Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts because of a bigoted blacksmith.

Or, no.

It starts because of a dirty pond somewhere on the edge of Brokilon.

…except actually.

Okay, okay; where the story really, truly starts – that’s Posada. But for the sake of brevity, of narrative simplicity, it starts, really, truly, in a run-down three-room inn in Kerack.

“Aren’t these your old stomping grounds?” Geralt asks, distractedly, pawing through one of Jaskier’s packs for – something.

Jaskier rolls his eyes heavenwards. “No,” he says. “I was born in Lettenhove.”

“Which is in Kerack. Where we are, right now.”

“True,” Jaskier sighs, “but Lettenhove is on the coast, Geralt. We’re at the edge of Brokilon. These are not my old stomping grounds. Not even a little.”

Geralt stands and quirks a brow at him. “It’s a small country,” he says, as if that explains anything. Jaskier sighs again.

“Geralt, have you forgotten that I’m not a Witcher again?”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt snorts, gesturing at Jaskier. “Look at you.”

“I will pretend you didn’t say that,” Jaskier sniffs. “But my point here – I’m noble-born, Geralt. Do you really think I was ever let out of anyone’s sight long enough to make it to the dryad-infested forest on the opposite side of the country?”

“It’s not infested,” Geralt says, frowning slightly. “The dryads live there. And you’re an Alpha, even nobles let their Alpha children wander some.”

“Not the point, Geralt. And, again, some is hardly the same thing as the other half of the country.”

The Witcher gestures whatever he pulled out of Jaskier’s pack at him – a loose piece of parchment, it turns out – and turns to dig through his own things.

“Well, you can’t come with me, so you’ll have to amuse yourself for a few hours.” He pulls a threatening-looking bottle from the pack and opens it to spill some over the parchment. Jaskier watches all of this with a mix of fascination and disgust.

“In a place like this?” he finally asks. “There’s barely even a tavern, here, Geralt. What am I supposed to do, hm?”

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Or care, particularly. But you can’t come with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll die,” Geralt says, matter-of-fact. His expression is serious. “The dryads are not fond of intruders. It’s dangerous enough for me to go in, and they…tolerate me. Mostly. You? Either you’ll have an arrow through your eye before you can so much as step on a twig, or they’ll kidnap you to use as a stud. And believe me, that’s not a fun job, not even for an Alpha in the prime of his life.”

Jaskier swallows heavily.

“Stay behind.”

“…okay.”

He doesn’t do that.

Of course, he tries. He spends a little while composing, and when the creative juice runs out, caring for his lute – it needed new strings, after all, and he takes the time to clean it, as well as buffing it with some linseed oil and wax.

But even that can only take up so much time. He wanders about the little town for a bit, considers purchasing a sad, wilting bouquet of flowers from a child because the look on her face hurts his heart, and ends up just giving her the coins instead. He finds a little bakery, and buys some bread and sweetcakes.

Once he’s eaten a late lunch and stored the bread and cakes away, though, he’s out of ideas.

He lasts fifteen minutes of boredom before he’s bounding out of the shoddy little inn towards the looming shape of Brokilon’s ancient trees.

Now, he’s not a complete idiot. He makes sure that he has no weapons other than the tiny steel dagger Geralt had gifted him months ago, and he’s not carrying his lute. He’s wearing the little charm that blocks out his scent. And he’s careful, as well, to follow a path, and not step off of it.

There are no arrows whizzing past, and no movement in the trees or the bushes. He stops before the line of the forest, though, hands in clear sight, and announces, “Just looking for my Witcher.”

He waits. There’s no sound, no movement, nothing at all.

He steps into the trees.

Immediately, he feels a difference. This place – it’s old, which he knew, of course, this forest predates the Conjunction by an amount of years no one except maybe the dryads know – but knowing that and feeling it are two very different things. There’s magic, too, he can tell, goosebumps racing along his arms, over his neck.

It’s fascinating.

Of course, it hadn’t really occurred to him that he wouldn’t be able to just find Geralt in the forest, because the Witcher has a very faint scent even when he’s not wearing a blocker. And he always wears a blocker on any contract. Which, looking back, is a rather large oversight on his part, but – well.

He’s done stupider things and come out the other side no worse for wear, so. He follows the game path he’s been on deeper into the forest, careful to keep his trail on it and leaving nothing but his footprints, his magically blank scent. If nothing else, he’s sure Geralt will be able to find him. He never does seem to struggle, even with the blocker.

As if that thought is a beacon, there’s a sound to his right, and a growled, “Jaskier.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier gasps, jumping a little at the suddenness of his Witcher’s appearance. He spins around, looking to see where Geralt is – certainly, he’s somewhere near – but he’s not looking at his feet, and when his ankle hits a rock, he has no chance to right himself. “Ah!”

