Chapter Text
Jaskier had been making a fuss over it for months now. The first time he brought it up, Geralt was a little horrified - his gun was a deadly weapon, something to be used as a last resort in dangerous situations. It certainly wasn’t a toy that he waved around without a care in the world and it definitely wasn’t going up Jaskier’s ass, no matter how much he begged.
But oh, how Jaskier begged. He whined and wheedled and squirmed in Geralt’s lap and always kicked up a fuss whenever Geralt said no. Spoilt , Geralt thought on more than one occasion, too used to getting his own way . Geralt had ways to deal with spoiled brats, but no matter how many times he told Jaskier the lesson didn’t seem to sink in. And Geralt, for all that the idea still vaguely horrified him, couldn’t get the image of Jaskier helpless and scared out of his mind. After all, Jaskier had only described it a hundred times in excruciating, explicit detail.
Brat.
In the end, there had only been one thing for it.
The replica was nearly identical, on the outside at least, to his work pistol. Shiny black metal, the little nick on the barrel - it was even weighted correctly which pleased him more than it should have. The only difference was the tiny, engraved buttercup on the bottom of the grip. Well, that and the fact that it couldn’t shoot no matter how many times Geralt pulled the trigger. He kept it in a box in the gun safe and didn’t tell Jaskier about it, couldn’t help thinking of it often. When he was alone, he’d pull it out and stroke over the cool metal until it warmed in his grip, imagining it in Jaskier’s sweet mouth or buried between his legs.
What happened next was inevitable.
Geralt had always disliked summer in the city, it got hot and damp and sticky and there was no end to the rush of stupid crimes committed by bored, fever drunk young people. As such his nights were long and ended late and he was always stupidly sticky and sweaty by the time he was done. Geralt missed the country sometimes, with its sedate pace and altogether lazy criminals in comparison, but there had been no hope of promotion in the country and there was no Jaskier either.
As usual, Jaskier was still awake when Geralt got home, even though it was past three am and most sane people with a sensible sleep pattern would be dead to the world. That being said, Jaskier was not most people and his own job - if one could call it that - meant he was used to being awake at odd times. Geralt didn’t ask. He was ninety-nine percent sure that Jaskier was involved in something illegal but moral, and he didn’t need that final percent of proof. Reasonable doubt was a powerful excuse. Don’t ask, don’t tell could be applied to many things.
“Geralt! Oh, you look knackered - do American’s say knackered? I always get weird looks when I say it, anyway nevermind! -” Jaskier grinned and flitted around him like a hummingbird, or moth circling a light, all but shoving Geralt into the wide armed chair he preferred.
“Hm. You’re as energetic as ever.” He didn’t bother untying his boots but did drag the sweaty, leather gloves off his palm and flung them somewhere in the vicinity of the coffee table, hearing a clattering and a bang from the kitchen, followed by a groan and a swear. Geralt rolled his eyes. “What are you- be careful!”
Jaskier all but skid back into the room, his hair somehow twice as wild as it had been a few moments before. In his hands he carried a freshly opened bottle of beer and he waved the free one wildly. “The cupboard broke again. I was looking for the bottle opener!”
The drink spilled a little when he thrust it at Geralt, practically dancing from foot to foot, eyes bright and edging on manic.
Ah
. His boy wanted something.
Geralt dragged his eyes over Jaskier, slow enough that it was obvious what he was doing, but he didn’t say anything and instead just took a long draw from the bottle before sighing. Jaskier swallowed, his long throat moving elegantly, the column of it littered with mostly faded bruises in the shape of Geralt’s teeth. Condensation slipped down the glass bottle over his hand, the beer icy compared to the heat of his apartment. Outside, it would be light again within the hour, definitely within two. Geralt could already see the hue of the night shifting from a deep blue to purple. The fluorescent apartment lights bathed everything in an orange-yellow hue and it glinted off the shiny buttons of Jaskier’s silk nightshirt.
Who even wore those anymore?
