He'll never have it. He doesn't want to pretend like he could.
"So?" Jaskier says with a frown, and Geralt . . . sighs.
"Witchers don't get that," he says, like it's not fucking obvious.
"Don't get heats with people being nice to them?" Jaskier asks incredulously.
"Yes," Geralt says, though really it's so much more than just that. Witchers don't get treated like that. Witchers don't get steady heat partners or taken care of. Witchers don't get . . . nice.
Or at least, he doesn't.
"You're killing me, Geralt," Jaskier says. "Really, you are. You deserve nice, for shit's sake."
"Mm," Geralt says.
"I mean it!"
He does, probably. Pity doesn't help, though; doesn't mean anything. It's just pity.
Geralt doesn't need pity, even in heat.
"Geralt," Jaskier says, crawling up him so they're face to face. Geralt immediately wants his cock in him. "Surely, once, in a hundred years, someone's taken care of you."
"Yes," Geralt says neutrally. Jaskier pounces on the answer.
"Then why won't you believe I want to?" he demands.
"Because it was once," Geralt says. "And then they left me on the side of the road to become a witcher."
". . . I thought they made witchers from children," Jaskier says slowly.
"Yes," Geralt says.
"Geralt."
"It's fine," Geralt says. "Just—you don't have to say things like that to me."
"You're an idiot!" Jaskier hisses. He shifts, and Geralt is all too aware of the other's cock against his body. It's soft, mostly; more's the pity. He tries to pay attention to what Jaskier's saying, but . . . "Oh, what am I doing, you're not even listening to me. Do I have to fuck you to get your attention?"
"Yes," Geralt lies. Jaskier scowls.
"Fine," he says, and slides a hand between them to slip his fingers inside him. Geralt barely bites back a cry, and the practiced way Jaskier thrusts his fingers inside him hardly helps him do it. "You're determined to be difficult, well, I can be difficult too. And don't give me that witcher nonsense again, I refuse to believe every witcher treats themselves so poorly."
"Jaskier," Geralt pants, bringing a hand up to bite the back of his wrist. He's still too empty. He needs a knot.
"I'm going to make you come," Jaskier informs him, twisting his fingers inside him. "And then I'm going to fuck you 'til you come again, and maybe then I'll stop."
"Please," Geralt manages, useless and senseless. Jaskier fucks his fingers in faster and puts his other hand on his cock, and he moans. It's not easy, but fuck, it's so much.
"Okay?" Jaskier says.
"Okay," Geralt chokes.
Jaskier fucks his hole and strokes his cock and leans over him to kiss his chest, and Geralt aches and moans and shudders with it, lets it overtake him as much as he can, and tries to keep himself from saying anything stupid.
There's too much he could say, so he doesn't say any of it.
Fuck, this is . . .
Geralt bites down on his wrist again and Jaskier drags his teeth across his chest and curls his fingers inside him and Geralt aches, and aches, and aches—
"I've got you," Jaskier rumbles, just the barest traces of alpha in his tone, and his voice makes Geralt so wet.
"Jaskier," he moans, and hates himself for moaning, and Jaskier mouths at his chest and fucks him harder and strokes him faster and oh, oh, oh—
Geralt comes, because Jaskier makes it easy, and he comes with a low, carrying groan that fills up the cottage. Jaskier purrs, and Geralt shudders at the sound of it.
What kind of alpha purrs, anyway?
And how does Jaskier make it sound so good when he does?
It's so good.
"Good?" Jaskier checks, and Geralt nods helplessly. Jaskier moves up over him and guides his cock inside his slick and oversensitive hole and Geralt fucking whines for it, his thighs falling open wide. He wants Jaskier in as deep as he can get. "Oh, so sweet. Aren't you being good to me."
"I'm not," Geralt tries to say, though it comes out rasping and strangled because Jaskier chooses that moment to move, fuck.
"Not what?" Jaskier asks distractedly, pushing one of his thighs up as he thrusts into him again. Geralt presses back into the bed with another groan. "Not sweet? Not good? You are. Don't make me write a song about it, I'm not above that."
"I will kill you if you try," Geralt growls. He's pretty sure he already made that clear.
"Still?" Jaskier huffs. "I'm not fucking you good enough, clearly."