He lands with a great splash into a cool, shallow pond. There’s water and moss and – who knows what else all over him, and he flails to try and sit back up, sputtering.

There’s a great, exasperated sigh, and when he finally manages to wipe pond water and leaves from his eyes, Geralt is standing at the edge of the water glaring at him.

“Jaskier,” he repeats, in that same growl.

“Geralt!” Jaskier greets again, with the same amount of cheer as before. The Witcher rolls his eyes and gives another sigh, but steps into the pond – it really isn’t very deep, the water only coming up to Jaskier’s waist when he’s sitting up, about halfway up Geralt’s calves – and holds out a hand.

Jaskier grins up at him, heedless of the fact that he looks a mess, and takes his hand.

Two things happen at once: the water surrounding him goes from cool to hot, almost hot enough to scald, and there’s a flash of silver light that momentarily blinds Jaskier and leaves spots dancing in his vision.

Geralt swears in Elder, yanks Jaskier out of the pond, and swears again.

Jaskier’s a little dizzy. “Uh, Geralt,” he asks, and then realizes that they’re still holding hands. He looks down, blinking as if that would clear the spots, and sees that there’s…a tattoo. On his wrist. He gapes for a second, then squeaks, “Geralt?”

“Fuck,” Geralt replies, and quickly unties his bracer, heedless of the way it drops into the pond. He pushes his sleeve up once it’s gone to reveal that he has a tattoo, now, too. “Fuck.”

“I – what,” Jaskier says, flatly, as he studies the lute now tattooed in intricate detail on Geralt’s wrist. To match the silver sword tattooed in equally painstaking detail on his own wrist. “What…. Geralt.”

It’s not as if soulmates – and the tattoos that mark them so – are unheard of. But they’re rare, and people are born with their marks. Getting a mark later in life is – well. The stuff of legends. Of stories.

But Jaskier is staring at two brand new marks that he knows neither he nor Geralt had fifteen minutes ago.

“Uh,” he says, and Geralt huffs, letting go of his hand and bending to retrieve his bracer.

“We’ll deal with this later,” he says, and sets to righting his clothing. “You’re lucky this is all that happened – I told you not to follow me, Jaskier. Now go.”

“Geralt, I – ” Jaskier knows his eyes are wide and his lip is trembling, he can feel the stutter of his heart in his chest, but he can’t control it, doesn’t know…. He’s suddenly afraid. It’s not Alpha behavior, he knows, it’s not right, but – but. Geralt sounds angry, angrier than before the soulmarks, and….

Geralt’s expression softens, though, and he steps closer to pull Jaskier in. Their foreheads press together, a gesture of affection Jaskier learned early on is reserved, when it comes to Geralt, for very close friends and his brothers-in-arms. He relaxes minutely, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I’ll come back,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can hear the promise in the words. “But I have to finish what I’m here for, and you’re not safe in the forest. Go back to the inn, Jaskier. We’ll talk about this when I return.”

So Jaskier returns to the inn, nearly paces a hole in the floor while he waits, and then Geralt returns, contract successfully fulfilled.

They talk, and nothing much happens, really. They’re still Jaskier the Bard, the world’s most unlikely Alpha, and Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher and world’s least obvious omega. It’s just that they’re soulmates, too. No big deal, really. At least, not in the grand scheme of things – after all, soulmates doesn’t have to mean just one thing. They can figure out what it means for them.

(And if it’s not the usual way…well, Jaskier just wants to have Geralt, whatever way he’s allowed.)

And all of that is fine, until, of course, the bigoted blacksmith comes into the picture.

He’s a great, hulking man, face twisted into a seemingly permanent scowl and right arm knotted with scar tissue from shoulder to wrist. Jaskier hates him on sight; Geralt doesn’t seem much more endeared, but he needs his sword repaired, and he doesn’t have the materials nor the money to procure them to do it himself.

So, the blacksmith who looks like a rock troll it is.

And almost immediately, there’s a problem. Because of course there is.

Jaskier isn’t wearing a blocker today; he doesn’t, usually, in public, and especially not with Geralt. The average human wouldn’t be able to smell that he’s an omega, but the blankness of him unsettles people – and with Jaskier around, people assume the smell of Alpha is Geralt, not his foppish bard.

It works out. Except when people decide that Jaskier, who is clearly an omega, is easy pickings.

“What’re you doing with a nasty mutant, little omega?” the blacksmith asks, all leer despite the way his face doesn’t untwist from the scowl. He reeks enough that Jaskier almost can’t tell what his designation is, but after a moment of deep breathing – unfortunate, really – he manages to pin beta.