He left the bottle onto the coffee table, next to his discarded gloves and tapped his lap once. Jaskier grinned and practically leapt at him, the old armchair creaking as he launched himself into Geralt’s lap.
“Patience.” He didn’t need another noise complaint from the upstart neighbour down below. He’d probably get one anyway.
“Never.” Jaskier grinned and licked across his lips and teeth, his mouth shiny and wet. Geralt swatted him once on the hip before trailing his finger across Jaskier’s bobbing adam's apple and down his throat, until it was teasing through the thick fur on his chest. In his lap, Jaskier was trembling, balanced on his knees, looking not unlike a spring wound far too tight.
“Look at you, so tense. What has you all keyed up, sweet boy?” The apartment is stickier than it had been outside, Geralt misses the cool airconditioning of his squad car, imagines taking Jaskier over the hood of it. Licks a stripe up Jaskier’s throat and listens to the cut off groan that comes from the boy in his lap, Jaskier’s hands coming to rest on his shoulders.
“I’ve been bad, Officer.” The voice that comes out of Jaskier is pitched and throaty. Geralt can taste sweat and a hint of cigarette smoke on his skin, attuned to the taste of it after years at his father’s side, watching him hand roll and smoke the same way Jaskier likes to. So this is how Jaskier wants to play? It’s not an unusual game between them. He looks up and raises a brow.
“Hm. You’re always bad.” He teases, letting himself slip into the role. Jaskier’s hands slip down his shoulders and chest as he drops his knees to sit fully in Geralt’s lap. Bare, sweaty legs settle against Geralt’s uniform pants, the silky shirt is quite obviously tented. Geralt ignores it, pushes Jaskier’s neck back again. “Such a bad boy. What am I going to do with you?”
Jaskier groans and his eyes glint in the too bright lights. His fingertips dance over Geralt’s broad chest, tapping out an odd little tune.
“You’ll have to teach me a lesson… Officer.” He kisses his teeth and gives Geralt a broad, boyish grin, one that stretches slow and easy across his handsome face. The title is tacked on like an afterthought, drawn out as lazy as the grin. Talented, devilish fingers run over the holster of his gun and Geralt growls. Slut that he is, Jaskier just shivers and winks.
“Don’t touch that.” It’s not that Geralt doesn’t trust Jaskier but, he doesn’t trust Jaskier. Silly little foreign boy, with light fingers and even lighter toes. Geralt doubts he’s ever shot a gun in his life. Doesn’t know the dangers.
Maybe he’s wrong. He isn’t going to ask and find out.
“Or what, Officer? Will I get in trouble?” The heat of the apartment is oppressive, Geralt can feel it burning through his chest. Jaskier flutters his eyelashes, putting on a voice like a fifties housewife - if a fifties housewife wanted to get thrown to the floor and fucked like an animal.
“You’re already in trouble, boy. Don’t push it.” Jaskier’s hair is soft and messy and just a little damp beneath his fingers. Sweat beads along his forehead, gone tan with the summer. He grips and wrenches Jaskier’s head back, grazes his teeth along that sweet neck, his gun burns a hole in his pants. Everything is uncomfortably humid, clinging sweet and salty like bad perfume.
The groan that leaves Jaskier is sweeter than any music he’s ever sung. The night is bright and burning and Geralt wants like he’s rarely wanted before, all the shadows inside his soul swarming for attention.
Jaskier opens his mouth to say something. Something stupid and slutty and sweet, knowing Jaskier. Geralt slaps him across the face. It’s light, won’t leave a bruise, not even a faint red mark. The sound of it still cracks across the room and Jaskier groans as his head snaps to the side.
“I didn’t say you could speak, boy.” The slightest twinge of a southern drawl that he’s spent years learning how to disguise slips into his voice. Jaskier shudders and nods, and his hips rock up as his eyes glance down at the gun, still holstered on Geralt’s hip. There’s a slowly growing damp patch on his pretty silk shirt. Geralt wants to rip the shiny buttons open and see them fly across the room but instead he grits his teeth and lets his own hand cover the gun, hiding it from view.
