Change my mind

[deerna]

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Jaskier/Geralt, past Eskel/Geralt
Tags:Trans Jaskier, Disphoria & Body Issues, Kink Negotiation, Substance Abuse, Unhealthy coping mechanisms, Cunnilingus, Scent Kink, Copious amount of trauma,
Wordcount: 3898
Notes: Season of kink: Altered Mental State. partecipa alla sfida di Explorers, per il prompt "all'ultimo istante"

Summary:
Jaskier wants Geralt to cast Axii on him, but the witcher gets cold feet and things don't go as planned. He does make up for it, between retellings of traumatic events and other uncomfortable conversations.

Excerpt:

“This is different.” Geralt looked down, hands falling away from Jaskier’s waist. “I changed my mind, this isn’t safe. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Jaskier interrupted him, catching him by the wrists. “Of course it’s safe. I’ve seen you doing it to multiple people—and horses. You wouldn’t put Roach in danger, would you? If this was truly dangerous—”

“This is not a joke,” Geralt growled, “and I don’t make a habit of using Axii on people to stick my dick into them.”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

“You won’t be able to stop me,” Geralt insisted, looking him in the eye, “if I hurt you.”

“You know what I like,” Jaskier brushed him off, petting his collarbone, tracing the ugly lacework of hardened skin on his neck with interested fingers.

Even as new as the whole thing was, this sitting around naked and tangled in each other was a first for them. Geralt was usually very straight-forward in his foreplay, ready to get down to business in the most efficient way, and Jaskier was usually too drunk, by the time they got to that point of nakedness, to care about anything that wasn’t the witcher’s dick but—this kind of situation required a different approach.

It was nice, too. A little uncomfortable and a little embarrassing, but also very intimate; Jaskier had forgotten how intense that kind of thing could be when he wasn’t sloshed. He wondered if Geralt was feeling breathless for the same reason, as his hands splaying on the small of Jaskier’s back shily seeking comfort in the warmth of skin-on-skin contact, or if he was regretting taking it slow.

His eyes looked strange and deep and beautiful, filled with fear and worry.

“I trust you not to hurt me,” Jaskier tried again to reassure him, a little touched by Geralt’s hesitance. “I always do.”

“This is different.” Geralt looked down, hands falling away from Jaskier’s waist. “I changed my mind, this isn’t safe. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Jaskier interrupted him, catching him by the wrists. “Of course it’s safe. I’ve seen you doing it to multiple people—and horses. You wouldn’t put Roach in danger, would you? If this was truly dangerous—”

“This is not a joke,” Geralt growled, “and I don’t make a habit of using Axii on people to stick my dick into them.”

Jaskier couldn’t help it. He gave him a wolfish smile. “Not even if they ask nicely?”

Geralt choked on a sound in the back of his throat and gave him a pained look.

“Listen,” Jaskier whined, settling more comfortably on Geralt’s lap. He wrapped his arms around his neck. “We’re doing this because you want me to be all nice and relaxed, aren’t we? Just imagine,” he said, “you could get it in in one push. You want that, don’t you? No resistance at all, smooth as butter, warm and—ah—slick…”

Fuck. He wondered if Geralt could smell him get wet as he thought about it—and then the witcher twitched under his buttocks, jaw clenching and throat bobbing as he swallowed guiltily. Jaskier shushed him, rubbing his cheek against his neck.

“It’s alright, Geralt,” he soothed, hooking his chin over his shoulder, stroking down his tense back. “It’s okay to want things.”

“A witcher serves the people,” Geralt choked out, in that strange tinny voice he used when he was repeating someone else’s words. Jaskier tensed up. “It doesn’t—It doesn’t want—” He dug his fingers in Jaskier’s back, as if to ground himself. “There’s a story I need to tell you,” he ground out, sounding slightly more like himself.

Jaskier blinked, unsure of what to do. “Of course. I’m listening.”

“There was a group of witchers wintering in Kaer Morhen during my last year there,” Geralt said. “Trainees aren’t usually allowed to be around them, but my cohort—we were just a few, bound for the Mountain in the spring—we sneaked out to stay with them as they swapped stories and got drunk.” A shaky laughter, bitter and quiet, rattled against Jaskier’s chest. “It was—they were real witchers, you know.”