Jaskier frowns. “He’s neither nasty nor a mutant, good sir. He’s my…companion, that’s all. Now, he needs his sword repaired – shouldn’t you be speaking to your prospective customer?”

The blacksmith huffs, but turns back to Geralt, who is doing a remarkable job of being blank-faced considering the rage in the lines of his body.

Jaskier turns to look at some of the blacksmith’s wares for sale while he and Geralt discuss and haggle. He can hear the sneering edge in the blacksmith’s voice, knows that he’s trying to rile the Witcher up, but ignores it. Geralt can handle himself, after all.

Of course, Geralt can handle himself, but sometimes – well, sometimes Jaskier is the better option.

He hears the way the blacksmith’s tone changes, and the way Geralt responds, voice gone softer, placating. He returns to the Witcher’s side as casually as he can.

“Geralt,” he says, pleading and annoying – playing the omega to the Alpha the blacksmith thinks Geralt is. “Are we done here?”

Geralt’s eyes flick to him, a small downturn at the corner of his lip informing Jaskier that no, he’s not done, and that it’s not going well. “Jaskier,” he says, a warning in his tone, and Jaskier just whines lightly.

“Mind your place, omega,” the blacksmith says, almost a snarl, and Jaskier bristles but hides it. “Your mutant here seems to think my work is worth less than what I charge for it.”

“It is,” Geralt says, even though his voice remains in that soft tone.

The blacksmith does snarl, now, and Jaskier registers that he’s moving before he even consciously notices that the blacksmith has, too. Geralt stumbles from the force of his shove thanks to the shock, and the wicked, curved dagger misses him but to tear a hole in his sleeve; the blade catches Jaskier, though, across his forearm.

He ignores it, twisting his wrist to snag the blacksmith’s, gripping it hard and yanking. He snarls right back, teeth bared, and the blacksmith immediately cowers back, clearly coming to the realization that Jaskier, despite his appearance, is an Alpha.

“That’s no way to treat customers,” Jaskier hisses, putting vicious pressure on the tendon in the blacksmith’s wrist until he drops the dagger. “And my companion is right, anyway. I’ve seen better work done by a man deaf, blind, and mostly lame.”

He shoves the blacksmith back and the man goes, stinking of fear-sweat.

“Reconsider who you threaten,” Jaskier says, clipped, and turns to Geralt, holding out a hand. “Come on.”

Geralt is gaping just slightly, and when he takes Jaskier’s hand, he’s trembling lightly. Jaskier isn’t sure why, but right here is hardly the place to have that conversation; he grips Geralt’s hand tightly and pulls him out of the blacksmith’s shop, heading toward the inn they’re staying in.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “We’ll have to travel to the next town for your sword. But I couldn’t just let him….” He trails off, blood boiling at even the thought of that horrible excuse for a human hurting Geralt, goading him into defending himself – likely so that the locals could be turned against him. “I know you don’t like it, when I – ”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, and Jaskier realizes that they’re still holding hands. Geralt squeezes his fingers. “It’s fine.”

They reach the inn they’ve rented a room at, and Jaskier turns to face the Witcher.

“I – really?” Jaskier asks, a little shocked to see Geralt looking – almost fond.

Not that Geralt never looks at him fondly, of course he does, they’re friends – soulmates – but usually, after a situation like that, he’d be frowning. Upset. And even aside from that, he’s usually very stoic in public, never letting anyone really see his emotions on his face.

“Yes,” Geralt assures, squeezing his fingers again. “Come on. May as well get some rest, and we can move on in the morning.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, quiet, feeling strangely warm. “Okay.”

The next morning, Jaskier wakes to find himself pinned to their shared bed by Geralt’s weight. It’s not the first time this has happened, of course, they’ve shared beds for years, and since the whole soulmate thing, more often than not – but it’s still not really normal. If nothing else, Geralt is usually up before him.

“Geralt?” he mumbles. The Witcher makes a low, rumbling noise and nuzzles into Jaskier’s neck, taking a deep breath when his nose is pressed right against Jaskier’s scent gland.

That makes Jaskier shiver. He ignores it and brings a hand up to Geralt’s waist. He feels warmer than usual; he runs a little colder than the average man, because of the slower heartbeat, but he’s warmer than Jaskier right now. Strange.

“Geralt,” he repeats, a little louder. Geralt mumbles something unintelligible and just snuggles closer again. Jaskier chuckles, a little shocked, and wraps his arms around the Witcher. “Are you feeling alright, Geralt?”

“Hm,” Geralt mumbles. “…warm.”

“I can feel that. Witchers don’t get sick, right?”

“No.” He shifts, but doesn’t leave the circle of Jaskier’s arms, doesn’t untuck his face from Jaskier’s throat. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.”

