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When Geralt arrives at his destination in Ard Carraigh in the third week of spring, Jaskier is late.
That in and of itself is hardly worth worrying about - the bard is criminally prone to showing up late to everything, and it’s far from the first time that Geralt’s had to wait around for the dimwit to come stumbling into whatever backwater hovel they’d planned to meet up in. It’s even more common for Jaskier to show up late to Ard Carraigh in the springtime for their usual meet-up after they’ve spent the winter apart; Jaskier is easily distracted, by pretty Alphas (and handsome Betas, and sweet Omegas, and anyone and everyone), or by bardic competitions, or by stopping to smell the fucking flowers, and he rarely, if ever, arrives to Ard Carraigh before Geralt. So Geralt isn’t worrying in the slightest when he slips into their usual haunt and smells neither hide nor hair of the bard, and he keeps on not worrying right up until he flags down the innkeep and asks for messages that might have been sent here, and the man gives him nothing.
That gives Geralt pause.
“Nothing?” he echoes, a prickle of unease settling in his gut. “Not a single message?”
The innkeep, Karol, an older Alpha with tired eyes but a kind smile who’s used to dealing with Witchers when they pass to and from Kaer Morhen, and who always gives him and Jaskier a good deal when they stay here, shakes his head. “We’ve not heard so much as a whisper from your barker, Witcher. I’m sorry.”
Geralt’s heart jolts with worry. “Don’t be,” he grinds out.
Karol hums softly. “Will you be wanting a room still?”
Geralt hesitates briefly before nodding, and Karol waves down his oldest daughter to lead Geralt upstairs before promising to bring him any messages should they arrive while the Witcher is indisposed. Geralt follows Wiola to his lodgings in silence, stomach churning with unease, and probably scares the young girl half to death with his scowl as he slides into the waiting room while lost in thought. He only barely remembers to thank her - can’t wear out our welcome - before she skitters away back downstairs.
He sets his pack down beside the bed in a daze, anxiety clawing at his guts.
Jaskier is late.
The thing about Jaskier is that he may be a total dunderhead who lets himself get distracted by everything he sees and everyone he meets, but he’s also a considerate dunderhead; if he’s going to be late and he knows it, he always - always, without fail - sends a message ahead for Geralt: Don’t worry, I’m fine, I just got held up at this beautiful marketplace when they asked me to perform, or Sorry darling, I’m a wee bit indisposed, I’ll be a week late to Murivel! He’ll send along crushed flowers with his notes, sometimes, or other little trinkets and gifts, or a bit of money if times have been rough and he’s worried about Geralt sleeping outside again, anything to make sure that Geralt knows he didn’t forget him, as if Geralt would ever think that. Geralt’s lost track of the number of times he’s arrived in towns to find a tiny, pinky-sized scroll waiting for him along with a prepaid bath and a postscript note to Have fun not smelling like horse when I get there, please and thank you, and always there’s a messily drawn buttercup instead of a signature at the bottom.
The point is -
Jaskier is late.
Jaskier is late, and there’s no note, and Geralt’s stomach feels as though he’s swallowed a hive of angry bees.
He sits roughly on the edge of the bed, laying his steel sword across his knees as though he could fight the physical distance between them. “Jaskier,” he mutters. “What have you done now?”
There’s no answer beyond the creak of the floorboards and the distant din of Karol and his daughters downstairs.
He considers the possibilities when he lies in bed that night, exhausted from his trek down the Killer but too alert to sleep.
He thinks: Jaskier could have forgotten - unlikely, since they meet up in the same place every spring, and it’s equally unlikely he’d forget to send a note after over a decade of it being his habit. Jaskier could have been bewitched or fallen across some other magical malady - possible and worrisome, but not a problem Geralt can solve from this bed right this moment; he can ask around for rumors in the morning. Jaskier could have decided not to come - less possible but still credibly believable, but even then Geralt doubts Jaskier would decide not to send a message along, even if it was just to say changed my mind, sorry dearest; the bard always does have to have the last word. Jaskier could be lost on the road - again unlikely, although Geralt would only admit to it under severe torture: the bard is surprisingly capable of taking care of himself, and anyways they’ve stayed at this same inn many a time before. Jaskier could be held up by any number of normal things: a blocked road forced him to take a detour, or he’s taken ill and is recuperating elsewhere. He very well could have sent a note only to have had it lost somewhere between it leaving his hands and arriving in Ard Carraigh. It could be nothing more than human error. That’s the most probable answer, and almost certainly what’s wrong.
