Custom Made - stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou) - Wiedźmin | The Witcher (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

“There is one small problem, good witcher, with regards to your payment.”

Geralt feels the headache that has been lingering behind his temples all day grow from a mild ache into a steady throb. Witchers shouldn’t even be able to get headaches, least of all Geralt. If anything could do it, though, it would be stupid lying nobles who try to cheat Geralt out of his coin after a job well done when he’s already running two weeks late getting home for winter and is already cold and cranky. That’ll get his head pounding, and his teeth gritting besides.

“That’s impossible,” Geralt informs Baron Algoras through them, staring the man down with yellow eyes that he knows are predatory and haunting when he wants them to be. Algoras shivers. “I specifically remember telling you I would kill the griffin for 300 crowns, and you said yes. I killed the griffin, so now you pay me 300 crowns. What could possibly be the problem with that?”

“Well, after consulting with my accountant, I’ve been informed we simply don’t have 300 crowns to give you,” Algoras says. Geralt doesn’t smell a lie on him, which probably means that he really doesn’t have the money. The nervous shifting of the noble in his seat suggests he probably knew that before he’d made the contract with Geralt, however. “You’ll just have to take 150 instead.”

“Half the price?” Geralt growled, furious.

It had been a bad idea to take this contract in the first place. Algoras has a reputation for being a cruel lord, brutal and merciless, and the very idea of helping him in any way leaves a bad taste in Geralt’s mouth. Still, this autumn had been a hard one and he would need coin to buy supplies on his way to Kaer Morhen. It wouldn’t do well to show up late and empty handed.

“There’s nothing to be done about it now,”Algoras sniffs, waving a hand to dismiss Geralt’s anger. “The creature is dead and 150 crowns is the sum that you’ll be receiving. Unless you’ve got a means for going back in time and sewing that thing’s head back on, I hardly see what whining will do about the situation.”

Geralt moves so quickly that none of the guards have time to so much as unsheath their weapons before he’s close enough to press the tip of his steel sword to Algoras’ throat. “Whining will do nothing. Adding your head to my pile of trophies for the day might make me feel better, though.”

“Monster!” Algoras spits out, probably attempting to seem fierce. It’s severely undermined by the way he reeks of fear. “It’s true, what they say about your kind! You’re animals!”

“If I were an animal, I’d have already killed you,” Geralt growls. “I may be a monster, but I do have some level of self-control. Quickly dwindling self-control.”

“What would have me do?” Algoras’ voice is nearly a whine. “I don’t have the coin!”

“Then you’d better think of something before I take the rest of my payment in blood.”

It’s an idle threat --he wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, not even a cheat-- but Algoras doesn’t need to know that. “Alright, alright, you beast! I’ll pay you through the Law of Surprise!”

Geralt absolutely, unequivocally, does not have the time or the patience for this. “Fine,” he snaps, stepping back. “That which you have but do not yet know. That will be your payment to me for this contract.” Not that it f*cking helps him now, since a promise of some future yield isn’t going to buy Geralt any supplies on his way North, but it’s better than continuing this irritating argument any longer. “Give me the 150 and I’ll be back in spring for the rest.”

Algoras smooths the front of his doublet with a disdainful expression, as if Geralt were some child who’d bumped into his legs in the market instead of a professional killer who’d threatened to slit his throat. “Very well. Here, take your coin, witcher, and begone with you.”

Gladly, Geralt thinks as he catches the small purse tossed to him.He doesn’t even bother counting it. It feels close enough to 150, and if it’s short he’ll just collect interest when he returns in the spring. Whatever gets him out of this wretched court and on his way faster.

He almost makes it out of the building when a servant bursts in from the courtyard, moving towards the receiving hall as quickly as his feet will carry him without outright sprinting. One of the guards grabs him by the arm and stops him with a sharp, “What is it? Speak, boy!”

“It’s arrived! The item from Stygga Citadel!”

Stygga Citadel, the place that was home to the witchers belonging to the School of the Cat. Whatever this interruption is about, it has to do with Geralt’s bastard cousins in the guild. Curiosity at the boy’s excitement shifts to outright suspicion, and Geralt halts in place.

“Send it in,” the guard tells the boy immediately, spine straightening. “I’ll let him know. Run now, he’ll want to see it immediately!”

The boy takes off, and Geralt’s hand twitches nervously at his side, itching for a sword in his palm. Something is wrong here. Some sort of item arriving that the whole court knew to be excited for, and it was coming to someone like Algoras. That was shady enough. And if the Cats are involved… well, that only guarantees that whatever the item is, it’s not only unsavory, it’s probably also dangerous.

f*ck. How do I always get involved in this sh*t?

Acting on his instincts, Geralt slips down one of the side hallways unnoticed, everyone distracted by the news of this mysterious item’s arrival. If his mental map of the building’s layout was accurate, he should be able to find a door somewhere down this hallway that opened up to the side of the receiving room. It had looked unused from the inside, a suit of armor in front of it, and Geralt might be able to use it to get a hidden view of the events inside the receiving room.

He finds a door exactly where he expected it to be, in a little alcove with dusty curtains partially obscuring it. Pressing his ear to the crack, he listens for what might be on the other side. He can hear Algoras’ excited chatter on the other side, confirming his theory. Quietly, carefully, he pulls the door open just a crack to reveal a near-perfect view of Algoras’ plush armchair and the space before it.

A moment later, in stroll two Cats, long and lean and deadly, carrying a large object between them by handles set on either side of it. Algoras greets them eagerly and they curl their lips in a cold smile, identical in their thinly veiled disdain despite their varied appearances. One is dark-skinned and bearded, head shaved to reveal a webwork of scars on his skin. The other is pale with black hair, cheekbones sharp, half of one ear missing with a jagged edge as if something had come close enough to bite it off. Both of them have two swords on their back and eyes that don’t so much as glance in Geralt’s direction, hidden as he is.

Geralt focuses his attention on the object between them. It’s a cube of some sort draped with fabric, about four feet on each side, and apparently not very heavy given the way the witchers carry it with ease. Hollow, perhaps. Straining his senses, Geralt can smell something that bizarrely brings to mind the aroma of a bakery early in the morning. Fresh baked bread, melted morsels of chocolate, sugar and honey and spice. Whatever’s in there, Geralt wants to close his eyes and lean into the smell and get lost in it and pay no attention to the mystery of the source.

That is, until he hears the heartbeat.

There’s something living inside of that box, Geralt realizes as his eyes widen once more. It’s a quick, fluttering heartbeat, fast enough to stand out between the two steady pulses of the witchers on either side. Some sort of animal, then, brought to be part of a menagerie. Something exotic that required witchers to trap and tame it. It was exactly the kind of thing that a frivolous lesser nobleman would spend his limited coin on and then be unable to pay to keep his own lands and people safe.

He almost leaves, then, having no desire to see some poor wretch of an animal caged and miserable. This is between Algoras and the Cats, and Geralt doesn’t want any part of it. He almost leaves, except that there’s something primal in him that roots him to the spot as pleasantries are exchanged because he has to know what’s under that sheet.

“Now then,” says Algoras, “let me get a look at my new toy.”

The Cats grin at each other, and then in a move so perfect that it has to be rehearsed, reach down in flawless synchronization and grab the bottom edge of the sheet covering the item. With a flick of their wrists, the sheet whips off with a flourish and flutters to the floor behind them. Beneath it lies a cage with metal bars, through which Geralt can glimpse--

A young man, human, bare except for a collar at his throat, kneeling in the cage with his back perfectly straight and his hands resting on his thighs, a picture of perfection.

Anger flares up hot and dangerous in Geralt’s gut. Everything about this is wrong, on so many levels, and Geralt rages at the implications of the presence of this man in this cage. Even in Velen slavery was eradicated, and to find out that another School was involved… Geralt will have to have a word with Vesemir about this. He and his brothers may owe Stygga Citadel a visit in the spring.

“Well isn’t it lovely,” Algoras purrs, rising from his chair to approach the cage, his saunter confident and predatory. He might have been a cat himself, the way he moves. “Look at those gorgeous blue eyes. And those perfect lips. You’re going to feel divine on my co*ck, aren’t you, little pet?”

Geralt sucks in a breath, feeling as though he’s been punched in the gut. Surely he couldn’t mean--

“Better than any you’ve had before,” the caged man purrs.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you. Years in fact. I hope you’ll be worth the years of tedium I’ve endured while you were being custom made by my feline friends.”

“Not friends,” the dark-skinned witcher replies. “More like craftsmen. Ones who get paid handsomely for their services rendered.”

“Ah yes, of course, of course. Guards, bring forth the witchers’ payment, please.” Algoras returns his eyes to the man in the cage, reaching through the bars and cupping his cheek. In response, the man leans his face into the touch and turns his head to kiss Algoras’ palm. “Oh, isn’t that something? It’s eager, too.”

“Eager enough to beg for just about any co*ck it sees,” the raven-haired cat snorts. “I f*cked it just this morning and it still had the nerve to beg Gramer for his, too.”

“Maybe that’s a reflection of your skills, Jokull,” his companion replies drily.

“f*ck off,” the one called Jokull replies. “It’s insatiable. Doesn’t matter how good the co*ck is, it always wants more. But don’t worry, Algoras, it’s been well-trained. It knows you’re its master now. It’ll only beg for you.”

“Is that true, pet?” Algoras asks the man in the cage. “Will you beg for me?”

“Yes, Master,” comes the reply, the man’s voice musical and lilting and yet nauseating for its blind submission. “I’ll do anything for you.”

“The mutagens have done their work,” Gramer informs Algoras, sounding bored. “It’ll be sturdier than any human, and you’ll find its holes ready to use any time. Nice and wet and loose for you, just like a c*nt. As far as its mind… the thing has no memory of its life before we found it. All it knows is how to obey its master’s every desire.”

“There are a few flaws,” muses Jokull. “Using mutagens to manufacture whor*s instead of witchers is a new frontier, after all. Our alchemists made it a little too eager. It gets practically feral without enough co*ck.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no problem keeping up with it,” Gramer says.

“And if it’s pestering you, give it to your men. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind a few rounds,” finishes Jokull.

Just then two guards enter with a large wooden chest between them, struggling under its weight far more than the witchers had with the weight of the man in the cage. When it’s set on the ground with a resonating thunk, Jokull strides forward and opens the lid to reveal a mound of gold crowns. Geralt could save every bit of payment from every contract for a year and still not have that much.

So much for not having the other 150 crowns for me, Geralt thinks acidly.

Algoras isn’t paying the witchers much mind anymore, except to take the key to the cage when offered to him and fumble to unlock the cage door. “Yes, thank you for your services,” he says without looking at them, tossing the lock aside and opening the cage door. “Tell the others of your School that it was my pleasure doing business with you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to play with my new toy.”

The Cats don’t express a single flicker of emotion as Gramer picks up the chest of gold and starts heading for the door. “Have fun,” Jokull calls over his shoulder as he follows suit.

Geralt watches in horror as the caged man crawls forward on hands and knees and resumes his kneeling position before Algoras, who’s untying his trousers with a leer at the man before him. “Open up,” he says, his order obeyed instantly, “and show me what I paid for.”

Geralt sees red.

“Stop,” he barks, voice ringing clear and loud across the room as he throws open the door and strides in. Both Algoras and the man on his knees jump at the intrusion, Algoras stumbling back with his co*ck hanging out of his pants. He reaches for his dagger and waves it in Geralt’s direction, backing up as he yells for his guards. They rush in past the Cats and stand useless and confused with their weapons half drawn. Geralt draws his sword as well, the steel ringing ominously as it slides from his sheath, ready to defend himself and the innocent human before him.

The kneeling man doesn’t move. He’s still on his knees with his mouth open, right where Algoras left him, not moving from where he was put despite the way that Geralt can see him watching the witcher out of the corner of his eye, alight with curiosity. He doesn’t twitch a muscle out of place, though; he appears to be waiting for orders, or at least permission to protect himself, and Geralt’s rage burns a little hotter.

“What do you want, witcher?” Algoras spits out, scowling. “You have no business to be here after I’ve dismissed you. You’ve no right to meddle in my affairs!”

“I do when they concern me,” Geralt snarls, reaching the kneeling man and stepping around him, placing himself between that trembling form and any danger. “By the Law of Surprise, I claim this man.”

The man on the floor gasps, and Algoras goes deathly white. “You can’t do that!”

“I can and I have,” snaps Geralt. “He was already on your property before I claimed the Law of Surprise, but you had yet to be informed. That which you had but did not yet know. He is my prize. If I have to spill blood to take him, I will.”

Algoras, color returning to him tenfold, doesn’t look like he’s going to let Geralt go on his way peacefully. He’s a concerning shade of scarlet as he looks to the Cat witchers frozen in the doorway to implore them for help. “I’m your client!” he yells to them. “That property was supposed to be delivered to me! Stop him!”

Jokull and Gramer share a brief look, then Gramer shrugs. “We did deliver it to you. Keeping it in your own possession is your own concern, not ours. We won’t meddle in this affair.”

Geralt spares a look for them, baring his teeth in a primal threat. “Expect a visit from the Wolves soon,” he simply says.

The fury in his gaze must communicate the rest of his meaning clearly enough. The Cats share another look, and this time it’s Jokull that answers. “We look forward to meeting your steel with ours, Wolf.”

With that, they turn and stride out of the room definitively, leaving Geralt alone with the humans. He takes advantage of the brief confusion to turn slightly and extend a hand to the man on the floor. “Get up, quickly. You’re coming with me.”

Blue eyes flicker with hesitation. He looks at Algoras, then Geralt, mouth closing and plush lower lip getting caught between his teeth as he worries it briefly. He’s beautiful, Geralt can’t help but notice, even with his face marred with indecision. Finally, hesitantly, he takes Geralt’s hand and rises to his feet.

It’s then that Algoras snaps, his voice shrill enough to give sirens a run for their money as he screams at the guards to seize Geralt. They try their best, of course, but it isn’t fast enough. It isn’t nearly fast enough, not when they’re clumsy and fat and Geralt is a witcher that makes even others of his guild look oafish. Geralt puts his back to the blue-eyed man and takes up a defensive stance, and before he has time to exhale his deep, steadying breath, there’s a circle of dead guards bleeding on the ornate rug around them.

Algoras is the last one standing, co*ck still out and hanging limply at his front, dagger clutched white-knuckled in his grip. “I’ll kill you for this!” he howls at Geralt. “It’s mine!”

Geralt has a very good lesson prepared about how people belong to no one but themselves, but he never gets a chance to teach it. Algoras spoils the opportunity by lunging at them with his dagger, rage and desperation in his face, and Geralt sighs heavily as he swings his sword out in a wide arc and removes the man’s head from his body with a single stroke.

He regrets it instantly when blood sprays all over both him and his charge. He should have just stabbed Algoras, but he’d let his emotions get the best of them and now he and the already terrified human are soaked. It wasn’t so much that it bothers him; he’s already covered in griffin blood from his hunt earlier, what’s a little noble blood on top of it? When he turns around, however, the blue-eyed man is staring down at the rivulets of blood running down his chest with the kind of disgusted horror that Geralt hasn’t felt in decades, if ever.

So much for saving him from trauma. “Ah, f*ck me,” Geralt grumbles.

The human looks at him with sudden alertness. “Yes sir,” he replies, taking a step towards Geralt.

For a moment Geralt is confused, but it doesn’t last for long. It’s hard not to fill in the blanks when the man wastes no time reaching for Geralt’s belt, hands shaking but skilled as they fumble at his belt. As soon as the realization clicks, he’s snapping out his hands to seize the man’s wrists. “What the hell? You think I intend to bend you over and f*ck you after I just saved you from those assholes?”

Confusion and the very slightest hint of annoyance take over that beautiful face between the splatters of crimson. “You commanded me to f*ck you. Would you… prefer my mouth instead, Master?”

Geralt has to very deliberately release the man’s wrists and take a step back, before his shock drives him to accidentally crush delicate bones in his brutal hands on accident. “I didn’t mean it literally,” he snaps, gritting his teeth. “Look, we need to get out of here. Fast. There will be more men coming. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Stop calling me that,” Geralt growls.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

There’s no time for this. Geralt starts removing the gear from the top half of his body as quickly as possible. “What’s your name?” he asks the man.

“I’m… called Jaskier.”

“We’re going to have to run for it, Jaskier.” Swords and armor removed, Geralt tears at the buttons on his shirt, wrenching and struggling to get it off as quickly as possible. It takes a minute, but eventually he manages and holds out the sweaty fabric to the human. He deserves at least some dignity. “Go on, take it.”

At Geralt’s insistent shake, Jaskier takes the shirt and pulls it on, cautiously, as if he’s not sure if the garment comes with a catch. His fingers fumble with the buttons, and Geralt finishes returning his gear to his bare chest --uncomfortable, but serviceable-- and moves to help him. The shirt is overly large on Jaskier’s skinny frame, and it hangs far enough down his thighs to give him a small amount of modesty. It’ll do, for now.

“Come with me, quickly,” Geralt tells him with no further ado, grabbing Jaskier by the hand and leading him towards the door.

It only takes a few of Geralt’s powerful strides to realize that Jaskier won’t be able to keep up with him at a brisk walk, let alone at a run. He’s clumsy, uncoordinated, as if walking on his own two feet is a foreign sensation. Geralt wonders how long he was curled up in the cage on the journey here from Stygga Citadel. He wonders how long he was curled up in the cage before that, too.

Silently seething at the injustice, Geralt slows his pace to one that Jaskier can stumble along behind him at more comfortably. All the guards in the vicinity had come running at Algoras’ call and subsequently were killed, but it had been several minutes since then. Any minute now, someone would wander in from a different part of the building and see the carnage and then Geralt would fight his way through them, too. He would do it without hesitation, but given a choice, he’d prefer not to shed any more blood today.

“Sorry, Sir, where exactly are we going?” Jaskier whispers from just behind him.

“I have a horse in the stable, ready to go. I’m trying to get us out of here without any more fighting, but if something happens--” Geralt breaks off and reaches down to pull a dagger from his boot, flipping it to offer it to Jaskier handle first.

The man looks at him as if Geralt has grown a second and third head all at once. “Are you perhaps short of a marble?” he hisses, then seems to remember himself with a flinch. “Sorry! Sorry, I mean-- I’m not allowed to have weapons, Sir. I may never take up arms in the presence of my masters. I’ll be punished most severely.”

“You won’t be--” Geralt stops, weighing the benefit of having the argument for all of five seconds. Jaskier being unarmed and defenseless is a risk, but so is having him armed and untrained. Moreover, they don’t have time for this. “Fine,” he says, returning the knife to his boot. “Just stay close to me and try not to get killed, alright?”

“Yes, Sir.”

They make it almost to the stables before coming across another living soul, thanks to Geralt’s keen senses and his knack for finding shadowy corners to duck into. When they’re finally spotted, it’s by a young boy of no more than eight, dressed in the garb of a stablehand. He spots Geralt and Jaskier as he’s reaching for a bucket in the pathway between buildings and freezes in his tracks, wide-eyed.

“It’s alright.” Geralt squats down to his level, keeping his voice low and calming. “Listen kid, go and find someplace to hide. If you hear a commotion, don’t come out until it’s quiet again. Got it?” No need for a child to be harmed in the midst of a fray if Geralt can convince him to stay safe.

The kid blinks at him once, twice, then sucks in a breath and screams at the top of his lungs.

Right. Covered in blood. Probably not the friendliest looking guy right now. f*ck.

From then it’s a mad dash around the stable and to the post where Geralt had tied Roach, yanking Jaskier along behind him. In the background, guards and servants start yelling as the danger in their midst is realized. “Get on, quick!” Geralt yells to Jaskier, but the man just freezes. He’s looking at Roach like he’s never seen a horse before, expression one of utter bewilderment and fear, and Geralt does not have f*cking time for this.

He grabs Jaskier by the waist and all but tosses him into the saddle, his thin frame nothing compared to Geralt’s strength. His arse is barely in its seat before Geralt is swinging up behind him, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s body to hold onto the reins. “Run, Roach!” he yells, digging his heels into the mare’s sides, and she takes off like a flash despite a heavier load than usual.

It isn’t a clean getaway. There are guards chasing after them, loosing arrows that barely miss the two riders, and the lone man who attempts to stand in their way at the gate is knocked down and trampled by Roach’s charge. Geralt just keeps spurring her on, curling his body protectively around Jaskier’s, aiming for a spot on the horizon where the flat plains of farmland give way to dense forest and the trees provide.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Geralt waits until the leaves and twigs of the underbrush have been crunching beneath Roach’s hooves for at least a quarter of an hour before he even thinks about stopping. He slows her to a walk, her sides heaving, recovering from their flight. He hates to run her this hard, let alone with the weight of an additional person, but he couldn’t risk losing the lead he’d gotten on the guards. Jaskier opens his mouth in question when they finally do come to a complete stop, but Geralt hushes him before he can speak. He needs to listen, casting out his senses to make sure that they’re not still being pursued.

It’s difficult to concentrate on what he can sense of the forest when he has Jaskier’s warmth and his heartbeat and that tantalizing bakery scent all right there pressed against his chest, but Geralt is a professional, after all. He pushes those things from his mind and focuses on the danger they may soon face. He has a responsibility to keep Jaskier safe, which means not being distracted by him during dangerous times.

After a full five minutes of listening and hearing nothing but the rustles of the forest and the animals within it, Geralt hums his satisfaction. He dismounts, steadying Jaskier when he wobbles without Geralt to lean back on, and urges Roach forward at a slow walk. He steers them toward the sound of a small stream. “They aren’t following us anymore at the moment.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply. Leading Roach to walk in the stream bed, Geralt pats her neck sympathetically as they follow the path of the cool water. She snorts at him in annoyance, and he hums his apology for all the stress. After a minute, he tells Jaskier, “We’ll follow the stream for a bit, so there are no tracks for them to follow if they try to come behind us later.”

Again, no answer. Geralt frowns. It isn’t typical for him to be the talkative one in a conversation. If he had a dime for every time he’s been scolded by Vesemir or his brothers for substituting real words with a hmm, he could be the first witcher to ever retire. Then again, the man has been sold, almost assaulted, covered in blood, and thrown on a horse with a stranger all in the space of half an hour. He doesn’t need to talk right away, not for Geralt.

When another fifteen minutes of walking have passed in silence, however, Geralt begins to worry. Maybe Jaskier is in shock-- that’s something that happens to humans, isn’t it? When he looks up at Jaskier, he expects to see him pale and trembling and dazed with horror. Instead he just finds him looking alert, sinking his teeth into his lip with the apparent effort to contain a torrent of words.

Understanding flickers to life in Geralt. He’d shushed Jaskier and never given him permission to speak again. He remembers the way that Jaskier had remained kneeling with his mouth open and ready for Algoras’ co*ck, simply because that’s what he was ordered to do. Now he’s stuck in the same limbo by Geralt’s carelessness.

“You can talk if you want to now,” he says gruffly, biting back his frustration with himself. Be more careful.

The floodgates have been opened, and words rush out of Jaskier at full force. “Are they going to track us? Where are we going? Where are we right now, even? They wouldn’t tell me where we were traveling. Why did you cover me up? Is your horse okay?”

Geralt just blinks at him for a few seconds, waiting to see if any more questions would come bursting out of the man’s mouth. He seems to have finished for now, though, and is merely looking at Geralt with wide, bright eyes. “Uh,” Geralt says inelegantly, scrambling to remember everything he needs to answer. “We’re in Lyria. Don’t know where we’re headed, exactly. They might follow us, but if they aren’t already I doubt it. Men are rarely loyal to a corpse for long. Roach is fine, and you were… you know. Naked.”

He waves his hand to indicate Jaskier’s whole being, and gets only more blinks in return. Still, his answers must be satisfactory, because Geralt’s odd companion asks no more for the time being. They continue to travel in silence for a while, until Jaskier clears his throat and says, very reluctantly, “Sir?”

“Just Geralt.”

“...Geralt. I need to relieve myself, please.”

“Right. Let’s-- you go do that. I’ll make camp. It’s getting late anyways. Do you… need help getting down?” he prompts after a moment passes and Jaskier is still on top of Roach.

“Yes, Sir. I’ve never ridden a horse before, and this is very-- well, it’s very tall, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

“It’s-- it’s fine,” Geralt huffs, then gestures to Jaskier’s far leg. “Swing that one over, around the back,” he instructs, looking away to preserve Jaskier’s modesty as he does so. A bath in the stream and a full set of clothing are the next top priorities. He grabs Jaskier by the waist and helps him slide down, removing his hands from Jaskier as soon as the man’s feet are safely on the ground. He doesn’t move. Geralt reminds himself that what Jaskier needs from him right now is clear direction, and points to some nearby shrubbery a few yards from shore. “Why don’t you go over there and take care of that? Don’t wander too far, though.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Geralt.”

“Geralt.”

Jaskier does as he’s bidden, naturally, and Geralt is left to start unloading Roach in the clearing. He removes his bedroll and lays it out, then scoots it over after a moment’s consideration, leaving room to make a fire. Ordinarily he wouldn’t dare, with pursuit a possibility, but the air is chilled this late in the season and Jaskier likely can’t withstand the cold like he can. He starts to go about setting up the fire when Jaskier returns, picking a spot carefully out of the way and kneeling there, resting on his heels, watching Geralt.

The witcher looks away, unnerved. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to tell me what you want me to do, Sir.”

Geralt keeps his eyes focused on the sticks he’s arranging in the fire pit, carefully not looking at Jaskier. “You don’t need to do that. You don’t answer to me.”

“You claimed me,” Jaskier says simply. “My master was Algoras, and then you claimed me. That makes you my master now.”

“I’m not your-- you don’t have a master anymore, alright?” Geralt snaps. “You’re free. You can go wherever the f*ck you want to go. Do what you want to do.”

The silence is deafening. When Geralt looks up, he sees Jaskier’s face marred by fear for the first time yet. “Where would I go?” he asks Geralt quietly.

“Home. Wherever you were, before.”

“Back to the other witchers?” Jaskier’s eyes go even wider as his fear grows, tainting his scent, making it burnt around the edges. “I don’t-- I didn’t like it there.”

“No,” Geralt says sharply, too sharply, then snaps his jaw shut. The idea of Jaskier walking back into the hands of his rapists makes his gut churn. He needs time to think, to wrap his head around this situation. “Look, why don’t we get settled for the night, then we can figure this sh*t out. Alright?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Geralt winces, but doesn’t comment. At least he dropped the ‘Master’ thing. He lights the fire with igni and rises from his crouch, digging through his bags until he finds a relatively clean set of clothes and a bar of soap. “Here,” he says, trying to make his voice less gruff, “take these. Go get yourself clean in the stream. Take your time, I’ve got to tend to Roach.”

Jaskier mumbles an immediate assent and takes the items, and Geralt ignores him in favor of Roach as he goes to bathe as best he can in the shallow water. She’s a mess from the hard run, nickering in relief as he removes all of her gear and begins to brush the sweat and dirt from her coat. He lets himself be soothed by the repetitive motions, almost meditative, reflecting on the whirlwind of events of the last few hours.

There’s something not right about Jaskier, and no wonder-- from the little Geralt has seen and heard, it’s obvious that he’s been subjected to unspeakable horrors. What’s worse, he doesn’t seem to understand it. It’s as if he’s so used to being treated like an object that he’s forgotten he’s a person. Geralt remembers what the Cats had said about removing all of his memories except for the time he’d spent with them, being… trained. All that he knows is obedience, waiting on orders that certainly were all intended to degrade or abuse him. There’s a spark of fire there, certainly, a spine of steel, but it’s buried under so much trained submission it’s hard to pick out.

Even beyond the damage that’s been done to his mind, his body is unwell too. The mutagens did their job… holes ready to use any time… practically feral without enough co*ck. They’d taken the alchemical processes that had made Geralt stronger and faster than any human had a right to be, and twisted and perverted them to use on Jaskier and make him weak. A target. A victim.

The magnitude of the wrongs done to this man hits Geralt all at once, and he allows himself to bury his face in Roach’s sweaty mane. Just for a moment. Just until he can regain control of himself. He won’t let his anger and frustration show. He won’t let himself be made useless with emotion, not when both of their lives depend on him staying in control. He can’t.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt lifts his head to look at Jaskier, suddenly struck with the need to check on him. He half expects to see him standing there helplessly, as incapable as he had been when asked to run or ride a horse, but to his surprise he sees Jaskier scrubbing himself efficiently, not a spot missed. His hair has been carefully lathered with the soap, and as Geralt watches he adjusts himself to be on hands and knees and reaches behind himself to sink two soapy fingers inside of his hole.

Geralt jerks his eyes away, teeth grinding. Is he preparing himself for something that he thinks is yet to come, or cleaning up from something already done to him? The only one who knows for sure is Jaskier, and Geralt isn’t going to ask him. He isn’t sure he wants to know. He isn’t sure which one would even be worse.

Geralt ducks his head and keeps working.

He’s not quite done grooming Roach when soft footsteps approach, and Geralt shouldn’t be as startled as he is when he looks up to see Jaskier stark naked not three feet away. Immediately he jerks his gaze to the sky, not allowing himself to look. “You didn’t put on the clothes I gave you?” he asks, voice a little strangled.

One eyebrow raises dubiously at Geralt. “I… thought you would want to inspect me first, to make sure I was thorough. You told me to take my time. Should I go back, Sir?”

“It’s Geralt, and just-- I’m sure you did fine. Can you please put the clothes on?” Geralt starts counting stars in the night sky to retain his sanity. Jaskier is quick to comply, and when Geralt next looks he’s dressed in Geralt’s over-large clothes, once again standing there as if waiting for Geralt’s inspection. This time he nods his approval. “Thank you.”

Jaskier blinks and smiles. “You’re welcome…. Geralt.”

Progress. Geralt keeps on combing through Roach’s mane. Jakier mercifully decides to sit quietly on a patch of dirt near the fire, and he simply watches Geralt as he goes about his work without comment. The quiet is appreciated, but after a few minutes of silence even Geralt feels compelled to check on his new companion. “You can talk whenever you want to,” he tells Jaskier, just in case he’s forgotten.

A long moment of silence passes, and Geralt thinks he’ll get nothing new out of the man, but then that soft voice breaks through the night. “Why do you call your horse Roach?”

“I’ve called all of my horses Roach,” Geralt replies. “It’s… tradition.”

Jaskier continues to sit there, watching him, and Geralt continues working in silence. Eventually there’s nothing else to pretend to occupy his hands with, and Geralt turns to Jaskier at last. “I can cut that collar off of you,” he offers.

Jaskier’s hand flies up to the ring of leather wrapped around his throat, and he shakes his head vigorously. “No! Why? I can do better, honestly, just give me a chance. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Geralt frowns. “It’s not a punishment, it’s a mark of freedom. You’re free now. You don’t belong to me or to anyone else, and you never will again.”

If he expects the words to comfort Jaskier, he’s sorely mistaken. Instead, he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up, pounding anxiously in his chest. “I don’t want to take it off. I can’t. It’s always been-- I wouldn’t--”

He stops at Geralt’s raised hand, and Geralt is glad for it. He’s heard enough of the terrible things that have been done to this man. “Whoa, alright, steady,” he says, as if he’s trying to calm Roach after seeing a snake in the road rather than a human being confronting his own freedom. “If you want the damn collar, keep it. It’s your body, do what you want with it. ”

His answer seems to confuse and distress Jaskier even further, but he doesn’t say any more about it-- which leaves Geralt once again in charge of driving the conversation, something that he’s uniquely terrible at. Suddenly he feels a bone-deep exhaustion that he isn’t sure about the cause of: his body coming down off of the adrenaline and excitement of the day, or just the tax of the day’s horrors on his mind? He feels like he could close his eyes and fall asleep on his feet, and stay that way until the sun was high in the sky.

Not yet, though. There are things that need to be said before either one of them can rest.

Geralt stalls for another moment more by digging through the bags to find some food, dropping a handful of dried meat and a hunk of slightly stale bread into Jaskier’s lap. It’s paltry fare, but he hadn’t exactly had time to shop for supplies before leaving town. “Eat up,” he instructs when Jaskier frowns at the food resting on his thighs. “I know it’s not much, but it’ll have to do.”

Jaskier raises the bread to his mouth and takes a bite, hesitantly, looking to Geralt like he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing. When Geralt makes an effort to rearrange his mouth into a smile, Jaskier brightens in answer and digs in, tearing into the sorry supper. Geralt wonders how long it’s been since Jaskier has eaten, and the smile he’s forcing doesn’t last long.

“You asked earlier where we were going,” he says a moment later, tearing at his own hunk of bread so he has an excuse to look somewhere other than Jaskier. “You still don’t have to go anywhere, because you’re free now. But I have a suggestion, if you’d like to hear it.”

“I’d like to hear whatever you want to tell me,” answers Jaskier easily.

Right. “I think you should come with me to my home in Kaer Morhen. It’s where the witchers from the School of the Wolf winter. I was headed there anyway. I think it would be good for you to come as well.”

He waits for questions, but Jaskier only says, “Okay,” and continues to tear at the strips of jerky with his teeth.

“You’re vulnerable, on your own,” Geralt explains, despite the lack of prompting. “At Kaer Morhen you would be safe from the evil people in the world who might wish to… take advantage. It isn’t the only place you could find safety, but I have other reasons for suggesting it. The man who raised me, Vesemir, is familiar with the mutagens that were used to… enhance you.”

That gets a reaction. Jaskier freezes mid-chew, the smell of fear suddenly pungent in the little clearing. Like sugar burning on hot coals. “Is he going to-- do you want me to be--?”