Oh. “You must have been excited,” Jaskier murmured, a smile creeping on his lips at the thought of a young Geralt slipping out of bed in the middle of the night, so they could go listen to old monster-slayers tell drunken tales of their exaggerated adventures.

“We were. We’d never seen monsters and these witchers had been hunting them on the Path for ages. We were hungry. We were eager,” he continued. “But I had—I couldn’t go with the others one night. I was pretty upset about it, until I came down the morning after so I could do my chores, and there was the corpse of a witcher in the main hall, strung up like a deer.”

“Fuck. What happened? Did the kids—?”

“No, it was Vesemir. Our sword instructor. He caught the guy getting handsy with one of ours.” He said it calmly, but his hands were still rigid and tight around Jaskier’s waist. “His name was Jacek. He’d always been skittish, didn’t like being touched. We left him alone, but apparently this older witcher—my friend Eskel was there, he said the others were sitting around and drinking—he Signed him, pulled him in his lap, and Jacek just… went.”

“Nobody said anything?” Jaskier asked, feeling a little sick.

Geralt shrugged. “Eskel thinks he was the only one to realise that Jacek had been Signed. The other witchers didn’t seem concerned.”

“But your teacher caught it?”

“Not exactly. Eskel said Jacek was a mess, after the Sign wore off,” Geralt said. “Vesemir got every trainee in the breakfast hall and told us what happened. He said—that a witcher doesn’t use Axii for sexual purposes. Ever.”

Jaskier frowned. “Look, I get it, but this is not—”

“We used it all the time,” Geralt admitted. He swallowed, the click of his throat loud against Jaskier’s neck. “Eskel used to—I never had a problem with it but he said he couldn’t see me like that anymore after—He felt too dirty.”

Oh. “But you liked it,” Jaskier said slowly, a flash of heat rushing through his body at the realisation that Geralt was talking about having Axii cast on himself.

“I was in pain a lot, back then,” Geralt explained. “And I was always tense. It was the only way to get me to—loosen me up. It felt good.” He briefly went limp in Jaskier’s embrace, as if the memory alone was enough to put the spell in effect on him. “It didn’t hurt. But after Jacek, Eskel was afraid to hurt me in other ways.”

He went quiet for a moment after that, tracing from the small of Jaskier’s back to the nape of his neck, as if feeling the small bumps of his spine under the palm of his hand could bring him comfort.

“You know,” Jaskier whispered, leaning into the touch. “I think that’s the longest I’ve ever heard you talk.”

Geralt chuckled, hollow and deep. “I’m learning from the best.”

Jaskier disentangled himself from the embrace, taking Geralt’s face in both his hands. Geralt blinked at him with cat eyes. “I still don’t quite get why you’re so afraid of hurting me,” he said, tracing his cheekbones with his thumbs. “If this is a matter of consent—this is me, giving you explicit permission to rearrange my internal organs with your dick while I’m high on witcher magic,” he said, gesturing down at himself with a slightly exaggerated flourish of his hand. Geralt didn’t quite smile at his ridiculousness, but Jaskier felt a twitch under his hand. “Sooo why aren’t we fucking yet?”

“It wouldn’t be right,” Geralt repeated, shaking his head and pulling Jaskier’s hand away by the wrist. “I wasn’t thinking when I suggested it. Also my Sign control isn’t—it’s fine but it’s not good as Eskel’s,” he admitted. “He’s good at magic, better than most. I don’t think he was using a specific variant, but I wouldn’t know. I could really hurt you.”

“Well, we don’t have to do it all at once—we could just fuck around a little. You know, a pinch of calm-spooked-horse and a pinch of please-don’t-ask-for-a-beating, before going all in—if you know what I mean.” He winked.

Geralt paused, a shadow of surprise in his eyes. “You’re such an unnerving nuisance.”

“Thanks, I try.”

“I’m still not going to Axii you,” Geralt muttered. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Jaskier said brightly, in his most convincing voice.