"Jaskier," Geralt hisses sharply, and Jaskier rolls his hips into him and he curses. "Ah!"
"There we go," Jaskier says smugly, and then keeps fucking doing it. Geralt keeps cursing, grabbing at his back and digging his nails in. Jaskier purrs at him again, the bastard. "So sweet. And don't complain about it, alright, I am a damn connoisseur of fine omegas and I should know. I am the expert in this nest."
"You're a fucking child," Geralt growls, and Jaskier hums an unfamiliar melody in not-quite-reply, which does not sound like not writing a song about this, damn him.
"Don't make it weird, old man," he says, smoothing a hand up his side.
"That is not what I meant!" Geralt snaps, and Jaskier laughs softly and ducks his head for a moment, so Geralt isn't prepared for the sudden softness in his expression when he lifts it again. His throat tightens, and something clenches in his chest.
"You make me want to keep you," Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt could really fucking kill him.
"I said stop saying things you don't mean," he hisses.
"What if I did?" Jaskier says. "If I kept you, and made sure you smelled like mine."
Geralt growls at him. Jaskier strokes his thigh and rolls his hips in tighter, so Geralt's breath hitches.
"Then I could do this every heat," Jaskier says. "I'd make you a nest and knot you in it as many times as you liked."
"You can't knot me that many times," Geralt says through gritted teeth.
"Well, maybe I really would invite Yennefer, then," Jaskier says speculatively, and Geralt shudders painfully. He needs to shut Jaskier up. He needs to fucking gag him. "But I'd do my best in the meantime."
"Just fuck me," Geralt rasps.
"No intention of stopping, my dear," Jaskier says, and Geralt—grimaces, and puts a hand over the other's mouth. No one's ever called him an endearment like that in his life, unless they were mocking him. He thinks Yennefer's as good as allergic to them, and otherwise . . .
No, no one's ever called him anything like that.
Jaskier kisses his palm, which isn't what he was expecting, and Geralt reclaims his hand.
"Don't call me that," he says.
"Alright," Jaskier says. "What about 'my sweet'? 'Darling'?"
"Nothing," Geralt bites off roughly.
"Oh, no, I'd never call you nothing, Geralt," Jaskier says lightly. He snaps his hips in tighter again and Geralt grits his teeth. "You're just about everything, in fact."
"I hate you," Geralt lies.
"I adore you," Jaskier definitely lies. "You're wonderful. So brave and so strong, I can hardly even—"
"Shut up!" Geralt spits. Jaskier sighs, and fucks him harder. It doesn’t help, except it really does.
"I don't want to shut up," Jaskier says. "I want to tell you things."
"Then quit fucking lying," Geralt snaps.
"Maybe you could just start believing me?" Jaskier says. "You're not an audience, Geralt, I'm not trying to earn coin here."
Geralt growls at him in frustration and moves his thighs to squeeze his sides and flip them over, landing on top of Jaskier with a jarring thud. Jaskier yelps; Geralt hisses, grinding down into his lap. Jaskier’s cock slipped out of him when he was flipping them, but it’s easy to grab and sit down on it. Jaskier curses. Geralt moans. He takes the other to the root, enough so he almost feels full enough, and clutches up needily around him.
“Really, Geralt—” Jaskier wheezes, and Geralt braces his hands on the other’s stomach and fucks himself ruthlessly on his cock. He needs knotted. He needs Jaskier to come in him.
He wants—
Geralt inhales. Exhales. Breathes. He rides Jaskier’s cock and curls his fingers on Jaskier’s stomach and doesn’t say a word to him.
Jaskier keeps being Jaskier, though.
“Oh, oh, oh, Geralt, that’s so good,” he gasps out breathlessly, grabbing Geralt’s thighs and squeezing them tight; lifting his hips up into him. “You are impossible to talk to but that feels so good, hell, I mean it. You’re perf—”
Geralt slaps a hand over Jaskier’s mouth before the other can finish the word and bares his teeth at him furiously.
“Come in me,” he snarls, clenching down tight around his growing knot. “Now.”
Jaskier chokes, and comes. Geralt doesn’t have to do a damn thing. Jaskier’s come fills him up and his knot rubs him just right, fat and thick and exactly what he wanted, and he feels . . . settled, almost, almost like he’s back in his skin. Almost.
So close.