“He won’t do anything to you,” Geralt rushes to assure him, wincing. Way to f*ck that one up, Geralt. “I only meant that he might be able to help you. No one there will lay a hand on you.”

A pause, and then Jaskier nods, his lip caught between his teeth in an anxious gnaw. “If that’s what you want,” he says slowly.

It’s hardly an enthusiastic answer, but it’ll have to do. Geralt grinds his teeth for a moment and forces himself to continue talking. “It’s important to me that you know I don’t want to hurt you. I know that others have. Probably in ways I can’t imagine. But despite what people say of witchers, I’m not a monster. I only want to help you, and I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make you safe. Alright?”

“I understand,” Jaskier says, and his smile is a little too sad to be convincing. His fear isn’t quite as strong, at least. “Thank you, Geralt.”

“Good,” Geralt says, exhaling. “Alright, then. We’ll go to Kaer Morhen tomorrow, and keep you safe while hopefully Vesemir finds a way to help you long term.”

“Will it take us long to get there?”

Geralt winces, because the answer is yes. They’re a long way from Kaer Morhen yet, with the delays the season has brought for Geralt, and by the time they get to the mountains it’ll be even slower going than normal because of the snow that will no doubt be covering all of the paths and passes. If it were just him and Roach, they could push through. They were used to long days of travel and harsh conditions, and Geralt used to the gnaw of hunger in his belly. It wouldn’t be fun, but they could make it there alive.

Jaskier, though… he’s already frail, unsteady on his feet and unused to the demands of a witcher’s life. He isn’t skeletal, but he certainly doesn’t have much of a reserve to fall back on as far as skipping meals goes. Not to mention that he doesn’t have a winter coat or even a pair of shoes. Just about the only way he’s making it to Kaer Morhen is if Geralt strips naked and starves himself in order to keep Jaskier warm and fed on the journey, and even that would be a stretch.

“f*ck,” Geralt grumbles. “I should call Yen.”

“Who’s Yen?”

“She’s a sorceress, and a… friend,” Geralt sighs, rising to go over to the saddlebags and dig through them for the xenovox Yen gave him many years ago. “We’re going to need her help to get to Kaer Morhen intact.”

Jaskier co*cks his head at Geralt, eyeing the device in his hands curiously. “Why do you sound like you’d rather eat bees than talk to her, if she’s your friend?”

“Because she’s never going to let me hear the end of it for managing to get myself into this situation.”

In truth it isn’t the worst idea ever, to enlist Yennefer’s help. She may have answers about Jaskier’s condition as well, or know someone else who might. This certainly isn’t the time to start picking and choosing what kind of resources to utilize. Even if they didn’t need her help getting to safety, it would still be a good idea to bring her into the fold on this.

Still, Geralt stifles his groan as he flips open the lid of the little box. It’ll be decades before he lives this one down.

“Geralt?” Yennefer’s voice comes from the object, tinny and distorted but unmistakably hers. “Well color me surprised, the white wolf making contact with someone without being forced to. Are you under duress, darling? Cough three times if Vesemir has you by the ear.”

“Very funny,” Geralt answers, rolling his eyes even though the effect is lost with only his voice transmitting. “I’m not at Kaer Morhen yet. Still a free man, for now.”

“That explains why you’re calling me on this ratty old thing instead of using Eskel’s megascope. Isn’t it a bit late for you to still be out and about in the world? Someone’s been sightseeing.”

“Kind of.”

There’s a brief pause, and then there’s a little clicking sound that’s probably Yen sucking her teeth at him. “Well? Out with it, Geralt, I know you didn’t call to chat. Either something’s gone terribly wrong, or you need a favor. Which is it?”

“The second one. Maybe the first one, too, if you can’t help me.” Geralt’s grimace is once again hidden from her view, but it’s probably for the better. She loves to make fun of him for what she calls his emotional constipation.

“Fascinating… I’m intrigued. It’s not often you ask for help. Of course I’ll help if I can. You know I love being owed favors.”

From any other sorceress that would probably be an ominous statement, but for Yennefer it has no teeth. They’ve spent too many years in and out of each other’s beds --and too many years of friendship after that, once they’d realized how toxic they were as lovers-- to keep tally of their debts to each other anymore. “It might be a series of favors. I’m in deep.”

All of the teasing is gone from Yen’s voice. “What do you need, Geralt?”

“A portal for two, to Kaer Morhen.”

“For two?” It shouldn’t be possible for him to hear her eyebrows going up. “I presume that isn’t counting Roach. What, has someone managed to tame my dear wolf? I had to invite myself to Kaer Morhen that one time, and that was after, what, thirty years?”

Geralt winces at the reminder of his repeated unfair treatment of those who cared for him, a behavior he finds himself still having to work to fix. “Might have picked up a Surprise along the Path.”

He expects a thousand questions, but gets only one. “You owe me a story,” Yennefer says, “but not tonight, I think. Where are you, exactly?”

“Lyria. In the woods.”

“Where in the woods?”

“Next to a stream. Under a tree. Not exactly teeming with signposts here, Yen.”

“Smartarse. Can you get to a town and call me again once you’re there? It’ll be a much smoother ride for all of us if I don’t waste my energy trying to locate you with magic.”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow, though. He needs rest.”

He can feel her curiosity burning, but once again Yennefer restrains herself. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll be waiting for your call. Should I be expecting trouble when I pop in?”

“No more than usual.”

“Which means plenty, since it’s you. Alright then, call when you reach a town, and I’ll take you and Roach and your new friend to Kaer Morhen. I’ll get in touch with Eskel tonight and make sure there aren’t enough wards around the place to piss me off. And once we’re there, we will talk, yes?”

She deserves that much, and more. “Not sure how many answers I can give you, but I’ll do my best.”

“Good. And be careful, Geralt, will you? We’re getting too old for all of this cloak and dagger bullsh*t.”

“I know. I will. And… thank you.”

Yennefer hums, a habit she’d picked up from him years ago. “Get some rest.”

There’s a crackle of energy that Geralt knows means she ended the connection. He closes the xenovox and returns it to the side pocket on his saddlebag, considering his mental map of the surrounding countryside as he does so. There should be another town less than a day’s ride from here in the opposite direction of Algoras’ estate. It’s close enough that there’s a chance news of his death --and the Butcher of Blaviken’s involvement in it-- may have reached the town, but it’s a risk he’ll have to take. He can always stay out of sight on the outskirts until Yen arrives, and once they’re together there’s little chance that anyone will do Jaskier any harm.

The man in question has been watching the conversation with eager curiosity. He’s doing the thing again, pressing his lips together like there are words just dying to burst forth. “You can talk,” he reminds Jaskier, trying to sound casual about it. “I only ever told you that you couldn’t because I needed to listen for danger.”

And, just as the first time, once given permission, Jaskier immediately has questions. “Is she your lover? Who’s the other one she mentioned? Are we really going to travel by portal? Does that hurt? Aren’t sorceresses evil?”

“Used to be but not anymore, my brother, yes, no but it makes me nauseous, and not this one unless you piss her off,” Geralt replies, ticking off the answers on his fingers. “You don’t have anything to fear from Yennefer, either, or Eskel. You’re my responsibility, and I wouldn’t take you around someone who would do you harm. Well,” he says consideringly, thinking of his youngest brother, “Lambert is a kind of a little sh*t. Maybe watch out for Lambert when he looks like he’s having fun. That’s usually trouble.”

“Lambert, got it,” Jaskier says very solemnly.

That’s… probably a fire that Geralt is going to have to put out at some point, but that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Geralt at the earliest. He’s busy enough with today’s problems as it is. “I’m going to go rinse off in the stream,” he tells Jaskier, moving in that direction. He gestures towards the bedroll laid out by the fire. “Go ahead and lay down. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Jaskier sits up straighter and nods at the instruction, moving that way as Geralt heads for the water. He doesn’t bother trying to scrub his clothes, or even properly wash his body-- by this time tomorrow he’ll be at Kaer Morhen and the promise of the hot spring is tantalizing. It’s enough for now to just rinse the blood and griffin guts off of him so that if he has to show himself in town the villagers won’t run screaming at the mere sight of him. That task done, Geralt turns back to their little camp--

--and sees Jaskier on the bedroll, stripped naked once again, face cradled in his arms and pressed into the folds of his balled up blanket, the swell of his arse high in the air like an invitation.

Go ahead and lay down, Geralt hears himself telling Jaskier just moments before, and smacks himself upside the head mentally. “Jaskier, no,” he says quickly, “that’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean like that.”

Jaskier’s face appears from the pile of blankets, looking at Geralt with confusion. “You want me on my back instead? I can--”

“I want you with your clothes on,” snaps Geralt. “I’m-- listen to me, Jaskier, I’m not going to f*ck you, understand?”

He isn’t expecting the way that Jaskier huffs his frustration as he moves to start yanking on his clothes again, or the way that the scent of anger and fear in equal parts comes wafting across the distance between them a moment later. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this man makes sense, and it makes Geralt long for Kaer Morhen all the more. He needs to sink his sword into some practice dummies yesterday.

But there are no practice dummies here, just a very hurt and confused man who’s been through the unimaginable and now is Geralt’s responsibility to care for. He has to be better than the man his emotions would have him be. Geralt takes a deep breath, then another. When Jaskier is dressed, he focuses on a third slow inhale and exhale, then crouches in front of Jaskier’s cowed form.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” he begins by saying. “And I’m sorry for confusing you about what I was trying to say. I’m not great at… communication.”

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” Jaskier grits out. “They were very clear before. I always knew what they wanted. I don’t know what you want.”

“I don’t want anything like that from you,” Geralt says, sighing. “Look, I know that the people who had you before did bad things to you. I know that’s what you expect. But I’m not… like them. I’m not going to use you like that.”

“It’s what I’m made for, Geralt. My whole purpose is to bring pleasure to others.” He says it with an air of exasperation, as if Geralt is a very dense child. “You’ve done so much for me today, keeping me safe and taking care of me. Let me take care of you, too.” His words are accompanied by a hand on Geralt’s knee. He watches in a kind of fascination as it slides across the thick material of his trousers, up his thigh and towards Geralt’s crotch like a creature on the prowl.

Geralt can’t help that his co*ck twitches. It’s a perfectly normal physical reaction, when there’s a man before him who looks and smells like perfection and is touching him in a way that he hasn’t been touched in far too long. Jaskier is telling Geralt that he wants this, offering himself so willingly, and Geralt knows he could lean in right now and lose himself in the fantasy of pleasure and intimacy that Jaskier exudes. Whatever he wants, Jaskier would give it to him, no hesitation.

Which of course is why Geralt pulls back, out of range of Jaskier’s touch, and shakes his head. “You don’t really mean it. I can’t-- I won’t take advantage of you like that. I’ll be clearer with what I want from you, so there’s no confusion. But not-- not that. Alright?” Jaskier says nothing, only looks at him with chagrin. Geralt tries again. “Jaskier, do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand,” the man finally replies.

“Good.” Geralt exhales, passing a hand tiredly over his face. He’s aged at least a decade in the last hour alone, he’s fairly certain. These are conversations he never wanted to have, and ones he prays to all the gods who will listen that he’ll never need to have again. “I want you to lay down on the bedroll and go to sleep, alright? If you need to get up at any point to relieve yourself or anything, you can. Just don’t wander too far. Okay?”

Jaskier sighs and nods, flopping himself down on the bedroll and covering himself with the blanket. He looks disappointed when Geralt walks to the far side of the fire and lays himself down on the dirt with his cloak as a blanket and a pack as his pillow, and if it were anyone else, Geralt might have suggested fitting themselves together to share warmth against the chill night air. Not tonight, though, and not this man.

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” he says, looking into those sad eyes across the space between them that flickers in the firelight. “Rest now, please.”

Long eyelashes meet cheekbones, blue eyes disappear, and they both sleep.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

When Geralt wakes, it’s to the glorious feeling of friction against his morning wood.

He doesn’t get to feel this very often. whor*s charge extra to stay the night, and it’s been years since he took an actual lover. Mornings tend just to be him and Roach and whatever patch of dirt he’d made his bed on the night before. Sometimes he would take himself in hand, if there was no pressing matter to attend to, or sometimes he would just recite some alchemical recipes from memory until it went away.

But this, the sensation of a firm palm rubbing him and the tip of his co*ck being mouthed at eagerly through his trousers, this is a luxury. Geralt groans approvingly, his hand uncoordinated with sleep as he reaches up and tangles it in soft hair. Through the hazy film over his awareness, Geralt registers a pleased mewl at the touch, and he grinds up into the source of his pleasure, seeking more from this pleasant dream.

“That’s it, there we go, take what you need,” comes a pleasant voice from between Geralt’s legs. “I know what you want. I’ll make you see stars, I promise.” He sounds like music and smells like honey and Geralt just wants to sink into Jaskier.

Jaskier.

Awareness suddenly floods Geralt and he instinctively yanks Jaskier’s head back by the hold he has of the man’s hair. “Stop,” he pants out, gratified to see that Jaskier immediately obeys. That’ll save Geralt the indignity of fleeing, at least.

Jaskier doesn’t go far, remaining straddling one of Geralt’s legs, but he does sit back and rest his hands on his own thighs obediently. “You were hard,” he announces, very matter-of-fact.

This morning is moving way too fast for Geralt to keep up with. “What?”

“I woke up, and I could see that you were hard, so I was going to take care of you.”

A shiver works its way up Geralt’s spine, the lingering memories of sensation on his co*ck making his imagination start working overtime to supply visuals of exactly how Jaskier might have taken care of him. “I don’t-- I don’t want you to do that,” he grunts out.

“That’s a lie,” Jaskier says immediately. “I know when someone wants me. Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing is heavy. Your co*ck is--”

“I know about the state of my co*ck, thanks.”

“You were pushing up into my touch, before you were awake,” Jaskier continues, unperturbed. “You liked it. You wanted more. I was only giving you what you wanted.”

Geralt rubs a hand over his face and carefully extracts himself from the tangle of Jaskier’s legs. He gets up, walking to the fire and kicking dirt onto it to smother the final dying embers, just to have something to do. How can he explain this? How many times will he have to explain that nothing can happen between the two of them, for so many reasons?

Where’s Vesemir to give the consent talk when you need him?

“Look,” he finally says, not turning around to face Jaskier. “Just because someone’s body… reacts, doesn’t mean that they want… contact. They still have to want it. A person still has to choose to… do that.”

After a moment of quiet, Geralt glances over his shoulder to check on Jaskier. It’s so hard to tell how the man would take anything Geralt says to him. Genuinely confused, Jaskier just frowns and tilts his head at Geralt. “But you do want it.”

“That still doesn’t mean it’s okay to… pursue you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have to choose, too,” Geralt insists with a huff, getting up to go pretend to rummage in his bags for something. “Which you can’t do, because you’re not in your right mind.”

This appears to be news to Jaskier, whose jaw drops open in shock at the words. His hand flies to his chest in a gesture of offense not unlike a noblewoman clutching at her pearls, and Geralt can’t help but notice the irony in the way his fingers brush against the collar at his throat. “What do you mean, not in my right mind? I’m not soft in the head! I like to suck co*ck, and I want to suck yours.”

Geralt wonders if Jaskier, with his apparent hyper-awareness of Geralt’s arousal, notices the way that his co*ck twitches at that last declaration. He really hopes not, because he’s putting a lot of effort into making this point. “You were… manipulated. They made you want it. That’s not-- it doesn’t count.”

There’s another long pause. Geralt uses it to start gathering up their items, and as he’s folding up the blanket Jaskier used, he hears a very quiet, “How can my mind not be my own when I feel like it is?” He’s examining the dirt in front of him, shoulders slumped, face pinched. “I feel like I want it. I feel like I need it. How can that be a lie?”

That Geralt doesn’t have an answer for, so he doesn’t attempt one. Instead, he finds some food in the bags, among the last few items he has. That’s fine, he can eat tonight when they reach Kaer Morhen. He’s gone without food for longer. “Are you hungry?” he asks Jaskier gruffly.

“Starving,” replies Jaskier miserably, tongue flickering out over his lips as he looks up at Geralt hopefully. Geralt tries not to notice.

“Here, eat this for now,” he says, holding out an apple towards Jaskier where he’s still sitting on the ground looking dejected. “I’ll keep the rest of the dried meat for later. I don’t have much, so you ought to space it out over the day if you can. I won’t have time to hunt today.”

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier says at once. He doesn’t reach out to take the apple, though, but rather shifts up onto his knees and rests his hands on Geralt’s thighs for balance as he leans in to take a bite of the fruit while it’s still in Geralt’s hand. The witcher can only look down at him in bewilderment as he chews his mouthful, tongue darting out to swipe at some runaway juice on his lower lip, blue eyes looking innocently up at Geralt.

“Uh… what the hell are you doing?” Geralt asks, watching Jaskier take another bite. He can feel in his fingertips the crunch of the apple’s skin beneath Jaskier’s teeth, and it shouldn’t make them tingle with satisfaction the way that it does.

Briefly chewing quicker to finish his bite, Jaskier swallows and replies, “Doing as I’m told. You said to eat the apple.”

“Out of my hand?”

“That’s… how I’m fed when my masters are pleased with me.” Jaskier’s voice gets smaller with every word, and he frowns. “You’re not pleased with me, of course I’m not allowed to eat from your hand. You held it out to me and I thought… how would you like me to eat it?”

“With your own hands, please,” Geralt tells him, letting go of the fruit as soon as Jaskier takes ahold of it, as if it’s suddenly burning hot. “Not because I’m not-- not pleased with you, just because I’m-- I need to go.”

Jaskier glares at the apple in his hand, then looks up at Geralt. “Go where?”

“Relieve myself. Be right back.”

He rushes off into the woods, eager to be out of Jaskier’s sight. It’s true that he needs to relieve himself, but not in the way that Jaskier probably assumes. He just needs five minutes of peace, five minutes to give some attention to his poor co*ck, which has filled and flagged more times than Geralt can count in the last ten minutes, observing and experiencing Jaskier’s eagerness and bizarrely innocent guile. Geralt doesn’t like leaving him alone, but he doesn’t think he’ll manage to walk to town with his current… situation.

When Geralt finds a tree to collapse against, he’s close enough to the clearing that he can still hear Jaskier’s heartbeat as he continues crunching on his apple. Geralt does his best not to think about Jaskier at all as he unties his trousers and pulls out his co*ck to begin stroking it. He doesn’t think about the feeling of Jaskier’s mouth on his co*ck this morning before he woke. He doesn’t think about the way his voice sounded when he announced that he wanted to suck Geralt’s co*ck, or the sight of Jaskier’s eyes looking up at him from his place on his knees in front of Geralt, eating out of his hand. And he definitely, one hundred percent doesn’t think about the sweet, warm smell of Jaskier and wonder if it would match the way he tastes if Geralt were to lean in and--

He bites down on the leather gauntlet of his free hand when he comes, praying that Jaskier can’t hear his choked off moan.

A few minutes later, hand wiped free of mess as best as Geralt could manage with leaves, he returns to the clearing where Jaskier and Roach are waiting for him. Jaskier’s apple has been gnawed right down to the core, and Geralt makes a mental note to keep an eye out for any edible plants along the road. Jaskier seems like he’s been deprived, and Geralt is responsible for making sure he gets what he needs.

The man in question looks up as Geralt enters the clearing, eyes immediately going to Geralt’s crotch and positively scowling. Geralt feels himself flush. Maybe he hadn’t been as quiet as he’d hoped after all, or as subtle in his escape. In any case, Jaskier doesn’t seem happy with Geralt’s choice to take himself in hand.

But there’s nothing Geralt can do about that, so he just does his best to avoid thinking about what that means. “Are you ready to go? We need to make good time if we’re to make it to the village tonight,” he says to Jaskier, face carefully expressionless.

“Yes,” sighs Jaskier, standing and tossing his apple core into the brush before dusting off his hands. Geralt helps Jaskier onto Roach’s back, much gentler today than he had been yesterday, but this time he doesn’t join Jaskier in the saddle. He gets a --by now familiar-- look of confusion from Jaskier for it. “Aren’t you going to sit behind me, like before?”

“No. You ride, I’ll walk.”

“Oh. I liked it when you were riding with me.”

So did I, but we don’t have time for me to stop ten times today and jerk off in the bushes. “Roach can’t carry the both of us long term, it’ll strain her.”

His excuse has the unintended effect of making Jaskier look guilty, however. “I can walk,” he offers immediately, trying to swing his leg over Roach’s back to get down and nearly falling in the process. “It’s your horse, you should--”

Geralt shakes his head, manhandling Jaskier right back where he wants him with ease. “It’s better if I walk today. You have no shoes and you’re not used to strenuous exercise. You’re not used to walking a lot,” he corrects with a flush when Jaskier raises his eyebrows pointedly. “Just-- just stay on the f*cking horse and let’s go, alright?”

Jaskier laughs, then, and Geralt feels something in his chest go all tight for a moment. It’s over all too soon, but he keeps replaying the sound in his mind. He wants to hear it again. He wants to be the cause of it again.

That feeling doesn’t make sense, so Geralt pushes it down and starts off through the trees, leading Roach by the reins. There’s no time for nonsense. They’ve got too many miles to cover for that.

They make fairly decent time as they travel, Geralt keeping pace with Roach easily. He tires slower than normal humans, and Roach steps lighter with Jaskier’s thin frame on her back rather than Geralt’s bulky, muscular one. When they stop after an hour or so, Geralt helps Jaskier down so that he can make water and notices him walking as if he’s in pain, rubbing at his bottom. Jaskier returns to find a blanket folded and secured on top of the saddle.

“I’m sorry, I should have done this earlier,” Geralt says quietly. “I can give you celandine for the pain. We’ll stop to take breaks as well, so that you can walk for a few minutes every so often. I didn’t consider that it would likely make you sore, since you’re not used to riding.”

“Not horses, anyways,” Jaskier mumbles, then giggles in the face of Geralt’s glower. It’s going to be a long winter.

Geralt rations out the last of the food to Jaskier along the way, offering him more of the dried venison every time they stop. He isn’t surprised this time when Jaskier takes the food directly from Geralt’s fingers, his own hands folded behind his back. Geralt also doesn’t attempt to stop him. It’s a special kind of torture feeling a soft tongue swiping traces of salt off of his fingertips, but Geralt can’t bring himself to deny that hopeful look in Jaskier’s eyes.

With the extra stops and the periods of Jaskier walking --which would have been slow based off of his stumbling pace alone and are made slower by his lack of shoes-- it’s already sunset by the time they reach the town. Geralt plants Jaskier at the edge of the treeline atop a hill, far from any townspeople yet within Geralt’s line of sight, and makes quick work of finding out the name and exact location of the town so that he can call Yennefer on the xenovox.

He’s just made it back up the hill to Jaskier when the fading glow of dusk is briefly lit up with the aura of magic and the strange roaring sound that accompanies the rending of space. He doesn’t bother to turn around and watch, preferring to enjoy Jaskier’s expression of wonderment as he looks past Geralt instead. “Hello, Yen,” he says placidly.

“Geralt, good to see you all in one piece. I’m always surprised to find you’re not missing a limb yet, what with the way you-- what the hell is that?”

Geralt does turn then, and sees Yennefer looking at Jaskier in absolute astonishment. He can’t help but smile at the unfamiliar expression. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Yen taken aback by something. His smile fades when he sees Jaskier’s flushed cheeks and the furrow between his brows, however.

“He is a person, and his name is Jaskier,” he growls at Yennefer.

She ignores him, striding forward and flicking her fingers at Jaskier impatiently. “Stand up,” she commands, and is obeyed at once. Her hands glow with violet magic as she appears to do some sort of scan of his body. Yennefer’s attention lingers in places, around his head and his stomach and --much to Geralt’s dismay-- his nether regions. “Fascinating,” she murmurs to herself, letting the chaos recede and tapping her chin with her gloved hand consideringly. “Almost human, but not quite. You’re something special, aren’t you, little flower?”

Jaskier lifts his chin stubbornly, making his collar glint in the moonlight, and looks at her as keenly as she looks at him. “I try to be, ma’am. Thank you.”

“And polite too?” Yennefer smiles at him for the first time, reaching out to chuck him under the chin. “Whatever are you doing with this beast over here? I’ve seen cave trolls with better breeding than our witcher friend.”

Instead of endearing him, the sentiment only makes Jaskier frown harder. “Geralt is a perfect gentleman, ma’am. I’m honored to be allowed to accompany him.”

Geralt doesn’t manage to turn around and pretend to check on Roach fast enough for Yennefer to miss the flush of his cheeks. f*ck. Let the teasing commence.

Yennefer must be feeling merciful today, because she doesn’t call him out on it-- at least not yet. “Right. Well, should we get going, then? Unless you have business in Greenwood Passage?” she flicks her hand dismissively toward the little hamlet. “Not that I have any idea what you’d get from there other than lice, from the looks of it.”

“No, let’s go,” Geralt answers with great relief. While they hadn’t been pursued by any guards through the woods, there had been whispers in the village about Algoras meeting a mysterious and terrible end. It’s only a matter of time before someone put the pieces together, and Geralt would rather they all be far away from this place when that happens. “You spoke to Eskel?”

“Yes, darling, it’s all arranged. I’ll take us right into the courtyard.” As she spoke, Yennefer reached out and let the chaos flow through her, opening up a swirling ring of magical fire in the countryside before them. Geralt could see nothing of the other side, but he trusted Yennefer and her power enough to know that it would put them exactly where Yennefer wanted them. “Well? After you, boys.”

Geralt takes Roach’s reins in his left hand, casting axii preemptively to keep her from spooking as they pass through the portal. For a split second he considers doing the same for Jaskier, but dismisses that idea even quicker than it had come to him. He’s been controlled enough in his life, and Geralt wouldn’t be caught dead continuing that pattern, even if it would help Jaskier in the short term.

“This is going to feel strange,” Geralt informs the young man as he offers his other hand to hold. Jaskier takes it without hesitation. “Everything will feel like it’s moving all at once and you won’t know which way is up. Just keep walking and you’ll be on the other side in just a few seconds.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, looking nervous.

“Close your eyes if it helps. I won’t let go of your hand. All you have to do is walk forward a bit.”

Jaskier squeezes his hand tighter and obeys, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Satisfied that he’s done all he can do for the man, Geralt nods to himself and leads both him and Roach forward through the doorway that Yen has created. There’s that lurching feeling that Geralt hates, and a whirlwind of noise and light and motion, but Geralt grits his teeth and keeps stepping into it. It’s all over in an instant, and with a sudden woosh the soft dirt of the field beneath his feet turns to the hard, slightly uneven cobblestone surface of the courtyard of Kaer Morhen.

He doesn’t have time to let his eyes adjust to the new setting, because his attention is taken up by Jaskier’s gasp. The burnt smell of his fear is distinguishable even over the sulfurous reek of magic, and Geralt senses him wobble an instant before the man’s knees give out. Geralt’s witcher reflexes allow him to drop Roach’s reins and twist to catch Jaskier before he hits the ground, pulling him close to his chest and going down to one knee to slow Jasker’s momentum.

“Hey, whoa, careful there,” he tells Jaskier, lowering his weight to the ground but not removing his arms from around him. “Take deep breaths. You’re through.”

Jaskier obeys, sucking in a few deep breaths and pushing them shakily out again. “I don’t like that,” he groans, then goes back to gritting his teeth.

“Me neither. Why do you think I travel with Roach instead of Yennefer?”

“I heard that,” the sorceress says, stepping through the portal without a hair out of place, stepping neatly around the two men huddled just inside the entrance. Another flick of her hand ends the spell, taking the noise and light and chaos with it. “Not my fault you have the constitution of a little girl, Geralt.”

The witcher pointedly ignores her, focusing on Jaskier instead. “Open your eyes, slowly. It’ll be easier to get your bearings when you can see where you are.”

It takes a moment, but Jaskier does eventually do as he says, prying apart his eyelids to take in his new environment. For a moment he just looks up at Geralt, their faces perhaps closer together than they’ve ever been, and then he turns his head gingerly to look around him. “Oh, hello,” he mumbles, looking somewhere over Geralt’s shoulder.

Once Jaskier is sitting up and Geralt is reasonably certain he won’t fall over and faint, he releases the man and turns to face the others in the courtyard. All three of his fellow wolves are there to greet him, their faces guarded but their eyes warm and relieved nonetheless. “Geralt,” Vesemir says, stepping forward to pull him to his feet and into a hug. “We were worried about you, when you hadn’t arrived yet. You don’t usually wait this late in the season.”

“Thought you might have ran into trouble on the Path,” Eskel agrees with a hum, clapping Geralt on the shoulder. “Well-- I suppose you did,” he amends, looking down at Jaskier, “but at least it wasn’t anything bad enough to put you in the ground.”

“I wasn’t worried at all, for the record,” Lambert chimes in. “I’ve been eating all of your food. It’s been great. Come late next winter too.”

Normally Geralt would launch himself at Lambert and wrestle him to the ground for a comment like that, just to remind him who the pup was here, but Jaskier is standing up on unsteady feet and Geralt has more important things to do. Namely, introductions. “Everyone, this is Jaskier. Jaskier, this is my family. This is Eskel, and Vesemir, and Lambert.”

Jaskier casts his eyes down and gives a deep bow, perfectly graceful and courteous, as if meeting kings instead of a bunch of ragtag witchers. “I’m pleased to meet you all,” he says smoothly as he straightens. His eyes linger on Lambert for a moment and he co*cks his head. “You’re a little sh*t and I’m supposed to watch out for you,” he announces.

Lambert looks offended for a brief moment, but then Eskel and Vesemir burst into laughter and he can’t hold the expression too. He snorts, too, shrugging his shoulders in acquiescence. “My reputation precedes me, I suppose. I’m flattered.”

Rolling his eyes, Geralt turns his attention to Vesemir. “I came empty-handed, sorry. It’s been a lean year. That Butcher of Blaviken title is really catching on, and apparently people would rather have their hunters eaten by alghouls than hire me. I can go hunting tomorrow, get some game--”

“Don’t worry about that just now,” Vesemir says, holding up a hand to stop Geralt. “We can figure that out in due time. We’ve all had years where our stockpiles ran low. That’s why we winter as a pack, to balance each other out. For now, you need food and rest.”

“And then you need to talk,” adds Yennefer.

“That too. Lambert, take care of Roach. Eskel, put their things away. I’ve cleared out the empty bedroom next to Geralt’s for his guest. Yennefer, will you be staying with us?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a night’s rest, if you don’t mind,” Yennefer replies, and Geralt notices that she does look weary. She would never admit it, but he imagines that portalling three adults and a horse halfway across the continent isn’t easy. “I believe I still have a trunk of clothes here somewhere.”

“Of course. Now come, the three of you, let’s get you some dinner.”

It’s a simple fare that Vesemir puts before them, venison and roasted potatoes, but after a day of walking with nothing in his belly, Geralt has never seen a plate more mouthwatering. Combined with the mug of cold ale placed in front of him, he can’t wait to tuck in. Yennefer looks equally excited about the meal, conjuring herself a goblet of wine to go with it. When he looks to Jaskier, however, Geralt finds the man next to him staring at the place setting before him with an anxious pinch to his face.

“Is something the matter?” Geralt asks him lowly. It doesn’t do very much good to try to keep a conversation private in a keep full of witchers, but it feels wrong to ask him to speak his truths at full volume. “Do you not like the food?”

“I’m… not allowed silverware,” Jaskier whispers, poking at the offending pieces of metal. “It could be used to hurt myself or my master.”

Geralt sees both Yennefer and Vesemir pause at the quiet words, though they catch themselves and continue their motions a brief second later. He reminds himself to thank them later for that little kindness. “You’re allowed to use it here,” he answers just as quietly. When Jaskier doesn’t respond, he adds. “Do you… want help?”

Again Jaskier looks as though he might refuse to answer, jaw tight, but after a second he jerks his head in a tight nod. “Yes, please.”

Setting aside his own knife and fork, Geralt pulls Jaskier’s plate closer and takes up his, cutting the meat and vegetables with brisk efficiency into bite-sized chunks. Once he’s done, he picks one up, steadfastly refusing to look at their two companions on the other side of the table, and offers it to Jaskier.

Jaskier does glance across the table at Yennefer and Vesemir, briefly, from under the fringe of his hair, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching out and taking the morsel from him. Once it’s in his mouth and he’s received no reprimand, Jaskier chews it quickly, desperately, his mouth open and seeking another almost faster than Geralt can offer it to him. “Slow, easy,” Geralt soothes him, remembering Jaskier’s ravenous hunger throughout the day and trying to comply. “If you eat too fast you’ll get sick. Plate’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

He gets a nod and a grateful glance, as if Jaskier hadn’t been completely convinced of that security until Geralt said it aloud. He takes a little more time to chew and swallow his bites at Geralt’s request, enough that Geralt can sneak in mouthfuls of his own to sate his hunger at the same time. When Jaskier’s plate empties, Vesemir silently refills it with another serving, already cut into neat little cubes. Geralt thanks him with his eyes, and Vesemir just nods.

The door to the main hall opens after a while, admitting Eskel and Lambert as they’ve finished the tasks assigned to them by Vesemir. Eskel grabs a plate and loads it up at once, watching Geralt and Jaskier for a few seconds without comment. “I just put all of the bags in your room, Geralt,” he says as he takes a seat on Jaskier’s side, leaving a careful, respectful distance between them. “Wasn’t sure what things belonged to whom.”

Lambert, however, having plopped himself down by Yen --close enough that the sorceress shoots him a glare that could wilt flowers, not that he notices or cares-- is apparently transfixed by the silent exchange between Geralt and Jaskier. “What the hell?” he snorts, wagging a finger between the two of them. “Must be one hell of a lay, if he’s got you whipped like this, Geralt.”