He couldn’t deny he was a little disappointed. He’d been looking forward to a fun night—but he refused to let Geralt feel guilty about that. It didn't matter. He still had a bottle of Fiorano stashed somewhere in his bag. They could still salvage this, witcher magic or not.

He still wasn’t entirely satisfied, though.

“Though I’m curious—what were you thinking when you offered to Axii me?”

Geralt stilled, lacing his hands behind Jaskier’s back like earlier, refusing to meet his eyes. “Hhmm.”

“Oh? Was it something naughty?” Jaskier laughed. “I bet we can come up with something, if you have an itch to scratch. Not to boast, but I’m pretty creative—”

“No, that’s not it.”

“What is it, then?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt said. “You’re going to get upset, if I tell you.”

Jaskier blinked. “Upset? Why?”

“Because—” the witcher interrupted himself. “I don’t want to fight. I already ruined tonight as it is—” he muttered, sounding miserable.

“You didn’t ruin anything. You’re allowed to change your mind,” Jaskier reassured him. “And we won’t fight. Just tell me, alright? Whatever it is, I’m pretty open minded.”

“I agreed to Axii you because I don’t want you to drink when we have sex.”

At first, Jaskier didn’t react at all. Then, suddenly feeling trapped against Geralt’s furnace of a body, the itch of a drink all the more ironic as it made his hands sweat, he tried pulling away from his lap as if the witcher’s had burned him.

“What the fuck, Geralt!” he exclaimed.

The witcher winced. “You said you needed a drink to relax, and I thought—”

Jaskier bristled. He knew he had issues, but he liked fucking just fine, and If he needed some—help to relax sometimes, well.

He knew it wasn’t ideal, but between Geralt’s super-sized dick and his own hang-ups about penetration, it was more enjoyable for everyone if he wasn’t a nervous wreck in the middle of things, and a glass of wine or three did the trick to take the edge off.

He’d come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t fuck people unless drunk like another part of sex, like waking up sticky and gross and sore, like sometimes he had a hangover from hell and he couldn’t remember his partner’s names and had mystery bruises on his thighs and his wrists.

“It’s none of your business, what I do to enjoy myself in bed,” he hissed, defensive.

“It might be your business but I don’t have to like it,” Geralt snapped.

“That still sounds like a you problem.” Jaskier finally managed to wriggle away from the witcher’s grasp and got on his feet. He bent down to look for his clothes where he’d dropped them on the floor, shaking all over. “Well, it was a pleasure until it lasted, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be, so—”

“Jaskier, wait.” The witcher grabbed his hand, tried to pull him back to sit on the back. “I didn’t mean—”

“Make it quick, Geralt, I’m leaving.”

“I don’t like it that you’re not…all there, when we do it,” Geralt said, surprisingly quiet, in a small voice that Jaskier had never heard before that made his throat grow tight.

He sighed, and sat back down on the mattress with a huff, a little apart from him. “I have physical proof that you like it even less, when I am all there,” he pointed out brattily. “Remember last time? You didn’t manage to get it up, let alone in.”

“You smelled so anxious,” Geralt grumbled, tracing the bony bits in Jaskier’s wrist with the tip of his thumb. “Like you were dreading it.”

Jaskier winced. “Yeah, well. That’s why I drink—I don’t have to think about the dreadful part and I get to skip to the fun bits!”

“You’re so stubborn,” Geralt complained. “We don’t have to have sex that way if you find it so stressful. I don’t understand why you’re so damn fixated on it—”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Jaskier cut him off, pulling his hand away. God he needed a drink. “Did you miss the memo? Cunts are meant to be fucked. The end.”

“That’s poppycock,” Geralt scoffed. “If you don’t like it—”

“I like it! That’s the whole point. I just don’t like—getting there.” Jaskier huffed, frustrated. He wrapped an arm around his stomach and pulled up his knees against his chest, feeling suddenly cold and exposed. “Why are we even talking about this? You don’t want to Axii me, that’s fine. We can just go back to our regularly scheduled fucking—and yes, I’m getting drunk after this,” he rambled on. “Why do you even care if I’m lucid or not? You get to fuck me, we both get to come, everyone’s happy. It’s a non-issue.”

