#demon!jaskier

“You are sleeping with those women,” Geralt growled, no more confirmation needed, “did you also impregnate them?”

The witcher knew that some demons did that. Their offspring from human women could help anchor them to this realm, giving them easy access. 

“Imp...of course I’m not impregnating them,” Jaskier said indignantly, and as an afterthought adding a moment later, “I am not ready to be a father.”

Geralt growled, “don’t joke with me.”

“I’m not joking,” Jaskier said, holding up his hands, “the women didn’t summon me to impregnate them.”

“The women summoned you?” Geralt asked, unbelieving, searching Jaskier’s face for any signs of lying and finding none. But that didn’t mean much with a demon.

“Of course they summoned me,” Jaskier said, “why else would I be in this tiny village in the middle of nowhere?”

Good point, Geralt thought but didn’t say it out loud. 

Instead he asked, “why did they summon you?” 

The demon tried to laugh, but it quickly turned into coughing. “I’ll tell you, when you remove this from my throat,” he said, pointing at the sword, “talking like this is rather unpleasant.”

“You seem to talk just fine,” Geralt mumbled, but moved the blade a few centimeters away, still close enough to keep the demon in place, but not touching his skin anymore.

Jaskier exhaled and smiled at Geralt. 

Carefully rubbing his burned skin at the throat, he said, “thank you, my dear witcher.”

Geralt growled, “now tell me why the women summoned you.” He wanted to see where this was going. 

But of course did the demon not answer him directly. How he hated demons. 

“Do you know what kind of demon I am, witcher?” he asked in a velvety soft voice. 

Geralt looked him up and down.

“The alderman said you are a demon of adultery and that you make the women frigid.”

The demon laughed hollowly. “Yes, of course the old fucker said that,” Jaskier replied after a moment, sounding amused and pissed off at the same time.

“You can probably find me in the bestiary of yours,” he said, gesturing vaguely at Geralt, “under L: ‘demon of lust’.” 

Geralt just lifted a brow, “yes, I know about your funny little bestiaries,” Jaskier went on,” you aren’t the first witcher I’ve met.” His unearthly blue eyes sparkled and he winked at Geralt. The fucker actually winked at him.

“Come to the point,” he growled, silver sword still pointed at his throat.

Jaskier laughed again as if they were having a casual chat amongst friends and not an interrogation at swordpoint. And of course - the demon did not ‘come to the point’. The bastard really liked to hear himself talk.

“One of the women found a text with instructions how to summon me and she and a few of her friends made a nice little ritual and poof - here I was. They snatched me right out of a delightful little orgy in Novigrad...”

Geralt lifted his brows and tilted his head slightly.

“These lovely women, my dear witcher, summoned me,” Jaskier said, lifting his index finger in emphasis, “because their useless husbands do not satisfy them.”

Geralt huffed and asked with a smirk, “so that is what they wanted you to do? Satisfy them?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, smiling, “they wanted me to fuck them silly, introduce them to the wonders of the orgasm. And that is what I did.” He had a dreamy look on his face, eyes glazed over as if he was thinking back to said fucking. 

After a moment he shook his head, focusing on Geralt again and continued, “I also showed them how to…” he wiggled his fingers, “pleasure themselves. I don’t plan to stay longer than strictly necessary and didn’t want to leave them….wanting.”

“So you fucked them and showed them how to...masturbate?” This was getting more and more ridiculous.

“Yes, most of these poor women never really touched themself,” Jaskier said, shaking his head, and with audible anger in his voice he continued, “this bastard of a priest told them that their hands would fall off if they touched their own body in that way, that only their husbands were allowed to touch them ’down there’.” The demon pointed towards his own crotch as he said the last two words. 

“The alderman - do you know what his wife told me?” the demon went on, head tilted and watching Geralt closely, “she told me that when her husband fucks her, it feels like he is just using her body to pleasure himself and that he is convinced that women are simply not able to get any pleasure from sex.” Jaskier shook his head.

“But don’t get me wrong,” he continued, “their husbands are not all bad. A bit more marital communication, actually listening to their wives and chasing away the dreadful priest and most of them can be happy in bed together…”

“And what did those women give you for...your services?” Geralt asked a moment later. 