“Watch your f*cking mouth,” Geralt snarls, furious, and he would have leaped across the table to drive the point home with a punch to Lambert’s jaw if Yen hadn’t beat him to it. A blast of magic not unlike the witchers’ aard sent Lambert flying off the far end of the bench, his plateful of food upending all over him in the process. “Be civil or go f*ck yourself,” Geralt finishes hotly.

He turns to Jaskier, and immediately he can tell that the harsh words landed squarely. Jaskier’s eyes are trained on his lap, face red with embarrassment, and his lips are pressed together tightly. When Geralt tries to offer him another bite, he shakes his head resolutely. “No thank you,” he mumbles, painfully polite. “I don’t want any more.”

Geralt notices that he doesn’t say that he’s full, or that he’s no longer hungry. Silently resolving to murder his little brother later, Geralt lets the matter slide. He can always leave some food with Jaskier tonight that he can eat in privacy if he wishes.

The rest of the meal is tense and silent, though it eases somewhat when Lambert meekly refills his plate and eats silently throughout the rest of the meal, apparently having learned his lesson. After a while, Jaskier lifts his head again, tracking the conversation with only a faint pink tint to his cheeks betraying the earlier upset. Occasionally someone will direct a question or comment at Jaskier, and he replies politely, though he doesn’t volunteer much unless asked.

Finally the food is done, and plates are cleared, and Yennefer looks at Geralt expectantly. “A story, Geralt. Enough waiting.”

There’s no other excuse to stall, so Geralt sighs and nods. “A story. Jaskier, are you alright with me telling them about your… background?”

Jaskier looks surprised at being asked, but he nods at Geralt. “Tell them whatever you want. The story is yours to tell.”

It isn’t, really, but it doesn’t seem a point worth arguing when Jaskier has already given his assent. “I received Jaskier as payment by the Law of Surprise,” he says, never one to waste words. “There was a baron in Lyria who wanted to stiff me on a contract. I convinced him that would be a bad idea, so he offered me the Law of Surprise.”

“Most of the time when witchers receive a human life as their Surprise, they’re a lot, uh, younger,” Eskel says dubiously. Geralt doesn’t miss the way he fingers the scars on his face. “Why was this baron coming into possession of a grown man first thing after cheating you?”

“Because he bought him. From the Cats.”

“No sh*t?” Lambert says, jaw dropping in disbelief. “What the hell are they doing selling people?”

“Making a lot of money, apparently. As it turns out, there’s good coin in the business of kidnapping people, wiping their memories, experimenting on them, and selling them into sexual slavery.”

This time Geralt’s answer is met with absolute, pin-drop silence. Everyone looks at Jaskier, then tries not to look at him. Jaskier sits so carefully calm that no one would have been able to detect his nerves if he wasn’t in a room full of witchers who could smell it on him. Finally, Vesemir says, “Tell us.”

And Geralt does, as best he can. He doesn’t know much, and Jaskier knows precious little more than him. When prompted to tell his side of the story, Jaskier frowns a little and gives half of a shrug. “I just remember being in a cage one day, and the other witchers with the cats on their pendants were teaching me. How to be good, and how to please men and women when taken to their beds. They told me I was made for a special purpose, to go to a master named Algoras, and that I was to obey my master no matter what.”

“What of the experiments?” Vesemir asks, not unkindly. “What do you know of the nature of what they did to you?”

“I know it hurt,” Jaskier simply replies. “I don’t remember much. They would strap me to a table and then it would all get hazy. I remember screaming. I remember waking up and my body would feel different. They never explained what they were doing to me, they just told me it would make me a better toy for my master.”

“Those sick f*cks,” Lambert whispers, horrified, still looking at Jaskier agape. “I knew they were crazy, but I never-- how the f*ck could they do that to someone?”

“It wasn’t always bad, not when I did as I was supposed to,” Jaskier says, shrugging again. “When I was good, they wouldn’t hurt me very much. It was only when I failed to please them that they would be cross with me, and then it would be…” He hesitates, swallows. “Then it would be very bad.”

Yennefer reaches out across the table as if to touch Jaskier’s arm, but stops just short of making contact. “What was done to you was very wrong, and I will make sure that the people responsible suffer for their crimes.”

“We all will,” Vesemir adds, a certain feral gleam in his eye, and his wolves hum in agreement.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to know what to do with these declarations of fealty, so he just smiles a little, face tinting pink. Not embarrassment this time, Geralt can tell by his scent, but pleasure. “It’s alright,” he says lightly, looking at Geralt. “It doesn’t matter. Geralt’s my master now, and you said no one will hurt me here, right?”

Geralt looks back at him steadily. “No one is your master but you, Jaskier. But destiny has seen fit to bring you to me, and I won’t run from that. I will make sure that you’re never hurt that way ever again. I promise you that.”

The words are heavy in the air, and everyone seems to inhale them for a moment.

At long last, it’s Vesemir who breaks the silence, clapping a hand on the table and declaring, “Bed, everyone. We won’t solve all the ills of the world around this table tonight. Go, get some rest, and we’ll let tomorrow’s problems be tomorrow’s.”

They disburse one by one, bidding each other goodnight as they go. Geralt guides Jaskier through the halls with a hand at the small of his back, pointing out landmarks in the twisting corridors so that he can start to learn his way. He can tell which room has been cleared out for Jaskier by the draft of warm air coming from beneath the door, a sure sign of a lit hearth. Sure enough, when Geralt opens the door to the room to the left of his, he finds a fire burning, a freshly made bed, and shelves and tables clear of the dust that tends to coat just about everything in Kaer Morhen. He steps in and Jaskier follows, inspecting the room with wide eyes.

“This is… my room?” Jaskier asks, bare feet quiet on the ornate rug as he walks deeper into the room. Geralt hums in confirmation. He looks on the far side of the bed, pulling open the door to the adjoining closet to peer inside, and finally lets his gaze fall on Geralt once more. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”

Geralt gazes back at him. Blinks. Takes a deep breath, because he has a sinking feeling that he’s about to take a punch to the gut. “In the bed?”

And sure enough, Jaskier’s face snaps into one of confusion that borders on disdain. “The bed? I can’t sleep on the bed.”

“Where else would you sleep?” Geralt asks, not wanting to hear the answer.

“In the crate, usually,” comes the answer regardless, in Jaskier’s most unbothered tone. “Or the floor, if my master is traveling and doesn’t wish to bring my crate. But not the bed. If I’m caught sleeping there, I’ll be--”

Jaskier’s brain seems to catch up with his mouth, then, and he bites his lip when he looks at Geralt. Geralt, in turn, does his best to keep his face neutral. “You won’t be punished for sleeping in the bed here,” he says calmly, resolving to tuck his anger away for another, safer time and place. “There are no crates at Kaer Morhen. You’re not with the-- the others anymore.”

“Alright,” says Jaskier, very clearly disbelieving. “If you say so.”

“I’m going to go and get you some things to sleep in,” Geralt says. “Tomorrow we can look around for stuff that fits you a little better, but a clean shirt of mine will have to do for now. Will you wait here for a minute?”

“Alright,” Jaskier repeats, looking lost.

Once in his own room, Geralt takes a moment to collect himself. He flicks his hand at the still hearth using igni and watches it roar to life. He looks around at the room, less tidy than Jaskier’s thanks to nearly a year of neglect. It’ll take him a few takes to shake the dust from the curtains properly, but then it’ll be home, just like it is every winter.

This winter will be different, though. There might even be precious little that’s the same. Kaer Morhen hasn’t changed much in the decades and decades that Geralt has been on the Path, returning each fall to the ruins of the institution that made him, but this year is something new. The presence of the man next door changes everything, and it remains to be seen whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

All Geralt knows for certain is that with Jaskier in the wings, keeping him ever so slightly off balance, he’s likely to need every ounce of strength and control he can muster. That means sleep now, and letting tomorrow’s problems be tomorrow’s, as Vesemir says.

Geralt digs in his chest of winter clothes and selects a few items that will be soft enough for Jaskier to sleep in, then exits his room to return to his neighbor. He pulls up short, however, when he catches a whiff of Lambert through the open door to Jaskier’s room. His lip instinctively pulls up in a snarl as he strides forward, ready to tear into his brother for harassing Geralt’s --their-- guest, but the words die on his lips when he hears Lambert’s.

“I’m sorry I made that sh*tty comment. I’m an asshole and my foot pretty much lives in my mouth. I didn’t know-- ah, sh*t, I shouldn’t have said it anyway. I’m just a dick, alright? But I am sorry, and I-- I wanted to bring you this.”

Approaching the doorway slowly and peering inside, curious, Geralt watches as Lambert holds out a platter with a small loaf of bread and a hunk of goat cheese on it. When Jaskier doesn’t take it, Lambert walks to the nightstand and places it there, shoving his hands in the pockets of his breeches awkwardly. “In case you get hungry,” Lambert mumbles. “Since I f*cked up your dinner. You should eat however you wanna eat, makes no f*cking difference to me.”

It isn’t the most elegant of apologies, the gruff ending making Geralt raise his eyebrow dubiously, but it seems to soften Jaskier. He takes a step towards Lambert, then another, then leans up to give him a brief peck on the cheek before quickly retreating. “Thank you for the food,” he says quietly, his scent wafting sweet and happy towards Geralt once more.

“No problem. Uh, sleep tight. See you around,” Lambert mumbles, turning to make his exit. When he passes Geralt in the doorway, he stops and looks his older brother in the eye. “I made it right.”

“With him, not with me,” Geralt says, though in truth he’s fairly certain he’s decided to let it go. If the apology is good enough for Jaskier, it’s good enough for Geralt. Probably. Maybe. Lambert nods, accepting Geralt’s assessment, and slips down the hallway toward his own room without further comment.

Jaskier is still standing in the same spot where Geralt left him, and he accepts the bundle of Geralt’s clothes readily. “My room is right next door if you need me,” he says for lack of anything better to say, gesturing at their adjoining wall. “You should lie down now, you’ve had a long day.”

“Okay, I will.”

His eyes flicker tellingly to a spot on the rug in front of the fireplace though, and Geralt can tell where his mind is going. “I want you to get in the bed, Jaskier. Just get comfortable and relax. There’s no punishment here, remember? I’ll come get you when it’s time.”

A fair amount of the remaining tension in Jaskier’s shoulders relaxes and he nods more eagerly now. “Yes, alright, in the bed. I can do that.”

“Good,” Geralt says, relieved, and he doesn’t miss the way Jaskier lights up at the praise. He likes the way happy looks on Jaskier, so he says it again. “That’s very good, thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Jaskier hums.

There seems to be nothing Geralt can say to that, so he just backs toward the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says quietly, waving awkwardly and immediately hating himself for the foolish gesture. “Uh, let me know if you need anything.” He pulls Jaskier’s door closed behind him and retreats into his own room, falling into his bed face first despite the plume of dust that forces from the long-dormant bedding. “f*ck,” he confides in his pillow.

A very long winter indeed.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Geralt sleeps longer than he intends to. He can tell before he even opens his eyes, the heaviness in his limbs giving him an answer about the hour without any aid of the sun’s rays. He isn’t surprised, however. It feels like months have passed in the space of days, and still more troubles lay ahead of him, he knows. It’s no small wonder that his body would steal as many hours of rest from him as it was able, since all too soon he has to roll himself out of the warm bed and face the day head on.

He quickly dresses himself and exits his room to go to Jaskier’s, hoping that he’ll still be resting himself. As tired as Geralt had felt, Jaskier had looked even more exhausted when they parted last night. Jaskier’s scent trail in the hallway is old, indicating that he hasn’t left since the night before, which is a hopeful sign. Geralt almost doesn’t knock on the door, wondering if perhaps he should leave Jaskier undisturbed until he’s ready to come out. Somehow he doubts that he’ll take the initiative to go wandering around the castle on his own, however. If he’s ever going to leave the bedroom and go get himself some breakfast, he’ll more than likely need a direct invitation.

That’s what leads Geralt to rap his knuckles lightly on the heavy wooden door to Jaskier’s room. “Jaskier? Are you awake?”

There’s a startled little gasp and a brief rustle of sheets, like Geralt’s voice has startled the man awake. He feels a little guilty that Jaskier’s voice is so clearly still groggy with sleep when he answers, “Yes, I’m awake!”

“Can I-- is it alright if I come in?”

“Of course, Geralt.”

He really shouldn’t be surprised to open the door and see Jaskier sprawled naked on the bed. At some point, one day he’ll turn around and see Jaskier naked before him and it won’t make him blush like some scandalized maiden and embarrass himself. After all, plenty of people like to sleep naked. There’s nothing that unreasonable about that, right?

Of course, most people don’t sleep on top of the covers in winter, especially not when they’re so cold that they’re shivering. They don’t usually sleep on their front with a pillow under their hips, either, so that their bottom is put artfully on display. Most people don’t lay with their head pillowed on only their folded arms, as the sleep marks on Jaskier’s cheek suggest that he’s done. Combined with the continued look of exhaustion on Jaskier’s face, Geralt has a suspicion that Jaskier wasn’t doing much sleeping at all throughout the night.

“I waited for you,” Jaskier mumbles sleepily, as if answering Geralt’s thoughts. “I did like you asked me, but you never came back.”

“I-- I meant that I would come in the morning,” Geralt answers, trying to look anywhere but Jaskier’s naked body. He takes in the tray on Jaskier’s nightstand, and is pleased to see that it’s full of nothing but crumbs now, empty of the food Lambert had brought him last night in apology. At least Jaskier had felt comfortable enough to eat when hungry. “Why would I have come to your room before morning?”

Jaskier starts to answer and then gets cut off in a yawn. He stretches his body like a kitten, body flexing briefly before returning to the same position, and Geralt absolutely doesn’t look even for a second at the movement of his muscles under his skin. Jaskier rubs at the place where his collar has dug into his skin, leaving an angry red line around his throat. “So that you could come and f*ck me,” Jaskier replies simply, focusing bleary eyes on Geralt. “Isn’t that what you put me on the bed for?”

“God damn it,” Geralt sighs, guilt writhing in his stomach. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t say it right.” As usual.

“I’m only allowed on the bed if I’m going to be put to use.” Jaskier’s bottom lip is actually jutting out a little in a pout. “I thought that maybe you wanted… it’s been so long since anyone--”

“No,” interrupts Geralt, grabbing a fur from the end of the bed and settling it over Jaskier’s body gently. “I put you in the bed so that you can sleep. No one is going to come to your room in the middle of the night and bother you for-- well, not for anything. Jaskier, did you sleep at all?”

“I did, a little,” Jaskier answers with a resigned air, like he thinks it’s an answer that will get him in trouble and he’s accepted that he deserves it. “I’m sorry. I stayed up for hours, but I must have dozed off at some point. I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s what I want you to do when you go to bed at night. You look exhausted.” He does, the more Geralt looks at him, the skin beneath his eyes dark and heavy and his face paler than usual. If possible, his cheeks look even more sunken than yesterday. He looks weak and starving, maybe even sick. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I feel empty,” Jaskier whines, looking imploringly up at Geralt once more. He licks his lips and lifts his head to look at the witcher more intensely. “My skin is crawling. I need it. You could take me now, if you wanted. Please? I’ve been good for you, and done everything you said. We’re not in danger anymore. Let me make you feel good, Geralt, I promise I can--”

“We should go get some breakfast,” Geralt blurts out, because he can’t make his mouth form an outright denial. “A good breakfast is really important.”

Jaskier looks at him for a long moment and then sighs, accepting defeat. There’s still a defiance about him, though, as he slides off the bed and stands before Geralt without a stitch of clothing on him. He’s close enough that Geralt can feel the heat off of his skin, but Geralt refuses to step away. He won’t be made to retreat from someone’s naked form, no matter how illicit or tempting. Jaskier tilts his head and continues looking up at Geralt searchingly. “Well, if you’re sure…”

Geralt swallows hard. “Yup.”

“Then what would you like me to wear?”

“The clothes I brought you last night should be fine,” Geralt answers with relief. He does back up now that the silent standoff is complete, inching towards the door. “I’ll just-- wait outside. You can come out whenever you’re ready.”

The door closing between them shouldn’t feel like sheltering from a storm, but it does.

When they get down to the dining hall to join the other witchers, Jaskier proves just as ravenous at breakfast as he has every other time Geralt has put food before him. He does agree to using a spoon to feed himself the thick oatmeal, shoveling it into his mouth, but he won’t touch the plate piled with strips of bacon that Eskel places before him unless it’s offered from Geralt’s hand. Strangely enough, the witcher finds that he doesn’t mind. It may be a quirk borne from terrible circ*mstances, but it seems to make Jaskier happy and Geralt can’t begrudge him that small comfort.

After the second time Jaskier has emptied his bowl Geralt cuts him off, still worried that he might make himself sick as he gorges to satisfy an apparent bottomless pit in his stomach. He doesn’t argue, but Geralt feels the need to reassure him anyways. “You can eat more in a few hours if you still feel hungry, I promise, just let this settle a bit first, alright?”

Yen, who had wandered in not long after Geralt and Jaskier, is looking at the latter with concern. “Are you feeling well, Jaskier?” she asks him, reaching out and laying the back of her hand across his forehead. Jaskier accepts the touch without hesitation, even leans into it a bit. “You seem a little… off.”

“That’s what Geralt said, too,” Jaskier tells her, an unhappy twist to his mouth. “I must look horrible, if everyone keeps saying it.”

“Not like that, you’re--” Geralt manages to stop himself before he goes and does something embarrassing, like telling Jaskier that he thinks he’s beautiful. “You’re just looking like you might be tired or something,” he finishes lamely.

That really is a dumb thing to say, given that he knows Jaskier has spent all night waiting for Geralt to come and f*ck him instead of getting any quality rest, but Jaskier doesn’t call him out on it. “I’m fine, you don’t have to worry about me,” he assures both of them. “The bad witchers made me immune to most diseases, so I don’t really get sick.”

The bad witchers, Geralt muses. It implies that he and his family are the good witchers in comparison, which Geralt is glad for. He certainly hopes to give Jaskier no reason to ever doubt his safety at Kaer Morhen or the intentions of its residents.

Once those words have settled pleasantly in Geralt’s chest, he has time to consider the rest of Jaskier’s words. A sex slave, engineered to be resisted to disease. That was… practical, Geralt supposes, if also horrifying. The kind of men who were likely to be interested in someone like Jaskier are probably the same kind of men whose bodies were unclean from indulging in their other proclivities. For Jaskier to have to worry about that on top of everything else he’s endured would have been immeasurably cruel.

Yennefer appears to be thinking along the same lines, because her smile is tight and her eyes quietly angry as she nods at Jaskier. “There are plenty of things that could still be impacting your health, but that’s at least some small mercy.”

“Yeah, we’ll send the Cats a thank you letter for their humanitarian work,” Lambert grumbles from down the table.

“Actually, Jaskier, I have a question regarding your time with the School of the Cat,” Yennefer says slowly, and Geralt can sense trouble coming. The way that she doesn’t look at Geralt likely means that whatever she says next, he isn’t going to like it. “I was hoping to get a little bit more information about what happened to you.”

“I told you everything I know,” Jaskier responds, a little taken aback. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“No, I know,” he’s reassured by the sorceress. “I believe that you were honest to the best of your abilities.”

Geralt has a nagging suspicion that he knows where this is going. “Yen,” he says, low and warning.

She ignores him. “The human mind is imperfect. There are many things that you see but don’t understand, or remember but can’t recall on command. There may be information that you have, unbeknownst to yourself, trapped within your mind. I’d like to try reading your mind, too see if there’s any more information we can discover about where you came from or what’s been done to you.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” Vesemir ponders, scratching his chin. “Could be helpful. The more we know about the processes they used, the easier it will be to find solutions.”

“Absolutely not,” snaps Geralt, and Jaskier tenses beside him. “You’re not going to root around in his head, Yennefer. He’s been through enough.”

This time Yennefer spares a moment to shoot a glare at Geralt before continuing to speak to Jaskier. “It wouldn’t hurt, and I can control the spell so that you don’t have to relive any of the memories yourself. It’s just a matter of giving me permission to look through your mind. I wouldn’t do it against your will.”

“Alright, sure,” Jaskier says at once. “If you want to.”

“No, it’s not happening,” insists Geralt. “I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t get to allow anything, Geralt of Rivia, or have you forgotten that you’re not actually his master?” Yennefer’s anger cracks through the space between her and Geralt like a whip, flaying him open. “He makes his own decisions now. I don’t give a rat’s arse what you think about the matter if Jaskier says he’s alright with it.”

Geralt’s teeth grind together so hard that his jaw aches. She’s right. He absolutely hates it, but she’s right. Jaskier has had his agency violated for his entire life as he remembers it, and Geralt can’t allow himself to continue the cycle. It physically pains him to turn to Jaskier and say, “Sorry. It’s your choice. Do what you want.”

Jaskier appears torn, looking back and forth between the two of them, but his eyes lock onto Geralt’s when he asks, “Will it help?”

“Maybe,” Geralt admits, as neutrally as he can manage.

“Will it hurt me?”

“If Yennefer says it won’t, then you can trust her.”

“Why don’t you want me to do it?”

That one’s harder to answer out loud, but Eskel sees Geralt’s scowl and chimes in. “Witchers aren’t fond of letting anyone in our heads. It’s not something that comes easy to us. Geralt doesn’t even like saying what’s on his mind, let alone letting someone look inside.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, though in truth he appreciates the help. As usual, his brother knows him best. “Very funny. But… yes. It’s a very intimate thing. You can’t hide anything when your mind is being read. It can feel like a violation.” And you’ve been violated enough in your time.

“Will you be angry with me if I say yes, Geralt?”

His eyes are wide and brow furrowed, eyes focused on Geralt as he asks it. Jaskier leans forward into him with an air of intensity, as if Geralt’s answer is the most important thing he’ll ever hear, and Geralt tries to treat his response with appropriate gravity. “I won’t be angry with you, Jaskier. You’re free to choose, whatever your choice. Even if I wouldn’t choose the same.”

“Then I’d like to help, I think,” Jaskier says softly. “But will you-- will you stay with me, while she--?”

“Of course.” Geralt reaches out and lays a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, overly warm even through the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. It serves as a reminder that this isn’t just abstract research-- that they’re trying to find out more about Jaskier’s past so that they can hopefully reverse some of the things that the Cats had done to change his body in ways that hurt him. Maybe, if he can help Jaskier get through this, he won’t have to hurt this way anymore. “Whatever you need.”

“Excellent,” declares Yennefer, rising gracefully from her seat and clapping her hands definitively. “We should do this somewhere else, where you can lie down and be comfortable. This may take a few minutes, and it’s easier if you relax into it.”

Some privacy wouldn’t go amiss, either. “We could go to your room, Jaskier, if you’d like,” Geralt suggests.

Jaskier nods, rising to follow Yennefer. When he reaches for Geralt’s hand and takes hold of it, his fingers are trembling just a little despite his calm, stoic expression. Geralt squeezes back a little, gently, and doesn’t try to reclaim his hand. He lets Yen lead the two of them to Jaskier’s bedroom without any further comment, then has a silent conversation with the sorceress as Jaskier lays himself down on the bed. They’ve long since mastered the art of communicating with their eyes alone.

Be careful with him. I won’t forgive myself if he’s harmed.

I know, you idiot. I won’t. Trust me.

“Will you get on the bed with me?” Jaskier asks hopefully, patting the bed next to him and looking at Geralt imploringly. He must see the hesitation in Geralt’s face, because he rolls his eyes. “Are you afraid that I’ll try to seduce you in front of your ex-girlfriend, the sorceress, while she’s reading my mind?”

Yes. “No.”

Unable to think of a good reason why he shouldn’t, Geralt rounds the bed and climbs in on the far side, propping himself up against the pillows. Jaskier doesn’t cuddle up to him, exactly, but he does scoot close enough to Geralt that there’s only the barest hint of space between their bodies, as if he’s afraid to let them actually touch. Geralt swallows and closes the gap, letting his leg rest lightly against Jaskier’s side, and the man’s pleased hum could be a shot of white gull.

“Are you ready, Jaskier?” Yennefer asks, the chaos already gathering in the palms of her hands. “All I need you to do is close your eyes and relax. I’ll do the rest. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“I’m ready,” answers Jaskier, letting his eyes drift closed.

It’s hard to see from an outsider’s perspective, what exactly happens. Geralt knows that his medallion is vibrating against his chest, reacting to the powerful magic channeling through Yen, and that her hands visibly crackle with violet fire, but that’s all he can see. They both have their eyes closed, Yennefer perched on the edge of the mattress with her fingertips resting against Jaskier’s temples. Jaskier’s face is blank, serene. Yennefer’s becomes more twisted with fury with every passing minute.

It stretches on like that, ten minutes or more, and while Geralt knows better than to distract Yennefer while she’s casting such delicate spells, he still itches to know what’s passing between them. Is it anything useful? Are there memories there that will help him to help Jaskier, or is it just digging up old sorrows? It’s a small mercy at least that Jaskier doesn’t have to see them. Some things a man should never have to experience even once. For those memories, to see them twice would be… unspeakable.

Suddenly the faint thrum of Yennefer’s magic changes in pitch, and Jaskier cries out, back arching off of the bed and face screwing up tight. A metallic tang appears in the landscape of his aroma as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and then it’s overwhelmed by the burning scent of his fear and pain. Yennefer gasps too, a choked thing, drawing her hands apart and then bringing them together again in a tremendous clap that shatters the magic in the room.

Jaskier instantly goes limp, and Geralt swears as he pulls the man into his lap, hands hovering over him, unsure what to do. He can hear Jaskier’s pulse, and see the rise and fall of his chest, but he otherwise shows no response to Geralt’s jostling. Yennefer sways where she sits and reaches out to steady herself on the headboard. “Yen, are you alright? Is Jaskier? What the f*ck happened?”

“He’s fine, he’s asleep,” Yennefer says wearily. “I put him under. It was my mistake, something went wrong and I pushed too hard. I could feel that he was in pain, so I put him to sleep so he wouldn’t have to suffer.”

“He’s not in pain anymore?”

“He should be sleeping like a baby. He’ll wake up in a few hours.”

A bead of sweat runs down Yen’s temple, her eyes still squeezed shut, and Geralt reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder. “And you?” he asks softly.

She doesn’t reply for a minute, continuing to breathe slowly until some color returns to her face. When she opens her eyes again, they’re deeply haunted. “I’ve got a headache that feels like it might last for a century, and I’ve seen things that I could not possibly have imagined in my darkest nightmares, but… I’ll be alright.”

Geralt lets those words hang in the air between them for a few minutes, unsure what to say. There doesn’t seem to be a good response to that. Jaskier appears to be very deeply asleep indeed, continuing to snore lightly as he shuffles to settle himself more comfortably on Geralt’s legs. He ends up more or less tucked between them, his head pillowed on Geralt’s thigh, one slender hand curled around Geralt’s knee.

Unlike the last time he and Jaskier had been so scandalously intertwined, Geralt doesn’t feel anything except for fondness and concern for the man in his lap. He hesitates for a moment before reaching down to card a hand through Jaskier’s soft brown hair, and Jaskier sighs in his sleep as he relaxes even further. Geralt repeats the motion, and then does it again, starting a rhythm as Yennefer seats herself upright next to Geralt in the space that Jaskier used to occupy. She doesn’t mention his hand in Jaskier’s hair.

“It was worse than you can imagine,” she eventually says, very quietly. Geralt gets the sense that she’s not concerned about disturbing the sleeping man in his lap so much as she’s worried about speaking evils into existence. “We knew it was bad. It had to be, given the nature of what happened to him, but-- it would have broken me, Geralt. I’ve cracked under the weight of far less horrors.”

He doesn’t take the words lightly. For all of her flaws, Yennefer is one of the strongest people he knows. For her to say that… Geralt lets his thumb stroke down the side of Jaskier’s face, just once. Miraculous. “Did you learn anything useful?”

“I know why he looks ill,” Yennefer says, lip curling up in disgust. “It’s due to one of the alterations they made to him. They were trying to heighten his arousal, to make him crave… activity.”

“I think it worked.” Geralt thinks back on what he’s seen of Jaskier’s behavior in the last two days. How many times has Jaskier tried to invite Geralt’s touch?

“Yes, except they took it farther than they intended. He doesn’t just crave it, he depends on it. He actually experiences physical hunger if not fed with… well, with a man’s… seed.”

Geralt looks at her, aghast. “You can’t mean--”

“I can and unfortunately I do. He’s starving to death, that’s why he looks so frail. It’s been at least two days since he’s had that particular... fare.” She looks like the words burn her to say. “Also explains why he’s been eating like he has. He’s trying to feed a hunger that can’t be fed with anything served on the table at Kaer Morhen.”

“He never said…”

“He doesn’t fully understand it, I don’t think. I found the information in the memory of an examination they gave him. One of his captors said it to the other. I think that Jaskier just knows that he’s hungry and he wants to taste your cum. I don’t think he understands that the two are related. Not like there’s ever been a shortage of men willing to stick their co*cks in his mouth before.”

The tone with which she says it gives Geralt the distinct impression that she’s coming up with new and creative ways ro remove said co*cks from said men. He sympathizes completely. “So what do we do?”

Yennefer looks at him seriously. “Well, unless and until Vesemir and I can figure out a way to start reversing some of these mutations, your options are limited. You can either give him what he needs or you can watch him starve to death.”

Her gaze doesn’t allow room for Geralt to hide, so he doesn’t attempt to do so. “I don’t want to do it. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter, if he’s being forced by his own biology. I won’t touch a man who can’t consent.”

“As I said, you don’t have much of a choice. He says that he wants it, and that’ll just have to be enough. Moral complications be damned, he won’t survive without it, Geralt.” Her eyes are not unkind as she looks over at him. “Think of it as the lesser of two evils.”

“Evil is evil, Yennefer. Lesser, greater, middling. It’s all the same. If I have to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer--”

“Yes I know, and you’re a good man for holding such noble views of the world, but sometimes even good men have to do bad things. Find a way to live with yourself and move on.”

She’s blunt. She’s always blunt; that’s the way that Yennefer is, a series of unpulled punches right in the places that hurt you the most. It’s one of the things that he hates the most about her, and one of the things he’ll always love. She’s also right again, and he nods slowly. “I won’t let him die.”

“Good.” Yennefer relaxes a little, sighing heavily. “He’ll need more than that, soon, I think. Some of the potions they gave him affected his hormones. His body experiences… withdrawals of sorts, without sex. Like a fisstech addict without a fix. Fever, skin crawling, desperation. He’ll be near hysterical without skin contact, and won’t be able to think about anything other than being-- being f*cked. The longest he’s ever made it is a week.”

“What happens after a week?” asks Geralt, stomach roiling.

“No idea. Jaskier’s memory is a little foggy, but from what I can tell, the deprivation experiment ended because the witchers just got tired of resisting him. Three of them broke into the room where he was kept. They told him that he smelled mouth-watering when he was gagging for it, and they--”

Yennefer breaks off and drops her face into her hands, shoulders curling inwards. Geralt doesn’t need to scent her to know what she’s feeling. The sheer length of their history together lays his friend’s body language out before him like a book. He wraps his arm around her shoulder and pulls her into him, offering whatever comfort he can possibly give. He knows it isn’t enough.

“What happened at the end?” he asks quietly, when her breathing evens out into something closer to normal. “When he screamed. What was that about? Was he-- could he see what you were looking at?”

“No, he saw nothing but an image I showed him of the ocean on a calm summer day,” she assures him, lifting her head at last. “The pain was, unfortunately, physical. I ran into a spell woven into his mind as I searched, and it didn’t react well to my probing. I was trying to investigate his true identity, so that one day we might be able to help him return to his home.”

Geralt ignores the way that makes his heart clench uncomfortably. That was the whole point of this, wasn’t it? To get Jaskier better and send him home? Of course Yen should search for those answers, too. “What do you mean, it didn’t react well?”

“There was some sort of wall erected in his mind, something that separated all of his memories from before he was kidnapped from his conscious mind. His entire life before the last three years was buried behind there. I tried to break through it, to see if I could reintegrate his memories, but as soon as I sent a probe of chaos towards it, he started screaming.” Yen shudders, but her face is all fury. “Whoever did this was a powerful magic user, and no stranger to dark deeds such as this one. They set up a failsafe in his mind. If anyone tries to access his true identity, the pain will stop his heart before they get the chance.”

Geralt wants to hit something. His hands clench into fists, pulse pounding, fuming at the injustice of it. It wasn’t enough to take control of Jaskier’s body and strip him of his freedom. They had to take away his mind, too? He wants to find the mage who did this and squeeze the life from them with his own two hands. He wants to feel their blood on his skin.

He strokes Jaskier’s hair again. Gentle.

“So what now?” Geralt asks after another long moment, petting Jaskier’s hair to keep himself from committing violence.

“Now we start investigating the potions and mutations I saw in his memories as best as we can, and we do our best to keep him alive while also preserving his personhood,” Yennefer sighs. “Specifically, you do that. I’ve seen the way he thinks about you, Geralt. You can tell him that you’re not his master until you’re blue in the face, but he’s still drawn to you. He wants you. The man would jump off the east tower if you asked him to, no hesitation.”

“That makes me sick to my stomach,” Geralt snaps, loathing the very suggestion.

“I know. Which is why, all things considered, destiny was kind in bringing him to you. Of all of the people in the world, you’re probably the one who will work the hardest not to hurt him.” Passing a hand over her tired eyes, Yennefer leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “I’m going to go lay down for a while and then I’ll go talk over what I saw with Vesemir. He should be fine when he wakes up in a couple of hours, but you know where to find me if you need me.”

“Thank you, Yen.”