Tonight. He’ll do it tonight.
“You plannin’ somethin’, boy? Got your eyes locked awfully tight on my gun, someone might get the idea that you’re goin’ to do something.”
Jaskier chokes a sound off in his throat, Geralt’s hand still forcing his head back and up. His eyes, the prettiest blue Geralt has ever seen, look back up at him and they’re wide and questioning and eager. Oh so eager.
“You gonna do somethin’ boy? Go on, answer me now, before I get impatient.”
“No, no officer, I swear, please- ” It’s been a while since Geralt has heard Jaskier like this, his voice choked and swinging wildly between too high and too low. Maybe it’s the accent, or maybe it’s just Jaskier, but he sounds boyishly young. Too posh for what Geralt is going to do to him. Definitely posh enough to be the type of pervert to want it. Were his head free, he’d been waving it wildly from side to side. With Geralt’s hand tangled so tight in the short brown locks, all he can do is tug his own hair, head making minute little jerks that he obviously enjoys.
Geralt lets out a slow, drawn out breath. Tries to gather his control around him as light catches and spins around him. The gun. The gun. It is hard and hot and unyielding beneath his palm.
“Well, if you ain’t plannin’ to rob me…” He makes a show of it, drags his eyes up and down Jaskier’s body as if he can’t tell how aroused he is. As if Jaskier is there, making a mess of himself already, dripping like a tap. When he finally lets his eyes linger on the tent between Jaskier’s legs he tuts and Jaskier shivers as if a breeze has caught him unaware. There is sweat beading at his temples, more of it gathering in the hollow of his throat, Geralt licks it up before burying his teeth in. Hungry wolf, eager for a bite. Sweet boy, red as a hood, whining in his lap - is it any wonder he can’t resist?
“If you ain’t plannin’ to rob me -” He repeats, “- well then you must be some sort of pervert. You a pervert, boy? See a man with a gun and spread your legs like an eager little slut? Then, sound of your voice… you ever seen a real gun before, back in that shithole you call home?”
Jaskier whines, trying to shake his head again.
“No? No you ain’t a pervert, no you ain’t never seen a gun? Which is it boy? Both? I think we both know that’s a lie.” He wraps his hand around Jaskier’s cock, letting his hand leave the gun to cradle Jaskier through sticky silk.
“It’s not, officer, please, fuck!” Geralt squeezes and Jaskier’s voice goes high and thready and gets lost somewhere in the popcorn ceiling of the apartment as he moans. Geralt is hard in his own tight pants, aching something fierce, so damp and sweaty he feels like he might drown. Perhaps that's just the arousal.
“It’s a crime to lie to the police, boy, and I’ve got proof you’re lyin’ right here in my hand.” He squeezes again before pulling his hand away and all but throwing Jaskier to the floor, keeping his hand tangled in his hair.
“I’m sorry officer! Forgive me, please don’t, I can’t… I can’t go to prison, sir! I’ll do anything, please just, I-” His voice cuts off into a breathy moan, rocking on his knees, forced up into an awkward position by the hand Geralt has in his hair. God, but he makes such a pretty sight, has done since the day Geralt met him. At a crime scene no less. The first of many.
Jaskier is very likely a criminal. That’s fine. Geralt can punish him and him alone.
He tuts in the back of his throat. Drops Jaskier to the floor and he crumples like a puppet with its strings cut. His heart beats like a drum in his chest and all the way up in his ears, his cock is so hard it aches. If he touched it now, Geralt is sure he’d blow his load before he even got a chance to see Jaskier writhing on it. On his gun. He picks up the beer, the glass is barely cold now, and finishes it in one.
“Anythin’, boy? That’s a dangerous promise to make.” He stands, uses his foot to shove Jaskier out of the way, back against the coffee table. It’s an awkward position, painful to hold for too long, but oh if it doesn’t leave Jaskier so wonderfully exposed, his shirt askew, his hair equally stuck up in the air and stuck down on his face. The very tip of his cock is peaking out from under the ruined fabric.
