#dark!jaskier

IMPORTANT NOTE: It seems Tumblr ate the original ask that went along with this particular request. However, I did save the wording of the request:

"Would you do a dark jaskier imagine/fic? Where he gets reader drunk and takes advantage of her?"

Pairing: Dark!JaskierX Female!Reader

Fandom/Franchise: Witcher

Author's Warnings: Non-con, Sexual Assault, Reader is no absolutely no condition to give consent, fingering, p in v, MDNI

Jaskier had written no less than ten songs about you. The first two couldn’t be bothered to be completed. The third he did perform in front of a crowd without you, but due to their bad feedback, he changed lyrics and the beat into the fourth song. The fifth song was something he hummed under his breath, especially when you smiled at him.

The sixth song he wrote out of anger when you paid a second more of attention to anyone else but him. Heartbreak and longing were the tones for the seventh and eighth songs. In fact, when he sang about burning butchers, he wasn’t sure if it was about you or Geralt, or both. You made a mess of him, that was for certain.

Even now, as his fingers threatened to break his lute in half, he yearned for a few minutes of your affection. Jaskier would’ve settled for anything. A look. A praising word.

Radovid slid down the wall, sitting next to his bardic friend. “Y/N is proof that the gods have favorites.” His mouth slurred for speech. “I hate it. To be blessed with all the beauty, the charm, the love, and the talent…without any responsibility at all.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Jaskier responded. “Everyone is responsible for something. She’s noble, no? You all do some work.”

“No, not her.” Radovid’s mouth smacked open. He drank the remaining wine. The glass bottle hit the hardwood floor with a smart and dull thud. “No, she’s the youngest of a family of…” The Prince’s voice trailed off. Jaskier’s focus reduced to the sway in how you walked. Your feet stumbled a bit too much. Your giggling laugh acted as a balancing indicator.

Opportunity.

Jaskier’s hand steadied your back. “Oh no. How much have you had?” His voice was slathered in a tone that seemed friendly on the surface.

“Too much.” Your voice lifted in embarrassment.

“C’mere.” He encouraged you to take his hands. His bigger eyes, his easy smile, all of him were easy to trust. He led you from the warmth of the dying party. His hands pushed your waist up and against the wall. Your back straightened. “There you are. Good girl.”

“Hm?” Your world, warm and tilted, focused out more. The castle’s lights were low. The guards would be changing shift.

Jaskier’s thumb swiped across your bottom lip. He tasted the remnants of wine as his tongue swept that same thumb. “Fae wine.” Jaskier smiled like each row of teeth salivated for you.

“Fae wine?” You giggled. Without another thought, your impulsive drunken thoughts got the best of you. “But we killed all of the fae.”

“Hm, we didn’t get rid of their wine.” Jaskier breathed you in deep. His eyes fluttered and rolled. “It has suggestive effects. The drinker usually succumbs to anything that’s merely mentioned to them.” His hands warmed your sides. His knee separated your legs, slicing them apart like butter.

“How do you know that?” You laughed. The air you breathed in tasted sweeter somehow.

Jaskier smiled, letting his nose brush against yours as you both laughed together. Jaskier thought about how easy this was. He should’ve done this sooner. His palms slid down yours sides.

“Because I bought it and I gave it to you.” He whispered. His forehead met yours. He inhaled the odd sweetness of your breath. His tongue tutted. “You just don’t remember that was two bottles ago.”

His thumb pressed into your mouth first. Your playful tongue licked it in submission. Your flesh was clay underneath his fingers, and Jaskier wanted to leave his mark in you. No. He would mold you tonight. Construct you into something that fit his needs tonight. His wet thumb traced a line over your whole mouth.

“You’re going to give me what I want.” Jaskier told you. His words hit. Your eyes grew half-lidded; your shoulders relaxed. His hands pulled up the layers of skirts, finding exactly where he wanted to be. Jaskier breathed low, chuckling. “Good, good girl.”

His fingers found their place first inside your folds. He worked up a slow pace, earning him a moan from you. His mouth closed over yours. So, each moan from you could echo in his head. Every time you emitted another note of a sound, Jaskier placed it in music.

He moaned back, complimenting each of your notes with his own. His hand pulled from you.

“Jaskier—

“Shh, don’t ruin it.” He whispered. You heard his belt, unbuckling. He guided your back away from the hallway wall. “Put your hands….there, yes, there, too. Your hips, yes, good girl.”

Jaskier lined up himself. His tip, swollen and eager, dipped slowly into you. The sound you made was too loud. His hand swiped over your mouth.

“Shhh, Y/N. The guards will hear us.” Jaskier rolled himself forward into a slow pace. The slight slapping of skin echoed in the immediate area. “Can’t have that. This is our secret. Because if the guards hear us, they’ll make me stop.”

Jaskier’s hand reached around your neck, holding you exactly where he could feel the vibrations of your voice. He smirked, continuing his pace. “And I really, really don’t want to stop.”

Divider/ Border Credit: @pixopix

The man soaked in blood grinned. His eyes were black, his skin was snowy, and the veins in his face and exposed hands pulsed with dark power; but he was no witcher. He couldn’t be. His grip on the silver-bladed sword was awkward, unused to the weight. He did not have the build of a monster-killer. If not for the magic, and the blood, he would look weak.