Or.
Or Jaskier could be dead.
Even just the thought of it brings heat to Geralt’s eyes, tears that he lost the ability to shed during the Trials. The idea of a world without Jaskier is unthinkable, robs him of breath and makes his heart turn to stone in his chest. It makes him want to pick up his swords and start swinging at whoever would dare take his bard from him - to really earn the title Butcher.
He makes himself take a deep breath. It is possible, he acknowledges - but highly unlikely that Jaskier could have died without Geralt hearing some word of it, even this far northeast. Jaskier is famous - more so than Geralt can wrap his head around most days - and if he had died, whether by accident or malice or illness or chance - someone, somewhere would be crying out in mourning, and the sound would drift across the Continent like a dirge until it reached Geralt’s ears and struck him down. But still… it’s possible.
Possible. Unlikely. Geralt tosses and turns, aflame at the idea, no matter how slim the chance.
The only other reason he can think of would be if Jaskier had gone into heat sooner than expected. It’s not unlikely, and in fact it’s happened before. Jaskier’s heats are usually fairly regular - every third new moon, as reliable as an hourglass, lasting somewhere between three to five days - but he’s had an unexpected heat spring up on him a few times since they’d met twelve years before, and Geralt can vividly recall the three times he’d helped the bard find a safe, reliable brothel and waited anxiously nearby until the bard came stumbling out a few days later, reeking like Omega and sweetness and honey-cinnamon pheromones, covered in temporary Bond bites with the seed of a wrong-bad Alpha still sticking to the insides of his thighs, Jaskier’s cheeks cherry bright and his eyes sparkling with the residual pleasure of a well-spent heat, even one that hadn’t been planned out beforehand.
Geralt isn’t an Omega, but he knows that when a heat comes - especially unexpected - that Jaskier would hardly be in any frame of mind to remember to send a note. And he also knows that Jaskier would be due for his heat in only three weeks time; he’s had surprise heats hit him earlier than that. So it’s feasible that Jaskier is out there, somewhere, being lovingly knotted and taken care of and attended to with utmost Alpha care (Jaskier would never settle for anything less, of course) and Geralt is worrying for nothing; in a few days Jaskier will come stumbling in to Karol’s Inn smelling of a (wrong, bad, wrong wrong wrong) Alpha, and they’ll have a jolly laugh about Geralt tying himself into knots of worry for no good reason whatsoever. The bastard might even write it into a song.
It probably says something not very kind about Geralt that it’s that last idea that really sits worst with him, that keeps him up the entire night, his hands fisted into the sheets so tightly that his finger joints begin to ache.
It’s just that it feels wrong for that to be happening now. Now, when they’d parted last autumn with a tentative first kiss and a lingering promise to see if they might become something more than friends come springtime. Now, after twelve years of pining that Geralt is only just starting to admit to himself was double-sided, returned, requited. Now, when Geralt had been looking forward to this spring all winter, looking forward to finding Jaskier waiting for him wearing whatever hideously impractical new fashion trend that’s swept Oxenfurt and serenading Karol’s Inn with his latest song, bright-eyed and glowing with happiness at the sight of Geralt, smelling like Omega and sweetness and honey-cinnamon and home, impatient and hopefully waiting for that second, third, fourth kiss.
And Geralt would never hold it against him, is the thing. Not ever. Most Alphas - including Geralt - would much rather their Omega find another Alpha for an unexpected heat than ride it out in agonizing solitude. Even Bonded pairs usually have an open agreement that unexpected heats and ruts should be fulfilled by whomever they trust to be there for them - it’s only the really old-fashioned, knot-brained, asshole Alphas that insist on strict monogamy, knowing the detrimental effects it has on health. And Geralt knows that Jaskier has plenty of other lovers, will probably still have lovers no matter where their relationship takes them, and he respects that. He’s a modern Alpha - hell, he has other lovers, too, and Jaskier’s never begrudged him that. But even still, the idea of Jaskier spending a heat with a stranger now - now, when Geralt had been waiting and dreaming of that three-weeks-away heat with feverish intent and far too many embarrassing wank-jobs all winter long, when Geralt had been imagining all the things he’d been longing to do to Jaskier for so long finally, finally coming true, picturing the way Jaskier would look all heat-warmed and soft and wet and oh-so-sweet beneath him -
It plants a seed of some sick, twisted jealousy in his belly, one that hollows him out as it grows, spreading roots and limbs and leaves as it burrows its painful-sharp bards into him at the thought of Jaskier coming to him now, smelling of someone else. It’s hideously un-Alpha and vicious, but all he wants in the world is for Jaskier to smell like him, belong only to him, wear Geralt’s Bond bite and no one else’s.