“Perfect,” Jaskier rasps, and puts a hand on Geralt’s cock, and just—rubs, just once, and then Geralt’s coming too and Jaskier’s working him through it. Geralt hisses, squeezing his eyes shut and his body tight, and Jaskier groans. “Oh, Geralt.”
He makes it sound like an endearment.
“Hn,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier reaches up and cups his face in his hands and tugs him down to be kissed. Geralt lets him, because . . . he lets him.
Liar. Such a liar.
He wants, so badly, to . . .
Geralt throws himself into the kiss and Jaskier meets him in kind, hungry and desperate even in the aftershocks of orgasm. Jaskier’s breathing heavily, his eyes hooded, and Geralt wants to bite him.
Wants . . .
He kisses him again. Jaskier throws his arms around his neck and kisses back. It’s easier than . . . anything else. Easier than things Geralt can’t think about wanting.
Easy.
“Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” Jaskier is mumbling between kisses, into kisses, and Geralt can’t even stop long enough to answer him, his hands all over the other. He wants to be kissed, he wants this, he wants things he can’t think about wanting, and it’s all much, much too much. “It’s alright, it’s alright, I have you.”
“Liar,” Geralt chokes out, because he is, and Jaskier clings to him.
“Not to you,” he swears. “Never to you.”
Geralt feels like he could fucking sob, something painful caught in his throat, but he isn’t a witcher for nothing. He swallows, and steadies himself, and he turns his face away when Jaskier tries to kiss him again.
He just needs the knot. All the rest of this . . . this is just lies. Tricks. Pretend.
An illusion.
Jaskier kisses his cheek, and then his jaw, and then his throat. He tangles a hand in his hair and pushes the other down his back and across his scars like they’re not even there. He stays close, even though he doesn’t need to. Geralt could shove him down again, break away from his hands and kisses, but he doesn’t. He could do a lot of things he doesn’t do.
“I have you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s jaw tightens. “I’m here. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere until you tell me otherwise.”
“Prove it,” Geralt says, because he’s so tired of it. Jaskier’s just saying what he thinks he wants to hear, and he’s not even wrong. Geralt . . . he does want to hear those things. He wants to hear them so badly that hearing them hurts.
Admitting that hurts even worse.
“How?” Jaskier says. “What do you want?”
“Figure it out, bard,” Geralt sneers, baring his teeth at him. There’s nothing. Nothing Jaskier could possibly do or say. Nothing that would prove a thing.
“Ask me,” Jaskier says, stroking his hair back out of his eyes, searching his face for . . . something. Whatever it is, Geralt doesn’t have it.
He doesn’t even know what Jaskier’s talking about.
“No,” he says, and frustration flickers at the corners of Jaskier’s expression. He strokes his hair again. He tightens the arm around his back. Geralt just . . . lets him. It’s not real, but it feels good.
Painful, but good.
“Haven’t I been around long enough yet?” Jaskier says. “You’ve known me since I was eighteen. Where in there did you get the idea I’d ever leave you?”
“You will,” Geralt says dully. Everyone leaves. That’s how it is. Jaskier’s free to go when and wherever he likes, and Geralt has nothing worth coming back for.
That’s how it feels, anyway.
Fuck, he hates heat.
“Not unless you tell me to go,” Jaskier says firmly. “Or, well, unless I die horribly on one of these monster hunts, that’s its own possibility.”
“You won’t,” Geralt says, tensing at the thought. He won’t let that happen.
“I know,” Jaskier says too-tenderly, cupping his face in his hands again and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. Geralt grabs his wrists, but can’t bring himself to pull his hands away. “Oh, Geralt. Just let me. Please.”
“I can’t,” Geralt grits out. Even if he wanted to—and he does want to. He does. He wants to let Jaskier do all the things other alphas do for other omegas and say all those sweet things and make all the promises he likes.
But he can’t.
“Why not?” Jaskier says. “What, am I going to run off on you? I’m a bard. We do that. I’ll be back. Hell, you’re usually the one running off on me.”
“I know,” Geralt says. He doesn’t want to run off on Jaskier. He just—he has to, sometimes. He did it to Yennefer, he does it to Jaskier, he does it all the time. He has to.