When she’s gone and the door is closed behind her, Geralt looks down at the lapful of slumbering Jaskier he’s trapped beneath, considering his options. In truth, he doesn’t really want to move. It’s comfortable here in Jaskier’s bed, being weighed down by a soft, warm body. Every so often Jaskier’s hand will twitch against his knee or his lips will tremble with a sigh, and Geralt hopes that whatever he’s dreaming of, it’s something nice. In any case, he doesn’t want to move and risk waking the man, not when he’s finally getting some rest.

It takes until almost noon before Jaskier starts to stir for real, his face nuzzling into Geralt’s thigh as he stretches his limbs experimentally. His eyes flutter open only briefly before closing once more, a frown on his face. “G’rlt?” he slurs. “What happened?”

Geralt reaches out to stroke Jaskier’s hair like he’s been doing all morning, but stops short of actually making contact. It’s different now that Jaskier is awake, less forgivable, and Geralt tucks his hand beneath his legs to make sure they behave. “Yen had to put you to sleep,” he explains in a low voice, not wanting to jar Jaskier out of his nap. “The mind reading didn’t quite go as planned, and it was hurting you, so she ended it. You’ve been asleep for a few hours.”

“I don’t remember any of that,” Jaskier mumbles, rubbing his eyes and then finally opening them properly so he can crane his neck and look up at the man whose lap he found himself in. “I had a dream you were playing with my hair and talking about me.”

“I was,” says Geralt, shame making his face go hot. “I’m sorry, I--”

“Don’t be,” Jaskier interrupts, hand tightening on Geralt’s thigh. “It was a nice dream.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond to that, so instead he just clears his throat. “Could you, um, let me up? I want to get some water and then we should… talk.”

Jaskier pushes himself upright and then rocks back to sit on his heels, looking at Geralt curiously. “Good talk, or bad talk?”

“Good talk, I hope. We learned some things-- or, Yen did, anyways. I might be able to help you.” Unable to resist, Geralt reaches out and ruffles Jaskier’s hair, smiling a little when Jaskier leans into it. “Will you wait here for a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

Geralt makes his exit, keeping his breaths even and calm as he makes a few stops around the keep. He relieves himself first and foremost, having held his bladder all morning so that Jaskier could rest. Then he makes his way to the kitchen, avoiding the other residents --and their questions-- so that he can head back upstairs. When he returns, it’s with a cup of water for Jaskier and an empty bowl and a spoon.

Jaskier takes the cup of water eagerly and takes several large gulps from it. “Thank you, Geralt. Are we going to talk now?”

“I don’t see why not,” Geralt says, fiddling with the items in his hands as he stands before Jaskier, who has his legs hanging over the side of the bed, socked feet tapping on the stone floor. “Yennefer did get to look at your memories. She saw a good amount of your time in captivity, but she couldn’t access your memories before that. When she tried, it’s what caused you pain and forced her to stop. She and Vesemir are going to keep working on solving that problem, but it seems like for the time being you still won’t be able to access all of your memories. I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Jaskier smoothly replies. “And anyways, it’s hard to miss something you don’t remember having. Were you able to find anything else helpful? I would hate to have wasted Yennefer’s time.”

As if Yennefer is the one being inconvenienced here, when Jaskier is the one allowing relative strangers to sift through his innermost secrets. Geralt just nods. “We did. She gleaned some information about you, and the way your body works. Some information that you-- things you might not even know about yourself, yet.”

Nervous fingers pick at the hem of Jaskier’s sleeve, the only sign of his discomfort as his face remains carefully placid. “Alright. Am I allowed to know them now?”

“Of course you are,” rumbles Geralt at once. “You have the right to know what’s going on with your body. I wouldn’t keep that information from you. It… isn’t good news, though.”

Burnt sugar fear. Still fingers. Jaskier looks up at Geralt with wide, terrified eyes. “Am I-- I am sick, aren’t I? Just like Yennefer said. They’ve done something to me and now I’m going to die--”

“You’re going to be fine,” Geralt interrupts him, stepping closer and squatting down so that he’s more on a level with Jaskier. “I’m going to make sure you’re alright. You’re not dying, you’re just… hungry.”

“I’ve been eating everything you gave me,” Jaskier says miserably. “Why doesn’t it make me feel any better? I’m still starving. My stomach has cramps from hunger.”

“f*ck,” Geralt swears, pinching the bridge of his nose with dismay. He hadn’t realized that the hunger was that intense. Jaskier had never complained, or asked for any food outside of what was offered to him. He needs to fix this, immediately. “Look, the Cats, some of the experiments that they did were supposed to make you more… interested in sex. They messed up, and it had an unintended side effect. Your body…”

The words dry up. He can’t say it, can’t be the bearer of this bad news. Geralt stares at the knee of Jaskier’s trousers, examining the stitches for answers and finding none. Jaskier reaches out and takes him by the chin, lifting his face so that Geralt is forced to look at him. “You promised me. You said I had a right to know about my own body. Please, just tell me?”

“You’re hungry for seed,” Geralt blurts out, before he can waver in his resolve to do the right thing by giving Jaskier his honesty. “Your body craves it. You don’t remember a time when your body didn’t crave it, and you’ve never been denied it before, that’s why you don’t know what this feels like. They made you need it, so that you can’t say no even if you want to.”

“I have to swallow cum in order to not feel hungry,” Jaskier repeats slowly, one hand drifting to hold his hollow belly. “That’s why I feel this way, because I haven’t--”

“It doesn’t stop there,” Geralt continues, unable to stop the flow of words now that they’ve begun. He has to get it out, all at once. Like ripping out an arrow. “Without sex-- without penetration-- you’ll be in discomfort. You’ll go through withdrawals. I think you’ll have to detox from it. They took away your ability to say no, and then they took away your desire to say no, and now--”

He tears himself away from Jaskier, standing and turning his back on the man on the bed, flinging the bowl in his hand in frustration. It cracks against the wall with the force of the impact, two useless curves of wood clattering against the stone floor. His breath is coming too fast, too short. He can’t seem to make it even out, anger burning hotly in his gut. He hasn’t been this helpless, this weak, since he was a child, and now… he’s useless again.

Arms wrap around him and Jaskier presses himself against Geralt’s back, his face nuzzling into Geralt’s shoulder blades, and when Jaskier sighs the exhale is hot on Geralt’s skin even through his shirt. “Please don’t be angry,” Jaskier implores, arms squeezing gently and Geralt’s middle. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want me here. I’ll be alright without, or else I’ll leave and I’ll--- not bother you anymore.”

In his surprise, it takes Geralt a few seconds to comprehend that he’s being hugged. Comforted. By the man who he’s just informed of his own desecration. It’s so backwards that he doesn’t understand it for a long moment, but when he does, he places his arms on top of Jaskier in a weak attempt to hug him back. Maybe Jaskier will take half as much comfort from his gesture as Geralt does from Jasker’s.

“You don’t need to leave, Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, letting himself enjoy the feel of his smaller frame against Geralt’s back. “I told you, I’m going to help you. If you want it, I mean. I can give you my-- you can have my--”

Jaskier’s arms loosen in surprise, and Geralt takes a step away and turns around to look at him, worried that he’s said the wrong thing. He doesn’t expect to see Jaskier’s pupils blown wide, nor the pleased dusting of pink on his cheeks. “You’ll let me swallow your cum?” he asks frankly, voice excited. “Really?”

“That’s what you need,” Geralt answers, gruff in his embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck in continued frustration. “But only if you want that. I know you don’t really have a choice, because you need it, but--”

“I do want it,” Jaskier immediately answers. “Gods yes, please let me have it, Geralt.”

The words go straight to Geralt’s co*ck, which for the first time since Jaskier had walked --or rather, been carried-- into his life, isn’t actually a bad thing. That’s what will have to happen, for Geralt to proceed. “Right. Good. Well, I was going to take the bowl to my room and fill it for you, but I’ll have to go get another now,” he says guiltily, looking at the splinters on the floor. “It won’t take me long to--”

It’s then that he notices the look on Jaskier’s face has changed, all excitement gone from it. Instead, he looks like he’s been slapped. “You’re going to give it to me in a bowl? To eat with a spoon?”

“Uh,” Geralt says brilliantly, mind reeling. “Yes? So that way you don’t have to-- so we don’t--”

Jaskier shakes his head brusquely. “It’s fine. I know you don’t want me that way. You don’t have to rub it in my face by saying it out loud. I’ll take what I can get, I won’t be greedy.”

What Geralt had meant to be a courteous suggestion now makes him feel guilty for having voiced it. “No, I didn’t-- I didn’t mean it like that,” he huffs. “I only meant that it would be-- easiest, that way. For you. So that you don’t have to-- I didn’t want to assume that you would want to be… involved. Or present, even.”

“Assume away,” Jaskier says, lower lip protruding ever so slightly in a pout. “I don’t want a bowl and a spoon, I want you.”

And there go his words, going straight to Geralt’s co*ck again. Gods but it’s tempting to take his words at face value, to give him what he asks for. Jaskier would let him do it. He could lie back and let Jaskier suck him down, get lost in the heat of Jaskier’s mouth, fall apart on his tongue. Then he could give Jaskier what he needed the easy way, right down his throat--

“My hand, then,” he blurts out, because he can’t let him start down a path he can’t pursue. He won’t let this become about him. “I could-- in my hand. You like it when I feed you that way. Would you… want that?”

“Will you stay with me while you do it?”

If he’s trying to ensure that Geralt spills his seed as fast as possible, he’s doing a damn good job of it. “Yes,” he agrees shakily.

“Then Gods yes. Please Geralt, just-- yes, already.”

Geralt doesn’t need any further encouragement to back up until his shoulders hit the door, fumbling with the drawstrings on his trousers. Jaskier seems to sense that he needs distance and returns to the bed, taking up his favorite position, looking like a vision as he sits back on his heels. He isn’t trying to pose, Geralt knows, but the visual is effective nonetheless. He doesn’t pretend that he isn’t looking at Jaskier as he pushes his trousers and smallclothes down to reveal his co*ck and begins stroking it. He doesn’t think that he’d be able to pull off the lie anyways.

All it takes is looking at him and remembering. It’s only been two short days, less than that, since the first time Geralt had laid eyes on him, and still it’s enough. He only has to dwell on the way Jaskier had offered himself up so willingly to Geralt, and it’s easy for him to pretend that the tight clutch of his spit-slicked palm might belong to Jaskier instead. He looks at Jaskier’s face and his imagination runs wild, conjuring up ideas of what he might look like if he were coming on Geralt’s co*ck, moaning his name.

He would do it, if Geralt let him. A single word, and Jaskier would give him anything. It’s a heady power, a dangerous power, and Geralt feels his knees tremble under the weight of it all.

All too soon Geralt feels that tension that means he’s about to come, co*ck flexing in his grip as he hurries to cup his free hand beneath the tip of it. He looks up at Jaskier, intending to warn him, but he sees Jaskier sitting there with one hand sliding up the inside of his thigh like he’s going to touch himself to the sight of Geralt doing the same, and then Geralt is coming before he has the chance to say a single word.

He does his best to catch it all, though it isn’t a perfect endeavor. The first few pulses halfway miss, falling to the floor. There’s too much of it, too, and by the time the aftershocks have faded, some of his seed is overflowing from the cup of his palm and dripping to the floor as well. Jaskier is watching desperately, leaning forward, lips parted. “Can I please--?”

“It’s yours.”

Jaskier is off the bed like an arrow sprung from a bow, dropping to his knees in front of Geralt with a thud so loud it has to have hurt. It doesn’t seem to phase him though, intent as he is on his task. Jaskier takes Geralt’s wrist in one hand and supports the makeshift cup with his other, drawing Geralt’s hand close enough that he can lean in and plunge his tongue into the little pool of Geralt’s cum.

It’s sin. There’s no other word for it, the way that Jaskier moans when he gets the first taste of Geralt’s seed. His tongue is soft against Geralt’s palm, but his fingers have a bruising grip on Geralt’s wrist, holding it vise-tight as though he’s afraid it’ll be taken away from him before he’s done. It isn’t necessary; Geralt wouldn’t dream of drawing his hand back before Jaskier is done with it. He’s more than content to let Jaskier carry on in his filthy task, swiping his tongue through the mess over and over again in little kitten licks and swallowing greedily with every mouthful.

His thoroughness knows no bounds, and after a minute of the little licks, Geralt finds his fingers being sucked into Jaskier’s mouth. If the licks had been torture, this is something infinitely worse. Now he has to watch as Jaskier’s cheeks hollow with his focus, and feel the combination of the pressure of Jaskier’s sucks combined with the determined flicking of his tongue seeking any final traces of cum on Geralt’s skin. He has to live with the knowledge of what the callouses brought on by decades of wielding a sword feel like against Jaskier’s soft, plush lips.

It’s agony, and Geralt wants it to last forever.

Eventually Jaskier must decide that Geralt’s skin is clean, because he pulls back and presses a kiss to the center of Geralt’s empty palm. “Thank you,” he says, looking up at Geralt from his knees.

“I-- you’re welcome,” Geralt says breathlessly. “How do you feel?”

“Still hungry,” Jaskier admits, voice calm and soft like his words don’t concern him. “I think it helped though. I feel... better, I think. Maybe it just needs to settle in my stomach and then I won’t have the hunger pains anymore. I’m sure it’s-- oh, Melitele, look how much you wasted!” Jaskier suddenly exclaims in a mournful tone, looking at the stone between Geralt’s feet and the little drops of cum that dot it.

He scoots back and starts to lean down, and his tongue is inches from coming into contact with the dirty floor to seek out those precious few drops by the time Geralt’s brain catches up to his eyes and he snags Jaskier by the back of his shirt. “What the hell, you don’t have to lick it off the floor, Jaskier!” he says in consternation. “I can make more, if you’re still hungry.”

“Yes, but not for hours,” Jaskier pouts, though he’s well-behaved enough not to go for the mess on the floor again. “I’m hungry now.”

“You won’t have to wait long,” Geralt mumbles, and his co*ck already returning to full hardness between them confirms his words. “Witcher perks. I can-- if you need more. I can give you more.” Jaskier’s eyes light up and he settles back on his heels right where he is, patiently waiting for Geralt to give him what he needs.

It takes three loads of Geralt’s cum before the ache in Jaskier’s belly fades, and he informs Geralt that he’s alright now, thank you. Geralt wonders if he’d noticed that the third one was a stretch, even witcher stamina being brought to its limits by three rounds without stopping. If Jaskier had needed more he would have tried, of course, but he doesn’t pretend not to be relieved when Jaskier declares himself satisfied for the time being.

It only takes twice, however, for Geralt to give up on the idea of doing this without allowing Jaskier to touch him. He can’t waste, not when Jaskier so desperately needs it. Not when Jaskier keeps looking at those lost droplets on the floor like fallen friends. What Jaskier wants is for Geralt to give him every drop, and it’s coincidence that this happens to line up perfectly with Geralt’s desires as well.

That third time, when he gets close, he has Jaskier shuffle closer on his knees. Those soft hands come to rest on his thighs, and Geralt is a goner already. Jaskier’s fingers gently tug at the top of Geralt’s trousers where they bunch around his thighs, creeping the fabric ever so slowly down until Jaskier can press just his fingertips to Geralt’s skin, and those blue eyes close as if in ecstasy at that miniscule contact. Geralt’s seed looks beautiful dripping from his co*ck straight onto Jaskier’s tongue.

Geralt is relieved to have given Jaskier his fill, really. He’s happy to see a little color returning to Jaskier’s cheeks and that slightly pinched look around his eyes fade away as his body starts to catch up after days of deprivation. Really, he’s happy that he can tuck his co*ck away and help Jaskier to his feet and know that he’ll be satisfied for a while.

The fact that some dark, terrible part of him can’t wait to do it again is Geralt’s demon to wrestle with, no one else’s.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

There’s no such thing as a private encounter in Kaer Morhen. If word isn’t spread willingly between them, unwilling as their little found family is to keep secrets from one another, then the cat is always let out of the bag as soon as they get within scenting distance. They can pick each others’ stories right off their skin with a single sniff, and only a trip to the hot spring and some quality time with a harsh bar of soap has any chance of leaving one devoid of any aromatic evidence.

That’s why when Geralt and Jaskier rejoin the rest of Kaer Morhen’s residents for lunch, he doesn’t have to wonder if they know what he and Jaskier have been up to the past few hours. The witchers all look up at him immediately, nostrils flaring at the smell of his seed and Jaskier’s warm cinnamon arousal. He expects them to balk at his actions, but they only look at him with unruffled expressions for a moment before they pretend to carry on with their casual conversations, not giving so much as a comment on Geralt’s debauchery.

Yennefer --who must have told them what she learned from Jaskier’s mind this morning, or else they’d be much more shocked-- may not be able to smell the sex on him, but she knows him well enough to see it all over his expression. “Oh, stop making that face,” she laughs, patting his arm when Jaskier takes his and Geralt’s bowls over to the pot on the fire to fill them up with stew. “Was it really so bad?”

Lambert chimes in when Geralt isn’t quick enough to answer. “You act like it’s torture. What’s so bad about a couple of org*sms?”

“Not fair to him,” Geralt scowls, debating whether he’ll get in trouble with Vesemir for throwing a hunk of bread at his brother. “He didn’t choose it.”

“He looks like the cat that ate the canary,” Eskel comments, watching Jaskier’s energetic step as he saunters back towards the counter. “Pretty sure he’s fairly pleased with whatever you two got up to.”

And Jaskier does seem to be in good spirits as they have their lunch together, talking more than he has at any mealtime yet. As with the oatmeal this morning, he takes the spoon when Geralt gives it to him and doesn’t argue as he partakes in the flavorful broth filled with diced meats and veggies. The difference in his appetite is stunning. He eats slowly now, stopping after one bowl, no longer sucking down food like he’s trying to fill a black hole in his stomach. Geralt can’t stop the pleased hum that rises up in his chest.

Jaskier looks up at the sound and his pupils dilate again, a little cloud of cinnamon wafting off of his skin. He scoots closer, so that he’s pressed against Geralt’s right side, and Geralt switches to eating with his left hand so he can let it happen. He remembers what Yen had said this morning, about Jaskier’s cravings and the way that touch calmed him, and decides to let Jaskier take as much as he needs. Jaskier’s happy smell when Geralt drapes an arm around his back tells him that he made the right choice, at least this once.

“Geralt, you gonna help us patch up the wall this afternoon? I’ve had Eskel and Lambert at it this morning. Hoping to get it finished before sundown so we don’t have to make a second day of the task.” Vesemir is trying to be subtle in his questioning, Geralt knows, and he appreciates it greatly. It feels a little soon to be making casual conversation over lunch about whether Geralt would be too busy f*cking Jaskier to participate in chores.

“Yeah, I can help,” he answers, nodding his head firmly. He should be good for now. “Should have closed that breach twenty years ago. Jaskier, I could show you to the library so that you can entertain yourself while we take care of that.”

“I can help with the chores,” Jaskier jumps in eagerly, sitting up straight and looking between Geralt and Vesemir. “I feel a lot better now, I can help!”

“That’s not necessary,” Vesemir answers, shaking his head at Jaskier. “You’re a guest, and you’re still recovering from-- your journey. You don’t have to help us.”

Jaskier is undeterred. “I want to! Please, you’re all being so kind. I want to be of use. I don’t know anything about fixing walls, but I’m a quick learner. Please, can I help?”

Everyone seems to be looking at Geralt for an answer, and he tries to keep the grimace off his face. Apparently Jaskier’s care really is well and truly resting on Geralt’s shoulders alone. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Jaskier had mentioned wanting to ‘be of use,’ and Geralt hates the idea of him thinking that he has to earn his keep. He’s been trained to think of himself as a tool, his worth derived from what he can do for others, and Geralt knows that this is probably a way for Jaskier to feel like he’s satisfied his purpose of serving Geralt and his family.

On the other hand, what’s the harm? If it makes him feel better to help, that’s not such a bad thing. Geralt can relate to the desire to keep busy and achieve something to keep from going crazy. He can hardly fault Jaskier for wanting to do the same. After a moment, he nods. “If you want to, that would be… good.”

Jaskier lights up at the word, smile breaking out across his face. Lambert yawns and stretches dramatically. “Great. You can take my place, and I’ll go take a nap.”

“Fat f*cking chance,” Eskel snorts, and their ensuing food fight makes even Geralt crack a smile.

The results of the morning’s labors has left the hole in the wall filled just about to eye level. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours for he and Eskel and Lambert to finish chipping away at the old wall to get flat surfaces and replacing the empty space with fresh bricks that Vesemir made over the course of the year. He and Eskel assemble a rickety scaffolding of sorts out of a creaky table with empty barrels on top, ominous in its protests of being forced to hold up two witchers’ worth of weight but good enough for them to be able to reach the top of the wall. Jaskier is tasked with handing the bricks up to Eskel and Geralt, and refilling their buckets of mortar when needed. Lambert is responsible for carrying all of the bricks from the courtyard where Vesemir made them to the location of the breach, grumbling all the while.

“I’m just saying, would it have killed the old man to make the bricks next to the hole?” he says peevishly, scowling as he stacks another armload by Jaskier’s feet. “He knew what we’d be using them for. Why make a pile of them clear on the other side of the keep?”

Jaskier has been very diligent in his assistance, always ready with another brick every time Geralt reaches down for one. He found some empty crates to stand on so that he wouldn’t have to keep climbing up on the table and risk shaking Geralt and Eskel from their perches. When Geralt looks down, Jaskier is ready with a brick for him as usual but he’s frowning at Lambert in concern. “Do you want to trade jobs with me? I can do that if you don’t want to do it.”

Lambert looks tempted but he shakes his head, which conveniently means that Geralt won’t have to kick his ass. “Nah, you keep doing what you’re doing. I can carry more bricks than you can, and walk faster on the trips.”

Or maybe Geralt will have to kick his ass after all. He can see the moment Jaskier processes that as a challenge, and his jaw gets a stubborn set to it. “I can do it. I’m not that slow, and I’m stronger than I look--”

“Keep doing this,” Geralt interrupts, voice firm, not looking down at Jaskier as he scrapes mortar along the last row of bricks that he’d laid and reaches a hand down for the next one. He feels the rough brick in his palm at once. “You’re a big help. Would have taken us twice as long if only one of us could be up here working. I want you right where you are.”

The smell of cinnamon reaches Geralt’s nose, and he almost falls off of his wobbly makeshift stepstool. He jerks his gaze downwards, and sure enough, Jaskier is looking up at him hungrily, a pleased flush on his cheeks. “I’ll stay right here, then,” Jaskier says, licking his lips.

Geralt doesn’t answer as he lays the brick and silently holds his hand out for another. Was it the order that had caused Jaskier’s arousal to flare? The praise? Both? He wonders if Jaskier noticed the way Geralt’s co*ck had gotten half hard in his trousers just from the smell of him. He wonders if his brothers had noticed. If anyone has, they’re kind enough not to mention it.

The work is done well before dinner, and when Geralt asks what Jaskier would like to do to pass the time, he’s pleased to hear Jaskier request the visit to the library he’d mentioned earlier. “I’ve never been able to read books before,” he says, steps bouncing as they make their way down the torchlit hallway towards the wing containing the library. “I wonder what kind of books I like. I think I know how to read, anyways. I don’t remember ever learning, but I think that maybe I do.”

“Even if you don’t, it’s never too late to learn,” Geralt says quietly, so that he doesn’t have to think about the tragedy of a man whose mind has been so muddied that he doesn’t even know if he’s literate or not.

As it turns out, Jaskier does know how to read. After asking Geralt’s permission and receiving it enthusiastically, Jaskier goes through the shelves and picks off a dozen different books of various genres, stacking them in Geralt’s arms so that the witcher can happily carry his selections back to the little collection of raggedy couches. He smells like pure honey fresh from the comb, happy contentment making his face soft and his eyes bright.

“I don’t know where to start,” he says excitedly when Geralt lays them out on the low table in front of his favorite yellow floral couch. “They all sound so interesting! Geralt, what do you think?”

“This one,” the witcher answers, handing Jaskier a light blue book with a title that Geralt doesn’t bother reading. The cover is a little too dusty to be a just comparison to Jaskier’s eyes, but it’s close enough.

Jaskier takes the book from him, looks at the title, and raises his eyebrows. He shifts on his feet in front of Geralt, looking at him curiously. His smile is just a touch mischievous. “An interesting choice. Do you want me to read it aloud to you?”

“Sure,” Geralt answers, because even an inventory list would sound like music in Jaskier’s voice. Jaskier nods and throws him a wink, settling onto the floor at Geralt’s feet. Geralt follows the motion with a frown. “Why are you sitting down there? Come sit on the couch with me.”

“Are you asking me to cuddle with you, Geralt?” Jaskier asks with a faint, amused smile, blinking languidly up at him.

“I-- I only--” Geralt breaks off, flustered, unsure how to answer. First of all, he’d never in his life asked anyone to cuddle with him. Second of all, Geralt could think of few things more pleasant than the idea of Jaskier curled under his arm reading to Geralt. It’s tempting, except that if he asks then Jaskier is almost guaranteed to do it, and what if he doesn’t actually want to? He looks like he wants to, but if Geralt asks then he might do it only out of obligation, and--

Jaskier must take pity on him, because he pats Geralt’s knee to stop his stuttering. “I prefer sitting on the floor, really. It’s what I’m used to. It’s more comfortable for me.”

The idea of Jaskier being so used to sitting on the floor that it’s become a preference makes Geralt frown, but he won’t argue with Jaskier’s choice on the matter. “At least sit on a cushion,” he grumbles, taking one from the far end of the couch and handing it to him.

“Thank you,” Jaskier smiles, taking the proffered pillow and arranging it on the floor next to Geralt’s left boot. He settles onto it with his legs curled up, leaning sideways on the couch so that he’s facing Geralt’s legs. Geralt watches in amazement as Jaskier ducks his head forward and presses a chaste kiss to Geralt’s kneecap before turning his attention to the book in his hands. “Now, let’s see what adventures ‘The Maiden’s Desire’ has in store for us.”

“Didn’t know we had any books about maidens at Kaer Morhen,” Geralt grunts, the title making him wary. What kind of stupid book is this about to be? Some silly book about a girl picking flowers and sewing pretty dresses? Still, if Jaskier is reading it, at least it’ll sound nice even if the content is boring.

“Apparently you wolves have beautifully varied tastes,” Jaskier comments with amusem*nt. “Let’s just hear a sample from the middle, see how we like it. How does that sound?”

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier fans through the pages for a moment and picks a spot about three quarters of the way through, clearing his throat a little before he starts reading. “Annette’s skin was glowing with the warm candlelight and the slight dew of sweat that Nathaniel had drawn from her. Her breasts heaved with every breath, nipples hardened prettily with her arousal beneath the fabric, and Nathaniel found himself wishing he’d been able to resist her for long enough to undress her properly before he’d gotten lost between her thighs.”

Geralt is glad that Jaskier’s eyes are on the page so that he can’t see Geralt’s face go red. So it’s that kind of maiden with those kinds of desires. He opens his mouth to say something, maybe to stop Jaskier and have him read something else, anything else, but no words come out. His mouth shuts, heart picking up its pace as Jaskier’s eyes continue skimming back and forth along the neatly printed rows.

“Beautiful though she was, Nathaniel couldn’t look at her for long. He was too desperate to return to his task at her core. No, not a task-- a privilege. Nathaniel was blessed to have the honor of sliding his tongue between her slick folds, tasting her musky flavor that he adored more than any of the fine wines he’d ever tasted. This was his worship, sinking his fingers into her tight sex while he kissed at the little nub that made her thighs tremble around his ears. She was a goddess, and he would happily devote himself to the temple of her body if that was what it took to be allowed to memorize the sound of her moan when she found her pleasure and pulsed around his fingertips. Sweet Melitele, lucky girl, isn’t she?”

Jaskier’s voice is breathy when he mumbles it under his breath, the air between them thicker with his cinnamon-scented arousal than Geralt has ever smelled it. Geralt wonders if he’s imagining himself in her place. Does Jaskier crave fingers tucked inside of him and a tender tongue on his skin? Would his thighs tremble with someone between them? Suddenly Geralt can’t picture much else, and every moment of Annette’s passion becomes Jaskier’s in his mind.

“Nathaniel licked his fingers clean as he slid them from the desperate clutch of her body, then kissed her most intimate of places as sweetly as he might her mouth. ‘Annette, my love,’ he murmured against her entrance, and she let out a desperate cry at the feel of his warm breath on her sensitive skin. ‘Please, let me take you. I can’t go another moment without being inside of you.’

“Annette’s hand wound down between her legs and brushed tenderly across Nathaniel’s face before tangling it in his hair. ‘We shouldn’t,’ she whispered. ‘If my father were to find out--’

“‘Forget what we should or shouldn’t do,’ answered Nathaniel, crawling up her body to kiss her, swallowing the whimper that she lets out at the taste of her own slick. ‘I don’t care about any of that. Here, tonight, do you want me?’”

All of a sudden Geralt is in the story too, the taste of Jaskier’s pleasure on his tongue, desperate for more. The musical tone of Jaskier’s voice weaves the words into a tantalizing near-reality, unspeakably alluring. Geralt’s co*ck is full and throbbing inside his trousers, and he digs his fingers into the cushions to resist the urge to touch.

“‘Gods yes,’ she panted against his mouth, then gasped when his fingers sunk back into her without warning, curling within her body until her back arched up off of the bed. ‘Gods yes, Nathaniel, more than anything. I want you inside of me, please!’”

Geralt must make some sort of noise, then, because Jaskier looks up from the page and drinks in the sight of him, his eyes taking their time as they travel from Geralt’s heated face down to the obvious tent in lap. Jaskier fixates there, the smell of cinnamon growing even stronger, and one of Jaskier’s hands rests on Geralt’s knee. “Do you… want any help with that?”

The swirl of thoughts in Geralt’s mind sound not unlike the fictional woman’s desperate consent, but he shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he grits out, drawing in a jagged breath and exhaling slowly. “It’ll go away on its own.”

“Wasteful,” Jaskier pouts, resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh. “Please, can I have it?”

Well, when he puts it like that.

Geralt is untying his trousers before he remembers to nod his agreement, heedless of the fact that this is a public portion of the keep and anyone might walk in at any moment. Jaskier’s eyes glint with victory. “I-- yes, yeah, I can do that. Like before. Will you… keep reading to me?”

“It would be my absolute delight,” Jaskier purrs, dragging his eyes away from the sight of Geralt’s co*ck emerging from his smallclothes so that he can look at the book once more.

“Needing no further permission, Nathaniel reached down to remove his neglected manhood from the confines of his clothes. He had never wanted a woman more badly than he wanted her. She was so warm and tight around the tip of his co*ck, her slick, velvety walls trembling around the length of him as he slowly pushed in. Her body invited every inch of him eagerly, calling him deeper, until their bodies were flush and her thighs squeezed around his waist.

“‘You feel like heaven,’ Annette moaned, stealing the words right out of Nathaniel’s mouth. Breathy little noises escaped her lips every time Nathaniel pulled out and then thrust back in, making a song so beautiful no bard could ever hope to compete with it. ‘Harder, please!’

“Nathaniel was helpless to do anything except comply. He gave her everything that he had, driving into her so hard that her breasts bounced tantalizingly. Suddenly, he couldn’t think about anything except having her laid bare before him. He reached up and tore at the cotton of her shirt, rending it in two right down the middle.

“Annette gasped, her channel squeezing tight around him as he pulled the fabric down to expose her. Her nipples were two dark, perfect circles on the soft mounds of her breasts, and he bent his neck to take one into his mouth as he continued to move inside of her. Nathaniel swirled his tongue around the hardened nub, not minding the straining of his shoulders when it made his lover shudder so beautifully. His thumb brushed over the place on the opposite side of her body, a promise.”

Geralt’s hand is moving faster of his own accord, balls aching with the desire to release as if he hasn’t already done so three times today. Jaskier is wriggling on his cushion, attention caught between the words on the page and the sight before him, and Geralt has to close his eyes to block out the sight. Not yet. He needs to hear how it ends, to give a resolution to the fantasy of blue eyes and cinnamon playing out in his head. He groans, and Jaskier stares at him, pupils blown wide. “Don’t stop,” Geralt grits out.

Jaskier’s voice shakes a little as he continues to read, but that only makes Geralt’s stomach flutter with another wave of wanting. “Annette’s body went rigid as she found her pleasure yet again, trembling around Nathaniel’s length. Unable to contain himself any longer, Nathaniel buried his face in the curve of her neck and allowed himself to reach his own climax, filling his lover with his seed, drinking in the sweet moans of satisfaction that she let loose--”

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt says desperately, feeling his org*sm rising up in him too fast to stop it, eyes jammed shut. He’s going to waste it, his promise to Jaskier broken, too soon. “Come--”

Geralt’s hand, which has been desperately clutching at the base of his co*ck in an effort to hold off, is suddenly batted aside and replaced with a mouth, sliding down until the tip of Geralt’s co*ck is pushing into Jaskier’s tight throat and interrupting his moan. He’s already coming before Jaskier even starts swallowing around him, Geralt’s hips jerking forward completely against his will, and Jaskier just takes it. He continues to swallow, cheeks hollowed to create perfect, heavenly suction, his nose buried in the snowy white hair at the base of Geralt’s co*ck.

He should probably say something, or try to stop it, but it’s too late and Geralt doesn’t want to stop it anyways. Not when it feels like this. He just takes Jaskier by the back of the neck, fingers curling around his collar, holding him in place and letting himself just enjoy.