“Better than usual.”

“…not sure if I should thank you for that one, to be honest.”

Geralt snorts softly. “Something’s different,” he says, stretching. Jaskier lets go of him to allow him the space, but he makes a little bereft noise, and he’s quick to put his arms back. “Not sure what.”

“Well that’s slightly worrisome.”

“Mm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and drags one hand up Geralt’s back to run through his hair. They’ve gotten more and more tactile since the whole soulmate thing; of course, they were both fairly tactile before, but it’s a little different now. Like this – before, Geralt never would have stayed in Jaskier’s arms and let him pet at his hair. Now, it’s nothing to stay close for a little longer.

But shifting Geralt’s hair wafts his faint scent toward Jaskier’s nose, and he freezes.

“Geralt.”

“What?”

“You’re – hold on.” Jaskier shoves at Geralt until he rolls over, huffing and making an indignant noise, but Jaskier ignores that and just follows him, until he can press his nose against Geralt’s throat. Geralt goes still, then, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, eyes closed so he can focus.

It’s still there. He’s not imagining it.

“Geralt,” he says, slowly and without moving, “you smell like heat.”

“…what?”

Jaskier takes another deep, careful breath. “You smell like heat,” he repeats. “Like you’re going into heat.”

Geralt shoves him back, gentle despite the almost panicked look Jaskier finds on his face. “I don’t get heats.”

“I – wait.” Jaskier blinks. “You…don’t?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t,” he repeats. “The Trials – regular Witchers have…years, decades between cycles. I went through the Trials twice, both before I would have had my first heat had I not been a Witcher initiate anywat, and….”

“And so you’re different,” Jaskier finishes. “You…how old are you, again?”

“Nearly a century,” Geralt answers, quietly.

“Shit,” Jaskier mutters, finally sitting up properly. Geralt shifts to sit up, too, and now that Jaskier is looking at him, he can see the usual first sign; his scent glands are beginning to flush red. “A hundred years old, having your first heat. Shit.”

Geralt twists his hands together, an uncharacteristic gesture of nerves. “I…what should we do?”

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Well. I guess we have to decide how you’re going to ride it out, firstly.”

Geralt blinks at him. “I…. Jaskier, I don’t – I’ve never…. This isn’t just my first heat, it’s the first I’ve ever been around at all.”

“I – oh.” Jaskier swallows. “Well. There are two options, really; ride it out with no sex, or fuck to alleviate it. The first option is…harder, though it’s pretty common for first heats, since most people have their first in their mid-teens. The second option is – well, obviously the point of heats, really.”

“I’m sterile,” Geralt mutters.

“I know that,” Jaskier nods. “Doesn’t necessarily mean your body does, though. A heat is a heat is a heat.”

“I don’t….”

“It’s alright.” Jaskier reaches out to take Geralt’s hands, threading their fingers together between them. “I’m not going to go anywhere, you know. Whatever you decide, I’ll be here to help.”

“Why?”

Jaskier snorts, a little incredulous. “Geralt,” he says, scooting a little closer. He squeezes his hands. “We’re soulmates.”

“…it doesn’t have to be…like that.” Geralt’s gaze flickers to the side.

“It doesn’t,” Jaskier assures, ignoring the way his heart skips. “But I’m still your best friend, too. However you want me to help you through this – that’s what I’m going to do. And I would do it if we weren’t soulmates.”

Geralt mumbles something, clearly a response but too quiet for Jaskier to catch.

“What?” Jaskier shifts his hand, dragging his thumb over the lute on Geralt’s wrist. “I didn’t hear you, love.”

“I don’t want to ride it out without,” Geralt says, still quiet enough Jaskier has to strain. “But I don’t….”

Jaskier swallows. “If you’d like to go find another Alpha to help, I can do that, too.”

Geralt flinches. “No,” he says, quick and almost breathless. “I – do you want that?”

“…no,” Jaskier admits softly. “I – really don’t.”

“So you’d….”

“I absolutely would, if you want it.”

“…I do.”

Jaskier tries to ignore the thrill that goes through him, the way his heart speeds up. Instead, he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. He doesn’t let go of Geralt’s hands, though, and is rewarded with both the sound of Geralt sucking in a shaky gasp and the feeling of his fingers trembling. “I’m going to kiss you,” Jaskier whispers, and all Geralt does in response is tip his head a little, making the angle easier.

It’s soft and chaste, at first, Geralt breathing out a shaky little whimper against Jaskier’s lips. All it takes to deepen it, though, is a gentle flick of tongue, and Geralt’s lips are parting on a gasp as he leans in, closer. Jaskier lets go of one of his hands just to reach up and grasp at his jaw instead, feeling the morning stubble there. Geralt gasps again, softly, at the stroking touch to his chin, behind his ear, and lists closer again.