“I’m here,” Jaskier says, then kisses him again. Geralt . . . kisses back. Slowly. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind. He puts one hand on Geralt’s chest and strokes the other through his hair, and Geralt puts his own on the other’s hips, lost for what else to do with them.
They kiss until Jaskier’s knot goes down, and then Jaskier cleans them both up before they can get too unfortunately sticky, and then they lay in the nest together, waiting for the next spike of Geralt’s heat. There’s more coming, he knows. He’s never lucky enough to have short heats, no matter who partners him or how.
Jaskier drapes an arm across his stomach and lays his head on his chest, and Geralt doesn’t know what to do with him.
“Is this alright?” Jaskier asks, glancing up at him. “Or would you prefer the other way around?”
Geralt almost laughs at him. He’s not the kind of omega people cuddle up to. He’s definitely not the kind of omega who people let lie on them like that. Jaskier’s already an outlier for being willing to lay this close next to him without getting paid for it. Even Yennefer doesn’t do that.
“It’s fine,” Geralt says, because the rest of it’s too much, and Jaskier hums and traces aimless patterns on his stomach. The heat in it is just banked embers right now, but at the touch of Jaskier’s hand, Geralt could swear he feels them glow.
“Good,” Jaskier says. “I like being close to you.”
Geralt really could laugh, if he let himself. Instead he sighs and rests a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, and Jaskier purrs quietly against his chest. Geralt tries not to read too much into . . . any of this. Jaskier is just feeling lazy and warm and wants to share the feeling, clearly. He isn't . . . he doesn’t . . .
Geralt hides his face in Jaskier’s hair, and concentrates on breathing. Since that means he’s smelling nothing but Jaskier, it doesn’t really help. Jaskier gives a soft, approving rumble and shifts in closer against his side. Geralt wouldn’t have thought they could get any closer, but Jaskier figures out a way.
He lifts his other hand, hesitantly, and sets it on Jaskier’s hip. Jaskier purrs, wrapping his arm around his stomach again and squeezing tight. Geralt . . . exhales.
It feels good.
He doesn’t think about it past that.
It’s not long before the heat in his gut starts intensifying again, though, and he bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stave off the feeling. Jaskier wants to do this, and probably needs the recovery time besides. He can wait.
Another benefit of that scent-masking potion: Jaskier can’t smell his heat spiking. Geralt can hold out as long as he likes, and Jaskier won’t know the difference.
That’s something, at least.
They lay there for a while, Jaskier basking in the afterglow and Geralt counting the minutes until he can reasonably expect the other to touch him again. Being an omega in heat is brutal; being a witcher omega in heat . . .
He can’t expect Jaskier to keep up with that, no, no matter how much the other might want to try.
He manages not to squirm or shudder or anything too damning, at least, and keeps as much tension out of his body as he can so Jaskier won’t feel it. He can do that. He can be patient. He can—
“How’s your heat?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt has to either grit his teeth or immediately beg to be fucked, and he isn’t willing to beg.
“Fine,” he manages. Jaskier peers up at him. He strokes a hand across his chest, and Geralt has to grit his teeth again.
“I should be timing you, really,” Jaskier says musingly. “You’ll never tell me yourself.”
“What?” Geralt manages, and Jaskier rolls on top of him and starts kissing his chest. Geralt moans, body jerking without his permission. “You can’t—it’s too soon,” he barely manages to get out, already panting, and Jaskier hums around one of his nipples. “You can’t fuck me yet.”
“You’re right, but there is a trick or two we could try,” Jaskier says.
“What?” Geralt says, and Jaskier lifts his head so he’s practically breathing in his ear.
“Touch yourself,” he murmurs in his alpha voice, and Geralt nearly comes right there. He doesn’t think he’s ever gotten a hand on his cock so quick. “Yes, just like that. Just how you like.”
“Mm!” Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, and Jaskier—he keeps talking, and he doesn’t let the alpha leave his voice for even a moment.
“Good,” Jaskier says. “Take your time about it. There’s no rush.”
Geralt fucking aches. He touches himself slowly, like Jaskier wants, and Jaskier hums a few pretty little notes and then keeps talking.
“That’s right,” he says, stroking a hand across Geralt’s chest, putting his mouth against his throat. “You’re being so good to me, Geralt.”
It still sounds like a damn endearment, somehow.