He’s wanted to ruin this boy for a long time.
“Up. Bedroom, now. I want you on the bed and prepped by the time I’m ready to have you, boy, because I ain’t gonna wait to get you ready, you understand?” He steps forwards, shoves the steel capped tip of his boot up under Jaskier’s balls and watches him whimper. Bright blue eyes look at the gun on his hip, the hard swell of his cock. His boy breathes in shuddering little pants and Geralt waits, gives him a chance to say his word. The room is lighter, a dusky pink that matches Jaskier’s flushed cheeks and the bright red cherry of his lips, bitten up from his own teeth.
“I said, you understand, boy? Or are you deaf as well as dumb, huh? Or just too busy thinkin’ about cock?” He nudges his tip forward, squeezes Jaskier’s balls between his boot and Jaskier’s own body and listens to the strangled whine that leaves him. Jaskier shakes his head, legs spread akimbo, back arched like he’s prostrating himself for the lord. Or maybe Lucifer himself.
Jaskier is certainly the devil’s work if Geralt has ever seen it.
“I understand, officer!” Geralt pushes a little harder and Jaskier’s voice turns into a strangled whine at the heady mix of pleasure and pain. He twists and arches higher, legs shaking from the strain of it and Geralt groans. Sin. It should be a sin to look so fucking delicious, even when being hurt. He drags his foot away.
“Up. Go.” Jaskier scrambles up and almost falls over the coffee table, forgetting which way the bedroom is. Geralt can’t help but laugh, something cruel and promising in the back of his throat. As soon as Jaskier is out of sight he rips the gun from its holster and all but tears the safe open, albeit as quietly as he can. It doesn’t work if Jaskier knows there’s been a change.
He rubs his thumb over the buttercup and palms himself through his jeans. All he can smell is sweat and need, the apartment a wallowing heat trap. From the bedroom there is a gasp and a moan. Geralt finds his mouth is dry, dryer than the desert despite the enveloping humidity of the room. The replica is cold in his hands but quickly warming, he shoves it in the holster and tilts his head back to the grotty ceiling of his apartment.
Breathe
, he tells himself. Just breathe. The early morning light is hazy now, showing all the dust in the dawn. He pulls his hair from it’s usual tie and curls his hands into fists and then releases them again. Jaskier’s moans turn to breathless whines and then quiet from the bedroom. Too quick.
Well, his boy has made his choice. Geralt rubs his hands, sweaty as every inch of him, across his pants. They’re damp enough that it makes little difference. He wishes he had a drink, or a cold bucket of ice to plunge himself into. It’s all too much. Months of buildup and suddenly everything is burning up around him.
He shouldn’t be so hard. So eager.
He makes Jaskier wait. His own blood burns and pulses from his forehead to his toes, wonders if his boy is squirming or sitting good and pretty like he was told to. Breathe . He takes a step and then another, the room is only getting warmer as the sun begins to rise.
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His feet carry him to the bedroom. Inside, the curtains are pulled just so, bringing back the dark which is somehow easier to bear. Jaskier is still in his nightshirt, hands and knees on the bed, the soft cotton of the comforter tangled around his knees.
“Look at you, sweet boy. Filthy, perverted thing, no shame in you, is there? So fuckin’ desperate for it you’d let me do… well, anythin’ , ain’t it?” Geralt wraps his hands around Jaskier’s hips. Slender, slim. Fragile beneath Geralt’s hands.
“Yes, fuck, Geralt, officer, anything!” His body shudders. Between his legs his cock is heavy, red and swollen with need. Geralt wants to lick and suck and maybe bite it but not tonight. This morning. What is time anyway?
He yanks Jaskier back to the edge of the bed, drags his knees over the cotton as Jaskier loses his balance, goes face first into the sheets. Geralt steps forwards, drapes himself over Jaskier’s body, uses nothing but his weight to pin Jaskier there, hot and shaking beneath him. The cuffs on the table by their bed aren’t police issue, they’re lined with leather to take away the sharp, skin cutting bite. It’s close enough.
