#incubi

Incubus, Vincenz Georg Kininger, 1795

The dream of Countess Marguerite of Flanders. Illustration after the ballet pantomime "Riccardo Cuor di Leone" by Salvatore Viganò.

Imagine an Incubi with his legs chained up, lifting them high above his head and exposing his twitching hole to you.

He’s so needy for you, for your knot. He can’t help but wiggle his hips at you, trying to push his plush butt closer to your cock. He whines when he feels the tip of your dick against puckered hole, but the moment you move back, he starts crying.

Begging. Pleading for your thick dick. He just wants you to fuck him stupid, fuck him like he was some low life whore you picked up on the streets. Thats what he was built for.

Werewolf Bf that's so big and hairy and pulls you into his chest, it's soft and warm and safe and he is growling whenever you try to move out, even just a hand to reach for the water. He nuzzles into your neck and you can feel his every breath. He pulls you on top of him and keeps you in place, you feel his every breath with the steady rise and fall of his chest. It's a mess of fur.

Incubus Bf that does the same but much tighter, needs much more skin on skin contact. He holds you so tight he wants you to merge into his chest. His thin tail wraps around your thigh as he aims to have you completely under him. His hands occasionally stray and squeeze and grab in less than innocent places, but it's all affection.

Succubus Bf on the flip side that presses into your chest, tries to merge in and climb between your ribs to find a place to rest, nestled by your heart. Of course he can't so he'll settle for your arms around him. His tail holds your waist, the tip of it rubbing softly against the small of your back to offer the same comfort you give him.

But then Jaskier finds a witcher. And this witcher is…different. Because for as much as he insults the bard, threatening to run him through or leave him behind, his emotions do not match his words. So Jaskier just smiles as the months and years pass, because even though Geralt tries to hide it, there’s no mistaking the fondness that tastes like a warm buttered roll on Jaskier’s tongue every time the witcher acts annoyed at the bard’s antics.

It’s not the candy sugar-high of lust, nor the strange bitter, strong, earthy scent of what Geralt feels for the witch, but it’s something. It’s positive, and it’s for him, and that’s enough. Has to be enough, really, because Jaskier couldn’t ask for more. It doesn’t work like that, they’ve never worked like that.

And Jaskier takes it, lets down his walls against Geralt, because the man has never once felt an ounce of hate for him, even when the bard screwed up particularly egregiously. Which, really, in the grand scheme of things, is more important than the desire Jaskier has for honey cake-care, syrupy-sweet fritter-devotion, apple-pie filled-love—

Jaskier aches, and chides himself daily for being greedy. He takes what is given, and does not ask for more, having long ago chosen to never use what powers he has to feed like that. It’s not worth it, not for the confusion and pain it leaves in its wake.

But Jaskier will sometimes help take the edge off of negative emotions, can swallow down some of the spoiled meat-fear, mouldy bread-despair, sour, slimy ale-disgust. It leaves him feeling nauseous, his appetite poor for days, but it’s worth it for the relief it brings to those truly in need of it.

So when he notices the rotten egg-hurt coming off of Geralt on the mountain, he reaches out, trying to help the witcher. Open, defenseless, he chokes heavily on the bitter, numbing, burning-hate that Geralt shoves down his throat, the taste unlike anything he’s ever felt before in his life. Dizzy, he falls to the ground, clutching his chest at the way his heart stops breathing quite right, how his lungs don’t want to move.

He doesn’t notice the familiar beef stew-concern until it’s right next to him, visible in the bright golden eyes. The last thing he thinks before he passes out is how ironic it is, that Geralt’s hatred had taken the form of a buttercup, Wolf’s bane.

That he will die with the taste of his namesake on his lips.

He doesn’t expect to wake up, certainly not to the comfort, care, hope, love surrounding him like fog. He’s almost drunk on the emotions, feeling more full than he has since…well, ever. When he notices who they’re coming from, though, he can’t help the wall that flies up, has to force back a flinch at the realization of whose arms he is in.

And Geralt apologizes, verbally, feelings more free than Jaskier has ever seen them before, clearly projected for his sake. Jaskier listens as Geralt explains he’s suspected for years, but never knew for sure until…

It takes time, as most hurts do, to heal. Jaskier is reluctant at first, to leave himself vulnerable to feed off the witcher. But he is weak, and tired, and there’s no one else on this forsaken mountain he’s willing to feed off of, so he doesn’t have much choice.

For his part, Geralt only lets go of the bard when absolutely necessary, seemingly aware that physical contact makes the process easier on Jaskier. And Jaskier doesn’t want to forgive the witcher, wants to hold onto the fear, betrayal, hurt that he’d felt when Geralt force-fed him his emotions. But Jaskier can’t control the way his heart softens as the witcher helps him down the mountain, how the golden eyes always on him make him feel safe even when they shouldn’t.

It takes them a week to make it back to Roach, at which point Jaskier’s heart has finally stopped skipping beats and the dizziness has faded. Geralt asks Jaskier a silent question, and the bard thinks, really thinks, before stuffing the scant belongings he’d brought with him in his pack atop the witcher’s horse.

Jaskier squeaks when the witcher lifts him into the saddle, and he tells Geralt that he’s feeling all better, really, it’s been nice but he can walk, only for the witcher to join him atop Roach silently. And Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with this, this new territory, as Geralt wraps his arms around the bard to grab the reins.

He’s seconds from panicking when warm spiced milk-contentment envelops him like a hug, so overwhelming he can’t help but relax as he’s guided back to rest on an armored chest. The sensation is all-consuming, and Jaskier, more tired than he realized, feels his eyelids drooping.

Doomed Paladin x Sentient Sword Incubus