“I don’t care about the fucking,” Geralt rasped out. “I care about you.”

“That’s—” Jaskier laughed, a little hysterical. Nobody really cared about Jaskier, on the road. Just because he and Geralt had fucked a few more times than the customary one night stand it didn’t mean it was anything different. It was just a way to keep the blood flowing. They happened to travel together, and so it happened often. That was all.

He was about to get up again, to go and get the damn wine, but Geralt scooted closer and put his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, hot like brands.

“Can I kiss you?” the witcher asked, quiet and intense like he sometimes sounded like when he was trying to be really serious. It was a little terrifying, which was the reason Jaskier had told him more than once not to use that voice when he was trying to be comforting with people—but in that moment it acted like molten metal on his joints, locking them in place and stopping him from moving.

Jaskier nodded and Geralt pressed his mouth against his, gentle and dry.

“I will Axii you,” the witcher continued, “if you let me use my mouth on you, first.”

The chuckle that erupted from Jaskier’s throat was genuinely amused, this time. “Hang on, are you serious? That’s your price?” he snorted.

“I just want to make you feel good,” Geralt insisted, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, ignoring the tightness to his throat. “Come here, you stupid man,” he said, scooting back and lying down on the mattress to give him more room.

The witcher unfolded himself gracefully from his cross-legged sitting position and lunged forward like a big cat, pressing Jaskier’s body on the mattress. Jaskier shrieked as Geralt pushed his nose in the ticklish spot under his chin, covering the rest of his neck in kisses and love bites until he was a giggly mess.

“You’re such a child,” Jaskier protested, laughter still shaking him. “What was that for?”

“I prefer it when you laugh,” Geralt said, and then leaned down for a kiss.

It was much dirtier than the gentle press of closed lips from before—it was open-mouthed and straight-forward and down-right aggressive and it went right to Jaskier’s guts. It was the kind of kiss they’d shared before, the kind of making-out that promised messy outcomes and messier developments, and—sure there it was, Geralt’s erection poking him in the hip, hot and hard and smooth and familiar. Jaskier wrapped a hand around the nape of his neck, uselessly trying to bring him closer, to deepen the kiss, while he mapped the hills of his scarred muscles with the other.

The witcher’s own hand was politely resting on his waist, but one of his thighs was rubbing up right between Jaskier’s legs where he’d left them fall open, delicious friction sending spikes of pleasure along his nerves.

“Come on, Geralt,” he pleaded, “I’ve waited enough, don’t you think?”

Ignoring his urgency, the witcher took his time. He revisited once again the hollow of Jaskier’s throat, before leaving a trail of wet kisses down the line of his sternum, the expanse of his stomach, the bowl between his hip bones. The tips of his fingers pressed delicately in the yielding flesh of his breasts for the briefest moment and brushed against his nipples, sending a tingle of pleasure across his skin. By the time Geralt finally pressed his open mouth against his mound, Jaskier was wet and desperate with want—the mood-killing, uncomfortable conversation from earlier all but a distant memory.

“Good?” Geralt asked, stopping just shy of his dick, and Jaskier almost cursed him. He could feel his breath right there, for fuck’s sake.

“Yes, good, come on,” he said instead, leaning up on his elbows so he could glare at the witcher. Incidentally, he looked great, sprawled on his stomach, with his hands lightly resting on his thighs on each side of Jaskier's crotch. His eyes were just thin golden rings around dark, round pools of arousal.

“Mmh, such in a rush,” Geralt commented, noncommittally. “Just making sure you’re still okay with this. I remember being kicked, not long ago, for attempting this.”

“Huh.” Jaskier grimaced. He didn’t remember doing it, but he wasn’t surprised; he rarely let people do this for him. “Well, Jaskier from not long ago was an idiot.”

The first touch of fingers startled him, a jolt of pleasure through his body. Geralt didn’t break eye contact as he pressed the flat of his tongue along the underside of his dick, and as he dipped lower so he could lavish attention to the whole length of his cunt.