“I want my witcher, of course,” he rasped.

The lord scoffed and sipped his wine. “You cannot have him, and you will die if you continue this foolish quest,” he said flatly. “You may have cut your way through my men to reach here, but you are human. Humans cannot contain witcher magic. Do you want to die?”

The man laughed. It was a hideous sound, loud and rough and mad. The lord frowned, and squinted, looking closer. It was hard to tell, when the man was so far away, but…

The cup slipped from his suddenly cold hand.

“Yes,” the man soaked in blood said, his grin that of a madman who died a long, long time ago. “But it will be by his hand, and no one else’s. No one said I was human.”

“Jules,” the lord gasped.

“No. My name is Jaskier. Now give me my witcher, Father.”

~

Geralt pressed his fingers to his eyes again, gritting his teeth. He still wasn’t used to the hazy shadows where his vision used to be. Luckily the torturer was inexperienced; Geralt wasn’t fully blind. Yet.

His fingertips brushed gingerly against the raw, puffy scar at the corner of his right eye. He knew it was only a matter of time before they gouged the organs out of his head. He would fight, of course. He would kill. But his eyes were less important than--

The stench of blood. Metal and sweat. Rage. Witcher potions.

Linseed oil. Buttercups.

The sea.

Geralt attempted to stand, but his feet were still healing. His heart was beating too fast. He turned his head, towards the dim square of light that was the window of his cell. Surely not…

“Jaskier?” he whispered.

The lock clicked. The door opened. Geralt took a deep breath, and tasted the flat, salty-sweet tang of blood and offal. Under it was Jaskier, though—unmistakably his bard.

“Jask,” he repeated, and lurched to his feet. The form in the light gasped, then rushed forward to embrace him. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him too tightly, trembling with relief. Alive. Safe. Maybe the gods existed. Maybe Destiny had taken pity on him.

But… why did Jaskier smell like witcher?

Pulling away, Jaskier pressed a vial and a sword hilt into Geralt’s hands. Geralt sniffed the bottle as his fingers curled into the familiar indentations of the leather grip. Swallow. Potent. Too potent. It would make him sick to drink it.

“I need you to kill a monster,” Jaskier said.

Geralt felt a feral grin spread across his face. “Give me a scent,” he replied, “And their head will be yours.”

Jaskier held a piece of fabric up to his face. Geralt breathed in deeply, and growled in hate and anticipation. He knew that scent. It was carved into his memory as deeply as the voices of his brothers.

“He’s wounded,” Jaskier told him. “Not enough to slow him down, but enough to cause upset. Can you smell him, Wolf?”

“I smell him,” Geralt hissed, popping the cork from the bottle of Swallow.

“He’s all yours, my dear. I’ll clean up the trash behind you.”

Geralt growled again, drank the potion, and darted around Jaskier. A monster to slay, for his bard. There was no task better suited to him.

~~\0/~~

Ten Years Previously

It was a fine thing, to be free and untethered. Truly he was meant to exist this way.

But Jaskier had tasted the stability of love, and now he could not be satisfied with the adrenaline of lust. So he waited at the inn for Geralt to finish his latest contract, instead of leaving for the nearest court or brothel—one and the same, truly. Full of rich men paying for the use of others’ bodies. And Jaskier was tired of it all.

Nilfgaard had fallen. Cintra had been restored. That didn’t mean there weren’t still monsters to clean up—both beast and man. Whilst Geralt specialized in the former, Jaskier concentrated on the latter. Like now, as he wrote a letter to a contact in Redania containing coded and magicked information. The old men who called this backwater village home were good at hiding, but their soldiers were not. Jaskier had seen them, and their weapons, and their fine steeds. And their sorceress.

She was good, but Yennefer was better. And with the entire force of her Lodge behind her, she could easily sway the woman to give up her lord and his sons. Jaskier allowed himself a small smile as he signed the letter with a tiny bird. Yennefer still wasn’t his favorite person, but only because she wasn’t Geralt. Other than that small detail, there was no one he trusted more.

With the three of them on the trail, Ciri wouldn’t have an enemy on the entire continent within a decade.

Not that she knew the extent of her parents’ goals. The last time Jaskier had seen Ciri, she had laughed that they were all too protective of her. She was a woman grown, with a wife and a place as a weapons-teacher. It didn’t matter how grown she was, though. Not to them.

Jaskier frowned. It was wrong of him to be so protective of her, when he wasn’t even her father. But he would still burn the world to the ground in her name. Was this how her grandmother had maintained her station? This blind loyalty that ensnared the hearts of the powerful until they couldn’t imagine a world without her?

Did it matter? They would root out every speck of conspiracy, to keep her safe. They would kill everyone they had to.

Jaskier pushed himself to his feet abruptly and paced the room. These thoughts, though frequent, and often quite logical, frightened him. He had asked Yennefer to poke about in his head to find any seed of madness in him, but she had said there was nothing other than what all men had. Jaskier had not been violent when he was younger.