Geralt is the worst Alpha alive, he thinks with despair, for praying (guiltily, feverishly) that it’s anything else at all that’s keeping Jaskier away.
He sleeps fitfully that night, and wakes up with dread still gathered in his belly; he forgoes the breakfast Wiola nervously brings up for him, settling it uneaten on the bed and instead donning his armor to slip back into the streets and find the nearest notice board. If he’s going to be waiting here for Jaskier, he’s going to need to keep his pockets full enough for an unexpectedly extended stay in civilization, even at Karol’s reduced rate.
There isn’t much worth a Witcher’s time or money amongst the notices - likely Eskel or Lambert have already passed through here and cleaned out the city for the time being, and what’s left offers little. Regardless, Geralt takes note of a few that seem vaguely promising and is heading back towards Karol’s to make a plan of action when he catches a familiar scent seeping through the rot of city-stink, and the hair at the back of his neck stands on end at the same time his stomach swoops with relief so strong it’s nearly violent. He quickens his pace, tracking the scent easily, relieved to find it pointing in the direction of Karol’s, and with a Witcher’s muscles he covers the length of the cobblestone paths easily, catching up to Jaskier just as the bard slips through the front door.
He practically dives through the front door in time to hear the end of Karol’s greeting: “ - your Witcher was mighty concerned when he found you absent - oh look, there he is now!”
Jaskier whips around, and his face breaks into a smile. “Geralt!” he says. He looks perfectly fine and unmurdered - his doublet is rich and red, his sleeves puffy and striped with a deep blue-green to match the embroidery along the thighs of his trousers. His boots are neatly polished, his fingernails are trim and even, his eyes bright and shining and blue. His lute is hanging in its case on his back. He’s healthy, warm. Perfect. Late.
(And he smells like -)
Geralt makes a rough noise at the back of his throat and sweeps forward to grasp Jaskier by the shoulders. “What happened,” he says, not even making it a question, his voice gone flat with anxiety. Jaskier’s blue eyes flutter up at him, a tick of nervousness swimming amongst the bard’s happy-content-delight scent. “You’re late.”
Jaskier winces, pulls away and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s longer this season than it was when they parted, and Geralt is surprised by the sharp rush of fondness that knowledge sends through him, accompanied almost instantly by the overwhelming desire to run his own fingers through Jaskier’s hair until the bard is purring in his lap. He knows from experience that Jaskier’s hair is even softer than it looks. Geralt’s distracted from that thought, though, when instead of growing happiness, it’s the nervousness that grows stronger in Jaskier’s scent, and the smile on Jaskier’s face is worryingly strained, even as the bard sways closer into his personal space. “Yes, and I’m terribly sorry about that, dear heart, but I was unaccountably delayed by… unforeseen obstacles.”
A pit forms in Geralt’s stomach, even though he already knows: he knows what Jaskier means, knows what’s lingering in the Omega’s (his Omega’s) scent. What he smelled on Jaskier even from outside. What he can smell on Jaskier right here, right now. “You had your heat early,” he murmurs softly. He strokes his thumbs over Jaskier’s biceps, feels the crunch and crinkle of the velvet-lined doublet. His heart feels swollen and stinging in his chest.
Geralt’s not sure what his face is doing but it must be bad, because Jaskier’s own face falls. “Yes,” he says slowly. Jaskier glances behind him where Karol is studiously attempting not to eavesdrop, and then at the other patrons in Karol’s taproom that are rather blatantly listening in, and turns back to shoot Geralt another strained smile. “Can we talk upstairs?” Jaskier asks softly. “I’d rather not discuss this here, if you don’t mind.”
There’s a heaviness in Geralt’s lungs that constricts his throat, so he simply nods; he can’t help himself when he puts a hand at the small of Jaskier’s back to guide him upstairs, though, a hot thrill of possessive jealousy rearing inside of him, but thankfully Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind by the small sigh he lets out and the way he leans back into Geralt’s touch. That makes Geralt feel a little better.
