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Play With Fire

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Geralt had expected many things when he had been hired as a prison guard. He had expected fights, he had expected insults thrown at his head, he had even expected riots.

What he hadn’t expected, was standing in the recreation room for hours on end, watching as prisoners read books, watched reality shows on the tiny tv, and drew. Of all things, Geralt had been most surprised about the drawing, really. It hadn’t really seemed like a thing grown men did in prison, but as it turns out, it’s as good a hobby as any.

So, he stands there, arms crossed in front of his chest, in the corner, mind wandering to the matter of what he’ll have for dinner tonight, as he keeps one eye on the prisoners, the other on the clock. It’s nearly 5, which means he has about two more hours left of his shift. 

The prisoners eat at 6, he knows, so he’ll probably either be stationed in the dining room, or he’ll have to patrol the halls to make sure no one’s doing anything potentially illegal.

He sighs a bit, as the minutes tick by, slowly but surely. His attention is caught by one of the inmates, Jaskier Pankratz, he remembers. Here because of manslaughter. Stabbed a guy in the neck with a broken bottle for insulting him. Only convicted for manslaughter and not murder, because he did not plan it for a single second, though the judge did give him an extra long sentence - deemed him emotionally unstable, apathetic, and likely to reoffend. The young man will be lucky if he gets out of here in the next thirty years.

Shame, really, Geralt thinks, as he looks at the young man drawing… well, something, Geralt’s not really sure what it’s supposed to be, as it looks like a bunch of scratchy lines in random colours, but he’s sure that if he were to ask, the inmate would give him a longwinding explanation about how it represents his situation or some shit like that. They always do when he asks.

He sighs again, shifting from foot to foot a bit to relieve the pain in his legs from standing still so long. It is a shame, that Jaskier will likely spend his remaining days here. He’s so young, quite good-looking, and clever, too. He would’ve had a bright future if he hadn’t been such a little monster. There’s a reason why Geralt reads the file of every new prisoner that arrives, and Jaskier is the perfect example: if Geralt hadn’t known about the gruesome crime the young man had commited, he would’ve let his guard down around Jaskier.

After all, he thinks, as he looks at the way the tip of Jaskier’s tongue pokes out between his lips, as he concentrates, it’s so easy to be charmed by the young man’s good looks and silver tongue, by the facade of innocence and naivety he puts up.

Geralt blinks, and suddenly he realizes that Jaskier is staring right back at him, blue eyes curious. The guard clenches his jaw when the young man shoots him a wink, and he looks away, trying and failing to stop heat from rising to his cheeks. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be giving the prisoner any wrong ideas - whatever they may be.

He startles a bit, shaken from his thoughts, as his walkie creaks, the monotone voice of his supervisor telling him he’s on patrol duty for the rest of the shift.

He risks one last glance at Jaskier, and sees bright blue eyes looking right back. He fixes his gaze on the wall opposite him.

The noises from the dining room are dulled in the hallways as Geralt walks through them. Of course, there is no one else in sight, all the other guards either in the dining room or on the other side of the building, all the inmates eating dinner.

He sighs to himself. Just half an hour more, and he can go home. He just has to bear thirty minutes more of this boring nothingness. He can do this.

He stops in his tracks as he walks past the door to the recreation room. He frowns, as he sees someone on their hands and knees on the floor, searching for something under the table.

Well, really, hands and knees is a bit generous. The guy’s shoulders are practically on the floor, ass in the air almost invitingly, for lack of better word, as his hand sweeps under the table.

Geralt walks into the room, rounding the man, who looks up at him. He meets brilliantly blue eyes and a cheeky grin, and, combined with the… compromising position Jaskier’s in, it makes heat pool in the pit of Geralt’s stomach.

He frowns, shaking the thoughts he definitely shouldn’t be having away. “What are you doing, inmate?”

Jaskier looks back down, frowning in annoyance as he takes one last look under the table, before crawling to the bookshelf Geralt is standing next to, looking underneath it. “A pencil. A yellow one, to be precise. Rolled off the table, earlier, and I can’t find it.”

“You should be at dinner.”