“You’re gonna be so good for me boy, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you off with a warnin’.” He growls out, cuffing Jaskier’s slender wrists behind his back, forcing him deeper into the sheets. The noise Jaskier makes in response is wanton, muffled. Geralt squeezes his own cock hard and drags his fingers down Jaskier’s back, pinching at his ass.
“Yes Officer…” Jaskier sounds close to sobbing. If Geralt doesn’t have him in tears by the end of this he’s failed in his job. He stands, resists the urge to unbutton his shirt, knocks Jaskier’s knees further apart just so he can see him struggle more, and oh he’s such a bastard because he enjoys making things hard.
“Roll over, boy.” His voice is bark and bite and he’s never felt more cruel than as Jaskier struggles to throw himself over, arms bound, legs tangled in the cotton of the comforter and the silky sheets he insists on. He puffs and pants, skin flushing pink and then brilliant red as he manages to throw himself over, taking deep gasping breaths from where he glares at Geralt on the bed.
It’s a pathetic little thing, considering his position, considering how hard Jaskier is, legs spread wide.
“Oh, what’s that face for, sweet boy, you said anythin’. And I never claimed to be a nice man. Wouldn’t have you bare and bound in my bed if I were. Did you think this was gonna be easy? A quick fuck and run? Oh no boy, I’m gonna ruin you.” He gives Jaskier a toothy, filthy grin, something he learned from his brothers and boys at school. The type of grin that parents warn their little girls about. Too bad they always forget to warn their little boys.
Jaskier whimpers and his eyes go wide, mouth slack. He shakes his head a few times, shoulders shifting. His hips lift and fall and Geralt can see fear and arousal war in his eyes, on his flushed, stupid face.
“Please, sir… I can’t, I’ll be good, I promise!” Jaskier begs, feet rubbing against the sheets as if he might get away, shiny all over with sweat and need. Geralt coos. Slaps him ever so lightly on the cheek, more of a tap than anything.
“Oh I know you’ll be good. That ain’t gonna stop me though. Not when I have such a pretty lil’ slut in my bed.” A low keen fills the room, Jaskier shakes and writhes again, twisting on the bed, rucking his shirt up higher, bunching the sheets around him. Geralt straddles his chest, admires the breadth of it, the thick carpet of hair. Oh Jaskier is a pretty boy, but he is quite definitely a man, one that Geralt has every right to have his way with.
Jaskier has his word. He hasn’t used it yet.
“No use strugglin’ boy. You ain’t got a hope in hell against me. Oh, I can see you got some hair on your chest, but that don’t make you a man. Just gives me another thing to pull.” Geralt’s fingers are calloused and strong, he tangles them in Jaskier’s chest hair and uses it to yank him up, admiring the high cry it draws out of Jaskier. He’s not entirely cruel though, only holds him for a moment before dropping Jaskier back to the bed.
“You gettin’ it yet, boy? You’re mine now. And I can do anythin’ I want.” Jaskier whimpers and nods roughly, quickly, tears welling up in his pretty little eyes, blown dark and wide with lust. It’s a good look on him.
“Yes! Yes officer, I understand, I’m yours, promise, please, I want, I need, please Geralt...” His eyes fall to the gun, still holstered at Geralt’s hip. Still there. Like it’s never been before. Geralt growls, slaps him across the face again, harder this time. Jaskier’s head snaps to the side and Geralt bites back a low growl of arousal when tears finally leak down his cheeks.
“I know what you need, boy. You’ll get what you want, when I say you get it. You ain’t the one in control here.” Jaskier is nodding again, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath. Geralt leans forwards and bites at his throat, hard enough to leave a deep red mark that will later become a purple-green bruise. He needs to taste, get the sharp musk-tang of Jaskier’s skin in his mouth and memorise it forever.