Adjusting is a little hard, awkward when Jaskier refuses to break the kiss, but he manages to shift them around until they’re lying side by side again, and Geralt’s free hand finds its way to Jaskier’s waist. He’s slowly getting warmer, the scent of heat increasing incrementally as the minutes pass and they kiss.

Not the usual rapid drop into heat, but something Jaskier can work with, all the same.

“You’ll want out of your clothes,” he says, when their kisses finally come to an end. Geralt is panting softly, eyes wide, and Jaskier is sure that alongside the slowly-increasing scent of heat that Geralt has been feeling the difference. “Come on, darling, let me.”

Slowly, carefully, he peels Geralt’s clothes away; tunic and the close-fit undershirt he’s always wearing – something about his sensitive skin – and then his soft, loose sleep pants and his small clothes, leaving him bare.

He’s stunning. That’s not news, but Jaskier never stops being knocked breathless by it.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, petting over Geralt’s thighs as he speaks, and Geralt whines softly. His legs fall to the sides, baring everything to Jaskier’s sight, and both their pulses spike at it.

Jaskier’s senses aren’t nearly as acute as Geralt’s, of course not, but he’s still an Alpha.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier drags his eyes up, from the inviting spread of Geralt’s legs to his wide, dark eyes. “You too?”

“Of course, darling.” Jaskier shifts back just enough to strip himself of his own clothes, quick and efficient. When he looks back to Geralt, pushing his still sleep-fluffy hair from his eyes, the Witcher’s mouth has dropped open slightly. “Like what you see?”

“Yes,” Geralt hisses, as if it’s painful to admit. “Fuck, come here. I’m so hot.”

“It’ll just get worse, love, I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, but he presses closer as requested.

“Tell me what it’s going to be like?” Geralt asks. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, though, he’s wrapping his limbs around Jaskier and clinging, burying his face into his throat. Jaskier chuckles and wraps the arm he’s not using to hold himself up around Geralt’s back.

“I can only tell you what I know from other heats I’ve witnessed,” Jaskier says.

“And helped with,” Geralt tacks on, a strange tone to his voice. Maybe not jealousy, but certainly distaste.

“And helped with, yes,” Jaskier confirms, tipping his head to mouth gently over Geralt’s pulsing scent gland. He tastes divine, even better than he smells, and Jaskier bites back a low growl. “The heat is literal, and really, that’s the worst part of it. Like a fever, but without the sick feeling, I’ve been told.”

“And it doesn’t go away?”

“Not exactly, no.” Jaskier presses kisses along Geralt’s throat, over his ear, shuddering lightly at the way Geralt’s hips are starting to rock against him – all instinctual, he’s sure. “It…lessens. With enough touch and scenting, or a knot. The heat and the delirium of it come in waves, and if the wave is – ah – sated, it abates a little for a time, until the next wave.”

“Delirium. I won’t know what’s going on?”

“Not exactly. You’ll know, you’ll just be more…base, I suppose, is the best word. Reduced closer to pure instinct, is all, and what your instinct demands then is sex. It’s why riding it out without is harder – scent and touch help tremendously, but they’re not really what the body demands.”

“How long does it last?”

“It varies. Usually between two to five days, the worst of it in the middle – it’ll ramp up slowly, peak, and then slow again.” Jaskier shifts them so Geralt’s unconscious rutting will press them together properly, and Geralt gives a little cry of surprise, head tipping back as his eyes squeeze shut. “Feel good?”

“Ye-yeah,” Geralt stutters, grip on Jaskier’s body going tighter. “Bet – oh – better than usual.”

“Mhm,” Jaskier confirms, licking over his scent gland again. “That’s part of it too; everything feels like so much more.”

“Ah.” Geralt twists, rubbing his cock – large for an omega, something that makes Jaskier’s mouth water – more firmly against Jaskier’s belly. “What about – bites?”

“Mating bites?” Jaskier clarifies, ignoring the way his heart trips and then speeds up in his chest.

“Yeah.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and gently pries them apart, just enough so he can lean up and see Geralt’s face. His eyes are still dark, half-lidded now as he rolls his hips, and it takes a lot of willpower not to lean back down just to kiss him breathless.

“They’re not required,” Jaskier says. He wants that, of everything, to be clear – at no point does he want Geralt to feel…obligated. It had been something he’d been clear about with the soulmarks, too, even though it had felt…strange, to be suggesting that they didn’t have to acknowledge it. As if something inside him (his soul, though he doesn’t think about it that way, because it’s just…too much) was aware that it wouldn’t be right to be apart from Geralt. “But they are common with heats, yeah.”

“Do you want to bite me?”