He takes Jaskier to his room and Jaskier immediately makes for the bed, sitting down and peeling off his (fashionable, impractical, Geralt thinks with another rush of nearly impossibly strong affection) shoes with a relieved sigh and helping himself to the stale bread of Geralt’s uneaten breakfast. In the closed room, between the thin wooden walls of the upper floor, his scent is all that much stronger, and Geralt takes a deep breath, cataloging what he smells by rote:
Omega, honey-cinnamon-sweetness, nervousness - trepidation (?) - happiness, hunger, love (???). Another Alpha, several days old, the temporary Bond bite will have already faded. Residual heat pheromones, too weak for a human nose to smell. Dust and dirt from the road - should have had a bath ready for him. Ink that spilled from the vial in his bag - he’ll be frustrated about losing his most recent song notes. Fresh catgut for replacing his weakening lute strings. Not enough food smell - should have called up a fresh meal.
“Jaskier,” he says, when the minutes drag on as Jaskier chews the bread slowly. Geralt shoves the meager plate of cheese, fruit, and watery gruel at him, too, and Jaskier gives him a fleetingly grateful expression and drops a grape into his mouth, the pop of sweetness between his teeth so tantalizing that Geralt wants to kiss it from his lips. He shakes his head slightly. Jealousy prickles at his insides like stinging nettles. “What happened?”
Jaskier studies the cheese rind in his hand and he picks at the fruit at the plate. “I wasn’t expecting it in the slightest, you know. I almost never go into heat so damnably early,” he murmurs, addressing the words to his lap. “I thought I had all the time in the world to meet you here.”
Geralt’s stomach aches, and the jealousy in his gut turns ugly and fierce, a beast rearing its head and snarling, nothing but sharp-teeth and wrath. It’s pointless - bitter - and all around crude of him to even be jealous over something as normal and acceptable and vital as an Omega (his Omega!) heat-partnering with someone else, but the baseless, animal part of him, the most rigidly Alpha-coded section of his hindbrain, wants to raise its hackles , or else give up entirely and roll onto its back, show its belly, and whine. It’s hideous. It’s fucking embarrassing. Utterly un-Witcher of him. And yet humiliatingly present all the same.
Jaskier looks up at him, and the sad smile on his face tears Geralt apart, reminds him just how much this isn’t Jaskier’s fault . “I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, his voice a thin little whisper. His bottom lip wobbles dangerously. “I’m so -”
“Don’t,” Geralt bites out, too rough, and Jaskier flinches and adds, hastily, “No, no, you’re right, I should be more than apologizing, for gods’ sake Geralt -”
“No,” Geralt says, then, “don’t, Jask, please.” He pauses, swallowing. Jealousy has teeth; it gnaws at his ribs. Makes him ache in new and terrible ways he’s never known before. He shuffles over and kneels in front of Jaskier, taking the bard’s hands in his own, the breakfast platter falling messily to the side. He’ll clean it up later. “Jask,” he murmurs, and Jaskier lets out a shuddery breath and leans down, pressing their foreheads together gently. “Jaskier. I’m not mad, little lark.” He reaches up a hand and tangles his fingers into Jaskier’s new-long hair, liking the way the curls feel against his skin. It smells soft and sweet, just like Jaskier. “I could never be mad about this.”
Jealousy is irrational. Anger - that’s a choice. Be insulted by it, or don’t. Geralt knows which one he’d prefer, churning waves of stupid jealousy in his gut notwithstanding. He’s a work in progress of an Alpha, he knows.
Jaskier sniffles, leaning into the stroke of Geralt’s fingers through his hair. Amongst the jealousy in his gut blooms the startling joy of being able to touch Jaskier like this - to have Jaskier desire his touch. “I was - so looking forward to seeing you again,” his Omega says haltingly. “So terribly. I dreamed about you all winter, sweetheart.”
Something unfolds inside of him - exhilaration, Geralt thinks, or perhaps simply joy; he’s not accustomed enough to either feeling to be able to tell for sure. “So did I,” he rumbles out. Jaskier seems to like having his hair pet, so Geralt keeps petting him. It has the added effect of making Jaskier smell like Geralt. “All winter, little lark. Couldn’t wait to come down the mountain.” And next year I’ll bring you with me, if you’d like me too, he thinks. Now isn’t the time. Still - the thought sends another rush of exhilaration through him so hard it robs him of breath. He tightens his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, tugging lightly, and feels heat stir in his belly when Jaskier’s breath hitches. I’ve missed you, he thinks. He doesn’t say that either - they’re too gutting, too visceral. He’s never liked feeling exposed.
Jaskier simply shivers in his arms. “Oh, yes?” he rasps, his voice low and musical.