“Not doing anything to you,” he grunts, and Jaskier lets out a low laugh. Even that sounds like there’s alpha in it.
“You’re doing enough,” Jaskier says. “Put your fingers inside yourself.”
Geralt does, obviously, and shudders. Jaskier hums again; strokes his chest again.
“How does it feel?” he says. “With all my come in there.”
“Wet,” Geralt says, and Jaskier grins at him.
“That’s you,” he says, and Geralt has to bite the inside of his cheek again. It is him. He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this wet, and the more Jaskier talks the worse it gets, slick and come dripping down past his fingers and over his hand. It’s heat, so of course he’s wet, but with Jaskier talking like that, it’s just . . . “You’re so wet I could just slide on in, knot and all, and you’d take every last inch of me no problem. If Yennefer were here I bet you could take us both at once.”
“Ngh!” Geralt chokes, his eyes flaring, and Jaskier kisses his throat.
“But Yennefer's not here. So wet, and all for me,” he murmurs. “I love it, Geralt.”
Like it’s a fucking—a present or something. Like it’s some kind of gift, something Geralt went out of his way to give him.
When Jaskier says it, though, it really does feel that way.
“Jaskier,” Geralt croaks, and Jaskier kisses his throat again and smooths his hand down his stomach.
“Come for me, Geralt,” he says, and it takes very, very little effort to obey. Geralt comes with a jerk and a strangled almost-cry and then just slumps back into the bed, dazed, and Jaskier kisses up his throat and strokes his skin and hair, and Geralt shudders again and again under the contact.
That was . . . easy. Too easy.
He doesn’t know how to feel about that.
“Was that alright?” Jaskier asks as he shifts to the side and lays down beside him again. “I’ve had partners who liked it before, so I thought maybe . . . I mean, I’m actually not even sure alpha voices work on witchers, come to think, it was just the first thing I thought of.”
“Alpha voices work on witchers,” Geralt says roughly, and Jaskier brightens.
“Oh!” he says. “Good.”
“Hn,” Geralt grunts, covering his eyes with an arm as he forces his breathing to get back in order, and Jaskier drops a kiss against his shoulder. It’s a sweet little thing; another illusion. Something else he can’t really have.
“Do you want knotted?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt forgets everything he was thinking about.
“Can you?” he says, dropping his arm away to look at the other again.
“Spirit’s willing, at least,” Jaskier says, flashing him a grin. “So is that a yes?”
Obviously it is. Geralt rolls onto his stomach and tilts his hips up very unsubtly, and Jaskier turns red, his grin widening.
“As to the point as ever,” he says, pushing himself up to lean over him. He sweeps Geralt’s hair aside and kisses his spine, and Geralt grunts impatiently. Jaskier promised him a knot. “Mmm, so greedy. I love it.”
Geralt says nothing to that. What alpha would actually like an omega that can’t be satisfied? It fucks with their instincts, makes them feel like they’ve failed to take care of their partner when it’s just that Geralt’s damned body can’t calm down.
Alphas don’t like that, obviously, and he can’t blame them. He doesn’t like feeling like a failure of an omega, so why would they like the reverse?
And it’s a lot easier for them not to have that problem. Geralt can’t get away from himself, but everyone else can.
Jaskier runs a hand up his side and kisses up the back of his neck, and Geralt digs his fingers into the quilts underneath them. It’s not enough.
“Get in me,” he demands, and yes, he knows he’s asking for too much but Jaskier said—
“So impatient,” Jaskier says, kissing his neck again. “I’ll be in you soon enough. Fuck, it’s a shame I’m not in rut.”
“You still wouldn’t be able to keep up,” Geralt says. Besides, the chances of that ever happening are slim. Only mated pairs’ cycles match up. It’d be a complete accident if theirs ever did.
He wonders what Jaskier’s like in rut. He hasn’t been around too many rutting alphas, but . . .
“Rude!” Jaskier says with a huff, slipping a hand underneath his body and over his cock. Geralt snarls at him. “Very rude. Where’s the gratitude, I ask you.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt snaps, and Jaskier nuzzles his neck and strokes his cock and Geralt doesn’t forgive him, exactly, but—”Ah!”
“You make such lovely noises,” Jaskier says musingly. Geralt can feel his cock against his ass. It’s not in him, and that makes him snarl again.