The demon furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“Demons usually demand payment from their… victims,” Geralt clarified. 

The demon put his hands on his hips and opened his mouth, blinking a few times before he said, “victims? They summoned me, if anyone is the victim here, it’s me!”

Geralt huffed and said, “did you get their souls? Ten years of their lives? Their firstborn?”

Jaskier shook his head. “Why would I want that? I got amazing sex and I got to show them how to satiate their own lust. There is nothing more to want.”

They both whipped their heads to the side as they heard hurried footsteps rushing through the forest towards them. A moment later they saw the figure of a woman and a moment after they heard her screaming, “stop, master witcher, don’t hurt him.”

Geralt still pointed the sword at Jaskier’s throat when the woman came to a halt next to them, breathing heavily. Three deep in- and exhales later she raised herself to her full height, looked Geralt firm in the eyes and said, “please don’t kill him, he did not hurt any of us.” The woman laid her hand on Jaskier’s shoulder who grinned at her.

“Hello, Kasia,” he said in his velvety voice and the woman smiled back brightly.

Geralt coughed to get their attention back. 

“Are you one of the women from the village?” he asked, pointing in the general direction of said village. 

“Yes!” she replied, still a bit out of breath, “I sneaked out of the house as I heard Lukas, my husband, talk to our neighbor about hiring a witcher to kill him.”

She tried to squeeze herself between Jaskier and the blade, but the demon carefully grabbed her arm to stop her. 

“Do you believe me now, witcher?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shook his head, more to clear his thoughts and school his features back to an unreadable expression than to deny what Jaskier had asked. 

“He did not hurt you?” Geralt asked the woman, “did not do anything against your will?” 

“No,” Kasia said urgently, “he only did what we asked him to do and it was really...hmmm….nice,” she ended in a dreamy voice. 

Geralt watched Jaskier closely for another moment longer before he slowly lowered his sword and took a few steps back. Kasia exhaled loudly and hugged the demon. Jaskier patted her on the back and whispered something in her ear that made her giggle.

“Okay, I will head back before Lukas will notice I’m gone,” she said. With a bow to Geralt she made her way back towards the village. 

Geralt sheathed his sword and he and Jaskier stood silent for a while, eyeing each other.

Geralt was the first one to break the silence.

“Is that your true form?” he asked. A lot of demons were able to shapeshift and it would explain why the few men who had a glimpse of the demon had given him wildly contradictory descriptions.

“I can take many forms,” Jaskier said, stretching his arms wide, “I shape my appearance to the pleasure of my partner. I can be a man, a woman and anyone in between or outside of that…”

He was smiling softly at Geralt and continued, “for some of the women here it was quite unexpected to find out that they weren’t actually interested in men...And one woman wasn’t interested in sex at all. We had a lovely evening, drank a bottle of wine and played gwent.”

“So this is the form your last partner desired? This Kasia?” Geralt asked after a moment, still eyeing him closely. Now that he was standing a few steps away he had a better view of the demon. His pale cheeks were flushed a shade of pink that matched his plush lips. And he either had the darkest lashes Geralt had ever seen or he used kohl to highlight their unearthly blue color. His black shirt clung tightly to his broad shoulders, dark chest hair peeking out the loosely laced front and his high waisted trousers accentuating his slim waist.

“No, darling,” Jaskier said, licking his lips and taking a step towards him, “this form is all for you.” He was moving his hands up and down his body in a presentation. Geralt didn’t know why his heartbeat suddenly picked up and his hands got clammy. 

“You’ve got good taste, I must admit,” Jaskier said, slowly turning around and swinging his hips. 

“What…?” Geralt asked. He had a hard time keeping his pupils from dilating. As Jaskier turned Geralt could see that the high waisted trousers not only accentuated his waist but also his round…

“Are you enjoying what you see, witcher?” Jaskier purred.

Geralt coughed and blinked before regaining his composure. Jaskier just smirked and took another step towards the witcher.

“So the alderman will not pay you,” Jaskier said suddenly. Geralt hummed in confirmation. Jaskier licked his lips and Geralt’s eyes followed the tip of his tongue. 

