Geralt is not making a nest. Jaskier has noticed this. Geralt is in fact drinking a rather foul-smelling potion that sours the sweetness of his scent and muffles its otherwise obvious meaning. “Does that stop heat?” Jaskier asks curiously, absentmindedly tuning his lute as he speaks. He hadn’t thought anything could, but, well . . . witchers and their potions. “No,” Geralt says darkly.

Geralt mistakes Jaskier for a, ahem, lady of the night, and Jaskier goes with it. As you do. "I don't require a whore." Funny thing is, Jaskier wasn't about to offer. He means to convey words to that effect to settle the matter and dispel any potential future misunderstandings, but finds himself saying instead, "Why not?"

"Geralt’s pupils are like black pits, the bright, unnatural yellow in them lost in their bottomless depths. It’s disconcerting. He seems out of touch. Drunk even. Jaskier can readily accept that, going by the slow, lethargic sway of the witcher’s head." Or: Geralt hunts a wraith and things go just a little wrong, in the sexiest of ways.

This is a collection of my 2021 Kinktober works. As the tags say, this is just fanart, no fics. The first chapter works as an overview for the prompts as well as the CW and pairings.

“Dragons that lay eggs, are more properly referred to as Dragonkind. They grow to be ten feet tall, walk on two legs, are...somewhat humanoid, and they have a single sex.” “So the same dragon lays the eggs and fertilizes them?” “Hm.” “...I’m still missing something.” “Dragonkind need a host to incubate their eggs for the first few hours after laying.” “Ohh, so the sheepskin and hot water bottle is to keep it snug while you’re holding it against your chest. I see. Bit of a cuddle.” “No, Jaskier.” “...they lay the egg, and then you cuddle it, and they, er. Fertilize it while you’re curled around it? Bit sticky, still doesn’t explain the size of the reward.” “No, Jaskier.” Geralt added thoughtfully, after a moment. “And the one in this territory uses ‘he.’ Not they.” “He. Good to know. Well gods damn it then, Geralt, why don’t you explain to me in direct language where little dragons come from then?”

Geralt has never met a leshen this old. He's also never had one talk to him. Today is just full of surprises. Tomorrow isn't going to be more normal.

jaskier has three things: an unstoppable libido, a limitless imagination, and the continent's sexiest traveling companion. sometimes, this leads to certain accidents. they become a little less accidental over time. or: five times jaskier accidentally orgasms because of geralt, and one time he comes very much on purpose.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says, “but I must have misheard you. ‘Three times’? Geralt, you’re not a man. You’re a-” “Shut up,” Geralt says. “I shouldn’t have told you.” “The worst thing of all,” Jaskier says, either having gone deaf or choosing to ignore Geralt completely, “is that you’ve never really tried. That this is total hearsay. Gods, it could be more than three. You could go all night.” “If you keep on,” Geralt says, “You’ll never find out." (or: Witchers don't have refractory periods, and Jaskier is keen to investigate.)

“I learn stuff about you to enrich my songs, thanks very much.” Geralt starts. “Like what?” Jaskier strums a chord. “Plenty of things. You always ask the contractor if they want the head or not instead of just showing up with it, because you don’t want to shock people. You eat normal amounts of food when eating in public, instead of your usual awe-inducing giant amount. You sleep more when you’re hurt, but that’s the only way I’d ever know. You’re a bit weird about your potions and you count them a lot.” He glances up and grins. “Shall I continue?” A handful of contracts go sideways. Recovering is easier with Jaskier there.

Years and years after Kaer Morhen, in the bed of a particularly skilled prostitute, Geralt learned that other things besides injury and stress could trigger his strange mutation. Warmth. Safety. A lovers’ touch. He’d also learned that no matter how good of an actress a lady of the night may be, there were limits to what a human would put up with for the sake of coin. When Jaskier comes along, the White Wolf already knows to hide his freakish nature as best as he’s able.

Geralt has very, very faint memories of his earliest times in Kaer Morhen. Of when they were all undeniably human. There were so many of them, dozens and dozens of young boys all crowded in together with each other. They’d sleep in piles, crowding for space, seeking warmth and comfort, innocently, naively unrestrained and shameless. Grabbing at and climbing over each other without thought. And then they started taking the mutagens, fewer and fewer boys woke up and rose from the floor to eat breakfast in the morning, and all of a sudden there was enough room for all of them to have their own room. No more crowding, no more piles. No more touching.