Cinnamon-arousal gives way to honey-contentment as Geralt finally slumps back against the couch, pulling Jaskier gently off of Geralt’s length by two fingers hooked underneath his collar. Jaskier releases him slowly, sucking hard as his lips slide across every inch, removing any traces of Geralt’s flavor with painstaking attention to detail. Finally he’s off, and he licks away the little smear of Geralt’s come on his lip before Geralt can do something stupid like push it in with his thumb. “Thank you,” Jaskier says sweetly, smiling up at Geralt like he hung the very moon in the sky.

“I didn’t mean for you to-- do that,” is the only thing Geralt can manage to say in response. “I just needed you to turn around, so that I could-- not waste.”

Jaskier’s face falls a little bit, brow furrowing with concern. “You didn’t want me to…?”

It’s a hell of a question, and Geralt hesitates before answering. “I… enjoyed it. You like it that way? Better than... how we did it before?”

“Gods yes,” Jaskier immediately replies. “It’s so much more satisfying. I get to feel you. I mean-- I’m grateful for whatever you want to give me,” Jaskier backtracks, looking wistfully at the place where Geralt’s co*ck is tucked out of sight again. “I don’t mean to be greedy. But gods, yes.”

“Okay,” Geralt exhales, then nods. “Alright. If that’s better, then we can… do that. From now on. If that’s what you want.” It doesn’t really matter all that much, how it happens, after all. He’s already made the decision to do this for Jaskier, as much as he needs. If he likes it better like this, what’s the difference?

Geralt ignores the part of him that argues that it’s different because now that he’s had a taste, he won’t ever want to give it up again.

Jaskier beams at him and nods eagerly, and that settles it. “I would like that, Geralt. Can I-- would you like me to keep reading to you?”

“Maybe you should, uh, pick a different book.”

The smile on Jaskier’s face is a little too knowing, but he follows the suggestion. His next choice is a book of poems, and Geralt can’t imagine a better way to pass an evening. Jaskier’s voice is made for poetry, even when it’s a little raspy from a recently used throat, and he has a natural sense for the rhythm of the words that Geralt couldn’t manage if he tried. There’s a sensation of rightness in the moment, as Geralt watches the shadows on the floor get longer. His hand finds its way into Jaskier’s hair, and he revels in the thick scent of honey-contentment as he cards through the soft brown locks and listens to a bunch of pretty nonsense words.

Eventually, the light from the sun fades to twilight and Geralt is forced to put an end to things. “We should go,” he tells Jaskier, removing his hand from his hair even though it makes him whine. “Dinner will be served soon. You can take the books with you, if you want. In case you want to read them in your room.”

Jaskier replies that he would like that, so Geralt gathers the books in his arms so that he can carry them back to Jaskier’s room for him. He’s pleased to find that Jaskier seems so interested in Kaer Morhen’s collection of books; he’ll need something to keep him entertained during the slow winter days to come, and Vesemir can’t read through his own collection fast enough to stop the dust from building up on the hundreds of volumes.

He’s opening his mouth to ask Jaskier if there are any others he’d like to take when the man stands up and Geralt notices a small dark spot on his trousers over his crotch. “Jaskier,” he says with surprise, unable to tear his eyes from the sight, “is-- did you--?”

Following Geralt’s eyes down, Jaskier makes sense of Geralt’s stuttered inquiry and then looks back up at him with pride. “Of course I did.”

“How--? When--?” Jaskier hadn’t touched himself, Geralt is sure of it. He would have noticed that. He notices everything that Jaskier does, or at least he thought he did.

“When I was on my knees for you.” The self-satisfied smile begins to fade off of Jaskier’s face, giving way to confusion and concern. “You’re not mad, are you? I thought… I thought you wanted me to?”

Geralt isn’t sure how to respond to that for a long moment. For one thing, the very idea of Jaskier coming untouched in his trousers just from having a mouthful of Geralt is so erotic that his co*ck is twitching in his own pants and threatening to make a showing for the fifth time today. He wants to make it happen again. He wants to lay Jaskier out on his furs when they’ve been warmed by the fire and learn to play his body like a fiddle, see how many different ways he can make the man come undone without even glancing at his co*ck. He wants to pull his trousers down and lick the spend off of his skin, to taste him like he’s tasted Geralt so many times today--

He wants to get a grip.

“It’s fine,” Geralt grunts, looking elsewhere. Anywhere else. “You should-- feel nice. It’s only fair. And it’s your body. Do what you want with it.”

The confusion doesn’t leave Jaskier’s eyes, but at least the worry does. “I’m not in trouble, then? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Let’s-- let’s get you new clothes,”Geralt sighs, jerking his head towards the door. “You need them anyways. We’ll take them and your books to your room before dinner so you can… get yourself situated.”

The storage rooms contain several dusty trunks full of clothes in various sizes, and he’s able to fill a backpack with several full sets of clothing and some other essentials like a razor and some soap. When Jaskier emerges from his room a while later for dinner, he smells like mothballs and soap and only a little like debauchery.

They pass the evening with conversation by the fire. Eskel and Lambert are playing Gwent, and judging by the frequency, intensity, and variety of swear words coming out of Lambert’s mouth, the youngest brother is losing. Vesemir and Geralt are chatting about the various contracts that Geralt has completed over the course of the year, with Jaskier on the floor in front of Geralt’s couch leaning against his knee as he had done before. Geralt tries hard not to think the parallels there.

Yennefer is curled up on an armchair sipping a goblet of wine and listening quietly, only commenting here or there when Geralt’s story of the outside world intersects with her own adventures from the past year. No one mentions the fact that she’d only intended to stay for a night and now doesn’t appear to be preparing to leave anytime soon. Things are different than they’d been 24 hours ago.

When the time comes for everyone to head to bed, Geralt escorts Jaskier to the door and lingers there. He clears his throat, and it still takes him a couple of tries to get the words out. “Just so that we’re clear, your room is your own. No one will come into it unless you ask them to. And no one’s going to come into your bed at night for-- for anything.”

The words were said as a comfort, but Jaskier just gives a small, sad smile and nods his head. “Alright. I had hoped, since you seemed pleased with me earlier, after I helped you with chores… but I understand.”

“Are you, uh, hungry again?” Geralt asks, confused. “You know you can ask, when that happens--”

“No, not that,” Jaskier says quickly, “I feel nice and full right now. Thank you. I was thinking-- well, I was hoping you’d give me something… more. Since you seemed a little more amenable to my touch earlier and all.”

He accompanies the words with a little shift of his hips, and Geralt smells cinnamon. He wonders if he’ll ever get the scent of it out of his nose, or get the sight of Jaskier looking at him with longing out of his head. One deep, savoring inhale is all he allows himself before he shakes his head. “Not that. I can’t.”

“I know. I won’t ask again,” Jaskier sighs. “I won’t stop wanting it, but I’ll stop asking for it. I know it makes you upset that I want that.”

“It’s different,” Geralt says, his only explanation. “That’s… more. I can’t.”

“You’ll let me know if you change your mind?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

When Jaskier turns to retreat into his room, Geralt discovers that his sadness smells like black tea gone cold.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

This time, when Geralt goes to Jaskier’s room in the morning to knock on the door and is invited in, he’s greeted with an altogether more wholesome sight. Jaskier is in the bed swaddled in furs and looking endearingly rumpled and sleepy, eyelashes fluttering dazedly when he looks at Geralt. “Good morning, Geralt,” he murmurs.

On second thought, not so wholesome, because the sight of him makes Geralt want to crawl into bed and kiss him breathless. He perches on the edge of the mattress instead. “Good morning, Jaskier. Sleep well?”

“I think I’m starting to see the appeal of sleeping in a bed,” Jaskier comments with a yawn, stretching his limbs beneath the furs. “It’s quite comfortable. I’m going to get awfully spoiled.”

Good. It’s what you deserve. “Winter has its benefits,” Geralt answers neutrally, foot bouncing anxiously on the stone floor. “I’m sorry to have woken you. You can sleep more if you want. Any later than this and you’ll miss the chance for a hot breakfast.”

Jaskier looks at him for a full fifteen seconds with a straight face before it cracks into a grin. “Please don’t make me make the joke about ‘hot breakfast.’ Please, neither one of us will survive it.”

He doesn’t need to make the joke, because Geralt goes red in the face at the mere insinuation. “Are you… are you hungry for that, as well?”

“Always hungry for that,” Jaskier answers at once. “But we can go get normal food first. I don’t want you to have to wait for me.”

“It’s no trouble.” As if him getting to come is some sort of hardship. “We may as well-- here, where it’s more… comfortable.”

Jaskier looks like he knows what Geralt is thinking, because a slow smile spreads across his face. He doesn’t call him out on his barely restrained eagerness, however. “You’re so generous,” he merely says, eyes alight with mischief. “Are you going to join me in my nice cozy bed, then?”

That had been exactly Geralt’s intention, but now he hesitates. This is different than standing while Jaskier kneels, or sitting on a rickety couch in a semi-public place. This is a bed. A warm bed that smells like Jaskier and has Jaskier in it and Geralt’s self-control must surely have a limit. One of these days he’s going to crack and get lost in this man, and not be able to do a damn thing to stop himself.

But then Jaskier shifts to hold the blankets up invitingly and Geralt sees the black leather collar encircling his throat, and he remembers why he stays in control. He won’t slip. Not when so many others have before him.

“If that’s what you want,” he acquiesces, kicking his boots off before he climbs into Jaskier’s bed. He lays there on his back, rigid, unsure, waiting. Should he get his co*ck out? He’s not hard yet, his nerves warring with whatever arousal he might feel. He glances at Jaskier, so far motionless beside him, and finds the man looking placidly across the pillows at him. Now that the furs aren’t wrapped so tightly around him, Geralt can see that he’s chosen to sleep bare once more. Geralt wants to cover that body with his own, and the urge makes him tighten his fists around handfuls of woolen sheets.

The tension in his body doesn’t go unnoticed. “You don’t have to be nervous,” Jaskier says softly, his voice losing the roughness of sleep and giving way to his normal, almost musical tone. “I know you must not think much of me, but I won’t take advantage of you. I told you that I wouldn’t ask you for more than you’re willing to give me.”

“It’s not you,” Geralt exhales, frowning. He doesn’t like the implication that he thinks anything less than the best about Jaskier. “It’s me I’m worried about.”

He can see the questions on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but the man doesn’t ask for any further explanation. Instead, he just nods. “Alright. Well, what about… what about a safeword?”

“A safeword?” Geralt asks, eyebrows skyrocketing. “I’m not really-- I’ve never used a safeword before. I don’t have much interest in things that happen in dungeons unless there’s a monster in one that needs killing.”

“Cheeky,” Jaskier grins. “But it doesn’t have to just be for those kinds of things, you know. It could be for anything that you need to signal to put an end to. You could even have multiple ones for multiple… degrees of protection. For example, if my master says ‘mashed potatoes’ he may want me to slow down, or ‘driftwood’ if I’m to be very still, or ‘turpentine’ if I’m to stop and be punished.”

Geralt growls at that, he can’t help it. Not when Jaskier is safe in Kaer Morhen remembering times he was punished by men who called themselves his masters. “You won’t be punished, ever.”

“I know,” Jaskier says, which does a little to loosen the anxious knot in Geralt’s chest, but not much. “But still. You could pick just one word. In case I ever do something wrong and push you too far and make you… tempted. Then I would know to stop right away so that you wouldn’t have to be upset with me for making you cross the boundaries you put in place.”

“It wouldn’t be your fault,” Geralt protests at once. “It doesn’t matter what you do to tempt someone, they’re responsible for their own actions. If I were to ever--” He breaks off, then, unable to even finish the thought. “It would be my fault,” he concludes with a swallow.

He can tell that Jaskier doesn’t buy that, not completely. “So that you wouldn’t have to be upset with either one of us, then,” he shrugs.

“Okay,” Geralt sighs, closing his eyes for a second. “Safewords. We can do that.” Maybe that extra layer of protection will help with the feeling that he’s constantly spinning out of control. “What kind of word is it supposed to be?”

“Anything, really. Something that you wouldn’t normally say in the bedroom, so that it stands out. Whatever it is, I’ll memorize it and never forget it.”

After considering for a moment, Geralt opens his eyes again and looks at Jaskier as he says, “Quen.”

“Quen,” Jaskier repeats solemnly, but his brow is furrowed. “I’ve never heard that word before. What does it mean?”

“It’s… witchers can do a limited amount of magic,” Geralt explains, well aware as he’s speaking that he probably shouldn't be saying so much to a human. He doesn’t find that he cares all that much. “A few signs that we can make with our hands to make certain magical things happen.”

“Like the fire, the other night when we camped,” Jaskier says, worming one hand out from beneath the furs to make a gesture that isn’t unlike igni, though his smallest finger isn’t quite crossed the way it should be. “You did your hand like this and then the fire suddenly lit all by itself.”

“That’s one of them, yes, called igni. Quen is another. It’s a sign that casts a barrier around a witcher to stop men or beasts from harming him. It means protection.”

“I like that,” Jaskier says, smiling slowly. “Quen, then. All you have to say is that one word, and I’ll stop what I’m doing. I promise.”

Another tiny degree of tension loosens in Geralt. “And yours?” Jaskier looks at him blankly. “What’s your safeword, so that I can know if I ever need to stop something on your behalf?”

Jaskier laughs a little, lightly amused. “Well I don’t need one. I can take what I’m given.”

“You don’t-- that’s not how it works,” Geralt says firmly. “You get to have limits, too. I don’t care about what you can ‘take.’ If you don’t actively enjoy something, it should stop. Tell me you know that.”

“I…” Jaskier shifts his eyes away, smile gone. “I believe that you think that’s true,” he offers after a moment.

Geralt might not be a man of many words, but he knows --perhaps more keenly than men who run their mouths at the slightest occasion-- how powerful the choice of a few words can be. Jaskier is making a careful distinction, in admitting that his power to consent is true in Geralt’s mind but not his own. Geralt knows this, and he doesn’t know how to convince Jaskier of this fact other than simply to demonstrate it to him and hope that someday he starts to believe it for himself.

“What’s your word?” he asks again.

Jaskier looks like he wants to hide away from the question, bury himself in the safety of the furs and away from Geralt’s insistence. He doesn’t, and Geralt feels a possessive second-hand pride at his bravery. “Dandelion,” he whispers.

“Dandelion,” Geralt echoes solemnly. “Okay.”

“The bad witchers called me that. Pretty and useless. I hate it.”

When the compulsion comes over Geralt to reach out and rest his hand on Jaskier’s where it lay between them on the bed, he doesn’t fight it. He lets the heat of Jaskier’s skin, ever so slightly feverish, soak into his palm as he chooses his words with as much care as if they were his weapons going into battle. “My hands will only ever touch you in ways that you enjoy,” he says finally, each one ringing with his surety that it’s the correct one. “If I ever fail in that regard, not only is it allowed for you to stop me, it’s required. That is… very important to me. I don’t wish to bring you anything but happiness. Not even by mistake.”

Jaskier’s eyes are brimming with tears, and it’s only honey and cinnamon heavy in the air that clue Geralt in to the fact that it isn’t sadness which fills them at all. “Can I please suck your co*ck now?” Jaskier asks, voice thick with emotion.

It’s the desperate diversion of a man who has run out of words, looking for something to do with his mouth other than to give voice to a whirlwind of thoughts. Geralt, of all people, doesn’t ask for another word. There are enough words between them already.

The second that he nods, Jaskier has closed the distance between them and is mouthing at the soft skin of his navel in an instant. “You said I can have it like I want it, right? Like this? I can make it good for both of us?”

“However you want it,” Geralt affirms, letting his head fall back against the pillows and hands grab new fistfuls of sheets to keep steady.

He’s still soft in his trousers when Jaskier works the fabric down over his hips, but it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. Jaskier buries his face in the crease of Geralt’s thigh and kisses him there, softly, reverently, and if Jaskier were a witcher Geralt might say he was scenting him, the way he just breathes for a moment. His hands are moving, though, roving slowly over Geralt’s sides and his hips and the dusting of hair that covers the space between his belly button and his groin. The muscles of Geralt’s thighs tremble ever so slightly under Jaskier’s exploration, flexing as he presses his fingertips into the flesh as if to memorize the topography of Geralt by feel alone.

Geralt’s co*ck starts to fill where it lays against him, nudging against Jaskier’s jaw. Humming, Jaskier turns his head to kiss the base of it, just once, but otherwise ignores Geralt’s hardening length. Instead he continues to explore every inch of Geralt’s exposed skin, following his hands with his mouth, just dragging plush lips across pale flesh and leaving open-mouthed kisses wherever he finds a scar. His eyes aren’t even open, Geralt sees when he lifts his head to glance down, Jaskier looking for all the world like a man at worship.

When Jaskier runs his thumb down the crease between Geralt’s balls, Geralt’s fully hard co*ck flexes and releases a drop of precum from the tip. Jaskier doesn’t even look, just runs his thumb and forefinger up Geralt’s length like a mockery of a touch and swipes the little morsel up so he can suck it off of his own skin. Not a drop wasted.

Geralt has yet to receive a proper touch yet, and already he’s aching and his breath is coming quicker than it ever does outside of battle. This isn’t sex, not as Geralt knows it. So far in Geralt’s life, sex has been at worse an errand taken care of with a skittish whor*, and at best a frantic f*ck with one of the few, passionate lovers he’s taken over the decades. With Yennefer sex had usually felt like a wrestling match more than anything else, an unspoken vie for dominance between two stubborn souls.

But this… this is another thing entirely. Jaskier doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, despite the need that drives him. It’s as if he cares more about the journey than getting to any particular destination, and along the way he’s finding marvel after marvel. No one’s ever kissed his scars before. Ignored them, maybe, or asked about the stories behind them. No one has ever run their tongue across them the way Jaskier does now, and Geralt doesn’t notice he’s reaching to bury one hand in Jaskier’s hair until the heat of Jaskier’s scalp warms his palm.

He’s about to pull his hand back and apologize when Jaskier reaches up and places his hand over Geralt’s to keep it there, as if he could read the witcher’s mind. “Don’t,” he says, warm breath ghosting over Geralt’s balls, then he picks his head up to look at him. When he does, the loose, three-fingered grip that Jaskier has on the base of his co*ck holds it at an angle that makes the tip scrape over the collar at Jaskier’s throat. Geralt’s thighs twitch at the foreign sensation on his sensitive slit. “I like feeling your hands on me.”

Their eye contact holds while Jaskier gives him a single stroke, barely there, and Geralt exhales shakily at the promise bordering on threat that it contains. “Jaskier,” he rasps, and the man’s eyes go dark with heady cinnamon lust, “please, I need-- I--”

Jaskier only shushes him, giving him a firmer stroke. “It’s alright,” he soothes, ducking his head to kiss the tip of Geralt’s co*ck in a way that might have been chaste if it were anywhere else on his body. As it is, the soft caress of his lips is downright obscene. “You don’t have to say it. I know what you need.”

He takes Geralt into his mouth then, finally, enveloping the head of Geralt’s co*ck in wet heat and then sliding those plush, velvety-soft lips down lower. He takes it slow, working over the length with his tongue as he rises and falls on it, drooling on Geralt’s co*ck until the whole thing is glistening. As he moves, his hands move on Geralt’s abdomen, fingernails scratching ever so lightly over his skin, movements in time with Jaskier’s bobs. With every graceful dip of Jaskier’s head, the tightness around Geralt’s co*ck grows, tension ratcheting impossibly higher.

When those strong, slender hands get involved, Geralt can’t help the noises he makes. He’s never been one to get vocal in bed --or anywhere else-- but there isn’t an option here. The fingers of one hand form a ring around Geralt’s co*ck below Jaskier’s lips and move in time with his mouth, and together the sensations are just as good, if not better, than any lover’s body he’s ever sunk into. Low, punched-out noises are forced out of Geralt every time Jaskier goes down, and Geralt flexes his hand in Jaskier’s hair in a way that he hopes comes off as appreciative.

His thighs tremble a little and Jaskier changes tactics, pulling his mouth off of Geralt’s co*ck to drag it down lower, through the little thicket of hair at the base and down to his balls. So many sensations flood Geralt all at once that he can’t even guess at what’s happening down there out of his view, can only identify a brief tease of suction here and a kitten lick there, the rolling of such sensitive body parts in the palm of a hand that Geralt hadn’t even noticed slipping between his legs.

All he can see is the hand still on his co*ck, jerking it quickly, and the top of Jaskier’s head with pale, scarred fingers woven into his hair. Every so often the angle of Jaskier’s attentions will have him tilting his head in such a way that Geralt can see his eyes, reverently closed, long eyelashes dusting his cheekbones. He’s got a slight flush to his face --exertion? arousal?-- that only serves to make him lovelier.

Geralt has to fight himself against the urge to hoist Jaskier up and put him on his back on this mattress he praised as the height of luxury, to spread him open and sink his co*ck into him and chase his release. He could do it, and it would feel good, and Jaskier would let him. Geralt can feel that self-control slipping with every passing second of Jaskier’s teasing, as he’s brought closer and closer to org*sm and then backed off. It’s never felt like this before, he’s never needed to come so intensely, never been this desperate for it--

He tugs on Jaskier’s hair, a silent plea, and the man actually giggles as he moves his mouth back to Geralt’s co*ck, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to Geralt. Of course he does; he was built to be perfection and his creators didn’t miss their mark. He’s flawless, in his element, sinking deeper than ever onto Geralt’s co*ck so that the muscles of his throat flex around the tip. Jaskier’s moan sets off an answering one in Geralt, the noise a little frantic towards the end, and Geralt draws his knees up on either side of Jaskier to plant his feet flat on the mattress, to give him leverage so that he can push up into the heavenly sensation.

He doesn’t get a chance, though, because Jaskier places his hands on Geralt’s thighs just above the knees and presses down, forcing them flat again, leaning his weight on Geralt’s legs to keep him pinned there at Jaskier’s mercy. He could get free if he wanted to, Geralt knows, Jaskier’s strength no match for his own. For a moment he considers it, debates struggling against Jaskier to wrest back control, and in the process maybe make the world turn right side up again.

Jaskier releases his mouthful of Geralt to look up at him.“Let me,” he says simply, and the fight leaves Geralt at once. He doesn’t want to fight it. Let Jaskier take the reins, just for a moment, and draw the pleasure out of Geralt however he wants to. Geralt has the feeling he’s in capable hands.

A few more presses into the tight embrace of Jaskier’s throat --gods, how does he do that with such ease, like his mouth is meant to be full rather than empty?-- and Geralt removes his hand from Jaskier’s hair so that he can cover his face with it instead. He feels strung out, exposed, too plainly desperate for his release to allow anyone to see. “Please,” he grunts, then has to pant for a few seconds as Jaskier drags the tip of Geralt’s co*ck along the roof of his mouth in a way that would have any other man gagging but only makes Jaskier hum. “I’m close.”

The only sign that Jaskier hears him is that one of his hands slides from his place on Geralt’s thigh and between Geralt’s legs. He drags his thumb across the spit-slick skin at the base of Geralt’s co*ck to wet the pad of his finger, then takes it lower. His thumb travels past Geralt’s balls, and Jaskier presses in with an expert touch to massage his perineum just so, finding some sensitive spot that Geralt wasn’t even aware that he had until starbursts of pleasure go off behind his eyelids and he’s coming in Jaskier’s mouth.

Geralt is fairly certain that he pulls out more than a few strands of his own silvery-white hair as Jaskier continues to work him over. Milking him might be a better word for it, the way that Jaskier’s hands and mouth don’t stop moving, dragging the moment out for longer than Geralt had ever thought physically possible. Jaskier swallows everything, never faltering even with a smirk tugging at the corner of his very full mouth. By the time he’s done, pulling off of Geralt with a little pop of finality, the co*ck before him is as clean as could be.

They spend a moment just looking at each other, Geralt working hard to even out his breathing and Jaskier smiling at him with pride. “Good?” he asks, lashes fluttering.

Geralt grunts, not quite capable of words yet. It doesn’t matter; Jaskier’s answering grin says he knows damn well how admirable his work was. It makes Geralt want to roll his eyes and make a sarcastic comment. It also makes Geralt want to pull him up into his arms and just hold him, kissing the taste of himself off of Jaskier’s lips and making his appreciation known in kind.

Speaking of which-- “Do you need to come, too?” Geralt asks gruffly, because the smell of cinnamon is still potent in the air and he can see when Jaskier rocks back onto his knees that his co*ck is hard and dripping between his legs. Geralt wants to know what he tastes like.

But Jaskier only gives him a funny look and climbs off of the bed, walking over to his newly filled wardrobe and opening the doors to select a shirt, trousers, and smallclothes for the day. Geralt tries not to follow the sway of his hips as Jaskier walks, nor stare at the curious slick quality to the insides of his thighs. “You just made me come yesterday,” Jaskier says with no small amount of amusem*nt, beginning to pull his clothes on. “I know better than to expect another so soon.”

Geralt goes about re-dressing himself as well, tucking his softened co*ck back inside his trousers and sitting up in Jaskier’s bed. “There’s not a limit to how often you can… feel good,” replies Geralt, trying to sound casual. “I could go and save you some breakfast, if you wanted to stay here and… pleasure yourself.”

He doesn’t like the way the words sound coming out of his mouth, and from Jaskier’s flinch, he doesn’t either. “I would rather not, if I have a choice,” he says quietly, and Geralt could swear he sounds hurt by the suggestion.

There’s a lot about the conversation that Geralt doesn’t understand, but he latches onto the one thing he knows how to answer with confidence. “Of course you have a choice. It’s your body.”

Jaskier just sighs and turns his back on Geralt again, taking longer than is strictly necessary to pick out a pair of socks and pull them onto his feet. “Can we get breakfast now?” he says after a long moment.

Geralt replies that of course they can, and pulls his own boots on in time with Jaskier, wondering as he ties up the laces whether he’s done something to drive a wedge between the two of them right when things were starting to feel something akin to normal. It feels like he’s walking through a maze of booby traps, where instead of bombs designed to harm him, all the trip wires are set to trigger explosions in Jaskier instead. He wishes there was a way to sense those dangers coming as easy as a sword or a claw.

As they walk down the corridors on the way to start their day, however, Jaskier smells mostly like honey and only a little like cold tea, and Geralt contents himself to breathe him in just the way that he is.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Ordinarily, training with Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir during winters is more of a chore to Geralt than anything else. It’s important for keeping them from getting soft, but it isn’t as if they have anything to truly gain from the experience at this point. They’ve been fighting together for too many decades to have any new tricks to pull on one another, and the sparring of two witchers isn’t really translatable to any sort of real life challenges they’re likely to face. Facing another opponent with roughly the same strength and abilities that Geralt has is a far cry from going up against a monster, or even a human.

Today, however, it feels like a blessing. It’s been two days since he arrived at Kaer Morhen, which Vesemir deems enough rest for him to be able to start participating in the training regimen that Lambert and Eskel had started weeks ago. Geralt can’t wait to throw himself into the fray, even if it’s a poor mockery of real combat; he needs to do something physical, exhaust himself completely, if for no other reason then to hopefully burn off some of the energy that’s had his mind racing every waking moment these last few days. He needs to leave it all out there in the dirt and take a break from his own brain.

If that involves him beating the sh*t out of a training dummy or smacking around a brother or two, even better. He’s got more than his fair share of anger simmering under his skin and a few split lips and busted knuckles might help let some of it out.

The courtyard is a surprisingly pleasant place to train, thanks to the spells Yennefer placed there years ago on her one previous winter with them. She’d taken one look at the snow-covered ground and scoffed at the pointlessness of it, portaled away to gods knew where for a few hours, and returned with an array of crystals that she placed around the perimeter. With a sulfuric wave of magic, she’d created an invisible barrier over the roof of the courtyard that kept out the near-constant downpour of snow that assaulted Kaer Morhen. Once the snow already on the ground of the courtyard had melted, it’d been clear and dry since, no matter the weather, requiring only an aard to the crystals once a season or so to keep the spell functional. The witchers were free to train in what felt like warm, open summer air, even in the dead of winter.

(If you ask Yennefer, she claims she did it so she wouldn’t have to get her boots wet when walking from one area of the keep to another. It’s a keep full of people who can smell lies, but they don’t hold her kindness against her.)

“Lambert, start with some laps,” Vesemir instructs, ignoring the youngest wolf’s groan without so much as a glance in his direction because he knows he’ll be obeyed regardless. “Geralt, Eskel, do some stretches and then I want you sparring. Hand to hand first, then we’ll rotate.”

Eskel jogs over to the worn circle of dirt that usually hosts their sparring sessions and starts his stretches, Geralt pausing for a moment to tie his hair up more securely before setting off after him. He stops when he hears the shuffle of feet behind him and sees Jaskier trying to follow along as well. “You might want to stay back a bit,” he suggests with a wry quirk of his lips. “Eskel isn’t the most graceful man around, and you won’t want to get underfoot of him. He’s a heavy bastard.”

“I heard that!”

“And you know it’s true, so shut up,” Geralt hollers back over his shoulder, drawing a snort out of his older brother. “It might be safer if you wait over here with Vesemir while we train.”

He’d tried to get Jaskier to agree to stay inside in the first place, knowing he was likely to enjoy some time in the library or taking a nap or even sitting with Yen while she did whatever mysterious witches do up in her little tower. Jaskier, however, had been unconvinced. “I want to stay with you,” he had insisted, stepping closer to Geralt until his shoulder bumped against the witcher’s. Geralt hadn’t moved away from the contact. “I can watch, can’t I? I’ve never seen witchers train before. It sounds like it would be fascinating.”

‘Fascinating’ sounded like a strong word to Geralt, who knows from decades of experience that it’s more of them getting yelled at for forgetting the basics Vesemir taught them damn near a century ago than it is any kind of source of excitement. Far be it from him to tell the man how to spend his free time, though, so he had just nodded his assent and led Jaskier out into the courtyard where the others were already waiting.

Jaskier looks similarly hesitant to be parted from him now, eyeing the distance between where Eskel is doing his stretches and where Vesemir is leaning against a crumbling wall and observing the actions of the others. Whatever kind of estimation he’s making, it must be at least somewhat palatable, since Jaskier nods slowly. “Okay. I can… do that.”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt makes sure to tell him, in case he doesn’t know it. “I only meant that if you stick too close to me, you might get hurt. But you could go anywhere. You could go for a walk if you wanted, or… whatever. Whatever you want.”

Jaskier scans the courtyard consideringly. “Alright. How far am I allowed to go?”

“As far as you want to.” Geralt furrows his brows. “Why do you ask?”

“The last time we were outside, when we were in the woods, you kept telling me not to go far. I don’t want to overreach my privileges,” Jaskier answers calmly. He points to a spot on the wall about twenty yards away. “Am I allowed to walk to there and back? You’d still be able to see me the whole time, I think.”

“Jaskier, I only told you to stay close to me those times because it wasn’t safe for you to wander too far. We were potentially being pursued, and you could have gotten lost in the woods or attacked by some animal or monster. Those dangers don’t exist here,” Geralt explains.

“It was to keep me safe,” Jaskier muses, looking at Geralt consideringly. “So I’m allowed to go… away from you? Even where you can’t see me?”

“You can go anywhere you want in Kaer Morhen and its grounds, except maybe people’s personal bedrooms unless invited,” Geralt says, trying not to think about how Jaskier might interpret the idea of being invited into a bedroom by one of his pack. “You could also… leave Kaer Morhen, if you really wanted to, though it-- it would be considerably more dangerous. I wouldn’t stop you, but I-- would prefer if you chose to stay,” he forces himself to continue.

“I don’t want to leave,” Jaskier says at once, stepping into Geralt’s space once more and pressing the back of his hand against Geralt’s like he wants to hold onto his hand but isn’t quite bold enough to make the move. Geralt stays very still and lets him, afraid to turn his palm over and scare Jaskier off. “I like it here. Everyone’s kind. I want to stay.”

“Good,” Geralt exhales with no small amount of relief. “I’m… glad.”

“Might be careful of getting lost in the corridors until you learn your way around,” Vesemir chimes in, having been listening intently to the conversation all the while, though he pretended not to. “I remember finding a young Geralt wandering around in the depths of the mountain in the middle of the night not long after he came to Kaer Morhen, dancing around because he couldn’t find a chamberpot. Never seen a pup hop around with quite so much… energy.”

“Someone kept putting frogs in the one in our dormitory,” Geralt grumbles, rolling his eyes. “You ever had a frog jump down your pants while you’re taking a sh*t at midnight?”

It’s always been a memory that Geralt looks back on in annoyance, but the way Jaskier’s face lights up at the ridiculous tale makes even Geralt crack a smile in return. “The scandal! Did you ever find out who was the scoundrel responsible for such mischief?” he asks Geralt, looking around as if mindful of spies. “Should I be inspecting my chamberpot for intruders as well?”

“I have my suspicions it was Eskel,” Geralt solemnly replies. “It’s always the quiet bastards who cause the most trouble.”

“It wasn’t me, but I do know a spell to unlock your door if you don’t get your ass over here, Geralt,” Eskel calls across the courtyard. “Let’s go. I’m ready to kick your ass. No more stalling.”

“Just trying to let you have a few more minutes of peace before it hurts to breathe,” Geralt calls back, shooting Jaskier a grin before he makes his way over to the dirt.

As he stretches and prepares himself for the few hours of exercise to come, Geralt makes sure to keep his glances in Jaskier’s direction as subtle as possible. The young man stands there watching him from Vesemir’s side for a while, then eventually wanders off. He does laps along the same well-worn path as Lambert, though at a brisk walk rather than a run like the witcher. Even still, he’s pink with exertion by the time Eskel and Geralt finish their drills and prepare to transition to free sparring.