“Maybe if you were rutting, you’d be doing your damn job,” he says.
“Is that all I’m good for, Geralt?” Jaskier says. “Just my knot?”
“It’s not in me so how would I know?” Geralt growls.
“Rude,” Jaskier says again, and then he does push his cock into him and any retort Geralt might’ve had flies right out of his head. It doesn’t matter, anyway, as long as Jaskier’s fucking him. Jaskier thrusts in; pulls back out. He’s slow about it, but he thrusts as deep as he can. Geralt feels his growing knot pop into and out of him, and buries a strangled noise in the quilts.
“Please,” he says, not meaning to say anything.
“Ah, there’s your manners,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Wouldn’t leave you now, would I?”
“Right,” Geralt says, although of course he would. People leave whenever the hell they feel like it. Jaskier’s no different.
He thinks he’d never fucking forgive him if he left right now, though. He thinks he’d fucking hate him if he left right now.
“Right,” Jaskier agrees, putting his hands on his hips to adjust the angle and somehow managing to sink in even deeper. Or at least, it feels like he has. “Oh, you’re still so tight. And you’re so wet. Beautiful.”
“Shut up,” Geralt says. He never wants to hear that word out of the other’s mouth again. Jaskier huffs.
“You are,” he says, alpha in his voice, and Geralt snarls back at him angrily. It’s not fair to say it like that. If he says it like that—
Geralt could almost believe it, when he says it like that.
“This is not a thing I’d lie to you about, Geralt,” Jaskier says, bending low over his back and kissing his spine again, rolling his hips in tight. Geralt’s shoulders slump, and he bites the inside of his cheek. There are scars on his back. Jaskier acts like they’re not even there. Usually people avoid them, or trace them deliberately. Jaskier just ignoring them makes him feel . . . strange.
He doesn’t know what it makes him feel.
He doesn’t know a lot of what Jaskier makes him feel, except for the dangerous things.
“Believe me,” Jaskier murmurs. He trails his hands up Geralt’s ribs and cups his pecs, and Geralt grunts. He can’t find anything to say. He remembers earlier, when he’d practically thrown Jaskier off him, when he’d yelled at him, and can’t believe the other has the patience for this. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be a good alpha, but every alpha has a line, and Geralt’s not sure how close he is to Jaskier’s.
He doesn’t want to find out.
Jaskier kisses the back of his neck again. Geralt tries not to shudder, but it’s a lost cause. He pushes his chest into Jaskier’s hands and digs his fingers into the bed and doesn’t say anything, still. He doesn’t know what he could.
“I’ve got you,” Jaskier says. “I’m here.”
Geralt just . . . he can’t believe him. He wants to, wants to so badly, fucking aches with wanting to, but . . .
“Ask me, Geralt,” Jaskier says.
“What?” Geralt rasps, not understanding. Jaskier kisses his neck again; smooths his hands down his stomach and touches his cock; presses his knot in tight and grinds inside him.
“Ask me,” he says against the back of Geralt’s neck. “And I’ll prove it to you.”
“You’ll prove it,” Geralt says, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed and stupid, like every heat, and Jaskier nuzzles his neck.
“I will,” he says. “But you have to ask.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and still can’t find the words. He doesn’t even know what to ask for; doesn’t know what Jaskier could possibly do. It’s not—
“Geralt,” Jaskier rumbles with alpha in his voice, and just barely scrapes his teeth against the back of his neck. Geralt chokes, and comes. It tears out of him, unexpected and sudden, and he half-collapses but Jaskier still fucks him through it.
His teeth don’t leave the back of his neck. It’s not a bite, not enough pressure for that, but Geralt feels shaken and—and held, almost, and . . . and he doesn’t know what. Can’t figure it out.
“Don’t,” he croaks hoarsely. “Don’t pretend.”
“I’m not pretending,” Jaskier says against his neck, wrapping a tight arm around his stomach; fucking into him a last few times, until his knot fully swells and he’s come too and Geralt can lock him and almost, almost feels like he’s back in his skin.
Liar, he wants to say, but what he actually says is much worse.
“Prove it,” he says, tight and painful, and Jaskier squeezes the arm around his stomach and tugs them both down to their sides and doesn’t prove it, of course, of course he doesn’t, he was never going to, he was never going to and the fact Geralt even asked is—
“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck one more time, and then bites down hard.