He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life. It’s filthy, horrible. A sin against god, a crime against nature. How can it feel so right? He wants to blow himself inside Jaskier. Isn’t sure for a moment if he’s thinking of his cock or the gun. He palms first one and then the other and makes sure Jaskier is watching as he does so.
Not real , he reminds himself, but Jaskier doesn’t know that.
His hand is only shaking a little when he pulls the gun out of its holster. Not real, not real , it echoes in his head but Jaskier is staring, has gone stock still. Like a statue or something more. Geralt swallows, tightens his grip. The gun is heavy and warm against his palm. There’s a safety and a trigger, just to add to the illusion. Not real , but it could be, and he flicks the safety off.
Jaskier chokes. His shoulders shake, tears well up in his eyes, Geralt can barely see, the thin light through the curtains is hazy and there is dust and lust clouding every inch of his vision. The world suddenly seems very, very far away. All he can think about is Jaskier and the gun. He can’t breathe, more aroused than human. It shakes in his grip. Jaskier whimpers again, almost silent.
Geralt drags the muzzle across his cheek. Jaskier whines, and he’s flushed such a brilliant scarlet red. Is the metal hot or cold, Geralt wonders. Doesn’t dare to ask.
“Fuckin’-... Fuckin’ pervert boy, look at you. I should pull the trigger now, ain’t anyone who’d look for you. Ain’t anyone who’d wonder what happened. Just another whore, got into some trouble.” His voice is a low, rumbled growl. Deep enough it shatters the tension in his chest, Jaskier doesn’t dare move, he’s almost cross eyed where he’s staring at the gun, the shiny tip of it. The little nicks. Surely he can’t see it properly.
“Offi… Officer…” Jaskier’s voice is tiny, his body tense. Geralt moves the muzzle another inch until its resting over Jaskier’s lips. They’re red and shiny, glistening in the brightness of an early summer sunrise. It’s daylight proper now and Geralt doesn’t know where the darkness went, just knows his heart is bouncing like a jackhammer and Jaskier is looking at him, terrified and aroused.
He pushes the barrel in. Jaskier moans loud and low around the metal, his lips wrap around the pistol the same way they would Geralt’s cock. Tears once again leak from his eyes and all Geralt can do is hold it there, the prop, the toy, the
gun
. He doesn’t dare touch the trigger.
The gun inches deeper. Jaskier shakes and groans and Geralt hisses, anger and arousal and desperation flaring inside of him.
“This what you wanted, boy? Filthy fuckin’ pervert, wanted to be put in your place. Been beggin’ round, desperate for it. Oh I know all about you. Testin’ my patience, enticin’ me in. Little devil’s worker that you are. Well you got what you wanted boy.” He grips Jaskier’s jaw tight enough to ache with his spare hand and thrusts the gun as deep as it will go, until Jaskier is choking on warm, hard metal.
“G’r’lt!” He manages to gasp out and Geralt thrusts the gun, once, then twice, watching Jaskier’s pupils dilate.
“Gonna come from this, boy? Bet a whore like you could. They always warn their babies not to grow up slut, but you obviously missed the memo, didn’t you?” His voice is dark. Meaner than he’s ever heard it. Jaskier breathes rapidly through his nose and tries to nod, moans out a yes that more of a gargle as Geralt fucks his mouth slow but deep. Doesn’t go too fast, wary of Jaskier’s teeth. He’s got time.
Got all the time in the world. Jaskier isn’t going anywhere. Not with Geralt’s gun down his cock whore throat and Geralt’s cuffs around his bird-bone wrists. Not with his cock harder than steel, leaking like a fucking tap. And if Jaskier comes? Well Geralt has seen him come once, twice, thrice in a night. He’s got the stamina of a sixteen year old and masochistic streak a mile long.
Geralt can make him come till he sobs and Jaskier would still enjoy it.
Not that it matters tonight - though of course it always matters - because Geralt is in control. He can do whatever he wants. The thought is enough to make his vision cloud and he breathes heavily through his nose.