It’s harder to look at him after that, but Geralt can listen as Jaskier goes back to the area near Vesemir and plops himself down on the grass. Vesemir offers him water from a pitcher he’s propped up on a nearby crate, and Jaskier takes it gratefully. Geralt ducks under a powerful swing from Eskel as Vesemir clears his throat.

“You could train with them, you know. If you wanted. You seem like you have a determined spirit.”

“Train? Like how they’re training?”

“Not quite. They have different advantages than you do. You’re not going to go head to head with a witcher, but you could learn to defend yourself against other humans. It’s a powerful thing, knowing that you have the ability to protect yourself. We could train you to use an attacker’s size and strength against him, maybe how to use a dagger.”

Geralt remembers Jaskier’s reaction the last time he’d been offered a means to defend himself and glances over with concern, ready to step in and calm Jaskier when he gets upset at Vesemir’s words. Any minute now Jaskier is going to tell him about how he can’t have a weapon, and how we could never raise a hand against his masters, and Geralt is going to have to talk Vesemir out of the idea that everyone who passes through Kaer Morhen needs to come out a warrior--

“That… might be nice. Can I think about it?” Jaskier says, looking earnestly up at Vesemir, and then Geralt catches a left hook to the jaw in his distraction and goes down like a stone.

“Oh, hell yes!” Lambert crows as he runs by, though he doesn’t dare stop. “The mighty ‘white wolf’gets the piss beat out of him! Where are your extra mutagens now, bitch?!”

“You’ll find them when it’s your turn to go up against me,” Geralt growls, trying to throw Eskel, who’s wasted no time getting on top of him and beginning to wail on him. It’s surprisingly difficult, considering that Eskel had a whole three seconds to get the drop on him and make sure he’s using his weight to maximum effectiveness in pinning him. The hold won’t last forever, obviously, because as bulky as Eskel is, he still can’t match Geralt’s strength. He just needs to get one of his knees up and then--

Eskel’s eyes go comically wide above Geralt, mouth dropping open as one hand clutches his throat. The next minute he’s stumbling gracelessly backwards off of Geralt, dust flying as he scuffles across the ground, and behind him stands Jaskier, teeth bared in a snarl and eyes flashing at Eskel laying in the dirt before him. “Get off of him!” Geralt registers Jaskier shouting, even as the man half runs, half trips past Eskel to fall on top of Geralt shielding him with his much smaller body as best as he can.

There’s a long pause as everyone in the courtyard is deathly silent. Then, from across the courtyard, a burst of laughter as Lambert collapses against the stone wall in mirth. “This is the single best day of my life!” he howls, tears streaming from his eyes. “First Geralt eats it because he’s too busy making goo goo eyes, then Eskel gets choked out by a little twig! I f*cking love this. Vesemir, write this down in one of your big ass history books, please, I f*cking beg you--”

“Go f*ck yourself, Lambert,” Eskel says, rubbing his throat.

Geralt places his hands gently on Jaskier’s waist and shifts him so that Geralt can sit up. “Did you just attack Eskel?” he asks, gobsmacked.

“He was hurting you,” Jaskier says fiercely, glaring at Eskel fiercely in between his glances at Geralt. “You were trying to get him off of you, I could tell! I wasn’t just going to just let him do that to you! So I just-- I--”

“Grabbed me by my medallion chain and about yanked my head off my shoulders,” Eskel finishes for him at a grumble. “Melitele. Ought to make those things thinner. Easier to replace a broken chain than a broken neck.”

“Your face, holy sh*t,” Lambert crows, gripping his stomach like the guffaws pain him. “God, I wish I could paint a portrait of this moment. I might learn to paint, just to paint this moment. Jaskier is my new favorite, no contest.”

“It was just sparring, it wasn’t serious,” Geralt assures, trying to keep the grin off of his face. This is probably a very important lesson for Jaskier to learn so that they can avoid future confusion. It’s just that Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever been so incredibly fond of another person before. “Nothing he did was seriously hurting me, just like I wouldn’t hurt him either when I gained back the advantage.”

“If you gained back the advantage,” Eskel chimes in.

“When I gained back the advantage.”

Jaskier’s starting to look guilty, face flushing red from more than just the exercise, and he seems to curl in on himself a little. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your training, and I know you told me to stay back, I just-- when I looked over and saw that you couldn’t get away, I… I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

He looks at Geralt when he says it, despite Eskel being the one with an angry red mark fading from his skin, and Geralt lets his grin show. “Don’t apologize. You acted on instinct, and it was brave of you. I’m lucky to have you on my side rather than working against me. And grabbing his medallion was a clever move, too. You did well.”

The praise makes Jaskier unfurl a little, brightening, and he glances back at Eskel one more time. “Not in trouble?” he asks under his breath, just for Geralt despite the way everyone else can likely hear him almost as clearly.

“Not in trouble.”

Reassured, Jaskier nods and stands, taking a step toward Eskel and offering him a hand. “I’m sorry for trying to strangle you,” he says sheepishly. “I’ll… try not to do it again.”

Eskel raises his eyebrow at the word try, but takes the hand offered to him. He doesn’t actually let Jaskier take much of his weight as he stands, since he weighs probably almost double the man in muscle, but Jaskier looks relieved nonetheless. “I’ll try not to cross you again,” Eskel offers diplomatically. “Although, for the record, next time get behind Geralt after you free him. He’s a lot sturdier than you are, and he’ll waste time he might not have trying to move you to safety.”

“Behind Geralt,” Jaskier echoes, looking back to see Geralt rising from the dirt himself and brushing himself off. “Right. That makes sense. Noted.”

“You sure you want to watch training?” Geralt asks him, his voice kind. “I won’t tell you that you can’t, but it might be less… stressful for you if you wait inside.”

“And less distracting for everyone else,” Vesemir mumbles under his breath from his observation point, making Eskel and Lambert snicker.

“You could rest inside, do some reading or something, and after training I could come and get you and take you for a bath,” Geralt suggests, ignoring them all. “You’ve been here almost two full days and I haven’t shown you the best part of Kaer Morhen. A nice hot soak will make you feel brand new.”

“A bath in a hot spring?” Jaskier’s attention is sufficiently diverted from training. “Really?”

“The main selling point of being a witcher. Shame they don’t include it on the posters.”

“And what about this witcher?” Jaskier asks, stepping closer to him. Geralt’s heart beats a little faster as he glances around them. No one is looking at the two of them, but he has no doubt they’re all hanging on Jaskier’s every word, just as he is. “Are you going to join me for a soak?”

He should definitely say no. “If you want me to.” f*ck.

“Oh, I wouldn’t trade anything for it,” Jaskier says with a wink, making Geralt’s co*ck take notice of a situation that was wildly too sexual for the middle of training. Sword fighting with a semi is hardly ideal. “I’ll be waiting for you, Geralt.”

He turns and starts walking away, back towards where they exited the keep, and as he passes Vesemir the older man says, “I’ll escort you back to your room or the library, wherever you wish to go. In the meantime, all three of you start running laps,” he calls over his shoulder at the Eskel, Lambert, and Geralt.

“What?!” squawks Lambert, indignant. “But I’ve been running this whole time!”

“Really? All I see is you sitting on your ass. Get started or I’ll run you straight til supper, don’t think I won’t.”

Vesemir glares, Jaskier laughs, and the witchers start running.

“Boy, he really knows how to turn on the charm at the drop of the hat, doesn’t he?” Lambert asks as they run the makeshift track around the courtyard in a single file line. He’s in the back, with Eskel in the middle and Geralt in the front. “One minute he’s all bashful about overreacting and kicking Eskel’s ass--”

“He didn’t kick my ass.”

“--and the next he’s trying to get frisky with you in broad daylight.”

Geralt hums, vaulting easily over a busted crate in their path. “He’s… nothing if not persistent.”

“Can’t blame him,” Eskel says, panting a little from exertion, “considering you left him hanging this morning.”

It’s only their keen reflexes that stop Eskel and Lambert from crashing into him when Geralt stops dead in his tracks and turns around to face them. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on,” Lambert scoffs. “It doesn’t take a genius to fill in the blanks with you two. First thing we see of you two, you look like you’re blissed out of your f*ckin’ head and he smells like sadness, horniness, and your cum. And he’s not very subtle about hiding his boner, either. All of which means you let him get your rocks off this morning and didn’t return the favor.”

“It’s not like that,” Geralt protests, trying to keep a growl out of his voice. He doesn’t mention that Lambert is also technically correct.

“So what’s it like? Explain it to us.” Eskel’s approach is far gentler, though no less demanding as he stands before Geralt with crossed arms. “Because this whole situation is pretty f*cked up and you aren’t the best at dealing with… moral complications.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” snaps Geralt. “Yes he’s been… swallowing my seed. And yes, it’s good for me. But he has to, he doesn’t have a choice. He was starving to death.”

“Which explains why you looked like you had a great morning, but not why the two of you weren’t a matching set.” Lambert spreads his arms in question. “What f*ckin’ gives? Don’t you practice reciprocity?”

“It’s not the same! There are certain things he needs to survive, and that’s one thing, but I’m not going any farther than that.” Geralt kicks an empty potion bottle across the cobblestones and watches it shatter against a tree. “I can’t be sure whether it would be because he actually wants it, or just because of what they did to him. He’s a good person. He deserves better than that.”

Eskel leans against a stone wall and leans his head back to consider the sky. There’s no snow today, just gray clouds swirling high above the invisible ceiling. “Alright. I get that. What about when he starts going off the deep end, though? Yennefer says he’s never lasted for more than a week without… intimacy. Says he’s going to start getting desperate for somebody to touch him. And more.”

It’s a fair question, and one that Geralt has been trying to put off thinking about. He can see the signs of it already, his scent a little stronger today than it had been yesterday and his skin a little warmer to the touch. And, as his brothers are so kindly pointing out, the way he seems to switch between emotions in an instant. The seductive air with which he invited Geralt to share a bath with him. Not quite asking for sex, as Jaskier had promised not to do, but tempting him. Drawing him in with every wile he has, whether he knows he’s doing it or not.

“It’s different,” Geralt says, to himself and to his brothers. “That’s… worse. I can’t take that from him. I’ll give him whatever else he needs, but I’m not going to sleep with him. Yennefer says he’ll need lots of attention, and want to be touched all the time. I can give that to him. And I’m not the only one.” He looks meaningfully at the two of them.

“That’s your plan?” Lambert asks, incredulous. “You want us to help you cuddle him so hard that he forgets he’s going to die unless someone sticks a co*ck in him?”

Geralt is stopped in his attempt to launch himself at Lambert by Eskel’s bulk stepping smoothly between them and shoving him back. He doesn’t try for a second lunge, just spits the words over Eskel’s shoulder. “He’s had enough men in his life stick a co*ck in him without regard for what’s best for him. I’m trying to make sure he’s had his last!”

Lambert doesn’t say anything to that, and he has the decency to duck his head. Eskel lays his hand on Geralt’s shoulder and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Look, blockhead. Of course we’re going to do everything that we can to help you take care of him, whatever he needs. Just remember that you’re not his master, alright?”

“I f*cking know I’m not his--”

“Which means,” Eskel continues right overtop of him, “that you don’t get to make the final say on what’s best for him. He’s his own person. Make whatever choices you want for yourself, but he gets to make his own, too.”

With that, Eskel steps around Geralt and takes off down the well-worn path again. Lambert follows, dropping a slap to Geralt’s shoulder that’s as much of an apology as Geralt is likely to get out of him. Geralt gives it another two calming breaths before he sets off after them. Maybe the rhythm of his boots on the stone will spell out an answer for him.

…………………

“You’re back!” Jaskier says brightly when he opens the door to his bedroom to answer Geralt’s knock. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d been tasked to run to the moon and then to Kaer Morhen again.”

“Nearly,” Geralt says with a grimace. “Then more sparring, and swordplay, and practice with signs. I think Vesemir might have been trying to kill off one or two of us to make the food last longer.”

He smiles a little on the last part so that Jaskier will know he’s only teasing, and is rewarded with a little laugh. “I’m pleased to see you survived, then. I would’ve missed you if you’d died. Though I can’t say I dislike the visual that Vesemir has provided me with.” Jaskier licks his lips, his eyes roving over Geralt from his messy bun down to his dusty boots and back up again. “Near-death experiences suit you. The half-dead aesthetic looks good.”

“Dripping sweat and exhausted?”

Jaskier’s grin only grows, mischievousness sparking ever brighter. “I’ve been trying to get you that way for days. Vesemir’s methods are much different than mine, but I’ll take what I can get.” He leans in and before Geralt knows it, he’s licking a bead of sweat off of the witcher’s collarbone. “Decadent,” he remarks with a wink.

“Bath,” Geralt says gruffly, suppressing a groan. He doesn’t push Jaskier away --not after the conversation he’d had with his brothers about letting Jaskier satiate himself with things short of sex-- but he’s also keenly aware of the proximity of a bed, and a door with a lock, and how lowered his defenses are when his body has been pushed to near-collapse by vigorous training. The sooner they get out of this room, the better it’ll be for Geralt’s self-control.

Jaskier doesn’t seem much deterred by the deflection. He smiles at the word and darts to gather a bundle of clothes, a towel, and some of the toiletries Geralt had provided him with. “Right! I was promised a hot bath in a mysterious witcher hot spring. I’ve never had one of those before!”

“A bath in a hot spring?” Geralt asks, shutting Jaskier’s door behind them and leading the way, Jaskier’s stride bouncing next to his own tired shuffle.

“A hot bath,” hums Jaskier. “Mostly cold ones, if I was given a tub to wash in for a special occasion. I’ve had some lukewarm ones, I suppose, when it was summer and all the water was always not quite cool. Never hot though. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

Inhale. Exhale. “No, it doesn’t hurt at all. It feels good on your muscles. Relaxes you.”

“That does sound very nice. I can see the appeal, as long as you’re sure it doesn’t hurt. How does the water get hot way up on the mountain in winter, though?”

They spend the rest of the walk with Geralt explaining the natural mechanics of the hot spring, as well as the various spells that ambitious witchers and allied sorcerers had placed on them over the years to make them usable even in Kaer Morhen’s heyday when it was full to the brim with sweaty, bloodied witchers. They’re self-cleaning, the water always circulating the dirty water away from the caves containing the baths so that fresh, clean, piping hot water can come in. Each little pool has its own temperature, and over the years seats have been worn away into the sides by tools and time so that bathers can sit comfortably in whatever spot they found the most agreeable.

Jaskier has question after question about it, some that even Geralt can’t answer, and he makes a note to himself to help Jaskier look for a book about the natural sciences when they next visit the library, since he seems to have an interest in the topic. Maybe Yen would talk about the magical side of things with him, or Eskel, since Geralt’s own knowledge of the spells is lacking. He’s pleased to see Jaskier continuing to take an interest in things, the cleverness and curiosity that Geralt has glimpsed several times now shining a little clearer every day. He’ll do what he can to encourage it, however he’s able.

When they reach the hot springs, Eskel is already gone, a trail of wet footprints leading away from one of the pools towards the exit marking his having come and gone. Lambert is still there, in the pool which Geralt knows from experience is both Lambert’s favorite and also damn near hot enough to scald his skin. masoch*stic bastard thought that the apex of luxury was being cooked like a hunk of meat in a cauldron of stew.

“Hello, Lambert,” Jaskier calls when he notices the other witcher, interrupting his own narration to do so. “How was training?”

“Brutal, but nothing I can’t take,” Lambert answers, co*cky as ever. “How was your… whatever?”

“I read some lovely poems out of a book that was all about monsters!” Jaskier follows Geralt’s lead and sits down on the stone to start removing his boots. It takes him longer to do that than it does for Geralt to remove all of his clothing, the man is so caught up in his own words. “It was a collection of all different poets, but they were all on the theme of monsters and describing them and the various men who killed them and how. I’m not sure I believe half of them, but what do I know? And anyways, they did make great stories either way. Geralt are you sure the water won’t hurt me?”

He’s looking at Geralt, who has slipped into one of the pools of water with a happy sigh. It’s across the way from Lambert’s chosen spot, much cooler in temperature but still warm enough to already be easing the stress from Geralt’s limbs. Geralt meets Jaskier’s anxious gaze. “It won’t hurt you. This is one of the cooler areas.”

“I can see steam all around you. It looks like it’ll hurt.”

“It won’t. Try just your feet first, if you want. If you don’t like it, I’ll draw you a regular bath.” Geralt gestures Jaskier closer, and the man scoots on his bottom until he’s perched on the edge of Geralt’s pool. He’s still dressed in his shirt and trousers, so Geralt reaches out and beckons for Jaskier’s ankle. When Jaskier complies, Geralt deftly rolls up the hems of the trousers until Jaskier’s smooth calves are exposed and the material is safely gathered around his knee. “There, just your feet. See how you like it.”

Jaskier gives him one last look before yielding, and Geralt holds onto his ankles as he lowers his feet into the water. Jaskier flinches a little when his soles meet the surface of the water, more surprise than discomfort, then he pushes through. His legs are dangling comfortably over the edge of the pool and his feet and most of his calves are submerged in the warm water. “Oh, that is nice,” Jaskier says, humming contentedly, kicking his feet slowly in the gently circulating spring. “This feels much nicer than the cold water.”

Geralt and Lambert trade a look across the spring that Jaskier doesn’t catch because his eyes are closed in contentment. He doesn’t seem to be making any move to come further into the water for the time being, so Geralt clears his throat. “You were saying, about the poems you read?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I liked this one about a werewolf that was also somehow a love triangle between a man, his wife, and the wife’s sister. I was surprised that there weren’t any about witchers, though, since witchers are supposed to be monster hunters. These were all monsters that were slain by knights and princes and things.”

“Probably all bullsh*t, too,” Lambert says wryly, raising his voice to be heard over the distance between then and the quiet bubbling of the spring. “Most stories about monsters are. If I told you about werewolves, I guarantee it wouldn’t sound like a damn song.”

Jaskier opens his eyes to look at Lambert across the hazy room. “Maybe that’s what the world needs,” he says. “More songs and poems and stories about real monsters, and the real people who fight them.”

“No one really writes about witchers,” Geralt snorts. “We don’t make good heroes.”

“I think that’s for the audience to decide,” Jaskier says evenly, turning his gaze on Geralt. “Sounds like perfection to me.”

Geralt snorts. “You can write us the first ever song to paint a witcher in a positive light, then,” he says with no small amount of amusem*nt. “Gods know I could use the good publicity.”

“Just see if I won’t,” Jaskier answers haughtily, drawing his feet from the water and standing so that he can remove the rest of his clothing.

Geralt doesn’t look. He sees the temptation coming and carefully turns his eyes away, fixing on Lambert’s familiar scarred face instead of Jaskier’s body. That’s why he’s able to watch Lambert’s reaction to the sight as Jaskier’s shirt, then his trousers, then his smallclothes slide quietly to the floor. He sees Lambert’s eyebrows raise appreciatively, his pupils widening even further in the dim room. He also doesn’t miss the way that one of Lambert’s arms, previously stretched out against the stone ledge behind him, slips down to do gods only know what beneath the water where the light of the torches don’t penetrate.

Then Lambert’s eyes meet his, and Geralt does his best to convey a firm, clear message of behave yourself to the younger wolf as Jaskier slides into the water at Geralt’s side.

Jaskier’s moan as he slides into the water inch by inch is the most obscene thing Geralt has heard or seen from the man, and that’s including what he’s memorized of several sexual encounters thus far. A hand comes out to clutch at Geralt’s shoulder for support and he can’t help but look over, watching a smooth stomach and pert nipples disappear beneath the water as Jaskier sinks in deep. “Oh, this is heavenly. I get it now. Warm baths are nice.”

“Glad you’re, uh, enjoying yourself,” Geralt mumbles, unable to tear his eyes away from Jaskier’s face now that he’s looking. He’s utterly relaxed, eyes closed and mouth hanging open, his head tipped back to rest on the stone ledge behind him. He’s yet to remove his hand from Geralt’s shoulder, and the contact is just about the only thing that keeps Geralt grounded to this plane of reality.

For a few moments Jaskier soaks in silence, his hair growing damp from the steam even though he doesn’t dip his head beneath the water. Geralt watches the little bead of sweat gathering at the corner of Jaskier’s jaw and pretends like he doesn’t want to echo Jaskier’s motion from not long before and reach over to lick it away.

“I can feel him watching me,” Jaskier whispers, low and soft. Geralt knows it’s for his ears only, and wonders if he ought to tell Jaskier that there are no such secrets in Kaer Morhen. “When I was getting into the water, he couldn’t take his eyes off of me. He wants me.”

Geralt glances up at Lambert, who only shrugs. He isn’t trying to deny the accusation, and Geralt isn’t trying to lie to Jaskier. “Yes, he does.”

“You looked away when I got undressed. He didn’t.”

Again, it’s a statement of fact rather than an inquiry. Jaskier is just laying out what he knows, which is a surprising amount considering that he’s the only one in the room without supernatural powers of observation. Geralt clears his throat, careful to answer in the same quiet tone that Jaskier uses. “Is he making you uncomfortable? I’ll ask him to leave, if you’d like some privacy. And I’ll go, too.”

“No,” Jaskier quickly answers. “I don’t want you to go.”

“And Lambert?”

This time Jaskier takes longer to answer. “I… don’t want him to go either. It feels nice, to be looked at. To be admired. I like to be wanted.”

Something lurches in Geralt’s gut, longing to confess to Jaskier that all of the admiration and wanting that he could ever stand is right here, balled up inside of Geralt’s chest. He doesn’t give voice to it, though. Instead, he leans back against the stone wall behind him and pretends at indifference. “Alright. Whatever you want.”

Jaskier scoots closer to Geralt along the little ledge that makes the pool’s seat, until one of his knees brushes against Geralt’s. The witcher doesn’t dare move. “It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

Nothing you do bothers me. “Sitting with you? No. Doesn’t bother me.”

“Having him want me, I mean. Does it bother you?”

Geralt knows that’s what Jaskier meant, just like he knows what answer he’s expected to give. Wolves are territorial, notoriously protective of what belongs to them, and he should be snarling and snapping at Lambert right now for daring to so much as look at Jaskier. Geralt grits his teeth against the temptation. “I don’t own you,” he says, though he’d never admit how reluctantly the words come to his lips. “You can want whatever you want, and be wanted in return.”

“You’re sure?” Jaskier has softly, and Geralt’s eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that he might be imagining the teasing light to his tone. “So you wouldn’t mind if I wanted him…. Closer?”

Geralt swallows, hard. “Wouldn’t bother me a bit. Have him as close as you’d like.”

Jaskier raises his voice then, calling across the spring to Lambert. “I can’t hear you all the way over there. I want to ask you about werewolves, the real kind. Come over here to our side.”

He comes wading over, the traitorous bastard, though even at the same moment that Geralt is cursing him he finds that he can’t blame him. He isn’t sure that he’d refuse any command Jaskier gave him, either. “You sure you want to hear about real werewolves?” Lambert asks, coming to rest on the shelf a mere foot from Jaskier’s opposite side. “It isn’t as pretty as the stories.”

“Nothing ever seems to be,” Jaskier remarks. “Tell me anyways.”

And so Lambert does, rough and honest, the only way that Lambert knows how. He describes their grotesque forms, the stench of their fur, and the viciousness with which they kill. Jaskier doesn’t seem particularly phased by any of it, listening intently as he lathers up his hair and tilts his head back into the water to rinse off the suds. He asks questions about the process of a werewolf’s creation, using the washcloth Geralt hands him to scrub his skin until it’s pink and clean. Geralt does the same, far more cursorily than Jaskier, then sits back to soak and relax in the soothing warmth.

The steam and the soap make it difficult to scent someone in the baths, but Geralt doesn’t need to smell arousal to know there’s a charge between Lambert and Jaskier. He can see it on their faces just fine, and can read it in their body language when Lambert rises a bit from the water to show Jaskier a scar on his side and Jaskier reaches out to run his fingertip across it. Both of them look at Geralt when Lambert shivers at the touch, and Geralt grits his teeth and keeps his face blank.

He’s jealous. He has no reason to be, since Jaskier isn’t his, but that doesn’t make the ugly feeling in Geralt’s gut any less true. He wants Jaskier talking to him, touching his scars, like he had this morning-- and of course that thought only adds arousal to the uncomfortable flurry of emotions swirling around inside of Geralt.

Or… adds more arousal, really, because truth be told he’s been half hard since Jaskier had declared he liked feeling Lambert’s eyes on him. He’s never found anything particularly erotic about Lambert, but watching him with Jaskier is an experience. Is it the way Lambert accepts his touch so easily, unburdened by Geralt’s guilt? Is it the excitement of watching someone become as completely, inexplicably enchanted with Jaskier as he is? Or do they just look good like this, two people that Geralt cares for talking and flirting and enjoying each others’ presence?

He doesn’t miss the way that Jaskier keeps looking back at him, though. Always checking. He’s watching Geralt’s face for any sign that he’s strayed too far, crossed some line that will bring down the punishment that Jaskier is always half-convinced is coming for him. Geralt doesn’t say a word. Jaskier doesn’t belong to him, he reminds himself. You can’t own a person. He can do whatever he wants.

The two witchers sit in nearly identical poses, their arms stretched out on the pool’s edge, just far enough that their fingers don’t touch in the middle. Jaskier sits between them in the water, moving around as he talks and bathes. He moves a lot more when he’s distracted, Geralt notices, as if he’s forgotten to hold himself still and silent and is showing his personality rather than just his training. Several times Geralt will feel a foot brush gently across the outside of his knee as Jaskier turns in the water, and it takes a great amount of self-restraint not to capture that slender ankle and draw Jaskier in closer to bask a little more in his untamed contentment.

He watches with curiosity as Jaskier turns to face the edge of the pool and pulls himself halfway out of the water, elbows resting on the stone floor of the room to hold himself suspended with his back and the swell of his arse exposed to the air. The soapy washcloth he’s been using is now caught between fingertips and dangling back over his shoulder. “Will someone get my back for me, please?” Jaskier asks, not looking to either side of him, giving no indication of which man he’s addressing.

Geralt and Lambert lock eyes behind Jaskier’s back, a silent conversation passing between them through facial expressions alone.

Is he serious? Holy sh*t.

Welcome to my world.

Well, are you going to do it?

He’s just toying with us, idiot.

Yeah, well, it’s working.

When Geralt doesn’t move, Lambert reaches out and snags the washcloth from Jaskier’s fingers. “Sure thing, sunshine,” he says, arranging the cloth to lay flat on his palm so he can begin smoothing his hand over Jaskier’s skin. He starts at the shoulders and works his way down, leaving trails of suds between his shoulder blades, down his spine, dipping into the small of his back. He keeps going lower and lower, and any second Lambert will no longer be touching his back anymore--

“I think he’s clean enough,” Geralt snaps when Lambert’s hand grazes Jaskier’s bottom.

Lambert laughs, though he doesn’t quite pull his hand away. It’s Jaskier who breaks the contact, slipping away from Lambert at the first sound of Geralt’s voice and coming over to plaster himself to the witcher’s side. “Happy to be of help,” Lambert says with a wink just for Geralt. “Think that’s my cue to go, though. Don’t want to prune up. I’m already ugly enough. Later, you two.” He pulls himself from the water and snatches a towel from the floor --Geralt’s towel, the little sh*t-- so that he can dry himself off as he makes a hasty retreat.

Jaskier has managed to wedge himself into Geralt so that while not technically on his lap, he’s everything but. His head is tucked under Geralt’s chin, knees drawn up to his chest, trying to move in closer still to Geralt’s side. Geralt hesitates for a moment before moving to rest his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder in the ghost of an embrace, and is rewarded by feeling Jaskier relax into his touch.

“Don’t be angry,” Jaskier says nuzzling into Geralt’s chest. “I’m sorry. I was only teasing. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s-- fine,” Geralt huffs, rubbing his thumb over Jaskier’s slick skin. “Told you, you decide who touches you now. You make your own choices.”

“I choose you,” mumbles Jaskier, shifting so he’s even closer to Geralt, and it’s a good thing that he has his arms wrapped around his own legs. If he were to budge another inch, he would be able to feel in Geralt’s lap the evidence of his appreciation for the words. “Can I wash your hair?”

Geralt blinks, startled by the sudden change of topic. “What?”

“Your hair, you haven’t washed it yet. Can I do it? Please?”

“Yes,” answers Geralt, if for no other reason than he can’t think of a reason to say no.

He regrets it a moment later when Jaskier twists to grab the bar of soap from the ledge and then moves to straddle Geralt’s lap, making him suck in a surprised gasp. His co*ck brushes against the inside of Jaskier’s thigh in the process, and the way Jaskier licks his lips indicates that it didn’t escape his notice, either. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good,” Jaskier promises, reaching behind Geralt to untie the thin cord that holds part of his hair back. He kisses Geralt’s cheek chastely. “I just want to help you, that’s all.”

Geralt doesn’t have a response for that, so he says nothing. Instead he studies Jaskier’s face as the man rubs the bar of soap between his palms and starts working his slippery fingers through Geralt’s hair, bit by bit. He starts at the bottom, combing out the tangles with his fingers, re-soaping his hands periodically as he works his way up to Geralt’s scalp.

When he gets there… Geralt can’t help his groan. Jaskier’s clever fingers massage his scalp, rubbing little soapy circles, and Geralt can feel the sweat and grime of his lifestyle lifting off of him. The pressure is just right, light enough not to hurt while still hard enough to feel like Jaskier is pushing all of the stress and worry right out of his skull. His head falls forward to rest against Jaskier’s chest, unconsciously burrowing into that soft skin, and Jaskier hums his approval.

“You ought to keep a bowl or a cup or something down here,” Jaskier murmurs as he works, “so you can rinse out your hair without ducking under.”

“I’ll get you one,” Geralt mumbles into Jaskier’s collarbone. His lips move over Jaskier’s skin and it feels like a kiss. He wants to make it a kiss. He doesn’t.

“And a comb, too, to work the knots out.”

“Hmm. I’m sure I can find one.”

“While you’re being so accommodating, you should really invest in some better products. This isn’t the right kind of soap for hair, and if you want your hair to really be soft and shiny, you should use a little oil in it as well.”

Jaskier must use oil in his hair, because his is the softest and the shiniest Geralt has ever seen. He wants to touch it, but when Geralt goes to reach up for it, he finds that his hands have made their way to Jaskier’s hips, and that’s awfully nice, too. He leaves them where they are.

“Spring,” he promises vaguely. “When we go to town next. You can show me what to buy.”

“Spring? Planning on keeping me around even after the snow melts, witcher?”

Geralt drags his head up to look at Jaskier in concern, though he’s met with only a teasing smile. “I-- I didn’t mean--” He breaks off, because of course he meant exactly that. That doesn’t make it right to say to a man that you met three days ago, however. “I won’t force you to stay,” he tries to explain, though the sentiment doesn’t come out quite right.

Thankfully, Jaskier takes pity on him. He smooths one sudsy thumb over Geralt’s cheekbone and smiles down at him. “Don’t frown at me. I have every intention of sticking around until the moment you tire of me and throw me down the mountain. I rather like it here.”

Heart beating a little faster, Geralt feels his fingers tighten around Jaskier’s hips. “You do?”

“What’s not to like?” Jaskier is either done with his work lathering up Geralt’s hair or has given up on the task, because he stops to just drape his arms around Geralt’s neck instead. “You feed me, give me a warm bed. I’m not punished even when I do things that make you unhappy. I’m safe here. And the company isn’t bad either,” he finishes with a wink.

“I’m glad you’re comfortable here,” Geralt says, “but that isn’t-- that’s not special. That’s basic human decency.”

Jaskier co*cks his head and smiles a little sadly. “Yeah, well. Apparently my life has been a little short of decency, or so you keep telling me.”

“You deserve better than the basics of comfort and safety. You deserve so much more than that,” Geralt insists. “You should be somewhere that you can have everything you want out of life.”

“I keep telling you, everything I want is right here,” Jaskier says, and when he pushes his hips forward ever so slightly, Geralt can feel the tip of his co*ck bumping against Geralt’s stomach.

He’s hard, Geralt can feel it, and his fingers go tight on Jaskier’s hips again. They’re so close, like this. It would take seconds to do any of the million things he craves with Jaskier. He could reach between them and take his co*ck in hand. He could kiss him. He could pull his hips down and grind their co*cks together. Geralt remembers the Cats’ words about the way he was always loose and slick and ready for a co*ck, and wonders if it’s true, if he could really tug Jaskier down a few inches and slide him right onto Geralt’s co*ck. He wonders if Jaskier would let him keep him there on his co*ck and just rock up into him as they kissed until their lips chapped and Jaskier came with Geralt’s name on them--

Geralt lifts Jaskier off of his lap and deposits him on the bench next to him with a quiet but emphatic f*ck. He’s out of the water before Jaskier can so much as say his name, snatching the remaining towel off of the floor by their pool and wrapping it hastily around his hips. “I can’t,” he grits out. “I can’t.”

“Geralt?” He hears Jaskier scrambling out of the water behind him, but he doesn’t look. “Geralt, where are you-- Geralt wait, please--”

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind him with a heavy thud.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

The hallway is cool without the steam of the bathing room, and the shock of it helps Geralt come back to his senses. What is he doing? Literally fleeing from Jaskier, leaving him alone in an unfamiliar part of the keep, and for what? Because he can’t keep it in his pants? He pulls up short with another curse, turning around and running smack into Jaskier, soaking wet and naked and shivering and wide-eyed and unfairly beautiful even in his disheveled state.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t go,” Jaskier blurts out, grabbing onto Geralt’s arms for balance as they collide and then never letting go. “I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t and I got carried away, but I didn’t-- I won’t--”

He smells like fear, the scent rising over his freshly clean and neutral skin, and Geralt hates it. “It’s not your fault, it’s mine,” he snaps, and he hates the way Jaskier flinches at that, too. “I shouldn’t be getting hard just because you f*cking run your fingers through my hair!”

