Chapter 1: Sparks of Jealousy
The tavern was a cacophony of raucous laughter and clinking mugs, the air thick with the scent of ale and sweat. Geralt of Rivia sat in the shadowed corner, his amber eyes glinting like a predator’s as he watched Jaskier, his bard and lover, perform on the makeshift stage. Jaskier’s fingers danced over the lute strings, his voice a honeyed lure that drew every eye in the room. The bard’s lithe frame swayed with each note, his smirk a weapon as deadly as any blade.
Geralt’s jaw tightened as a man—some swaggering, pretty-faced noble with a velvet doublet—leaned too close to Jaskier, whispering something that made the bard laugh. A low growl rumbled in Geralt’s chest. Jaskier was his, and the Witcher didn’t share. Not now, not ever.
As Jaskier finished his song, the noble clapped too enthusiastically, his hand lingering on the bard’s shoulder. Geralt’s grip on his tankard nearly shattered the metal. He stood, his towering frame casting a shadow as he stalked over, the crowd parting like prey before a wolf.
“Enjoying the show?” Geralt’s voice was a low, dangerous purr, his gaze pinning the noble like a bug under glass.
Jaskier turned, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, Geralt, don’t scare the poor man. He was just complimenting my... talents.” The bard’s tone dripped with innuendo, a challenge wrapped in velvet.
“Talents,” Geralt echoed, stepping closer, his presence a wall of raw power. “I think he’s had enough of those for one night. Haven’t you, boy?” His stare shifted to the noble, who paled and stammered an excuse before scurrying off.
Jaskier pouted, though his eyes burned with amusement. “You’re no fun, Witcher. I was just warming up the crowd.”
“Warm them up somewhere else,” Geralt growled, his hand clamping around Jaskier’s wrist, pulling him close. “You’re mine, bard. Or do I need to remind you?”
“Oh, please do,” Jaskier shot back, his voice a teasing lilt. “I’ve been aching for a proper reminder. Think you can handle me in front of all these fine folks?”
The challenge hung in the air, electric and daring. Geralt’s lips curled into a feral smirk, his blood already roaring with possessive heat. He didn’t care who watched; let them see who Jaskier belonged to. He yanked the bard toward the center of the tavern, the crowd hushing as if sensing the storm about to break.
“You want a show?” Geralt’s voice boomed, rough with desire, as he shoved Jaskier against a sturdy table, the wood creaking under the bard’s weight. “I’ll give you one they’ll sing about for years.”
Jaskier’s breath hitched, his grin wicked. “Big words, Witcher. Let’s see if that cock of yours is as impressive as your temper.”
Geralt’s eyes darkened, his hands already tearing at Jaskier’s doublet, exposing pale skin to the flickering torchlight. The bard’s taunts only fueled the fire in his veins, his need to claim, to mark, to fuck Jaskier until he couldn’t stand. He could feel himself growing hard, the monstrous length straining against his trousers—a beast of its own, hungry and unyielding at thirteen inches.
The crowd’s murmurs faded into a haze as Geralt leaned down, his breath hot against Jaskier’s ear. “You’re gonna take every inch, bard. Right here. Right now.”
Jaskier’s laugh was breathless, daring. “Then stop talking and start fucking, love. I’m already wet for you.”
Geralt’s control snapped like a taut bowstring, his hands rough as they worked to free himself, the anticipation of plunging into Jaskier’s tight, eager body making him ache. The tavern held its breath, the air thick with lust and danger, as the Witcher prepared to stake his claim in the most primal, public way.
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