Geralt makes a noise. It’s not a very dignified noise—it’s shocked, mostly. Jaskier licks across the bite to soothe it, but that doesn’t do anything. Geralt feels like he’s on fire.
“Jaskier,” he chokes, reaching back to grab the other by the back of the neck; holding him close, so his mouth stays pressed to—to—
To the bite.
It can’t have been as hard as it felt. It can’t have broken skin. Except he can smell blood, and feel it, and . . .
“Okay?” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s fingers tighten on the back of his neck. It’s so . . . anti-climatic, almost. Jaskier bit him. Bit him there.
It’d be anti-climatic, except he’s fucking burning from it.
“Jaskier,” he manages again. Jaskier licks the bite again, and Geralt practically fucking trembles. “You bit me.”
“That’s—you wanted it, right?” Jaskier says, sounding alarmed. “You said—”
“Prove it,” Geralt breathes, squirming back against the other. He had. He’d said. And Jaskier . . . “No one’s ever . . .”
“I remember.” Jaskier kisses the bite. “Does it hurt?”
“Not enough,” Geralt says. He wants it to hurt, he thinks. He wants to know it’s there.
“Of course not,” Jaskier mutters wryly, and then bites him again, harder this time. Geralt hisses through his teeth, pressing into the other’s. It’s just a bite, he tells himself. It doesn’t mean . . .
But it does.
It does mean.
“Jaskier,” he says again, turning as much as he can to look back at him. and Jaskier kisses him. Without being asked, with the taste of his blood on his lips, without hesitation. Without saying it’s too much, or that he’s too much, or . . .
“I’m here,” Jaskier says, husky and low, wrapping his arms around him. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” Geralt says, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed and weak.
And . . . he does. He knows.
It’s easy.
“Touch me,” Geralt says, grabbing one of Jaskier’s hands and pulling it down to his cock, and Jaskier does, and it’s easy. Jaskier strokes his cock and kisses the bite on his neck and touches him like he never wants to do anything else, and Geralt shudders and shudders and shakes with it. He’s full of Jaskier’s come and Jaskier’s knot and Jaskier’s mouth is against his neck and it’s so fucking easy, like it’s nothing, like it’s so many things, like he could’ve had this at any moment, just for the asking.
He could’ve, he realizes. Any time he asked, he could’ve had this.
“Good?” Jaskier asks quietly, and Geralt nods helplessly. “Good. Will you let me take care of you now?”
Geralt nods again. Can’t not. Jaskier makes a soft, pleased sound and bites his neck again. He strokes his cock until Geralt is moaning with it, until he's coming on Jaskier's knot, slow and shaky. It's—easy.
He can't get over how easy it is.
Jaskier carefully pulls his softened knot out of him, and Geralt can't help the disappointed sound he makes.
"I've got you," Jaskier promises, then rolls him onto his back and slides down his body to kiss his stomach. Geralt lets him do it, limbs loose and pliant, and Jaskier eats him out until any other alpha would be complaining about how long it's taking him to come, and as soon as Geralt realizes that, he's coming again. Jaskier purrs, sounding smug and satisfied. Geralt throws an arm across his eyes, grunting quietly when the bite on his neck aches gently at the motion.
Jaskier crawls up his body again and kisses him, just briefly. Geralt doesn't even have time to move his arm before he's gone, a lingering hand left on his chest for just a moment longer.
"I'm going to get you something to eat," Jaskier says. "Sound good?"
Geralt grunts, moving his arm to watch the other get up. Jaskier runs a hand up his arm, then steps away to the table. He comes back a moment later with a plate of food and a cup of water, and Geralt accepts them both as the other kisses his hair. It's food he got out himself, expecting Jaskier to eat it, but he feels oddly warm all the same.
"How do you feel?" Jaskier says. He starts fixing up the little parts of the nest they've rumpled or knocked in, which doesn't seem like a very alpha thing to do but makes Geralt feel warm too. And not in the way where he needs knotted.
"Fine," Geralt says. There's not really another answer. Jaskier hums, then kisses his hair again. He goes around the cottage, straightening up everything they've displaced. Geralt eats, very aware of the dull pain in the back of his neck. He watches Jaskier.