Jaskier swallows, stepping in closer. “Let me get you off,” he says quietly, eyes anxious. “I can make it up to you, I promise. Would you like that?”

Gods, would he like that. His co*ck is throbbing beneath his towel. “No, Jaskier, I told you, I--”

“I’m hungry,” Jaskier says quickly. “I’ll swallow it. Please?”

If he’d been saying it to anyone who wasn’t a witcher, he might have gotten away with it. He looks very convincing, with his cheeks pink and his eyes wide and his lower lip caught between his teeth. He looks entirely earnest when he says it. Unfortunately for him, sight isn’t the only sense that Geralt relies on to determine the truth. He hears Jaskier’s heart pounding in his chest, smells his burnt sugar fear and vinegar lies, and shakes his head slowly.

“I know you’re lying, Jaskier,” he says, trying to make his voice soft, as little like an accusation as he can. Jaskier still looks away with a little jerk like he’s been slapped. Geralt looks down to confirm his suspicions about Jaskier’s distinct lack of cinnamon, then looks back up with a frown. “You’re not even hard anymore. I don’t want to do anything with you when you’re not even hard.”

“I can get hard again,” Jaskier answers at once, dropping one hand from Geralt’s bicep to his own co*ck and stroking it quickly. “If that’s what you need, I--”

Geralt reaches out and wraps a firm hand around Jaskier’s wrist, freezing him. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying-- I can’t, when you-- you’re not interested.”

“That doesn’t matter,” says Jaskier, voice quiet. “I can still get you off just as well, whether I like it or not.”

“You won’t, not with me.” Geralt releases his grip on Jaskier’s delicate wrist and is happy to see his arm fall to his side, no longer attempting to incite arousal in himself. “Even if you don’t want me to reciprocate, I won’t allow you to touch me when you’re standing there terrified. I’m not a monster.”

Jaskier sways a little on his feet, looking conflicted and miserable. “I just want to be useful. I don’t want you to tire of me, Geralt. I think… I think this is the best home I’ve ever had.”

Geralt hears the echo of his words before. I have every intention of sticking around until the moment you tire of me and throw me down the mountain. Of course it hadn’t been an offhand comment, as Geralt had taken it to be. It was a truth, spoken freely, and Geralt hadn’t been listening. And just moments later Geralt had fled him and rejected him without thinking how that might come across to someone who had little to his name except for what Geralt had given him.

Sighing, Geralt shook his head. “Come here. Can I… hug you?” He’s about to clarify that he’s asking if Jaskier wants to be hugged, but the man has already darted forward to throw his arms around Geralt’s waist and that seems like an enthusiastic enough answer. Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders and tucks the mess of damp brown hair beneath his chin. “You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to earn your keep. Not with your body or anything else. You’re welcome for as long as you choose to stay. Alright?”

Jaskier nods against his chest and just continues to crush Geralt to him. Geralt makes no effort to move away. They’re both dripping wet, goosebumps rising on their skin from the chill, naked as the day they were born with the exception of Geralt’s towel, standing exposed in the middle of the hallway. Geralt still doesn’t move. He lets Jaskier take all the comfort he needs from him, splaying his hands wide on Jaskier’s back, anchoring him. It isn’t until Jaskier’s body starts shivering from the cold that he draws back.

“We should go back to the spring. You need your clothes, and I need to wash the damn soap out of my hair.” Jaskier makes a little sound that’s half acceptance and half reluctance, so Geralt takes his hand as they retreat down the hallway from whence they came. Even with their palms wrinkled from the soak, Jaskier’s hand still feels good in his.

They don’t linger for much longer in the steamy room, Geralt wading across the spring to retrieve Lambert’s abandoned towel and give it to Jaskier to dry off with. He makes quick work of rinsing the soap from his hair as Jaskier redresses himself, then gets out of the water once more and does the same. When he asks what Jaskier wants to do for the rest of the day, Jaskier promptly answers, “Lunch, and to read with you some more,” and Geralt smiles.

Later, with venison sandwiches filling both of their bellies and Geralt’s freshly softened co*ck tucked back into his trousers after Jaskier has had his fill, Geralt reclines in Jaskier’s bed with the man’s head pillowed on his thigh, listening to him read aloud. It’s an adventure story this time, one with a young knight setting out to perform ten great deeds to prove himself to the woman he wishes to marry. How foolish, Geralt thinks as he closes his eyes and lets himself be lost in Jaskier’s voice. It isn’t love if you have to prove it.

Then Jaskier’s voice fades into a pleasant hum, and Geralt’s thoughts turn into dozy dreams, and then into quiet.

…………………

When he wakes, Geralt is alone in the room. The smell of Jaskier lingers still, honeyed and clear of distress, but the coolness of the sheets beside him tells Geralt that it’s been some time since Jaskier left. He takes the time to stretch the kinks out of his back, made stiff from what feels like a decently long nap in a somewhat awkward, partially reclined position. He pulls his boots on, noticing that Jaskier’s are gone as well. Half the time the man prefers to go around in only socks unless he knows he’ll have to go outside, which only serves to make Geralt that much more curious about where he might have gotten off to.

He tracks Jaskier’s scent through the keep, smiling a little to himself as the scent takes a few wrong turns and doubles back as Jaskier apparently struggled to find his way in the labyrinth of Kaer Morhen. Eventually he traces Jaskier’s path to the library, where he stays for a while and leaves his scent all over a couple of shelves that he must have run his fingers along. Vesemir’s scent is mingled with his now, and Geralt trails the two of them out of a back door of the vaulted room and across the grounds to the stables, of all places.

Geralt hears Jaskier before he sees him, his soft voice humming a little tune from inside the old building. It’s a song Geralt vaguely recognizes as a fairly popular ballad about a woman who’d wished for a more voluptuous form and had been cursed with breasts so large she tripped on them. It’s a silly song, crass, something that young boys would get boxed around their ears if caught singing it by their mothers, but out of Jaskier’s mouth it sounded like some of the best music that Geralt has ever heard.

He’s never really been one for music, but it’s never too late to pick up a new interest, Geralt supposes.

“Oh well don’t be cross with me now,” Jaskier is saying softly as Geralt enters and leans against the doorframe, silently watching the man in question. He has his back to Geralt and is standing in Roach’s stall, doing something to her neck. “I’ve nearly finished, so there’s no sense protesting at this stage of the game. It would look better with some flowers in it, but not bad for ten minutes’ work, I’d say. You look even lovelier than before, if I do say so myself. I don’t know where I learned to braid, but my teacher must have been excellent. Perhaps I’ll be a horse stylist for a profession. Is that a job?”

“In palaces,” Geralt says, keeping his voice low so as not to startle either of them too much. Roach merely whinnies in greeting, though Jaskier does jump a bit before turning to give Geralt an awkward smile. He ambles over to Roach’s stall and slips inside, finding it clean and well stocked with hay for Roach to graze on. “The mounts of monarchs are always kept in fine condition. Their grooms are experts at making them look regal. I suppose you could call that a… horse stylist of sorts.”

“Yes, that could work,” Jaskier hums, turning his attention back on Roach. “What do you think? Would I be a good royal groomer?”

Roach doesn’t answer, but Geralt feels compelled to. “I think any palace would be lucky to have you. You’ve done well.” It isn’t flattery; Roach’s coat is indeed perfectly groomed and shiny, her hooves oiled, and her mane and tail brushed through with oil to make them lustrous and fragrant. A few small braids adorn her mane, delicate and neat. “Having had the experience of you caring for my own grooming, I’m sure it was quite a treat for Roach.”

Jaskier goes pink. He moves closer to Geralt, their arms brushing together where they stand side by side, and Geralt doesn’t pull away when Jaskier slips his arm through Geralt’s like a noblewoman who needs escorting. The more tactile side of Jaskier that he’s been experiencing today isn’t one that Geralt can bring himself to hate outright, even if it strains his self control at times. His palms warm Geralt’s skin, and his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder when he tilts his head to rest it there feels like it’s been warming in the sun all day, despite the stable being shady and cool.

“Vesemir helped,” Jaskier confesses. “I went to the library and he came in to put some books back, and he said he was on the way to the stables, so I asked if I could go with him. Roach had been out running around this morning, and when Vesemir brought her and the others in, she looked like she was lonely, so I talked to her and gave her some carrots. He showed me how to groom her properly before he left to go talk to Yennefer. Oh! And I learned how to muck out her stall!”

He says it with far more enthusiasm than anyone Geralt has ever heard on the subject of mucking out stables, and he can’t help but smile. “I’ll have to be careful. If you keep spoiling her, she’ll start liking you better than me.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure. I think she only likes me for my carrots.”

“It’s possible,” Geralt admits with a hum, “though if you’re really trying to get on her good side, try an apple. Those are her favorite.” Roach turns to nose at Geralt with interest at the word, her breath whuffling against his skin through his shirt as she searches for snacks. “Sorry to disappoint, girl, I didn’t bring any treats. Just myself.”

“You’re plenty a treat enough for me, at least,” Jaskier says coyly, his hands squeezing lightly at Geralt’s arm before loosening again. A gentle flirtation, demanding nothing.

It calls Geralt’s mind back to the roller coaster of their morning, frustration and desire whiplashing him --and Jaskier-- back and forth. It seems to come in waves, this seemingly unquenchable thirst of Jaskier’s, and each time Geralt has felt wholly unprepared. There’s an unease in his gut about it, something that it takes him a moment to identify as guilt and shame.

“Roach, I’ve been an idiot today,” he says lowly, not looking at Jaskier. The horse butts her head against his chest as if to say, what else is new? “I know, I know. Today in particular, though. I’ve made a new… a new friend, recently, and I haven’t been treating him well. Just this morning we had a disagreement of sorts, and instead of telling him I was overwhelmed, as I promised to do, I ran away, like a coward.”

Jaskier wraps himself tighter around the arm he’s captured. “You’re not a coward. You were just... adjusting.”

Geralt hums and otherwise ignores him, continuing to address the horse still nuzzling at him affectionately. “He’s being very gracious about it and isn’t calling me on my bullsh*t. Even still…” Geralt hesitates, searching for the right words. Both man and horse are patient as they wait. “I intend to try harder. To talk. And to give him what I can.”

When a moment of silence has passed between the three of them, Jaskier must decide that Geralt is done with his declarations. He gives Roach’s neck a pat. “What do you think, darling? Should I give this… friend of mine a chance? Neigh once for yes, twice for no.”

Roach makes one low rumbling noise, perfectly on cue, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide with delight. “You trained her to do that!” he accuses Geralt, sounding more impressed than offended.

“Not in the least,” Geralt answers, highly amused. “She’s just a very smart horse. Who I owe an apple.”

They stay there for a while after that, Jaskier chattering about how the horses had been playing together in the snow when he and Vesemir had arrived. He’s intrigued by the creatures, their beauty and their intimidating power alike. There had been horses at the citadel, he muses, there must have been, but he’d never spent time with them or seen them in action. The only real interaction he’d had with them before Geralt tossed him on Roach’s back had been on the journey from Stygga Citadel to Algoras’ estate, and he’d spent most of that time in his crate with a blanket over it. He saw the witchers’ horses when he was let out to relieve himself or to be played with, he confides in Geralt, but he much prefers watching Roach in action.

The description of Jaskier’s journey --and the hell from which he came, and the hell he was being sent to-- serve to remind Geralt why he’d brought Jaskier to Kaer Morhen in the first place. Two of the smartest and most capable people he knows are here, ostensibly working on a way to reverse the damages done to Jaskier by his captors. He hasn’t seen much of either Vesemir or Yennefer in the past few days, except for here and there at mealtimes. The two have been secluded away doing gods knew what in the tower that Yen preferred to take as a guest suite. He hadn’t had time to check in with them about what, if any, progress they’d made on Jaskier’s mysterious case, so perhaps Geralt is overdue to do so.

“You said that Vesemir left you to go speak to Yennefer, yes?” he asks Jaskier when eventually the man’s excited rambling peters out. Jaskier nods his confirmation. “I want to go talk with them, ask them if they have any new information about you and what might be happening with your body. You’re welcome to come with me, but you don’t have to. I understand if you’d rather not keep having to talk about this sh*t.”

Jaskier scratches under his collar absentmindedly, considering the offer. “I’d like to go with you, please. In case I can be helpful.”

“I’m more hoping that they’ll be helpful to you,” Geralt says thoughtfully, leading Jaskier from the stable. He’s still clinging to Geralt’s arm, and Geralt is aware that they probably look ridiculous strolling along like this if anyone were to glance out of one of the keep’s windows and catch them at it. He doesn’t care enough to pull away. “Let’s go make sure they’re not up there napping all day. I’ve seen Vesemir fall asleep in the middle of a sentence before, so it’s not out of the question.”

Both Vesemir and Yennefer are awake and at work when Geralt knocks on the door to the tower study and it swings open to admit them. They’re both surrounded by piles of books. Vesmir has three open tomes stacked on top of each other and is leaning close to the page of the top one to squint at the faded writing. Yennefer is leaning back in a chair with her boots on the table, ankles delicately crossed, with a book hovering at eye level in front of her, the pages flicking themselves one by one at a steady rate. Both of them look tired, but determined.

“Well if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty himself,” Vesemir says gruffly, an undercurrent of amusem*nt in his voice. “Jaskier tells me you were determined to sleep the day away earlier.”

“I was meditating,” grunts Geralt.

“You were snoring,” rebuts the traitor at his side.

“It’s no wonder you were dead to the world, what with the way that you all carried on this morning in your training,” Yennefer chimes in, not glancing up from her book as it continues to scan. “All of that running and slashing and blasting each other into walls with your signs. It looks dreadful.”

“It’s important,” defends Vesemir.

“It’s irrelevant,” Geralt cuts in, with an air of finality. “Enough small talk. Have you two found anything yet?”

“Nothing useful enough to be worth noting. I’ve been looking at everything we have left on the subject of mutagens, but most of that knowledge is lost now,” Vesemir sighs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “If the Cats are doing more experiments, it means that either they’ve retained more knowledge than we have, or they’ve been working overtime to learn it anew. It would be interesting to know if they have some sort of logic behind their processes, or if they’re just throwing mutations at human bodies and seeing what sticks. I wouldn’t be surprised either way, really. It is the Feline School we’re talking about here.”

“I’ve had slightly more luck, but not by much,” Yennefer sighs. The book in front of her snaps shut. “I’ve been looking into memory spells, myself, trying to see what kind of magic was used to wall off so much of Jaskier’s mind. By the looks of you that’s got to be twenty, maybe twenty-five years of memories locked up tight in that head of yours. I don’t know what kind of spell could seal you up that tightly.”

“Will it help if you look again?” asks Jaskier, peering curiously at the spines of some brightly colored books on Yennefer’s table. “Geralt said you were able to learn a lot yesterday, when you looked. Maybe if you push a little harder this time, you’ll learn more. I’m sure I can take it.”

“Absolutely not,” Yennefer tells him before Geralt can do the same. “Given the way that the spell is constructed, it could be very dangerous or even deadly to continue battering away at it. There’s likely to be some sort of specific magical trigger that we can use to release the spell rather than just breaking it.”

“What’s the difference?”

Yennefer considers for a moment, her head tilted. “Think of it like the difference between using a key to unlock a door versus hacking through the wood with an axe. Both will get you into a locked room, but only one will do it with the door intact. And considering that in this case the door is your mind, I’d prefer to enter as gracefully as possible.”

“Is there nothing that I can do?” Jaskier looks disheartened. “It feels silly for me to be spending my days reading poetry and twiddling my thumbs when you’re up here working so hard just for me.”

“It’s not just for you, boy, it’s for the sake of putting an end to whatever foolishness those damn Cats are up to. If they’ve done it once and gotten away with it, they’ll do it again.” Vesemir’s yellow eyes look dangerous. “We can’t let that happen.”

“There might be something else that you can do to help us, though, if you’re willing,” Yennefer tells Jaskier. “There are some spells that I can do to try to divine more about your past or who’s interfered with your mind, but the spells will require something of yours to anchor the magic to you. Specifically, your blood.”

Both witchers’ heads snap around to look at the sorceress, though Jaskier just looks on calmly. “Yen, blood magic?” Geralt asks incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”

“Well I’m not going to hex him, Geralt,” Yennefer says with a wave of her hand. “You know that I would never. It’s only that I need to be able to focus the flow of chaos on his body somehow, and unless you want me to keep him up in this tower all day, unconscious--”

“I’d rather give the blood, please,” Jaskier cuts in quickly. “If I can get a choice.”

Those are the magic words, as it were, and Geralt nods at once. “Of course you do. Uh, how do you want him to--”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to need the instructions, because he’s already moving. He steps away from Geralt and removes his shirt, tugging it over his head and folding it neatly before placing it on the table. When he catches Geralt looking at him oddly, he just raises an eyebrow back at him. “Well I’m not going to get blood on the perfectly nice shirt you gave me, am I? This is hardly the first time I’ve had blood collected from me. I know how messy it gets.”

Geralt doesn’t like the sound of that, not at all, but he grits his teeth and keeps his comments to himself. There’s a small couch in the room, mostly covered in documents, and Geralt shoves them aside to plop down on the rickety piece of furniture. “Let’s get on with this, then,” he sighs.

“Can I sit with Geralt while we do this?” Jaskier asks Yennefer as the sorceress rummages around in her trunks of belongings --the presence of which Geralt isn’t even questioning-- to pull out a bejeweled athame and a colorful glass bowl with a little lip on one side as if for pouring. She also pulls out two empty glass bottles with stoppers that are large enough that Geralt feels a little nervous about exactly how much blood she intends to draw from Jaskier. He’s not a twig, but he certainly doesn’t look like he can withstand losing that much…

At Yennefer’s distracted nod, Jaskier had wormed his way into the space between Geralt and the arm of the couch, tucked beneath his arm, one of his legs half hooked over Geralt’s in order to fit. When the sorceress turns around and sees that, she snorts. “You might as well sit in his lap, darling, if you’re going to be that close. Then Geralt can help keep your arm steady. This will take a little while if we’re to do it safely.”

“Can I?” Jaskier says, looking up at Geralt for permission before moving. Once Geralt nods, however, he’s scrambling into the witcher’s lap in an instant. Geralt shifts around a little so that Jaskier can lean back against his chest more comfortably. He’s like a cat stretched out along Geralt’s chest, fully relaxed, and when he leans his head back on Geralt’s shoulder, the side of his throat stretches fragrant and unblemished just inches from Geralt’s mouth like an invitation.

In retrospect, maybe he should have told Jaskier to stay next to him.

It’s too late now, however, and Jaskier is radiating contentment from his new position despite Yennefer making preparations to collect his blood right before him. She gives Geralt the bowl to hold and then places Jaskier’s arm over it, then wipes down his skin with some sort of alcohol from yet another bottle. “This is going to hurt a little,” she warns. “I’m only going to take about a pint. It’s as much as your body will replace in a day or two, so it won’t harm you in any way. Understand?”

“I understand,” Jaskier answers promptly. “I know how this goes. I won’t make a peep.”

“You’ll make plenty of peeps if you need to,” Yennefer corrects him. “If you feel sick or lightheaded, speak up. Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Good. Close your eyes now. You don’t need to watch this.”

Geralt knows that she’s talking to Jaskier with that last part, but he obeys the command anyways, closing his eyes at the same time Jaskier does. He doesn’t want to see this, either. The cloying, metallic scent of blood comes a moment later, and Geralt buries his nose shamelessly in Jaskier’s throat to block it out. It doesn’t work, of course; blood is one of those smells that tends to overpower everything around it, lingering on everything it touches, tainting. Even Jaskier’s perfect aroma isn’t enough to drown that out.

It does help some, though, to hide himself away in the crook of his neck and scent him over and over with every pull of breath. Geralt checks him for fear, or pain, but there’s none to be found. Jaskier is calm and still in his lap, happy even, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath Geralt’s lips. When he wraps his free arm around Jaskier’s middle to hold him closer it’s for his benefit, not Jaskier’s, and it gets a dizzying wave of honey-contentment aroma in response.

“Feel alright?” Geralt checks in anyway, not moving an inch away from his hiding place.

“Never been better,” Jaskier responds, and he isn’t even lying.

Geralt loses track of some time there, as the bowl in his hand slowly fills with what Yennefer needs. He hears Yennefer moving around in front of them, feels his medallion hum briefly as she performs some small spell in the vicinity of Jaskier’s arm, then the bowl is being eased from Geralt’s grip. “Stay like that, both of you,” she says quietly. “Let me clean you up, and you should have something to eat and drink before you go moving around. You might be a little dizzy.”

She doesn’t have to tell either of them twice. Something cool drips onto Geralt’s trouser leg as Yennefer cleans off Jaskier’s inner arm, and then there’s the sound of glass clinking against glass on the table as she transfers the contents of the bowl into her stoppered bottles. Not long after she’s finished with that, there’s a knock on the door and Eskel enters, clearing his throat. “I suddenly felt a compulsion to bring Yennefer some apple juice… also felt my medallion going off, so I figured it was a magical suggestion rather than a weird compulsion.”

“And that’s why I asked you instead of your idiot brother,” Yennefer says primly. “I would have grown old and died before Lambert gave in to the inspiration to be helpful. Thank you, my dear.”

“Sure thing. Everything okay in here? Why does it smell like Jaskier’s blood?”

Geralt opens his eyes at last and sees his older brother standing in the doorway with a pitcher in his hand, scanning the scene with concern. “We’re alright. Yen needed some of his blood for some spells. He’ll be fine.”

Eskel puts two and two together without further instructions and picks up a water cup from the table near Vesemir to fill it with the juice he’d brought. “Here,” he says, offering it to Jaskier, “this’ll help.”

Jaskier attempts to take the cup, but Geralt sees his arm waver a bit on the way to grab it and intercepts, taking it from Eskel first. “I’ve got it,” he says quietly, nudging Jaskier’s head up off of his shoulder a bit so that the cool liquid won’t choke him on the way down. “Let me help.” He holds the cup to Jaskier’s lips and tilts it ever so slightly, letting a mouthful of juice trickle in and giving him time to swallow before offering more. They repeat this a few times, until Jaskier reaches up to push Geralt’s arm lightly away.

“Thank you,” he says, licking his lips and then reaching up to wipe at where a little drip has escaped down his chin. “I feel fine, really. Yennefer is an excellent healer. Look, not even a scratch!” He offers his arm proudly to the room, showing off his still-unblemished skin.

“And you’re sure you feel alright?” Geralt verifies, rubbing the place where there should be a mark on his skin.

“Right as rain, really. I mean, a little woozy, but it’ll pass.”

“Just stay where you are, don’t get any bright ideas about running through the halls of Kaer Morhen just yet,” Yennefer says drily, reaching out to feel his forehead. “You’re warmer than you were yesterday, too. I don’t love that.”

“We could mix up an herbal tea to try to bring his temperature down if he has a fever,” Vesemir muses. “Might not work, though. I doubt the rise in his temperature is coming from anything as mundane as an infection.”

“It’s the… withdrawals, right?” Jaskier says quietly, folding his arms on top of Geralt’s around his middle. “Because no one is f*cking me? I’m getting sicker.”

Everyone is quiet for a long minute, looking around at one another, waiting to see who will speak. No one does, for a while, until Geralt clears his throat. “It looks that way. Your temperature is rising.”

“Any changes in behavior?” asks Yennefer curiously.

“He’s been more… insistent,” Geralt supplies after another pause where even Jaskier looks at him. “Rapid changing of mood. Very physical. Territorial over me. I think…” He trails off, struggling to think of how to phrase what he needs to say. “He’s been trying to… instigate the activities he craves. Without necessarily being aware of what he’s doing. It’s unconscious.”

That cold-tea-sadness smell takes over the man in Geralt’s arms, and his face goes pink with shame. “I didn’t mean to be so difficult,” he says, voice rough like he might be on the verge of tears. “I’ve been causing you problems all day. f*ck, I didn’t--”

Jaskier tries to squirm away from Geralt then, but the witcher keeps his grip firm and moves one hand to Jaskier’s bare chest, over his heart, pressing him back against Geralt again. “Easy, easy,” he soothes, hooking his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder. “No one’s blaming you. Just told you, I know you’re not in control of yourself. It isn’t your fault.”

“We’ll get you through this,” Eskel promises from across the room, nostrils flaring as he scents Jaskier’s distress, too. “Whatever this is, you’re going to come out of it alright. We’ve got you.”

“Is there anything that helps, Jaskier?” Yennefer asks, pulling up a chair and seating herself in it, legs crossed, leaning forward intently. “Is there anything that lessens your discomfort at all? Think back on your day. In those times where you felt distressed, what made it better?”

Jaskier’s heart is still beating anxiously in his chest. “This,” he mumbles miserably. “Being touched, and held. The skin contact. And when I-- when I’m allowed to do things with Geralt.”

“By things,” Vesemir says delicately, clearing his throat, “I assume you mean things of an… intimate nature?”

“When he gives me his cum, yes,” Jaskier says shamelessly, looking Geralt’s father right in the eye. “Or when I’m getting hard for him. Yesterday when he made me come,” he continues, heedless of the way that three sets of eyebrows go up and three sets of eyes stare right at Geralt’s reddened face, “that helped, too. That felt good.”

“Bet it did,” Eskel says, amusem*nt clear in his voice. “So much for keeping it clinical, Geralt.”

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my adopted brother, my father figure, and my ex-girlfriend. Matter of fact, I’m not having this conversation with any of you,” Geralt grumbles. “I’ve got this handled, alright? I’m in control of the situation.”

“That’s a lie,” Vesemir and Yennefer say in unison, with a frown on Vesemir’s face and a smirk on Yen’s.

“Why do we even keep Lambert around, when you three are arseholes enough for the whole keep?” grouses Geralt, nudging Jaskier to stand so that he can do the same. “Let’s go, Jask. I’ve grown bored of the company here.”

Jaskier giggles a little when Geralt takes his hand and tugs him to the door, which makes him feel a little less like throwing himself down the stairs as they descend from the tower.

…………………

It’s been almost an hour since Geralt had escorted Jaskier to his bedroom for the night when the faint knock sounds on his door. He knows who it is, of course: he’d heard Jaskier’s restless shifting even through the stone walls, and had heard Jaskier’s door open and close, and had been listening to Jaskier’s breathing out in the hallway for a full ten minutes now. He’d even thought about calling out to him, ending whatever indecision caused him to linger in silence. In the end, Geralt had thought it kinder to let him have his peace as he wrestles with whatever demons give him pause.

Eventually, though, the knock comes, and Geralt calls out, “Come in.”

The door only opens a crack, just enough for Jaskier to peek his head in. “Uhm, Geralt?” he says hesitantly, as if there might be someone else with Geralt’s voice lurking in there and giving him false permission to enter.

“Jaskier, what’s wrong?” He can smell the emotion on him, a peculiar mix of sadness and fear that Geralt can only label as anxiety. Something is eating at him, keeping him awake, and Geralt wonders if Yennefer has a spell that will allow him to fight off someone else’s nightmares for them. “Don’t be upset. Come here.”

He needs no further urging. Jaskier closes the door softly behind him and comes over to the side of the bed, standing there hesitantly until Geralt unfurls an arm and Jaskier tucks himself into it. It doesn’t seem to bother him that he’s bent over the bed in a notedly unnatural position just to get an awkward half of a hug from the witcher. He revels in it anyway, one hand spread wide over the bare skin of Geralt’s stomach. Geralt is suddenly keenly aware of how little he’s wearing, having chosen to retire tonight in only a thin pair of braies.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt repeats once more. “Something is upsetting you. Tell me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“If it’s bothering you, then it isn’t stupid.”

Jaskier shakes his head, but given their closeness it turns into more of an affectionate nuzzle than anything else. “It’s just-- morning seems like a very long time away. It’s hours and hours. And the thought of spending the whole night alone is just unbearable.”

It sounds like a cheesy line that someone might use to try to seduce a naive young lover into their bed for the night, but Geralt can tell from the shudder that runs down his spine that it’s no such thing. He’s genuinely dreading the idea of spending so many hours deprived of touch-- to the point where he’d sought Geralt out to remedy the situation, a decision that his silent war with himself outside Geralt’s door indicated was not an easy one. He can’t resist the small, honest confession.

“Is that all?” he says casually, like Jaskier has just informed him of his favorite color or the price of peas in Cintra. He reaches over and flips up the covers on the unused side of the bed. “Stay with me, then, if you want. You need rest, not to be tossing and turning and worried all night.”

“You mean it?” The unadulterated hope in Jaskier’s voice could kill a man. “I only came in here just for a minute, I was going to go back to my own bed, I swear.”

“And in another hour you’d be back and needing more. Just stay with me. I don’t mind.”

Jaskier picks his head up from Geralt’s chest, and his enhanced natural night vision catches the flash of teeth as the man smiles. He murmurs something under his breath that might be my kind witcher if Geralt had been more than half listening instead of trying to construct the rest of Jaskier’s face from memory in the darkness. He moves around the bed and climbs in on the side closest to the fire. Before his head has even hit the pillow, Geralt hears, “Can I--?”

“Get as close as you want to,” Geralt answers before he can finish, because it’s only been three days but he already knows what Jaskier needs.

“This is much better,” Jaskier practically purrs when he’s got his face pillowed on Geralt’s chest and one leg thrown over the muscled thigh closest to him. Geralt doesn’t even have to cuddle him back, really. It seems to be enough to Jaskier that he’s currently plastered to Geralt from temples to toes, without any particular concern for Geralt’s participation.

He gets it, though, whether he requires it or not. Geralt’s hand comes to rest between his shoulderblades and begins to rub, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence when Jaskier sighs happily. He makes smooth circles on Jaskier’s back, runs fingers up and down his spine, swipes his thumb over the nape of Jaskier’s neck, any soothing touch he can think of. It’s working. Jaskier has melted into him, body relaxed and soft...

...except where he’s rock hard and rutting into Geralt’s thigh.

Jaskier seems to catch himself mere seconds after the motion registers for Geralt, and he freezes. “Sorry,” Jaskier sighs, “I didn’t mean for that to happen. Really, I wasn’t trying to-- I only wanted to be close with you, I wasn’t trying to start anything.”

“It’s alright, Jaskier,” says Geralt, keeping his arm around him steady so that Jaskier can’t pull away in embarrassment. “It happens. It’s natural. I’m-- I’m glad that you feel relaxed enough around me to… feel that.”

A pause. “It doesn’t… bother you?”

Geralt considers his next move carefully, like it’s combat rather than conversation. “It doesn’t bother me,” he confirms. “I thought that maybe…”

“Yes?”

“You said earlier that yesterday, when you were with me and you came, that it made you feel good. That it helped, I mean.”

Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up. “Yes.”

“Would you… like for me to help you come again?”

“f*ck, yes, please,” Jaskier instantly replies, his hips stuttering into action again as he rubs his co*ck desperately into him. “I want whatever you’ll give to me, Geralt. Please let me come.”

Geralt wonders if that’d be enough for him, just rutting against him like that, but he doesn’t intend to find out. He plants one foot on the mattress and flips them over, so that Jaskier is flat on his back on the mattress and Geralt is at his side, propped up on one elbow. He hears Jaskier’s muffled little gasp and frowns, unsure what the noise means without being able to see him as well. “Hang on a second. Close your eyes,” he warns, twisting his fingers into the sign for igni and flicking his wrist at the candle on his bedside table.

The wick flares to light at once, casting just enough of a glow in the room for Geralt to be able to see Jaskier beneath him, head cradled comfortably in the pillow, eyes obediently closed. When Geralt runs a thumb across his cheekbone in a signal to open them once more, he sees pupils blown wide. There’s a flush on Jaskier’s cheeks too, his lip caught between his teeth, looking up at Geralt with unmistakable excitement.

That’s enough for Geralt. He reaches down and unties Jaskier’s soft trousers, pushing them down around his thighs and wasting no time in wrapping his hand around Jaskier’s co*ck. It isn’t the first time he’s seen it, but it still gives Geralt a thrill to finally touch. It’s as if he was half afraid that Jaskier was some sort of fantasy that he’d conjured up that would dissipate under his hands if he dared to reach out. But to feel him now, his hard, hot length tucked into Geralt’s palm, Geralt knows that his imagination could never be good enough to come up with Jaskier. Not even close.

Jaskier moans long and low on Geralt’s first stroke, then promptly snaps his jaw shut against the sound. “You can make sound,” Geralt hurries to say, probably too quick to fake at casual if Jaskier had been paying attention. He doesn’t seem to be aware of much other than Geralt’s hand on him, however. One of Jaskier’s hands is fisted in the sheets and the other clutches at Geralt’s arm, not restricting him in the least, just feeling his movement as Geralt works his co*ck.

Geralt swipes his palm over the tip of Jaskier’s co*ck and finds him dripping, offering more than enough precum to ease his strokes. The glide is smoother now, and Jaskier all but sobs at it, hips bucking up into Geralt’s touch as he starts to babble. “Gods, yes, you’re so good at this, Geralt,” he pants, turning his face towards him. His eyes are closed once more, eyelashes flickering damply against his fair skin. “No one’s ever touched me like this before. It’s never felt like this, f*ck!”

It might just be the kind of dirty talk he’s been trained to give to any lover. It probably is, since all Geralt is doing is frantically jerking him off without any kind of finesse or skill. It can’t be that good, it can’t have him looking like he’s on the verge of coming already. Geralt knows it’s too good to be true, but f*ck if it doesn’t make his co*ck throb anyways.