Jaskier chokes a little on his breath. “I – Geralt.”

“Do you?”

“Do you?”

They stare at one another for a moment, and Jaskier feels – almost hysterical, really, laughter bubbling up in his chest as the tableau continues; the two of them, pressed together still at the hips where Geralt is rutting against him, talking about mating bites. Does he want, of course he wants to, but it’s – they’ve barely even gone past the stage of a particularly close friendship, even with Geralt’s heat descending upon them.

“I don’t want to trap you with me,” Geralt says, sounding afraid.

Jaskier kind of wants to hear his hair out. He settles for kissing Geralt, deep and fierce and probably with too much teeth, but the Witcher groans and presses into it, so it’s probably fine.

“There’s no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with,” he murmurs, right against Geralt’s mouth, tongue flicking out to trace the bow of his top lip. “Gods, Geralt, I – we’re soulmates. Of course I’d be willing. Would you?”

“I’m not supposed to want things,” Geralt parrots, but it sounds weaker now than ever before. His hands are still gripping Jaskier’s shoulders bruise-tight, his legs hooked over Jaskier’s thighs.

“That’s not what I asked, Geralt.” Just a hint of Alpha in his voice, that tone he never uses and never, especially with Geralt, but instead of bristling he gets a weak, almost pained whimper as Geralt automatically bares this throat, eyes squeezing shut.

“I want it,” he says, like it’s being pulled out of him with a hook. “Want to be yours.”

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier purrs, a little caught up, “you already are.”

Chapter Text

Geralt’s descent into heat is so much slower than the average omega, but he goes down, all the same. Not long after their discussion about bites – if one could really call it that – the Witcher is writhing in Jaskier’s embrace, gasping and whining with very little coherence.

“Shh, darling, you’re alright,” Jaskier soothes, dragging wet kisses from his mouth to the base of his throat as he shifts down, planting his knees and using the leverage to widen Geralt’s legs, too. “Breathe, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Geralt sucks in a deep breath obediently, lashes fluttering as Jaskier pets over his chest, his belly.

“Tell me how you feel,” Jaskier prompts, and Geralt whines, louder now.

“ Hot, ” he moans. “Feel – need you. Please?”

Jaskier shudders and forces himself still for a moment, struggling with his self-control for a split second. “Soon,” he promises. “Just – not quite yet, darling.”

All he gets in response is a desperate little whimper, and he can’t help but grin, leaning down to kiss over the Witcher’s chest, lightly at first and then more firmly, adding in the gentlest scrapes of teeth when Geralt arches up into the pressure and begs so pretty.

“Please, please, fuck, Jaskier,” he babbles. His hands are still curled around Jaskier’s shoulders, blunt nails leaving red scratches. Jaskier hums and detours to suck at a nipple, humming again approvingly when Geralt shudders, cock jumping between their bellies. He gives the same treatment to the other nipple before finally sitting up and continuing his exploration with his hands, instead.

Down from Geralt’s chest, to his belly, feeling over the definition of his abs when he arches and rolls – and when he doesn’t; Jaskier frowns slightly, making a note to feed the Witcher more. From there he traces the wings of Geralt’s hip bones, startlingly sensitive if the little gasp and moan Geralt gives is any indication. He spends a bit of time there, seeing what gets the best reactions – gentle stroking makes Geralt shudder, and using his nails makes him groan. Pressing and massaging right under where the sharp cut of the bone peaks makes the Witcher’s cock flex and drip. 

Finally, he surrenders the pretense and wraps a hand around Geralt’s cock, stroking lightly. Geralt shouts, hips jerking, and Jaskier has to plant his other hand on the Witcher’s trembling belly to steady him.

“Just like this, let me make you feel good, darling,” he murmurs, and Geralt twists but doesn’t try to pull away, eyes fluttering open to reveal blown pupils. 

“Want more, ” he hisses, and Jaskier coos at him.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he murmurs. “You’ll get it – when you’re ready.”

Geralt makes a vaguely disgruntled noise, but seems placated when Jaskier swipes his fingertips over the leaking head of his cock just to tighten his grip and stroke him properly, this time. His hips flex, thighs trembling slightly, and he moans, soft and low and heartfelt.

Jaskier tries to ignore the throbbing at the base of his cock, focusing on Geralt instead. No matter how old Geralt is, or how much experience he’s had – heats are different, and Jaskier’s going to make his first one as perfect as possible. 

While Geralt is distracted with Jaskier’s ministrations on his cock, he slides his other hand down and around, petting over Geralt’s hip again for a moment before slowly circling his touch in, until his fingers rest at the very base of Geralt’s cock. The very top of his cunt, starting to leak visibly, lips swollen and, Jaskier knows from experience, likely very sensitive. 