“They had been told, as young witchers, that the burden of their secondary sex had been relieved by the Trial of Grasses. The mutations took away the change that would come as humans hit adulthood, and they would be without a subsex. Witchers were men, and men alone. They were not given the added burden of being an alpha, or an omega, or a beta. They were free from that particular form of madness.“ Jaskier is hired to be a heat companion for an omega widow, and Geralt is hired alongside him to play bodyguard. Unfortunately, being so close to the chaos that is human mating cycles, Geralt begins to suffer strange symptoms of his own. Trust Jaskier to take care of it. He’s a professional, after all.

Fuck, what has he done until now? Told Geralt… nice things because he thought that he’d like to hear them and was proved right about it, on top of it? One day he’ll have a long chat with Geralt about how much his previous partners had no taste. Right now, though — “What,” he asks, moving closer, “that you’re lovely?” Geralt… doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but a few more tears fall down, and — “You don’t have to lie if —” “I’m not,” Jaskier interrupts him at once, letting his hands go to grasp his face, pressing their lips together to try and start making his point. “Fuck, you are lovely, other than drop-dead handsome, but then again I haven’t been staring at you like that for months for nothing.” Or: in which it turns out Geralt does have a praise kink that hits him harder than he'd thought. Jaskier is more than glad to indulge in it.

The maddening thing is: Jaskier is almost sure that Yennefer knows, except that he can’t be too sure that she does, except that all evidence points in that direction, except that outright asking her is completely out of the fucking question, except that whenever she talks to him lately she has that glint in her eyes that promises nothing good, except that - Yeah, except that he could ask, but he has a feeling that going to your best friend’s slash boss’s slash former-idol-of-his-teenage-years-that-he’s-had-more-than-a-crush-on-for-years girlfriend and ask her straight hey, by the way, I have a feeling that you know that I write fanfic about the two of you in my spare time and for that matter I’m actually good enough at it that I have a thousand Ao3 subscriptions, and everyone wonders how my characterization is this good is… not… really a good idea. Or: in which Jaskier, as Geralt's social media manager, has resuscitated the man's career and landed him a girlfriend, so what if he incidentally also writes RPF for the both of them on the side? That is, until they invite him to join them.

“Geralt, it’s not what it looks like.” “Really?” he asked. He clenched his jaw before offering a sharp, mirthless smile. “Because it looks like you got caught fucking the mayor’s wife, and now I’m not getting paid!” “Well,” he laughed nervously, looking anywhere but up. “When you put it that way.” In which Jaskier suggests a chastity device to prove himself a worthy travel companion, and of course, gives Geralt the key.

Geralt doesn’t wear his courting jewelry—the medallion is apparently a witcher thing, not an omega one—and Jaskier supposes that makes sense. Geralt leads a very active life, and probably saves the jewelry for situations it won’t run the constant risk of getting ruined in. Certainly a nice set of earrings would be a lot more fragile than the plain studs he wears instead. A lot of omegas don’t wear their courting jewelry day to day, anyway, or at least not most of it. Geralt’s hardly unusual in that. It’s a bit of a shame, though, because Jaskier’d like to see him in it.

The wedding’s going to be tonight, presumably so no one involved has time to get cold feet, which gives Geralt just enough time to clean up and get the dirt off his armor and overthink every tiny little detail of this arrangement.

Jaskier falls in love with a witcher. It’s a bad idea, of course, but he falls in love with a lot of bad ideas.

“You wouldn’t say no to a woman with bread in her skirt, would you?” the bard says.

Jaskier’s just debating how much trouble he’s actually in when Geralt, marvelously, talks them out of it. After that, well . . . Jaskier still wants to eat him very badly, but he supposes it’d be a bit ungrateful of him. Geralt isn’t very impressed with the song he writes for him, unfortunately—which, rude—but doesn’t try to run off and leave him either, so . . . Well, Jaskier’s a bit smitten. A delicious-smelling witcher who can talk his way out of being murdered is very impressive. And he always has wanted a pet.

“You’re sharing a room?” Yennefer says, eyebrows raising. Hm. There’s a surprise. She’d have expected Geralt to want privacy and Jaskier to end up staying up all night and up some farmgirl’s skirt. “It’s cheaper,” Jaskier says. “Or it’s a habit. I don’t know. What do you care?” “I’m just surprised,” Yennefer says. “I thought you two weren’t having sex.” Geralt chokes on his ale.

The bard is an omega, young and pretty but poorly received by the tavern crowd. He smells like a stray, is barely older than a pup, and isn’t very good at his work. Geralt isn't interested in him besides that, but for some unfathomable reason the other is interested in him. He lets the bard follow him mostly just because getting rid of him would be more annoying, and maybe because he pities him a bit. But it's not going to be that interesting a job, he's already sure. There's no harm in letting a human hang around. Of course, then they get kidnapped by vengeful elves. So . . . fuck.