He shook his head and growled but made no attempt to step away, “are you using your powers on me?” 

Jaskier shook his head, “that is not how I work, darling, I cannot force anyone to do anything they don’t want to.”

A heartbeat later he stood only a breath away from Geralt.

“What I can do is offer something you desire. But it is completely your choice if you take it.”

“And,” Geralt asked in a hoarse voice, “what do you want?”

Jaskier smiled, looking hungrily at Geralt’s lips.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wouldn't want you.”

The demon lifted his hand slowly, stroked a rogue strand of his white hair behind Geralt’s ear and said softly, “so what do you say?”

Geralt swallowed, still not moving away. He could feel Jaskier’s breath on his face, so close was the demon. 

“You could have overpowered me at any time, couldn’t you?” Geralt asked, “even with my silver sword at your throat?”

Jaskier just smiled and nodded.

“Why didn’t you?” Geralt asked, breathless.

“Because you like to be in control, don’t you?” the demon purred, his index finger stroking down Geralt’s chest.

And with a motion too quick even for Geralt, Jaskier had stepped behind him, captured both of his wrists in his surprisingly strong hands and pushed Geralt's chest against a tree, holding him securely in place. Geralt wiggled around but found that the demon was surprisingly strong. But somehow he wasn’t afraid. 

Jaskier’s grip was firm but gentle.

“But sometimes,” he whispered in Geralt’s ear, tickling the sensitive skin there with his hot breath, “it is nice to let go and let someone else take over, isn’t it?”

Geralt shuddered and leaned back into Jaskier’s warm body. 

“So you want to play with me, witcher?” Jaskier breathed against his ear.

“Yes,” Geralt said before he felt hot lips pressed to his neck kissing a trail from his ear to his shoulder.

A heartbeat later his breath caught in his throat as he felt Jaskier open his mouth to press sharp canines against the soft skin of his neck, hard enough to dent but not pierce it and he groaned. 

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The hotel lobby was sophisticated and yet traditional, like something out of a movie. The dark panelling on the walls were dimly lit by flickering candles, and there was a fireplace roaring in the centre of the foyer, and a handful of gorgeous golden-eyed beauties were making their way around the room. They were finely dressed, perfectly tailored suits with silken blood red waistcoats detailed with golden buttercups, a tray balanced on their hands as they passed out flutes of champagne. In the corner of the room was a black grand piano, the lid propped up as the man behind it let his fingers dance across the ivory keys, rings glistening silver and gold in the candlelight.

Jaskier smiled to himself as he played, his eyes shut, focussing on every little sound in the room, blending it with the music, manipulating the souls around him until they were practically eating out of his hand.

The Prince of Darkness, the mortals called him.

Lucifer himself.

He preferred Jaskier; buttercups were so beautiful, so innocent, so toxic.

It was the perfect moniker.

Lux was his domain, his hotel, a haven for demons and sinners alike, and the perfect stage for when Jaskier had to deal with… unpleasant business. The witchers, as he liked to call his inner circle of demons, would deal with the aftermath, cleaning up the elevator before any of Jaskier’s regular clientele could see.

The witchers were just such good pets.

Geralt approached the piano, his honey golden eyes almost entirely black as they approached the end of another poor soul’s contract. There was an itch that creeped under Jaskier’s skin, hot fire burning through his veins, but it didn’t bother him. No, he relished in the flames, let it warm his cold immortal body. Cracking an eye open, he peered at the witcher who had disturbed his music.

“He’s here, my lord.”

Jaskier sighed, bringing the music to an end, and then, with a snap of his fingers, the ivory keys started to play anew. The song was a familiar tune, a well known pop song from the mortals’ charts. It would keep his honoured guests entertained, after all, at Lux the party never-ended. Those who stepped through the swinging doors were transported to a realm of endless night; cocktails, champagne and designer clothes. The chandelier in the middle of the room twinkled, and there was a sharp clack of high heels on the granite floor as his guests mingled.

None of them ever seemed to realise there was something not quite right about Lux. When they were done partying, when Jaskier had made deals for their souls, they would leave and return to their realm as if they had only been there for an evening, never to return until their contract was up.