He’s careful, gentle, as he slides his thumb down, stroking over the folds of him. Geralt clearly notices the touch though, thighs tensing hard around Jaskier as his eyes fly open, an odd sort of choking sound spilling from his lips before he keens, coming just like that.

Jaskier bites his cheek so hard it bleeds, cock throbbing dangerously between them as he strokes Geralt through the orgasm, heedless of the mess it’s making – the cum on the Witcher’s belly or the slick making a puddle on the bed.

“So good, Geralt, so good for me, just like that,” he grates out, gentling his touch until he stops. 

Geralt’s panting, eyes hazy and face splotchy red from the exertion, but he doesn’t protest when Jaskier pets over him again. Instead he just whimpers, shifting to plant his feet and tilt his hips up.

“Please,” he whines, and Jaskier can only tell him no for so long.

The first finger slides in with no resistance at all, and when Geralt begs, mostly wordless, the second as well. He’s hot as a furnace and slick, so slick that Jaskier’s a little dizzy with the pleasure of it, and he reacts beautifully as Jaskier carefully fingers him open, all panting whines and pleading cries, tossing his head side to side and clutching up around Jaskier’s fingers as if he could keep them right where he wants them. Jaskier’s captivated, and possibly drooling a little bit.

“Feel good, darling?” he asks, as if he needs to, but Geralt is quick to answer all the same.

“Yes, yes, ” he gasps, hips rolling into the thrust of Jaskier’s hand. “So – so good, Jaskier, alpha, please – ”

Jaskier grunts as if he’s been punched, at that, feeling quite like he has been hit. His belly is tight and his cock is near purple, and Geralt looks so fucking good in front of him, legs spread wide and begging for him.

His patience snaps. 

“It’s alright, Geralt, you’re okay,” he murmurs, taking his fingers away just to wrap them around his cock, spreading the slick around as he leans forward, catching Geralt’s mouth in a kiss before he can complain about the loss. “Just like this, darling, perfect omega, I’ve got you.”

“ Alpha, ” Geralt whimpers prettily, and hikes his legs higher on Jaskier’s waist.

The movement puts him at the perfect angle; all Jaskier has to do is press forward and he catches, sinking into Geralt’s heat with almost no effort at all.

They both groan. 

“Please, please, oh fuck, pleasepleaseplease – ”  

“Shh, shh, ” Jaskier comforts, voice broken even through nonsense sounds, as he gets one slippery hand on Geralt’s hip and the other buried into his hair, pressing their foreheads together. “Just like this, darling, slow, oh fuck…. ”

“ Jaskier, ” Geralt whines, nails digging stinging lines along Jaskier’s shoulder blades as he trembles. “ Please move.”

“Slow,” Jaskier insists, but he moves, little tiny thrusts at first. Geralt makes a garbled, pitchy noise and tosses his head back, hips rocking in time with Jaskier’s movements as his chest heaves.

He just takes it as an invitation, ducking down to mouth over Geralt’s throat, which makes the Witcher keen as he clenches down on Jaskier’s cock. 

“ Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier hisses, unable to stop himself from thrusting harder at that, and then, when Geralt just whimpers needily and bucks his hips in response, faster. It doesn’t take long from there until he’s fucking the Witcher properly, the sound of it obscene in the little room.

He’s so close he swears he can feel it in his teeth. He tries to warn Geralt, but all of his words come out garbled, cracked and nonsensical around his moaning and gasping, but eventually it doesn’t matter what he can or can’t say, because Geralt starts begging.

“Alpha, please, ” he’s gasping, pitched and breathless, “need – knot me, please, please, fuck – ”

And that’s all it takes, really. Jaskier whimpers as he fucks in, both hands on Geralt’s hips now, as if he needs to keep his omega close – he doesn’t, not really, not with how hard Geralt is pressing back, cunt clenching as if he could lock before Jaskier’s knot has even sunk all the way inside him.

“ Geralt, ” he groans, and finds the omega’s mouth in an effort not to bite right now. Sure, they discussed it, but only just, and besides – he wants Geralt coherent enough to bite him, too. Right now, mouth mostly slack as he comes around Jaskier’s knot, he’s definitely not that.

– – – – –

After that first knot, Jaskier sort of loses himself to Geralt’s heat, too, caught up in the sensations, how fucking beautiful Geralt is underneath him – and then, when Geralt flips them over in one of the lulls, above him. Because the Witcher is, is so fucking gorgeous Jaskier’s breathless.

Or maybe that’s just the fact that he’s knotted Geralt six times in the past eight hours. 

He thinks it’s probably both.

Eventually, though, Geralt’s heat hits a longer lull, and Geralt finally lets both of them breathe. Sort of, at least. 