“Go on then boy. Prove that you’re nothin’ more than a two dollar whore. Fuckin’ pervert for a big man with a gun, well you’re gonna fuckin’ come for me and then come again, and again, until I’m done and not a minute sooner, sweetheart.” He grinds the gun against the back of Jaskier’s throat, a mite rougher than he’d intended but Jaskier all but convulses below him and wails, his blue eyes rolling back and up. Geralt watches through his own hazy vision as Jaskier comes, swallowing around the slick barrel of the gun, sobbing in humiliation. He’s never seen an orgasm so intense.
It is with considerable self control and a painfully tight squeeze of his dick that Geralt holds off his own orgasm. Even then it’s a close thing, what with the heat and the smell and the pleasure thrumming through his body. He drags the gun from Jaskier’s mouth, his lips release it with a slick pop.
Geralt drags spit soaked metal across his face, presses the muzzle against Jaskier’s forehead where it catches on his hair and his sweat soaked skin. Not real , he tells himself. The endless black of Jaskier’s blown out eyes stare up at him, he wonders if he looks as fucked as Jaskier. Is he any better? Is he worse?
“Look at you. Lucky you’re pretty boy or I’d end it now. Ain’t no use gettin’ involved with things like you. Sent by the devil himself. Temptation on two long legs.” His voice feels choked, as if he’s the one with a gun down his throat, at his head. Jaskier sobs again and then he’s crying true and proper. Geralt leans down and licks the trail it leaves up and feels like filth itself for doing so but its not his fault Jaskier has always been so fucking hot when he cries.
“Officer, please… Please don’t hurt me, please…!” Geralt closes his eyes, lips still pressed against the soft skin of Jaskier’s face. Tomorrow (or later today?) the skin will be rough with the barest hint of stubble but it’s still soft for now. He loves and hates it with equal measure, for making Jaskier appear just a tad younger. A little bit more innocent.
Such a sweet and filthy thing. Like a birthday cake that’s been dropped. Or maybe more like a birthday cake that's been soaked with wine and vodka until it's certainly not suitable for children.
“Oh, sweet thing, I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not the way you’re thinkin’ anyway. But I’m gonna destroy you, there ain’t no doubt about that. ‘Specially when you cry all pretty for me. You need to stop, you tell me, but until then? You are mine, boy.” He bites along Jaskiers jaw and then down his neck, sets the gun on his chest, the muzzle of it in the crook of his throat. Gives Jaskier time to say his word, if he needs to.
Albatross , of all things. Geralt doesn’t know why but he’ll respect it if Jaskier uses it.
But he doesn’t.
“ Yessir .” Jaskier whispers and Geralt hums, low and slow in the back of his throat. He just needs a minute or two and he’ll be fine but now there is something sinuous and hungry slinking through his veins, telling him to take and take until there’s nothing left. He lays his head down onto Jaskier’s chest and listens to the rough bump beat of his heart.
“Such a fragile thing. Little bird, sweet little devil. No idea what I would do to you, not a fuckin’ clue, boy.”
The light is wrapped around them both. It shatters like a halo around the mess of Jaskier’s hair like he’s fallen from the very sun itself. Geralt wants nothing more than to make him cry or maybe see him gone. Just a little bit. Just forever. The thought is terrifying. Scared of his own demons, this personal one sent just to tempt him. It’s funny, he thinks with a laugh, he’s never religious until he has Jaskier writhing beneath him and then he knows that there’s something other inside of them both.
Enough , he tells himself. It’s not real. Just a game.
For a while he just lays there, losing himself in Jaskier’s skin, the gun just above his head. The awful heat of it all. He remembers being eight, or maybe eleven, and having chickenpox for a week. The itch and fever of his skin as he scratched is familiar again now.
“Yellow, Geralt.” The illusion shatters and breaks. Geralt blinks and it is like waking from a dream and perhaps he had been sleeping because there’s only Jaskier, young and bright and human in his bed. He blinks again and swallows.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to… It was just a lot. I mean, what’s wrong darlin’?” He murmurs, setting the gun-not-a-gun on the bedside table and Jaskier shifts and winces a little on the bed.