“Yes,” Geralt echoes. He tugs again and this time Jaskier moans; it feeds that stupid, selfish Alpha part of Geralt’s brain that says now he’ll only make those noises for me. He frees his other hand from Jaskier’s grip and rubs the scent gland on his inner wrist up Jaskier’s side, bombing Jaskier with his own scent, covering up the other Alpha; he’s never been more pleased to have too-strong Witcher pheromones, the ones that usually make other Alphas wary of being anywhere near him. Jaskier makes a pleased little sound, happy and content and so Omega, and this time it’s Geralt who moans, a shuddering, rumbling purr spilling out from deep within his chest. “Little lark,” he rasps out. “Fuck. The smell of you…”
Jaskier laughs, low and breathless, but there’s an edge of sadness to it still. He leans back, and Geralt moves to give him space; he doesn’t go far, just tilts back so he can peer down at Geralt with a furrowed brow, his blue eyes wet and shining and warm, and cups Geralt’s face with his lute-calloused hands. “I wanted it to be you this time,” he sighs out, and strokes his thumbs over the arch of Geralt’s cheekbones; it makes Geralt feel more than a little feral, almost tipsy as if he were drunk on spirits, and gods if he doesn’t want to roll around in Jaskier’s scent until the two of their pheromones are blurred and indistinguishable, until Jaskier smells like him forever, until his Bond bites sings out proud and perfect on the delicate slope of Jaskier’s throat - “I tried so hard to get here in time,” Jaskier adds, penetrating the haze of Geralt’s Alpha-stupid thoughts. “Truly, darling, I did.”
“I know,” Geralt says, because he does - he would have tried, too. Would have crawled on his hands and knees if he had to, would have kept going until he couldn’t anymore. He clutches Jaskier tighter. “It’s your biology, Jask, it’s not your fault. I’d never have asked you to risk being in heat on the open road, or going without an Alpha. I know that’s worse than torture for an Omega.”
Jaskier’s mouth is still twisted and flat with unhappiness. “You’re too noble,” he mutters. “Should have known you would be, I suppose, you beautiful brute. Here I was worrying for nothing…”
Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand again, brings it up to brush a kiss across the bard’s knuckles. “Worried?”
Jaskier’s fingertips touch his lips. “I worried… I worried you wouldn’t want me if I spent my heat elsewhere.”
Geralt’s stomach twists in on itself. Jealousy or no jealousy, he’d never once entertained that idea. “Jaskier -” he starts, through a suddenly-thick throat.
Jaskier laughs wetly. “Terribly old fashioned of me to be that insecure, I know - I knew you wouldn’t hold something so trivial against me, but I was so upset to get it so early when I’d had all these wonderful plans for the two of us spending my next heat together. I had lists, Geralt, lists of the things I was going to do to you! This spring was supposed to be our moment, and it just felt that I’d gone and ruined it, somehow. And now I feel like a fool for even thinking that. What an insult to you, dear heart.”
Guilt floods Geralt’s body hot and sharp when he remembers how he’d been thinking much the same last night. “Jaskier,” he says, thickly.
Jaskier strokes his mouth again. “Sweetheart. Darling.”
“You haven’t ruined anything,” he promises. “You could never.”
Jaskier’s mouth twists upwards, his sly little smile doing terrible things to Geralt’s heart. “Haven’t I, my Witcher?” He pokes Geralt’s chin. “You were upset when you smelled Isaak on me.”
A hot flood of resentment towards Isaak hits him squarely in the chest (Isaak, whose scent lingers on Jaskier even now), but Geralt pushes it away, though the jealousy tries to cling to him. “I was,” he admits, reluctantly, then pulls Jaskier in to kiss the hurt off of his Omega’s face. “And I’m sorry for it,” he says when he pulls back, both of them breathing harder. He strokes through Jaskier’s hair again, relishing in the soft, hesitant purr Jaskier lets out. “You couldn’t ruin this Jaskier, least of all by doing what you have to do for your health. You’re more important to me than that.” You’re more important than everything. “There will be other springs. Other heats.” There will be years and years and years of them, if they both get their way. And right now, Geralt can’t think of a single reason they won’t. Promise hangs in the air, heavy and sweet, and steals his breath away when he thinks of all the things they might still do together. Twelve years he’s known Jaskier - he thinks twelve hundred years wouldn’t be long enough. One single heat is nothing compared to the mountain of Geralt’s affection.
Jaskier must agree; he tilts his head back, baring the column of his throat, tanned from walking beneath the sun and smelling like honey-cinnamon sweetness. Geralt leans in and nuzzles him, getting a noseful of happy-aroused-excited Omega and moaning roughly, unable to help from licking Jaskier right over where a Bond bite would go. Jaskier chokes, and his nails bite into the back of Geralt’s scalp when he reaches up blindly and grasps Geralt by the hair. “Geralt!”