“ Geralt, ” Jaskier whines, twitching with oversensitivity as Geralt’s hands go wandering, cupping his balls and tracing around the base of his cock. “Gods above, you need to rest. ”

Geralt just hums noncommittally, but he does leave Jaskier’s cock alone for the moment, hands instead traveling over his hips, then his belly. Jaskier huffs and grabs his wrists, pulling his hands up so he can nip at Geralt’s fingers.

“Insatiable,” he mutters, and Geralt just laughs, low and raspy. 

“‘S the point, isn’t it?” he says, and Jaskier is stunned to hear the Kaedwen in his accent – like this, heat-drunk and lazy, his usually strict adherence to a Rivian accent has slipped. Jaskier feels warmth bloom in his belly.

“It is,” he agrees, using his grip on Geralt’s wrists to pull him closer, into a kiss. It’s more intentional than their last several kisses, with the delirium of Geralt’s heat lifted just a little, but it’s still messy, both of them clumsy with exhaustion.

“Sleep,” Jaskier mumbles, right against Geralt’s mouth. “At least, let me. Wake me when you need a knot again, hm?”

“Good thing you said need, not want,” Geralt teases, and Jaskier snorts around a yawn.

“ Insatiable, ” he mutters again, already dropping off.

– – – – –

It seems that the Witcher mutations affect heats in more than one way, because it’s not long after that short nap that Jaskier can tell Geralt’s heat is fading. Geralt clearly knows it, too, seemingly getting more desperate even as the heat-scent starts to dim, his body temperature dropping steadily.

“Shh,” Jaskier hushes him, letting him cling where they’re tied but trying to soothe the odd, frantic tension in his limbs. “Right here, love, I’m right here.”

“Mm,” is the only response he gets from Geralt, the Witcher still squirming as if they could get any closer than they already are. All the same, Jaskier tries to help, getting his arms around Geralt’s waist even tighter, leaning in closer to press their chests closer together. 

It doesn’t seem to help, though, and even knotted, Geralt’s getting more and more antsy.

“Geralt, love,” Jaskier murmurs, getting one hand in the Witcher’s hair. “What is it?”

“You didn’t bite me,” Geralt mumbles back, sounding hesitant. “You….”

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “You really want me to?” he clarifies, glad that for once he can’t see Geralt’s face. He’s afraid he looks entirely too desperate, and he’s terrified that his want wouldn’t be reflected in Geralt, even as he feels the way the Witcher is trying to claw his way closer. “I didn’t – ”

“ Please bite me,” Geralt says, rushed and half-breathless, as if he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to say it if he didn’t say it quickly enough. Jaskier sucks in another breath, sharper this time, and lets it out on a low, almost involuntary growl.

Geralt shivers in his arms. “Please,” he repeats, and Jaskier hushes him, petting through his hair a few times before he gets a gentle grip on the strands. 

“One condition,” he says, and Geralt tenses, clearly expecting something difficult. Jaskier swallows down a chuckle, instead just using his grip on Geralt’s hair to tilt his head. It slots them together just so, Jaskier’s mouth so close to Geralt’s scent gland he can practically taste it, and Geralt similarly close to his own.

“What?” Geralt asks, finally, almost more of an exhalation than an actual question.

“You bite me, too.” Jaskier rubs his nose over the scent gland making his mouth water, feels how it’s still so warm despite the way Geralt’s beginning to cool off, and revels in the full-body reaction Geralt has, shuddering and clenching, grip on Jaskier tightening. He presses a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to the gland. “Hm?”

“ Yes, ” Geralt nearly snarls the word, and that’s all the permission Jaskier needs before he’s opening his mouth and biting down, a split second before Geralt does the same.

– – – – –

The mating bites seems to be the nail in the coffin for Geralt’s heat, his scent fading back to its usual faintness, the fever gone entirely.

However, the Witcher seems entirely uninterested in rest after that.

Teeth still bloody, he’s using his grip on Jaskier and leverage from – well, Jaskier doesn’t know what, to roll them over, the entire shift making Jaskier go dizzy from the pressure on his knot. Geralt doesn’t seem much better off, whimpering high and breathless as the tie pulls, but that doesn’t seem to distract him from his goal, which appears to be...fucking himself on Jaskier’s knot.

At least, kind of, considering they’re still tied and the movement allowed is minimal. 

All the same, Jaskier is immediately overwhelmed, pleasure searing like flames through his bloodstream, and Geralt is growling, breath short and choppy as he rocks his hips, cunt clenching like a vice with each little movement. 

“ Want, ” he hisses, and Jaskier just makes a broken, wordless noise before yanking him down into a messy, bloody kiss, and they lose several more hours like that.