The Witcher (One shots)

Love Bites

(Geralt x Jaskier-
This story contains smut so don't read it if you don't like it!)

There is a chill in the air. Frigid wind bites at the witcher as he pushes his horse on, nudging her into a trot. The mare huffs, tired, but obliges, her breath visible as white smoke curling from her nostrils, her coat the colour of rusted blood: a demoness. A fitting steed for such a rider as he, his eyes burning gold, the stench of death clinging to him like an oil slick.

The man’s hair shines silver in the light of the rising moon, the last beams of the setting sun slinking quickly away, retreating from darkness that approaches.

The mare is tired. Her rider is tired. Ahead on the road, there is a brothel, and a bed.

He was here before, years ago; it has changed since then.

The stable boy is sullen when Geralt hands him the reins with sharp instructions to treat her well, and mind his fingers. The boy scoffs something about having dealt with all manner of animals; Geralt turns and, harshly, informs the boy that Roach was trained as a courser, yet has outridden and outfought destriers more times than he can count. The stable hand shrugs, uncaring.

His fury, he is sure, is a blazing thing, when he finally shoulders his way into the brothel. The bar is full and jovial at this time, though it quiets when Geralt enters, golden eyes flashing with ire and his jaw set in a severe line. It is unlike him to be so snappish with strangers, particularly children—but it has been a hard month, with hard weather and hard work, and his muscles are screaming for a decent bed and a hot bath and a slick mouth around his prick.

The barkeeper eyes him, before throwing down the rag he had been using to wipe the bar down and hesitantly making his way over. Geralt ignores the gaze of the other patrons as they discretely watch the exchange.

“We’ve none left,” the man growls. Geralt doesn’t say anything, just levels him with a stare.

They’ve got someone, he knows. He won’t be swindled.

The man holds out half a moment, before nodding his head and stepping closer, lowering his voice, and speaking almost conspiratorially. “’s it just a mouth you’re after? Really, that’s all I can offer,” he says, and—he’s not lying. For fuck’s sake.

“That’ll do,” he grunts in response. “A hot bath, too. And a bed?”

“Aye, you’ll get them,” the man says, and does not offer his hand to shake. Geralt wouldn’t have taken it anyway. Instead, he disappears back behind the bar and collects a key, before beckoning Geralt to follow.

He is taken upstairs, down a winding corridor, and deposited before the door at the end.

“This’ll be you,” the man informs him, handing him the key. “Y’ can keep the boy for the night or send him away if y’ don’ like sleepin’ next to ‘em. He’ll find a place to kip.” He leaves the witcher there.

Geralt pushes the door open to find a perfectly made-up room, and a man—boy, his mind supplies; skinny, and artfully dishevelled and covered in welts and bruises. However, beneath the oversized shirt and the veritable rainbow of marks crisscrossing his skin, Geralt notes the broadness of his shoulders, the squared line of his jaw—the exhaustion rolling off of him in waves.

He can’t be older than his early twenties—and, thankfully, certainly not younger than eighteen or nineteen. His deceivingly youthful appearance must be appreciated by some of the lower customers of this establishment; Geralt has never entertained such appetites.

The whore shifts in the chair, eyeing his reflection, before dabbing hesitantly at a nasty-looking bruise framing his cheekbone, a small cut in the centre, where evidently somebody’s ring has caught him on the backhand. His eyes are large and smudged with kohl, though evidently there has been some effort made to scrub the cosmetics away.