Ngh, the careful way he rubbed his knuckles along the folds while he sucked on him, rather than risking pushing his fingertips in places they didn’t belong—it twisted Jaskier’s guts in knots for reasons that didn’t have to do at all with pleasure. He grasped at Geralt’s hair, dug his nails into his scalp. Geralt groaned, the low vibrations from his throat sending shivers up his spine, and Jaskier echoed him with a moan of his own.

He’d forgotten how intense things could feel, when he didn’t have the soft cloud of alcoholic giddiness fogging his senses. Every touch felt like he was being set on fire, even as his consciousness was being focused in a single spot.

Feeling like his brain was leaking out of his ears a little more with every swipe of the witcher’s tongue, he twitched, hips bucking and arching. He couldn’t have told how long it had been, when he finally came. It was like missing a step while coming down the stairs—sudden and quick, his breath catching and his stomach jumping in his throat.

The witcher’s mouth was still on him, lapping at the wetness in broad strokes of his tongue, as if to catch every drop of wetness.

“Are you satisfied now?” Jaskier slurred at him, blood still rushing in his ears and his body feeling like jelly. Geralt gave one last lick to his cunt and Jaskier twitched, oversensitive and undone. “Ngh, stop doing that.”

“Sorry, just—” Geralt pulled himself on his knees, licked his lips, which glistened obscenely with Jaskier’s fluids, and blinked slowly. His eyes looked glazed over. “Just one moment,” he croaked, and buried his face between Jaskier’s legs once again.

Jaskier couldn’t watch the witcher wrap a hand around himself, hidden as it was by his own folded-up body, but he’d seen—and done—that particular movement enough times to recognize that Geralt was finishing himself off —urgently, furiously, even, like he couldn’t stand it anymore. He could hear—and feel—the small puffs of breath against his sensitive flesh as the witcher brought himself closer and closer to the edge, his cheek pressed against Jaskier’s thigh like he needed it to keep himself grounded.

He came with a sharp intake of breath, warm drops of semen falling on Jaskier’s leg where he couldn’t catch them with his hand. Jaskier watched as the witcher sat back on his calves, catching his breath with closed eyes and a heaving chest.

“That was quick for you,” Jaskier croaked, his brain full of cotton. “You—really liked it.”

The Gods help him, Geralt actually looked embarrassed at that. Worse, he looked like he was about to apologize, for some godsdamned reason.

“That was really hot,” he continued, pulling himself up and scooting back until he finally found a pillow to lay on. He reached down and touched himself, biting his lips at how good it felt sliding his fingers through the slickness there. “That was so hot, in fact, that I think I’m ready to go again. Do you think you have another one in you?”

Geralt’s eyes briefly fixated on his hand, but he blinked and visibly forced himself to look at Jaskier’s face. He licked something from the pad of his thumb—Gods have mercy—and carefully stretched himself beside Jaskier, politely wiping his face and his hands on a corner of the sheets before placing careful fingers on his hip.

He had a small smile on his lips. “I’m glad you liked it.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but smiled. He briefly wondered if people knew how sweet and Geralt actually was, under the gruff and aggressive demeanor. If he’d been anyone else, Jaskier would’ve assumed that he was fishing for compliments, but with Geralt he was pretty sure that the modesty was genuine.

“I liked it very much,” he insisted. “And also—did you really get yourself worked up just by eating me out?”

“I’ve wanted to do that since we started—this,” Geralt admitted gruffly, walking an imaginary line down Jaskier’s thigh with his fingers. He must have been able to smell how wet he was, but didn’t dare touch him without his explicit permission.

“Would you like doing it again?”

Geralt stopped his fingers, surprised. “Now? I thought you wanted—”

Oh right. The Axii thing. That was the reason he’d dragged them in this mess, wasn’t it? On the other hand, though—

“If I have to pick between another amazing orgasm and turn you into a nervous wreck with my brattiness, I’ll pick orgasms every time,” Jaskier said dismissively. He pulled a knee up, spreading himself. “So?”

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, and kissed him on the corner of the mouth, making him laugh.