Geralt growls and licks him again, rougher, and Jaskier trembles like a sapling in the wind, bending backwards towards the mattress and pulling Geralt up with him, his arms quivering. “Let me make it up to you,” Geralt rumbles against Jaskier’s neck, following Jaskier’s lead happily. “Let me give you a proper heat right now. Let me knot you, let me keep you, let me have you -” the words spill out of him, a hot wave of possessiveness rocking him to the core. “Let me make you mine,” he growls.
Jaskier’s hands tighten in his hair, and Geralt realizes that he’s painfully, excruciatingly hard, his knot nearly half-blown already, pushing at the laces of his trousers. And Jaskier, fuck, Jaskier’s wet - Geralt can smell it, beading like fresh dew between his Omega’s thighs, and gods but his mouth waters. He can feel the nudge of Jaskier’s little cocklet pressing against his stomach, too, and it makes him light-headed with want so strong it’s blinding. “Fuck, sweetheart,” Jaskier pants, and Geralt makes a pleased noise and kisses him behind the ear, which makes Jaskier laugh and moan and sigh all at once. “Oh, fuck. Please, I need you so fucking much -”
“I’ve got you,” Geralt promises roughly, sliding his hands beneath Jaskier’s thighs and lifting him farther back onto the bed and climbing after him - only to freeze when his knee lands in the plate of cold, wet gruel. Geralt looks down. “Hm. Shit.”
Jaskier glances at his knee and the plate of ruined breakfast and bursts out laughing, shoving at Geralt’s chest. “Ah, cock, who cares about the sheets, Geralt! Off, off, take your clothes off, Alpha, then come here and ravish me.”
Affection blooms throughout the current of arousal in Geralt’s chest, and he’s never stripped faster in his entire life, and he’s never seen Jaskier strip a bed whilst undressing that quickly either. Jaskier tosses the mess of breakfast and threadbare blankets over in the corner (and Geralt knows he’s going to have to pay for laundry, but right now he doesn’t care in the slightest) just in time to reach out with insistent, grabby hands when Geralt comes lumbering back to the bed and climbs in to kneel between Jaskier’s pale, naked, wonderful (and beautifully hairy) thighs that are already slick with Jaskier’s sweet arousal. “Little lark,” he whispers, reverent, and drags his hands down Jaskier’s chest. He’s too beautiful to be real, let alone to be proffering himself before an Alpha like Geralt.
Jaskier looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, his breath and heartbeat both coming fast, his hands settling on Geralt’s hips as he offers up a wicked grin. “My my, White Wolf,” he says, breathy and throaty, as he gives Geralt’s naked form a long, pleased look, “what a big cock you have.”
Geralt growls his pleasure, and watches with avid wonder as Jaskier’s pupils dilate even further; his cocklet, swollen and shining red, beads wet at the tip, and Geralt can’t resist bringing a hand up to run his thumb over the slick head. Jaskier cries out, his cocky grin dissolving into a beautiful, throaty moan as Geralt takes him in hand and strokes him gently, sweetly.
“Oh gods,” Jaskier gasps, and his nails bite into Geralt’s hips, “oh gods, that feels - fuck -”
“Yeah?” Geralt murmurs, and strokes him again. The scent of Jaskier’s slick grows so strong he can taste it in the air, and he knows that there’s a growing puddle forming between Jaskier’s cheeks where they rub against the mattress. He smirks down at his Omega, his own cock throbbing. “You like my hand on you, Omega?”
Using Omega instead of his name has the intended effect: Jaskier shudders from head to toe, arching his back, his cocklet pulsing hot in Geralt’s grasp. “Alpha,” he chokes, thighs shaking as they clench around Geralt’s legs, his knees bending until Geralt’s caught in the cradle of his thighs. Geralt lets Jaskier’s grip on him tug him forward until he’s leaning in to kiss Jaskier, and once he starts he can’t stop. He thinks he’ll never be able to kiss Jaskier enough, and Jaskier certainly seems to agree by the way his arms suddenly encircle Geralt’s neck and draw him even closer until they’re breathing each other in, their bodies pressing together as Geralt lays over him, their tongues meeting in a rousing dance and their teeth clacking lightly in their careless glee at finally, finally reaching this moment. Geralt feels dizzy with all the emotions clawing at his heart, and he’s suddenly seized by the frantic need to feel Jaskier, to take him apart, to show him even and ounce of the pleasure he brings to Geralt just by existing - he reaches down between their bodies carefully, aiming behind Jaskier’s cocklet, seeking that soft, slick entrance, and Jaskier chokes against his mouth and breaks away to gasp when his fingers find just the right place.