Jaskier doesn't seem to notice. Geralt isn't sure how he could miss him staring; it's not subtle. But Jaskier just puts away the uneaten food and cleans up the crumbs on the table and acts . . . domestic, almost. Like he belongs here.
Like they belong here.
They don't, not either of them, but Geralt finds he likes it better than an inn or brothel or campsite.
Maybe that's just Jaskier, though.
Jaskier makes him feel so many things.
Geralt finishes eating, and Jaskier comes back for the plate and kisses him again. Geralt melts into it; into the hand the other puts on the back of his neck. Jaskier kisses him deeply, slowly, lingeringly. It feels so sweet.
"Thank you," Jaskier says, warm and quiet. Geralt doesn't have anything to say back. He can't think of the right words.
Jaskier kisses him again. Curls his fingers against his neck. Geralt noises softly, leaning into it. It's easy.
He wants to be kissed more. He wants to be touched more. He wants . . .
Jaskier keeps kissing him, slow and unhurried. Geralt keeps kissing him back. His gut warms. He doesn't want to come, exactly, but he does miss Jaskier's . . . everything, really. They're kissing, and he still misses him.
Heat is a bitch like that.
"How do you feel?" Jaskier says as he regrettably breaks off the kiss. His hand is still on the bite. The bite that he gave him.
No one's ever done that before.
It's hard not to think about that.
"Warm," Geralt says.
"Makes sense." Jaskier flashes him a wry smile, smoothing his hand down his neck. Geralt closes his eyes.
"Do it again," he says, and Jaskier repeats the stroke of his hand. That's not what Geralt meant, though. "No," he says. "With your teeth."
"Oh," Jaskier says, and immediately leans down behind him, brushing his hair out of the way. Geralt's prepared for it, this time, but all the same, when Jaskier's teeth sink in . . .
He shudders.
It feels nothing like he'd expected, the few times he'd let himself wonder. He'd just expected it to hurt. But it makes him feel a sense of . . . belonging. Like Jaskier will always come back and do it again.
He knows it's not a permanent thing, really, but it feels that way. It feels like a promise that no one else has so much as implied wanting to make.
It makes him ache. A good ache. A . . . a warm one, he thinks.
"Jaskier," he says, and Jaskier hums against his neck and digs his teeth in harder for just a moment before leaning back.
"Next time I fuck you I want to bite you again," he says. "If you're alright with that."
"Mm." Geralt hesitates for a moment—that sounds like so much—but nods. It doesn't sound bad, just . . .
"I don't have to," Jaskier says, brushing a hand through his hair again. Geralt shakes his head, slowly.
"I'd like that, I think," he murmurs, and Jaskier's face breaks into a smile.
"Me too," he says. "Definitely."
Geralt looks at him for a long moment, seeing . . . too many things to separate out, really. Seeing Jaskier, and all that implies. Part of him still can't believe the other bit him at all, and the rest can't quite wrap his head around what it really means, but . .
But.
It's such a small thing, such an easy thing, and not small or easy at all.
"How's your heat?" Jaskier says.
"Fine," Geralt says. Jaskier strokes his hair; presses a hand to his forehead to check how hot he's running. Geralt . . . doesn't mind it.
"Good," Jaskier says. "May I come in, omega?"
"Yes, alpha," Geralt answers quietly, and Jaskier beams at him. He's never called an alpha that in his life, but with Jaskier . . . it fits, with Jaskier. It suits him.
Jaskier gets back in the nest and lays down on his back, humming contentedly and keeping a hand on Geralt's nape in a way he'd punch just about anyone else for trying. He looks down at him, not sure what to do.
"Lay down with me?" Jaskier suggests hopefully, and that . . . yes, that sounds good, Geralt thinks. That's a good idea.
He shifts to lay down beside Jaskier, and Jaskier does . . . something with the hand on his neck, and the next thing Geralt knows his head's on the other's chest, Jaskier's fingers drawing lightly through his hair.
He . . . blinks.
"Alright?" Jaskier asks. Geralt would nod, but that might make him move his hand.
"Alright," he agrees quietly, carefully settling in, and Jaskier hums happily and keeps stroking his hair. It won't be long before his heat comes back and starts demanding things again, but in the meantime . . .
This is nice, in the meantime. He likes this.
He doesn't say that, but he hopes Jaskier can tell.