Jaskier looks up again at Geralt, grinning widely, eyes sparkling. “I know. But yellow is my favourite colour, and I really want that pencil back.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’ll find it tomorrow, now get up.”

“Alright, alright.” Jaskier sits up on his knees, wiping the dirt off his hands. He looks to the side, right at Geralt’s crotch. “Oh,” he breathes, “I could get used to this sight.”

Geralt blinks, mind crashing and burning as he tries to process what Jaskier’s just said. “What?” he manages to choke out.

Jaskier looks up, all cheeky grin and sparkling blue eyes. “Oh, my bad.” He looks down for a second, then back up, gazing at the guard through his lashes, something changing in his face that sets Geralt’s skin on fire. “I could get used to this sight, sir.”

Geralt swallows thickly, heat definitely starting to pool at the bottom of his stomach, and he knows he’ll probably have to relieve himself in some quiet corner after this. “Get the hell up,” he bites out.

Jaskier pouts up at him, but does as he’s told after Geralt staring him down for several seconds. The inmate’s fingers brush against the side of the guard’s leg, as he finally gets up, blue eyes glinting with something dangerous that makes adrenaline pump through Geralt’s veins in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Oh, dear,” Jaskier mutters out, when he’s finally standing up, looking down at the obvious tent in Geralt’s trousers. “I didn’t mean to turn you on, sir.”

He feels anger course red-hot through his veins, along with the adrenaline and arousal, and he snarls at Jaskier, pushing the young man to the back and to the side, pressing Jaskier’s back against the wall. “I suggest you stop this right now.”

“Or what?” The young man stretches his neck out, nose brushing against Geralt’s, his breath ghosting over his lips teasingly. “You’ll punish me?”

Geralt grunts in surprise when Jaskier slings his leg around him, the inmate’s heel digging onto the muscles at the back of his thigh, pulling him closer. 

He can’t help himself, not in this position, as he plants his palm against the wall next to Jaskier’s head, taking in the way the wicked grin turns into a small gasp of pleasure when he grinds against the young man, their cocks brushing against each other through the layers of clothing. Jaskier is insufferable, and Geralt would like nothing better than to ruin this facade of cockiness and self-confidence, to reduce the young man to panting moans and whimpers as he comes undone.

Infuriatingly enough, Jaskier seems to know that, as the wicked grin returns to his face, though his pupils are blown wide, almost completely taking over the blue in his eyes. “Please, sir, have mercy on me.”

And Geralt can’t stop the low rumble that escapes his chest at the way Jaskier purrs the word ‘sir’ into his ear. He noses at the young man’s neck, teeth clamping down softly on his pulse, grinding against Jaskier at the same time, earning him another shuddering moan.

The reality of what the hell he’s doing hits him when the noise from the dining room become less and less muted, the other inmates done eating dinner. He pulls back from Jaskier with a few trembling steps, taking in a shaky breath.

He points at the young man. “Don’t tell anyone,” he hisses.

The inmate chuckles, all dark eyes, sweaty, brown curls and rosy cheeks. “Wouldn’t dare.” 

Geralt can see a glimpse of a wink, before he turns around, stumbling out of the recreation room.

He has to pull himself off in the bathroom to get rid of the arousal coursing through his body; quick and dirty, groaning into his palm as he comes. Still, even after that, he can’t get rid of the images that keep flashing through his mind every time he blinks, can’t get rid of the wave of heat that spreads through his body at the memories.

Rosy lips, blue eyes, blown pupils, sweaty, brown hair sticking against flushed skin, nimble, wandering hands, a silver tongue.

He pushes the thoughts away, heading to his locker when his shift finally ends. He rushes out the door without as much as a goodbye to his colleagues, slamming the car door shut behind him, driving home way too fast, well over speed limit.

Once he’s finally home, he closes the door behind him, leaning against it. He presses his palm against his forehead, feeling the heat that resides just under his skin, ready to be awoken the second he thinks about Jaskier.

He sighs, walking to the bedroom, taking off his uniform. He puts his gun in the locker next to the bed, reaching for the key badge he always wears on his belt.

He freezes when his hand finds empty air.


The little shit’s stolen his badge.