And they always returned.

Occasionally, a poor mortal would fight it, realising their impending doom. They’d try to flee the country, get as far away from Lux as possible, but the witchers were excellent hunters. Once the demons got the right scent, they could track their prey to the end of the known universe. The mortals never stood a chance. They either came willingly or they would be dragged through the doors by two of Jaskier’s finest demons; he wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Yes it was simpler if they accepted their fate, but he couldn’t deny that he just adored the thrill of watching the poor terrified soul being thrown at his feet.

He thought of himself as a kind devil, if such a thing existed, his father would certainly disagree, but his father could rot in heaven. Truly, Jaskier did his best to be fair. He granted the mortals wishes and made sure they lived their best lives, he even allowed most of them to live for many decades with the gifts he gave them, their deepest desires. Really, for some of the wishes he’d granted, it would have been kind to allow them even a year of life, let alone what he gave to them.

Ungrateful bastards, the lot of them.

Valdo Marx had been an easy soul to claim; he was greedy, lustful, full of pride. He’d practically begged at Jaskier’s feet back when he was in his first year of university.

“I want to be the best musician the world has ever seen, I want the most beautiful woman, Virginia Stael, to be my wife, and I want-”

Jaskier had waved his hand, his dark feathered wings spreading out behind him, and Valdo’s jaw had snapped shut, muffled sounds coming from his throat.

“I want, I want, I want,” Jaskier had cooed, his finger hooking under Valdo’s chin as he pouted down at the mortal, whipping his tail round to caress down the poor man’s arm until his wrist had been locked in a vice. “Do you know what I want… Marx?”

The wanna-be musician had scoffed, a fatal mistake and one that had cost him years off his life. “Everyone knows that, Lucifer.”

“My name, Valdo, is Jaskier,” he’d hissed, his forked tongue flicking out from his lips as more and more of his devil form had been revealed. “And I just want to have fun.”

“You want my soul.”

“No, your soul is the price. A mere business transaction. I just want to get wasted and shag my rather lovely demons, and you are wasting my time.”

Ah yes. Valdo had always been a little shit-stain in Jaskier’s life, but now his time had come.

The piano music began to build to an earth shattering crescendo, making the glasses rattle, and dust fall from the chandelier. Jaskier cracked his neck, feeling a prickling sensation on his scalp as his horns began to grow, and still the sweet, oblivious mortals noticed nothing. They sipped on their champagne and chatted amongst themselves, ignoring the way Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes slowly turned onyx, his skin deathly pale. He smiled sweetly at his favourite witcher, running his lips along Geralt’s sharp cheekbones.

“Thank you, darling,” he breathed, capturing Geralt’s lips with his, tongues meeting in a quick but heated display of passion.

And then the doors burst open, Lambert and Aiden dragginga handsome but aging man through the doors, grey hairs dusting his temple, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It had been a long time since Jaskier had seen Valdo Marx, but there was no denying his beauty, now distinguished, a true silver fox. Dark chocolate eyes met his as all the colour drained from Marx’s face.

“Oh God, no… no, please,” he stammered, struggling in the arms of the demons that held him.

“My dear father holds no power here,” Jaskier chuckled, smirking at the man at his feet. “There’s no use in praying. Your soul belongs to me.”

“Lu- Jaskier, please. I’m too young. It’s too soon,” Valdo begged, reaching up to Jaskier with open hands. “My wife, my children.”

“Oh but Valdo, It’s never too soon. I am never early and I never try to back out of a deal, darling,” Jaskier pouted, squatting so he was at eye level with the mortal. “So why don’t you come with me, love? Stop all this fussing. You’re ruining my party.”

With a fire not often seen in mortals, Valdo spat at Jaskier, and an eerie silence fell over the club. The piano music screeched to a halt, the lid closing with a bang, and the only sound was a low rumble of growls from the witchers. Geralt was at Jaskier’s side in a flash, his sword drawn and pointed at the man.

It was sweet.

As if Jaskier couldn’t defend himself, but he did enjoy the show, the way Geralt’s arms would flex as he gripped the sword, twirling it in a circle before executing his victim.