When he was ignorant.

He sighed, and sat again. Nothing for it. He’d have to hope Geralt came back without wounds, so they could spar, or fuck, or both.

“I do so wish I understood what’s happened to me,” he murmured, leaning his chin in his hand. “There’s so much beauty and delight in this world, and yet the one thing that doesn’t move me is death. Hmm.”

“Is that so, little one?”

Jaskier shot to his feet and whipped around, his hand going to his dagger. In the corner was a shadow, undulating, covered in eyes of green fire. The lights of the candles and setting sun seemed to leech away into the inky dark of the shadow. The scent of ancient blood on cold stone filled the room.

Jaskier scowled and took his hand from the dagger’s hilt. “Mother,” he said dryly, and bowed. “Stop sneaking around like that.”

A wet chuckle, like a drowned person choking, and the shadow resolved into a tall, broad woman clothed in rags. She smiled, baring her fangs endlessly stained in blood. “But it is so fun, my dear boy,” she cooed, cupping Jaskier’s face in her sea-cold hands. “You are just as easy to frighten as your father. What funny creatures, men.”

“What do you need, Mother?” Jaskier asked. “We’re quite a ways away from the sea. A goddess of sirens should be with her people, in the waters.”

Her smile grew soft, her enormous wings mantling around them both as she pulled Jaskier into a gentle embrace. He hugged her back immediately, breathing her salty scent deeply. He’d missed her. Only a year, and he’d missed his mother, the daughter of Storms and Death.

“I need you to promise not to hate me,” she murmured.

“I could never hate you, Mother,” Jaskier replied.

“Not even if I granted your wish to know?”

“No. Your blood is in my veins. You know I want more than is good for me, always.”

She laughed again. “The sea takes, and takes, and takes, and gives but rarely. It is time I tell you.” She pulled back enough to tilt his face up to look into her eyes of storm-fire. Her expression and voice were gentle as she said, “My blood is in your veins. It is awakening. I am fading, and soon you will take my place, the lord of death at sea.”

Jaskier went cold. “Mother…”

“Hush. I am losing power. It is a cycle, like the tides. I Saw your coming fifty years ago, and that is why I seduced your father, married him in the way of humans, and bore you. Now you are coming into your own. You will take my place and feast on those who trespass in our beloved ocean. Do not be sad, my pearl. I am not dying. I will simply go where the ones before me went.”

“Mother.” Jaskier licked his lips, gathering his courage. “Mother, I can’t leave Geralt.”

His mother smiled indulgently. “You needn’t leave him. You can keep him in the depths, like my father kept my mother. You can even let your little sorceress friend visit once a moon. But you must come home when I fade. You must take up the chalice. There are too many humans who seek to tame the sea. They must remember why they worship us.”

“I’m not god material.”

- Jaskier?..

I'm bored, so here's a random dark!Jaskier.

He doesn’t know he’s capable of killing until one night when he’s seventeen he gets VERY drunk while at Oxenfurt, gets in a fight with a guy, and with absolutely no hesitation draws his dagger and cuts the guy’s throat.

Obviously, he’s charged with murder, and pleads guilty, because holy shit holy shit holy shit what the fuck did he just do

He’s jailed, but when other prisoners start picking on him he feels the overwhelming rage that took him before he killed that guy creeping further and further into his throat, making him want to attack. Fortunately for everyone, he’s moved to a solitary cell.

The first time a guard hits him for not moving fast enough, his mind goes blank with fury and when he can think again, the guard’s neck is broken and he’s being thrown back in his cell. He was originally just going to be transported to a prison outside of the city and from there be sent to a mine for hard labor; instead they set his execution date for two days hence.

He sits quietly and thinks about that. And when the rage begins to rise again, like a fire hotter than a forge, he lets it.

His mind clears when he’s on the road, heading away from the city. Well. That’s useful.

He begins to hallucinate. Sometimes he sees shadows, especially when the sun is behind him---shadows like spread wings behind him, shadows like horns on his head, shadows like a tail. Sometimes he sees scaly patches on his skin. Sometimes he can hear whispered voices.

He’s never cold anymore. There’s a constant fire inside him; not rage, but something feral and dark that calls to mind the savage beasts he’s read about and heard in songs.

If he only kills bad people, then it won’t matter that something in his chest finds fierce pleasure in spilling blood.

He steals clothes and money and a lute, and makes a new living as Jaskier the bard---but he’s always too warm, and he keeps hallucinating...

The first time he spits flames at bandits trying to rob him, it clicks.

Geralt knows the bard is a monster, but he’s too baffled as to what to kill him immediately.

Somehow, he doesn’t notice how the people who try to actively hurt him keep winding up dead.

Jaskier likes the Witcher. He decides not to run away or leave him. As long as Geralt doesn’t know he’s a dragon, there’s no need to kill Geralt. It would be such a shame to have to kill such a fun being. And as long as Jaskier travels with him, he’ll always have an excuse to murder, no?

Jaskier finds that he quite likes the sight of Geralt covered in blood. And he likes taking care of Geralt, and being cared for in turn, and---

Oh.

Oh fuck.