“Shoulders and arms are going numb. Could you uncuff me now, love? I know it's all part of the game but. I’d like to be able to stretch tomorrow. That’s not why I called yellow though. I was worried about you.”
Geralt winces and helps Jaskier sit up, carefully unlocks the cuffs, glad they don’t actually need a key. Jaskier’s shoulders are stiff, tense from being locked in one position for so long and Geralt frowns, not usually so careless with Jaskier’s wellbeing. As soon as he notices, Jaskier bats him on the thigh and sticks his tongue out.
“Stoppit. I could have called earlier if I was bothered. I wasn’t really bothered by that at all, it’s just pain. Well it wasn’t even pain at the time. It doesn’t matter, what matters is, are you okay?” As usual, Jaskier’s blasé way of blowing off his own body bothers Geralt, but its not the time to get into that. Not when Jaskier is looking at him all soft and gentle, concern written across his face.
“Did I push things too far? You… you did want this right?” His voice goes from concern to flat out fear and Geralt shakes his head and then nods rapidly, confusing himself and Jaskier if the furrowed brow is to be believed. “Maybe try words, love? If you can?”
Jaskier is right, as always, and he nods again and holds up his hand, trying to get his thoughts in a sensible order, not one clouded by the heat. The fucking, goddamn heat.
“I’m okay, I think I just needed a minute. It ain’t like, I mean we ain’t gone so far before darlin’... was a lot. I kept imaginin’ myself killin’ you. Felt more like a preacher than the police and it was weird. Not bad. Just. Just a lot? I liked it. Liked it a lot actually. Think that’s what scared me the most. Y’know I’ve never been a huge sadist so it was a bit… a lot.”
The words are still getting fumbled and he groaned in frustration but then Jaskier was there, soothing him with a soft hum and arms around his waist. Warm but solid against him.
“Think the heat is gettin’ to me too. Should probably have drunk some water or somethin’ first. Got distracted. Havin’ a pretty boy in your lap will do that.”
“If you have heatstroke I swear to-” Geralt cuts him off before Jaskier can work himself into a panic. He’s a pretty easy going person most of the time, but once he gets himself worried he stays worried for far too long. Of course he huffs and glares at being interrupted but it's better than the alternative of giving himself a panic attack.
“Ain’t that bad. Just need a drink an’ maybe a cold shower. Well, lukewarm shower at any rate. Don’t wanna freeze my dick off.” He’s going for a laugh but Jaskier is still frowning, brushing sweaty hair away from Geralt’s face, beginning to unbutton his stuffy uniform.
“Darlin’. Jask. Sweetheart, look, I liked this. I’d like to do it again. Maybe next time not at the end of a twelve hour shift, on what I swear to Jesus is the hottest day of the year, but definitely again. It ain’t your fault, okay?” He takes Jaskier by the chin and gently tilts his face up, smiling softly until Jaskier nods his agreement.
“Mmkay. Still got to get you out of this though. And I’ll get you a drink. Warm water. Don’t want to shock the system. Oh! I think I still have some electrolyte packets. And I’ll order us breakfast while you shower. I’m starving now actually, are those biscuits - don’t look at me like that, they’re not all cookies! - anyway, are they still in the bedside table?”
Geralt can’t help but laugh and then Jaskier is laughing too, bright and cheerful in the summer sun. He looks utterly debauched still, a deep red hickey on his neck, his hair a stupid mess.
“I ain’t touched your cookies, darlin’. So unless you’ve been munchin’ at em they should still be there.” He murmurs, but doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to check, instead pulling him close and kissing him senseless, pressing their bodies together. How have they not kissed since he got home? It’s surely a crime not to kiss Jaskier every moment of the day. Every second he has spare.
Well, maybe not every second, but a lot of them.
The rest he’d happily spend watch Jaskier eat his stupid English cookies, just to see him smile.
(Even if Jaskier is definitely some sort of criminal.)