“Oh, oh,” he whimpers; Geralt must have kissed him breathless, which is good but not enough, not nearly enough, and Geralt rumbles lowly and leans down to capture his mouth again as he slips a finger into Jaskier’s slit. Jaskier shudders, clenching around him sweetly, his scent so fucking good - all honey-cinnamon-woodsmoke-sunshine, joy-lust-love - so pure it washes through Geralt and leaves him good and clean and renewed and whole. He presses deeper, curling his fingers, seeking, and Jaskier nearly sobs when he rubs against his inner wall right there. “Geralt,” he pleads, “Alpha!”
Geralt’s rumbling purr is so loud he can barely think through it, so he just hums and leans down to lick at the sweet curve of Jaskier’s throat, and whispers, “Omega-mine,” and Jaskier comes with a sob of his name, his slit fluttering around Geralt’s fingers and his little cocklet pulsing wetly between them as he shakes and digs his nails so deeply into Geralt’s scalp he’s pretty sure they draw blood; he doesn’t care, just keep nuzzling Jaskier’s throat, kissing behind the corner of his jaw, nibbling at his ear, stroking his inner walls as Jaskier’s wetness leaks down his wrist and makes an even worse mess of the mattress.
“Gods,” Jaskier moans weakly, still shivering as his orgasm dissipates, now all languid and relaxed beneath him. His head falls back, and Geralt kisses the bump of his Adam’s apple with searing affection. “That was wonderful, darling.”
“Mm,” Geralt hums, pleased. “Not done yet.” Then he maneuvers down the bed, tugging Jaskier around with him until he’s comfortably settled with Jaskier’s thighs thrown over his shoulders, and lowers his mouth down to Jaskier’s quivering skin. An affectionate peck to the tip of his cocklet - which twitches against his lips, and demands a further little lick that makes Jaskier gasp and swear - and then he thumbs Jaskier open and licks into his cunt with abandon.
Jaskier shouts, his body rising like a wave, and Geralt moves one hand to splay over his belly and gently anchor him to the bed; Jaskier’s knees clamp around his head so tightly he can feel his ears press flat against his head, so he moves his other hand to gently pry himself free enough to breathe easier. “Careful,” he mumbles, into Jaskier’s slick - so, so slick - skin, his voice obscured by the flesh that quivers so wonderfully under his tongue, “Have t’ breathe if ’m goin’ t’ eat you out, bea’iful.”
Jaskier curses again and reaches down to cup his own thighs and pull them apart, a whine building at the back of his throat as he hisses out, “Alpha, Alpha, Alpha,” and when Geralt licks into him properly this time, “FUCK.”
Geralt’s world condenses. Only Jaskier exists, the soft furled folds of his cunt, the slick and hungry mouth of him, the wetness that runs down his chin and sticks to his throat; his taste, indescribably perfect, pooling on Gerat’s tongue so beautifully, and Geralt could die the happiest Witcher alive right then and there. All he wants for the rest of his life is to spend every moment with his mouth between Jaskier’s thighs; all he wants is to paint his lips with Jaskier’s spend so that he might taste him there for the rest of his days, so that all Geralt has to do is click his teeth and he would remember the way Jaskier feels, the way he sounds, the way his body crests like a wave hitting the sand when he fists his hands back into Geralt’s hair and comes with a high, shivering cry. Geralt doesn’t stop licking him afterwards, just keeps going, licking another wave out of him, and another - the most beautiful thing about Omegas: they have very nearly no refractory period, nor limit of peaks.
Somewhere after the fourth - of fifth, maybe, it’s rather hard to keep track beyond the way Jaskier’s wails get louder and sharper when he peaks - Jaskier stops pulling his hair and instead spreads his tremulous fingers through Geralt’s locks and strokes him, gently, and then he starts to babble.
“I th-thought about this the whole time,” he stutters, hiccuping a little when Geralt moves his mouth from his cunt to suckle at his cocklet happily, “I - oh! - d-dreamed about you for my whole heat. He wasn’t - oh gods, oh GODS - Isaak, he wasn’t - he wasn’t ha-half as good as this - Melitele fuck! Geralt!”