“I had planned to give you an easy death,” Jaskier lied, standing back up to his full demonic height and clearing his face with a snap, “but now, I think I’ll have some fun. Geralt, Eskel, with me. Lambert, Aiden, make sure our guests stay out of the way.”

“No!” Valdo cried, falling once more at Jaskier’s feet, gripping onto his ankles.

Oh, how he loved it when they begged for their lives.

When Jaskier glided through the foyer, picking up a champagne flute from Coen’s tray with barely a brush of his lips to the demon’s cheek, the crowd parted before him. Compliments fell off their tongues, sweet like honey, unaware of the influence Jaskier had over them. They all watched him, they always watched him, so very eager to please. Geralt snarled behind him as one brave mortal rested their hand on Jaskier’s arm, but it was Eskel who snapped their fingers, silent and deadly, before they’d even realised he was there.

Valdo was pulled into the elevator, tears streaming down his face and choked off screams ripping from his throat, but Jaskier remained calm, and if it weren’t for his eyes and the horns amongst his tousled brown hair, he would have looked like any other hotel owner.

Until the doors closed.

And then all hell broke loose; literally. Jaskier’s body cracked and snapped into place as his legs extended to inhuman proportions, his fingers growing into talons, and he let out a sinful moan as his wings unfurled behind him. He flicked out his tail, and his three-piece suit melted away into a gorgeous black silk corset, embroidered with golden buttercups. Red stockings adorned his legs, held up by lacy black garters, and as he flicked out his ankles, a pair of strappy heels materialised on his feet, the soles flashing red before clicking back onto the floor.

“Jaskier, please, please,” Valdo cried, falling against the side of the elevator as lightning sparked and they dropped fast, the dial on the wall spinning out of control.

“Your soul… belongs to me,” Jaskier hissed, pressing Valdo up against the wall, his hands wrapping around his throat.

He was tempted to snog Valdo’s soul right out of him, a sweet kiss to seal the deal, but that was too kind, and he was feeling a little more dramatic than that, so he pushed back off the wall, beating his wings so he hovered just off the floor. Geralt and Eskel were standing on either side of him, swords drawn with toxic black eyes, veins like ink beneath their skin.

Flames burst out behind them, whipping around so the whole elevator was surrounded by a burning pyre, singeing Valdo’s clothes, and the mortal screamed as the fire licked at his hand, scorching the calloused skin. His precious hands, his livelihood, the first things that Jaskier had blessed for him.

There was something so delightfully poetic in that, and Jaskier found great pleasure in it.

“Everyone always thinks that hell is eternal fire,” he purred, stroking a talon along Geralt’s cheek, before pulling Eskel into a soft kiss, taking his time to enjoy the taste of sulfur on his tongue, “but that isn’t always true.”

“W-what?”

Jaskier just pouted at Valdo. “Do try to keep up, darling.”

And then he snapped his fingers, the fire was suddenly extinguished, replaced by a flood of muddy tar. Valdo spluttered and choked as he slid to the ground, the tar catching in his hair, and wherever it landed his handsome looks withered away. The wedding band slipped from his finger and disappeared, despite Valdo’s desperate scrambling to find it.

The muddy mixture spewed all over the lift, covering the two demons as well as their victim, but Jaskier stayed clean and dry, untouched by the tar. He really wasn’t in the mood for ruining his clothes, not like this. He was rather hoping Geralt would tear them from his body later on that day whilst his other beloved witchers watched.

“J-Jaskier!” Valdo screamed, just as the entire elevator froze.

Blue ice creeped up the walls, wrapping around the legs of both the demons and the pitiful mortal on the floor. Valdo sobbed, trying to escape the ice but they both knew it was over. His back pressed against the wall as the ice grew, crystallising over his body, wrapping around his throat. Snowflakes fell from the ceiling, landing in his eyelashes as he struggled to breathe.

And Jaskier stole back his voice.

The final gift.

Valdo’s soul ripped from his body, and the man fell limp against the wall.

With a wave of his hand, Jaskier captured the soul, weaving his magic until a silver fox with chocolate brown eyes was nestled in his arms. He grinned, lowered the fox to the floor and then snapped his fingers to open the doors.