Geralt pauses, lingering, suckling on Jaskier’s cocklet and fixing his burning eyes on Jaskier’s flushed, sweaty face, the name Isaak twisting like a flame in his gut. He tightens his hands on Jaskier as Jaskier comes, dribbling weakly on Geralt’s tongue, and he doesn’t even pause before he dips back to his cunt that flutters and pulses beneath his touch.
Jaskier takes a shuddering breath, still stroking his hair, and says, “I thought about you the whole - hn - the whole time I wa-was with him, truly, spent - spent every second with Isaak wishing he was you, kept - kept -”
Geralt pulls away, growling deep in his throat, so jealous-hot he feels like he’s been set aflame; so pacified by Jaskier on his tongue that he feels shivery-sweet despite it. So possessively Alpha that he feels a little delirious. “Kept what, little lark?” he asks, biting into the dense muscle of Jaskier’s thigh to make him squeak.
Jaskier’s fingers tighten in his hair again when he says, breathy, “I kept wishing you’d come bursting through the door and tear him off me, that you’d mount me instead, knot me, gag me with your cock and Bond me like a bitch -”
“Melitele,” Geralt swears, the words like fire through his veins, and he lurches upward and falls onto Jaskier mouth-first. Jaskier makes eager, happy noises like the fluted notes of a bird and spreads himself wider, and Geralt moves against him on blind instinct, the both of them crying out when Geralt sinks into the soft give of Jaskier’s slit with one neat thrust. Jaskier croons with pleasure, and he clenches so hard around Geralt’s cock that Geralt sees stars, little shocky-bright noises escaping him as he loses his mind about it, about the wonder of Jaskier opening up so perfectly for him, wet and sweet and hot and so fucking tight - “Jaskier!”
Jaskier pants and licks at Geralt’s jaw, nipping at him. “Alpha,” he purrs, canting his hips up, and Geralt groans and starts rocking his hips in short, sharp thrusts that have them both cursing. “Knew - fuck - knew you’d be better at this,” Jaskier manages, stroking Geralt’s sweaty back and clinging to him with all four limbs so that there’s almost no room for Geralt to pull back before thrusting home. “Knew you’d ruin me for everyone else.”
Another hot-sharp jealous burst, and Geralt leans down and bites Jaskier’s throat. “Mine,” he snarls, “Mine. My lark, only mine -”
“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier gasps, pushing into Geralt’s teeth, “fuck, Geralt - Alpha - please!”
Geralt fucks him faster and sinks his teeth in until he tastes blood, the Bond snapping into place just as his knot begins to swell, and Jaskier shrieks at the ceiling when it catches at the walls of his cunt, slowing Geralt’s pace.
“Yes,” Jaskier sobs, “yes, fuck - knot me, knot me, darling - ” he breaks off with a choked scream as Geralt slams into him one more time before his knot finally slots into place and tethers them, the blood in Geralt’s mouth singing of mate, mate, mate as they both come so hard they shake like trees in a summer storm, pressed as close as two people can get, not even Alpha-and-Omega anymore, not Geralt-and-Jaskier, just mates, and Geralt knows - somewhere deep, deeper than he can reach, beyond the blinding pleasure of the moment - that the mark of his teeth will stay there livid-bright until the day Jaskier dies.
When he finally pulls his teeth from Jaskier’s throat, he only goes as far as he needs to to press their foreheads together as they catch their breath; his knot is caught deep in Jaskier, swollen like a fist, and he can feel their hearts beating in sync with every pulse of his knot.
“Little lark,” he whispers, nudging Jaskier’s nose with his own, reaching up a shaky hand to smooth Jaskier’s hair away from his sweaty forehead and kissing him tenderly. “My little songbird mate.”
Jaskier sighs against him, lips upturning for another kiss - and another, and another, and Geralt is more than happy to oblige him. “My Alpha,” Jaskier mumbles against his lips. “Mine.”
There’s a warm glow in Geralt’s chest that says yoursmineus. No one could take this moment from them.
He ducks his head and kisses the newly-formed Bond bite where it’s tender and open, a perfect circle. When his knot goes down, he’ll clean and bandage it properly, but right now he only licks at it soothingly, tasting Jaskier’s happiness in the blood and pheromones that trickle on his tongue. Affection soars in his heart, and Geralt presses his forehead to the curve where Jaskier’s shoulder meets his neck. “Love you,” he whispers. “My lark.”
Jaskier’s fingers press into the small of his back. “Love you,” he whispers back. “My wolf.”
Geralt kisses his soft skin. "Yours," he agrees.