“Let go, Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly. “Go ahead and come.”

The effect is immediate, Jaskier’s co*ck jerking in his grip and spilling his seed across his belly while he moans. Geralt has to turn his face away. He can’t look at Jaskier like this, can’t have the image of what he looks like burned into his mind and then get up in the morning and pretend that everything is the same. It’s bad enough that he has to hear the sound of him breaking with release, and to feel the way his body moves in counter to Geralt’s until he finally comes to rest with a whispered, “Thank you, Geralt. You’re too good to me.”

“No problem,” Geralt says, nearly choking on words that aren’t what he wants to say.

He starts to roll away, but Jaskier rolls with him, winding up on top of Geralt with each of his arms and legs pressing into Geralt’s. It might be called a pin, if Geralt wasn’t strong enough to push him off without using even a fraction of his strength. He doesn’t move a muscle to get away. “I haven’t forgotten about you,” Jaskier murmurs, before gliding down his body with more grace than any man has a right to possess.

This time, when Jaskier takes Geralt’s co*ck into his mouth, it’s different than all the times before. It’s slower, gentler and yet more desperate somehow, as if he’s trying to draw something more from Geralt than just his pleasure. He’s got his head resting on Geralt’s hip, eyes closed, not so much sucking Geralt’s co*ck as he is holding the length in his mouth and working the base in his hand, gently suckling at the tip. He’s in no hurry, and Geralt finds himself wedging some of the spare pillows behind Jaskier so that he can truly relax and take his time with this… whatever this is.

A few minutes of silence have passed between them when Jaskier releases his mouthful and softly says, “Geralt?”

“Yes, Jaskier?”

“Will you put out the candle?”

A little while later, in the darkness, Geralt comes in Jaskier’s mouth with a quiet groan and Jaskier swallows his seed diligently, gratefully. He doesn’t release Geralt’s co*ck, just continues to hold it, safe and warm within his mouth, as Geralt drifts off to sleep with his hand tangled in soft brown hair.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Heat.

Everywhere around Geralt is nothing but heat. He’s sweating from head to toe with it, and it takes him a long minute of blinking himself awake and staring at the ceiling in confusion to figure out where exactly all of the excess warmth is coming from.

It’s Jaskier, who has wrapped himself around Geralt like an octopus, apparently having crawled up Geralt’s body at some point in the night --after having drained Geralt a few more times, judging by the feel of his balls. He’s also apparently rid himself of all of his clothing somewhere along the way, so his body is naked everywhere that he’s pressed into and wrapped around Geralt.

His waking must have jostled Jaskier, because the man takes a shuddering breath and then groans, his hips grinding down into Geralt’s stomach. The sweat on his skin acts as a rudimentary lubricant, and Jaskier’s co*ck --which Geralt can feel is painfully hard-- glides across his skin. Jaskier is rutting against him mindlessly, his face nuzzling into the crook of Geralt’s neck with a desperate whine. “Geralt, I’m sorry, I--”

“It’s alright,” Geralt interrupts, his hands fluttering uncertainly for a moment before landing on the bare, burning skin of Jaskier’s back. Jaskier moans at the contact, working his hips harder. “Did you… make me come some more last night? After I was sleeping?”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says again, making an effort to still his movements. His breath is coming fast and shallow, like he’s on the verge of tears. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just-- everything aches Geralt, and it felt better when I was making you come. I would fall asleep for a little bit and then when it started to hurt again I would wake up and all I would have to do was suck you and it would be better. But now you’re empty and my stomach is so full it hurts and I still feel awful. I’m sorry, Geralt, don’t be mad--”

“Easy, relax, I’m not mad,” Geralt soothes. “You did what you had to do. How can I help? Do you need to come again? Jaskier?” he prompts when he gets no response.

A brief pause, then Jaskier nods into his neck ever so slightly. “Please,” he croaks.

Geralt rubs his back gently, trying not to be alarmed by the brokenness of his voice or the frantic way he arches up into Geralt’s touch. “What do you need me to do for you?”

“Nothing, just-- just let me, please!”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Geralt assures him, wrapping his arms around Jaskier to hold him close as he pushes his co*ck across Geralt’s belly with increasing urgency. “You can come like this if you want to.”

There’s a twitching between them and then something warm pulses over Geralt’s skin and runs down his side. The smell of Jaskier’s cum fills the room, thick and rich, and Geralt’s co*ck --still soft-- gives a valiant twitch of interest. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Jaskier babbles, going limp once more.

As the tension leaves Jaskier’s body, Geralt feels himself relaxing as well. Jaskier’s skin is still far too warm, and he still trembles, but he’s lost that immediate, frantic drive. “Is that better?” he asks, stroking Jaskier’s hip.

“Still hurts,” Jaskier mumbles sleepily. “But better.”

Not long after that he’s asleep again, and Geralt has time to consider his course of action as the sun rises higher in the sky. Already, things are so much worse than the day before. Jaskier’s needs are escalating; he’s feverish, has limited control over his body, and experiences physical pain without some sort of sexual release --giving or receiving-- every few hours. Keeping him calm and sated will be a challenge, and who knows how long it’ll be before the withdrawals ease? If they ever ease.

Geralt can’t dwell on that, so he focuses on what he knows. First order of business when Jaskier wakes is a bath. They’re currently glued together with two loads of Jaskier’s spend from last night and this morning, what feels like a gallon of sweat, and if Geralt isn’t mistaken there’s something dripping on his leg that has to be the slick Jaskier’s body produces. And while all of those might potentially be arousing in small doses, being covered in all of them at once in such quantities is… frankly a little disgusting.

After that, something to distract Jaskier for a while. He’d said he had a full stomach from the night before, so Geralt wouldn’t have to worry about that for a while. If he could just try to keep Jaskier busy, keep him relaxed, maybe he can stretch out the amount of time between the releases that Jaskier needs. How in the hell he’s going to manage that is a mystery, but Geralt has never been one to give up a fight easily.

If he can slay a basilisk, he can keep Jaskier clothed for a couple of hours, right? Right.

It’s almost ten in the morning by Geralt’s reckoning before Jaskier starts to stir again. He does so with a grumble and a shove that rolls him off of Geralt and onto his back on the mattress next to him. He keeps one leg tucked between Geralt’s though, like he’s afraid to lose contact with him, and throws the arm nearest to Geralt out to lay across his chest. His palm lands in something simultaneously wet and crusty, and the sensation seems to bring him back to full wakefulness.

“The f*ck?” he slurs, lifting his hand in front of his face and inspecting it. “Ew.”

“It’s your mess,” Geralt informs him, snorting with amusem*nt, “don’t look at me. I can’t even remember the last time that I came and it wasn’t inside of you.”

Jaskier shivers at that, rolling his head to the side to look at him with an expression that still manages to be seductive even though Jaskier is still more than halfway asleep. The half-lowered lashes are really doing it for Geralt either way. “As it should be, my witcher.”

“I need a bath and so do you,” Geralt quickly deflects, lest one or both of them add to the mess that’s already approaching ridiculous levels.

“No,” Jaskier whines, rolling away again, until he’s on his front with a space left between them. He still keeps his foot hooked over Geralt’s thigh, though, never quite removing the contact completely. “I’m already hot. If I get in that hot water I’ll be cooked alive. I’m a man, Geralt, not a lobster.”

“Well I want a hot bath,” grunts Geralt. If he doesn’t get the smell of Jaskier’s sex off of his skin, he’s not going to have a very successful day of trying to keep everyone clothed and calm. “And you’re going to regret it if you don’t at least try to get off some of this… mess.”

Jaskier’s sigh is very long-suffering, but he does sit up in the bed and release his final hold of Geralt so that he can rise as well. “I suppose a cool rag and some soap might feel nice.”

Geralt pulls up his braies, which have been halfway down around his thighs since Jaskier first got his mouth on Geralt sometime last night, and finds a dirty shirt to pull on to conceal the mess on his torso. It won’t do much to preserve anyone’s modesty, since even a human could probably smell the sex on him, but if he crosses one of his brothers on the way to the spring he’d like to at least be able to pretend it isn’t obvious.

“Will you be alright for a bit, while I bathe?” Geralt asks. “I know you said you aren’t hungry, but maybe you’d like to clean up in your room and then… go for a walk or something? And I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says with another sigh. He doesn’t make any attempt to retrieve his clothing from Geralt’s bed or his floor, striding over to Geralt without an ounce of shame or a stitch of modesty. “Don’t take too long, okay?”

The kiss he plants on Geralt’s cheek lingers long after he leaves the room.

…………………

In truth, Geralt spends a lot longer than he intends to in the bath. It takes a while of scrubbing for him to get the smell of Jaskier off of his skin, and then after that he takes a while just to soak. This is the first time he’s had to himself in almost twenty-four hours, and he appreciates the reprieve. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy Jaskier’s presence, it’s just that his brain (and his emotions, and his co*ck) need a break, however brief. It’s a relief to be able to go to his favorite corner of the spring, wash himself clean of the stress of the past day, and just relax.

He might slip into a slight meditative trance for a while, because when Geralt next opens his eyes his hair is already beginning to dry from where he’d dunked it under the water earlier. Somewhat reluctantly, but feeling much more centered and prepared for the rest of the day, Geralt climbs from the water and redresses himself in clean clothing. He’ll have to wash the sheets that he’d stripped from the bed earlier, since after all of the dramatic rolling around Jaskier did, they’re all but a lost cause, but now that he’s back on his feet he feels a strong urge to check on Jaskier before doing anything else. It’s a big keep, with plenty of trouble to get into, and Geralt will feel better once he knows where he is and what mischief he’s been making.

It doesn’t take long after leaving the bath for him to pick up the trail. Not a scent trail, as he’d originally been intending to follow, but one that’s made rather ominously of Jaskier’s clothing. He comes across a sock first, then another. Next comes a shirt caught on an unlit candelabra, and then a pair of trousers kicked into an alcove. It isn’t hard to do the math, and Geralt quickens his steps as he searches for his scantily clad companion with a growing sense of dread.

He follows the muffled sound of voices to a heavy door leading to a sitting room, and when he pushes it open he doesn’t have to scan the room to see if he’s found Jaskier. He knows it, without a doubt, just by the smell of him. Arousal and sadness cloud the air, cloying and desperate, and Geralt rushes in with alarm. He clocks the abandoned smallclothes on the floor in front of him first, and then his eyes finally find the man.

Or men, actually, because Jaskier is laying on his stomach across Eskel’s lap, naked as can be, shuddering as hands run all along his body.

Jaskier doesn’t notice his entrance, his face pressed into the cushion on one side of Eskel, eyes closed tight. Eskel notices, of course; his eyes lock with Geralt’s across the room and clearly convey a barely contained bewilderment that Geralt has no answer for. There’s also no small amount of annoyance that seems to be directed not at Jaskier, but at him.

When he speaks, though, Eskel’s voice betrays none of his emotion. It’s calm and firm, just like the motions of his hands. “Easy, there you go, just relax. Said you needed to be touched, and you’re being touched. Stop wiggling or I’ll take my hands away.”

Shockingly --or perhaps not, given Jaskier’s eagerness to please-- the command works. Jaskier’s hips still where they had been seeking friction against Eskel’s thigh, and he goes boneless beneath Eskel’s hands. Geralt watches in silent fascination. As he looks, he notices that Eskel’s touch never goes anywhere even vaguely sexual, the roaming of his palms confined to the planes of Jaskier’s back, his shoulders and upper arms, and the lower part of his legs. His bottom and thighs are left alone. Even still, Jaskier’s face looks blissful at the contact.

Eskel is looking at Geralt, still waiting for some sort of response to what he’s walked in on, but Geralt can’t think of a single thing to say. He can smell Eskel’s arousal. Eskel can probably smell his, too. It certainly seems to distract him enough that his hand skims outside of safety, a little too far up Jaskier’s legs to his inner thigh, and Jaskier gives a cry and starts to push up off the sofa seeking more leverage to lean into the touch.

“Be still,” Eskel says, low and authoritative. One hand cups around Jaskier’s collar at the back of his neck and pushes down, until Jaskier is back where Eskel put him and boneless once more.

Geralt’s co*ck may or may not give a twitch at the sight of him pliant and easy like that. If it does, only Eskel will ever know.

“There’s a good boy,” Eskel says, and Jaskier’s open-mouthed moan at the words is an entrancing sound. “Thank you for letting me help you. You know Geralt only wants you safe and happy, and so do the rest of us.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whimpers, sounding dazed. “I want Geralt.”

“I know you do. But you let me help you while he was busy, which was very good. That’s what you should do, if you’re hurting.”

“It was good,” Jaskier hums. “He won’t be mad?”

Eskel delivers a pointed glare at Geralt as if to say he’d better not be. “No, Jaskier, he won’t be mad at all. He’ll be glad that you’re feeling better.”

Geralt nods his understanding at Eskel, then approaches and crouches down in front of the couch where Jaskier’s face is. Eskel’s hands still, and a moment later Jaskier’s eyes flutter open and lock onto Geralt’s face at once. “You’re back,” he breathes, a smile taking over his face. “You were taking forever and my clothes were itching my skin, and then I found Eskel and he said you told him to help take care of me.”

“I did tell him that,” Geralt rumbles in confirmation. “How’d he do?”

“He won’t let me come, or suck his co*ck,” Jaskier says, blunt as ever, and Geralt feels his face go hot immediately. “He said I just needed a firm hand. His hands feel very nice, though.”

Eskel shrugs when Geralt glances up at him. “He wasn’t hungry, he was just lonely because you weren’t around. Figured I could keep him busy until you… showed up.” The last two words are said with an inflection that makes them sound like pulled your head out of your arse.

Geralt nods again, for Eskel, then turns his gaze back to Jaskier. “And how are you feeling?”

“Still hurts, but better,” comes the answer, same as before.

“Alright, up you get,” Eskel says with a little pat to the back of one of Jaskier’s thighs, releasing his hold on the back of the man’s neck. “Go with Geralt.”

Jaskier rises immediately, then turns around and very shyly kisses Eskel on the cheek, right over top of his scars. “Thank you, Sir,” he says quietly.

“You’re very welcome,” Eskel answers with a wink. He doesn’t even react to the moniker, as if it’s far from the first time someone has called him that, and Geralt is learning all kinds of new things about his older brother today. Geralt isn’t sure he could ever pull off that kind of stern confidence that Eskel seems to wear like a glove.

He tries his best though, leaving no room for argument in his tone as he tells Jaskier, “Go gather your clothes from the hallway and head back to my room, please. I’ll be there in a minute. Alright?”

It falls short of a true command, but Jaskier nods pleasantly anyways, quietly murmuring his assent as he goes to do as he’s asked. As soon as the door has closed behind him, Eskel turns to Geralt with a raised eyebrow. “So how’s that plan of yours coming along?” he asks drily.

“I’ve had better plans,” Geralt sighs. “How the f*ck did you pull that off? He was practically feral this morning until I got him off. You did it by just rubbing his back and talking to him.”

“Yeah, well, there are different kinds of release. Doesn’t always have to be physical.” Eskel shrugs, then grimaces at the door Jaskier left through. “I figured he’s probably used to a little bit more… authority than a softie like you.”

“I’ve been called many things, but I’ve never been called a softie, Eskel.”

“Have you been called an idiot? Because that’s what you’re acting like,” Eskel shoots back, frowning at Geralt, heavy with disapproval. “I know you think you know what you’re doing here, but he needs to be better taken care of. He’s in physical pain, Geralt. Handle your sh*t.”

Geralt is starting to get tired of everyone else being right all the time. “I’m trying,” he sighs, rubbing a hand across his eyes in frustration. “I’m trying to do the right thing here. Maybe you should be the one to--”

“Hey, look at me, brother,” Eskel says, grabbing Geralt by the shoulder until he lifts his head again and looks at him. “You’re the one that he wants, not me. He was willing to settle for me, since I was the person who was around, but all he talked about was you. For whatever reason, you’re the one he has a connection to. You can’t pass the buck here.”

“I can’t talk to him the way you talked to him,” Geralt frowns.

“You don’t have to do it the way I do it,” Eskel shrugs, stepping back a bit to flop back down on the couch and pick up a book that must have been abandoned upon Jaskier’s arrival. “Do it the way you do it. Apparently that works for him. Just… get it together, alright?”

Geralt sighs again. I’m f*cking trying.

…………………

He isn’t exactly sure what his way of doing things even is, but Eskel is right that Jaskier seems more than delighted to be back in Geralt’s presence. When he meets Jaskier in his bedroom, he’s immediately got an armful of tactile, half-naked human. “I thought you were supposed to be getting dressed before you came back here?” Geralt sighs, looking down at Jaskier’s bare legs. At least he’s kept his shirt and smallclothes on.

“I did like you asked me, pinky promise,” Jaskier insists, nosing at Geralt’s collarbone. “I didn’t take them off again until I got here. It’s so hot here and my skin is so sensitive. It feels like sandpaper straight out of the fire.”

That doesn’t sound promising. “Let’s read something,” Geralt says to distract him. “Go pick out a book from your room. No maidens this time.”

Jaskier returns a minute later with a book about the history of potion-making, and Geralt raises his eyebrows in surprise. This was the sort of thing that Vesemir used to make the trainees read as punishment, and Jaskier is choosing it for leisure? “I think it’s interesting,” Jaskier shrugs. “Did you know that alchemy was first used to preserve bodies? The first potion-makers thought that with the right combination of ingredients, they could cure death itself and find a way to make man immortal.”

“I did know that,” Geralt replies, amused. “Witchers wouldn’t exist without our skills with alchemy. I’m pretty sure I’ve been forced to copy passages out of this very book before when I was in trouble for throwing Lambert into a snowdrift.”

The grin he gets at that is quick and genuine. “Sounds like it was worth it.”

“I would suffer far worse punishments for the pleasure of throwing Lambert into a pile of snow. I’ll have to remember to do that again before the winter is out.”

“Only if you let me watch,” Jaskier answers with a wink. “Geralt, will you-- could you read to me today? Since you know the topic? I always wonder if I’m pronouncing the ingredient names correctly in my head, and you know if you start saying it wrong in your head when you read it then you’ll never be able to fix it later.”

Jaskier’s wide, earnest eyes could tempt Geralt to a number of things, but putting on a performance is hardly one of them. “I don’t have a pretty voice like yours,” he hedges.

“You think my voice is pretty?” Jaskier says, momentarily distracted.

“Yes,” Geralt says, because he can’t think of a good reason to lie.

The answer seems to please Jaskier, whose pupils dilate ever so slightly. This is not going the way Geralt had planned. “I like yours too. Always halfway between a purr and a growl. Like I never know if you’re intending to ravage me or dress me in silks.”

“I don’t have any silks to dress you in,” Geralt protests, face hot.

Jaskier just tilts his head and smiles at Geralt with a look that’s a bit feral, like a cat with a mouse trapped beneath his paw. “Guess you’ll just have to ravage me, then.”

Geralt loses the thread of the conversation for a moment, lost in Jaskier’s mischievous gaze. It isn’t until Jaskier tosses the book he’s been holding onto Geralt’s bed that the soft thump draws the witcher from his haze. Right, reading. Geralt snatches the book right back up again and holds it up between the two of them, the way that he’s seen Priests of the Eternal Fire hold up their holy tomes to ward off creatures of the night. “I’ll read it to you,” he says, voice already cracking a little. Nothing like a little dry nonfiction to kill the mood, right?

Wrong, apparently. He agrees to read to Jaskier here (since he’s not decently dressed to be elsewhere in the castle and refuses to put his trousers back on), which means sitting on the bed (or rather, Geralt is sitting on the bed and Jaskier is curled up in his lap), which means they get through about an hour of Geralt droning on about various famous alchemists before Jaskier’s laying between his legs with Geralt’s co*ck in his mouth. f*ck.

Geralt lets him, because it’s been hours since the last time Jaskier got any relief. And anyways, this might be good for Geralt in the long run. Reading about the benefits of carefully preparing your herbs while his co*ck is down Jaskier’s throat is really making him enthusiastic about stepping up his alchemy skills.

Before Geralt comes, however, Jaskier pulls off and continues to work Geralt’s length with his hand while he kisses at Geralt’s hip. A little smear of precum is dribbled onto his shoulder when he nips at Geralt’s belly. “I’m still full from before,” he says in answer to Geralt’s confused warning. “I don’t want to swallow it this time. Can you just come on me instead? You’ll feel so good on my skin, Geralt. I just know it’ll feel divine.”

They go down for lunch with the others with Geralt’s seed drying on Jaskier’s stomach beneath his shirt, and Geralt tries to pretend like he doesn’t love that every witcher in the room smells it.

He doesn’t push it too much when Jaskier refuses the food he’s offered at the table. He had just told Geralt that he was full, and maybe he is. Jaskier’s body is so erratic today that Geralt doubts whether he’d be able to sense a lie even if Jaskier stood on the table and declared himself to be the king of Nilfgaard. He frowns at Jaskier when he shakes his head at the bites of food Geralt holds out to him, but doesn’t press the issue. Jaskier is calm where he is, tucked beneath Geralt’s arm, and that’s enough for Geralt at the moment.

This time the release doesn’t seem to tide Jaskier over for very long, and before an hour of conversation has passed between the six of them, Jaskier has wormed his way into Geralt’s lap and is grinding down on his co*ck without an ounce of shame. Geralt had been proud of him for agreeing to put on pants before coming to the dining hall, but at this rate it doesn’t look like they’re going to last very long.

Vesemir had mumbled his excuses and left the moment Jaskier had made his seating adjustment, which was more than fine for Geralt. He has no interest in looking his father in the eye when they both know what’s happening just out of view beneath the table. The others, though, keep glancing back and forth between Jaskier’s pinkened, frowning face and Geralt’s pained one as they keep the conversation light and casual. Jaskier’s knees spread a little wider, hooking his feet around the back of Geralt’s calves and opening himself up for Geralt tantalizingly, as if there aren’t multiple layers of clothing preventing him from squirming his way down onto Geralt’s co*ck.

Lambert is the first one to address the elephant in the room. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Geralt?” he says pointedly. “Like maybe in a bed with Jaskier?”

“Watch it,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier, however, nods his head emphatically. “Lambert is my new favorite. Lambert has very good ideas. I like Lambert.”

“I like you, too, kid,” smirks Lambert. He speaks to Jaskier but looks at Geralt over the rim of his mug. “If Geralt is busy this afternoon, you could always come with me to my--”

“Let’s go, Jaskier,” Geralt snaps, glaring across the table at his little brother with venom that probably gives too much away about the jealous twist in his gut. His hands are gentle on Jaskier as he allows himself to be all but climbed by the clingy human until he has legs wrapped around his waist and very distracting nibbling happening at his throat. Yennefer rolls her eyes with fond exasperation. Eskel and Lambert knock their fists together in victory. Once he’s left the dining hall with Jaskier in his arms, he murmurs, “Ignore Lambert. He’s just trying to rile me up, he doesn’t mean it.”

“No offense, Geralt, but he absolutely does mean it,” Jaskier says with a breathy laugh, leaning back in Geralt’s arms to be able to look at him. The change in position just means his co*ck is rubbing ever harder against Geralt’s stomach through their clothing with each step Geralt takes. “I told you, I know when someone wants me.”

He’s looking right into Geralt’s eyes when he says it, and Geralt has never felt so exposed in his life. It’s as mortifying as it is exhilarating.

They reach Jaskier’s door and Geralt lets him down gently-- or as gently as he can when the process involves having to all but pry Jaskier’s legs from around his waist. Once Jaskier’s feet are flat on the floor, however, Geralt takes him by the shoulder and steps back, putting enough space between them that he can say this with some semblance of dignity. “I think you should get yourself off.”

Jaskier just blinks at him. “Like… you don’t want to do it? Didn’t you like touching me?”

Distance: also good for preventing Jaskier from feeling Geralt’s very visceral response to that question. “Well, you shouldn’t have to be dependent on me for your… pleasure. You need to come, so you should just… take some time to… enjoy yourself. Without me.” Not the most elegant conversation he’s ever had, but at least he seems to have gotten the point across.

“But I can’t,” Jaskier says, perplexed. “Not without you!”

“Sure you can,” argues Geralt as he suppresses a groan. “You don’t need anyone’s permission to feel good anymore. You don’t need me at all. It’s your body. You can make yourself come as many times as it takes for you to feel better.”

An irritated sigh huffs out of Jaskier’s lips, and he actually rolls his eyes. “No, I mean I can’t. I can’t come except on command, Geralt.”

He can’t have heard that correctly. “You-- what?”

“I can org*sm when I’m told to,” Jaskier explains, voice calm and clinical. “Not before, not after. I wasn’t created so that I could feel good, I was created to please others. I come when it pleases my master, and only then.”

“But all those times before, you always--” Geralt’s brain is reeling, trying to remember. He’d thought Jaskier just needed a little encouragement, maybe, but he hadn’t realized the thing that made Jaskier finally release was him. “I didn’t know. I never put it together that you needed… that.”

As usual, Geralt is far more concerned with the injustices in Jaskier’s past than Jaskier is. “Well, now you know,” he says, matter-of-factly. “So you see why I can’t just take care of myself. If I go in there and try to bring myself to org*sm, it’ll just be horrible torture. I’ll just get harder and harder and never come, and you wouldn’t make me do that to myself, would you, Geralt?”

It’s a low move, to say it like that, with his eyes all wide and his lip caught between his teeth. It’s low and it’s effective. “No, I wouldn’t-- I won’t do that. I don’t want you to… hurt.”

“Because you’re good to me,” Jaskier affirms with a hum, closing the distance between them once more. “But if you want me to touch myself, I can do that. You could sit with me and watch. Give me permission, when the time comes. Would you like that?”

Geralt feels as blatantly transparent as a sheet of glass. Jaskier already knows the answer to his question; he’s only asking because he wants to hear Geralt say it. “We can do that,” he simply says, a little less casually than he’d like. “I can do that for you.”

No further encouragement needed, Jaskier turns on his heel and leads the way into his bedroom, shedding trousers and smallclothes as he goes. He’s already half hard-- which is better than Geralt, who can feel his pulse in his co*ck. He crawls onto the bed, only one small corner of which is rumpled at all, like Jaskier is still as a statue when he sleeps. Geralt compares that to the filthy, dismantled disaster that was his own bed after a single night together in it with Jaskier and feels downright unsteady on his feet.

He plops into the armchair by Jaskier’s fireplace before his knees give way, training his eyes on the grate resolutely. He’s just here to give Jaskier the final command, not to watch him doing something that ought to be private. A quick cast of igni brings the logs roaring to life, so that the chill of the abandoned room will start to ease. He’s sure the cool air feels nice on Jaskier’s feverish skin now, but it’ll make him sick in the long run and Geralt loathes the thought of that.

“Such freedom you’ve given me,” Jaskier muses from somewhere behind him. “I don’t know what to do with myself. Genuinely, I’m a little overwhelmed. What do you think, Geralt? Where do you usually start?”

These days, I start with blue eyes and cinnamon and go from there. “You should just… do whatever feels good. Whatever you’re craving, give it to yourself.”

Jaskier hums in consideration. “Very well. As you wish.”

For a moment there’s no sound from the bed, and Geralt is free to stare at the dancing flames in peace. He can do this. All that’s required of him in this moment is that he sit here and mind his business for a while until Jaskier says that he’s ready to finish, and then say the words, and then he can get out of here. He doesn’t even have to look at the bed. He can give this to Jaskier, as close to a moment of privacy as he’s ever had. He can do that, for Jaskier.

And then Jaskier makes a keening noise, and Geralt feels his neck pop when he whips around to look.

He’s on his back on the bed, naked, with one hand tweaking a nipple and the other one between his thighs. From Geralt’s angle towards the foot of the bed, he can clearly see a finger sunk into Jaskier’s hole up to the second knuckle, thrusting in and out in a steady rhythm. Jaskier’s hips move into each motion, rocking to get his own finger deeper. His eyes are locked right on Geralt. “Been feeling empty,” he says simply when Geralt meets his gaze.

“Oil,” Geralt says numbly, swallowing down the sudden dryness in his throat. His eyes zip back to Jaskier’s finger. “You’ll hurt yourself. Let me get you some--”

“Don’t need any oil, silly,” Jaskier says, smiling coyly. “Not with you. I’m always wet around you.”

It’s only sheer force of will that stops Geralt from whining. As it is, he has to clear his throat before speaking. “And that’s-- that’s enough? Enough for you to be able to take something inside?”

“Only when I’m turned on,” Jaskier says, adding a second finger as if to demonstrate. He doesn’t even flinch, just a flickering expression of pleasure on his face to demonstrate that he felt the stretch at all. “I mean, I can take a co*ck no matter what, I’m built for it. Doesn’t matter whether I’m aroused or not. But like this? When I’ve got your cum on my skin still from just hours ago, and I’ve got your eyes on me now? I’m dripping. You could slide right into me.”

It’s a statement of fact, but it’s also an invitation, and Geralt desperately tries to turn his back and return to looking at the fire. He can’t. It’s all he can do to ignore the unspoken request and join Jaskier in that bed, to push his hands aside and test whether his words are true and his body would welcome Geralt home just as easy as that.

Jaskier’s fingers are still pumping in and out, spreading apart every so often. It’s almost perfunctory, clinical, as if Jaskier were simply doing it because it’s something to do, instead of to bring himself pleasure. Geralt’s heartbeat, normally slow and even, attempts to match the rapid pace of Jaskier’s movements. “Slow down,” he hears himself say, voice low. “Make it feel good.”

His voice comes out firm and demanding, something akin to what Eskel’s had been earlier, and Jaskier makes a punched out noise. It wasn’t meant to be a command, moreso a permission, a reminder that the only reason they were here was so that Jaskier could make himself feel good, but even Geralt hears the demand in it. There’s no use taking it back; Jaskier already heard Geralt’s desire in his voice, and by the way the pumping of his wrist slows, he intends to give it to Geralt.

When the third finger slips in, Geralt watches Jaskier’s wrist flex as he curls them, still thrusting gently until he must find his prostate. Geralt can tell by the way his back arches, stomach fluttering as his breath comes heavier, co*ck twitching against his stomach. “Gods, yes, that’s good,” Jaskier groans, letting his free hand drop to his co*ck to tease at it ever so slightly, just a few fingers curled loosely around the base. “f*ck, I’ve missed having something inside me.”

His voice is like a siren song, and Geralt spends exactly three seconds wondering if the Cats had actually used siren mutagens in their experiments on Jaskier before deciding he doesn’t care. It’s irrelevant, what makes him so alluring, because either way Geralt is being drawn in like a magnet. There’s something about him that’s irresistible, and it might just be the way Jaskier is to everyone, but right now it feels like it’s all for Geralt and the thought makes him dizzy.

Jaskier has held true to his word, not once in the past two days having actually asked for Geralt to f*ck him, but he’s reeling him in anyways. Everything that he says and does is another few inches sliding down the slippery slope towards giving Jaskier the world. He doesn’t have to ask, because just demonstrating how good it could be if Geralt would offer it is damn near enough.

“Feels good to have fingers inside of me, but it isn’t quite the same,” Jaskier pants, working his co*ck with a little more energy now. Geralt watches a little bead of precum drip onto his stomach, right next to Geralt’s own spend from before. “Can’t get as deep as I like it. They don’t quite fill me up like a co*ck does. Such delicate hands, too. If only I had nice, thick, strong fingers, like a witcher, then I could f*ck myself on them properly. Bet I could come on them, even. Wouldn’t even need to touch my co*ck. I could get off just on that feeling of being stuffed full--”

“Jaskier, come,”Geralt says suddenly, the words ripped out of his chest, and everything gets hazy for a second as he forgets to breathe watching that graceful body arch up off the bed, Jaskier covering himself in seed.

“f*ck! Yes, Geralt, thank you, f*ck,” Jaskier shouts, pumping his co*ck furiously through his aftershocks, fingers still stuffed deep inside of himself. His thighs quiver and then give out, falling open to give Geralt an even better view. “Gods, thought I was going to have to beg for it, the way you sit there all stoic like you don’t care, but of course you’ll take care of me. So good to me. Don’t even make me beg for it, you just give it to me, f*ck.”

Geralt barely hears. He’s standing, all but sleepwalking over to the side of the bed, and the sight before him is absolutely flooring. For the first time since knowing Jaskier, Geralt lets himself look, long and hard. It’s too late now to resist that urge. He’s too far gone.

He takes in all of that smooth, soft skin, unmarked and yet begging for lovebites. The cum, both of theirs, painted onto his skin. Jaskier’s pretty co*ck, so flushed and wet, thick enough that any lover would be happy to have him inside of them. The telltale sign of sleek muscles beneath his skin, not bulky in the same way that Geralt’s are, but enough to define his body. Geralt looks at his thick thighs, spread invitingly, and between them…

Jaskier’s inner thighs are wet, the flickering light of the single candle catching on the sheen of slick skin. Geralt swallows, hard. He notices his hand moving when it comes into his own field of vision, reaching out to take hold of Jaskier’s thigh and push his legs ever so slightly wider to get a better look. Jaskier gasps, but when Geralt glances up to check on him, he’s just staring at him with unguarded want, no sign of hesitation. Geralt directs his attention downwards again, to the evidence of Jaskier’s eagerness to take him, unfamiliar on a man’s body and only that more hypnotic because of it.

Geralt wants it. He wants to run his fingers through the mess, to suck it off of his skin, to flip Jaskier over and taste him at the source. He wants to lick Jaskier clean the way Jaskier does to him, then tuck his co*ck inside of Jaskier’s body and make an entirely new mess of him. He more than wants it; he’s had lovers before and has known passion and desire. This is something entirely different. This is a craving that’s coming from somewhere so deep inside of him that Geralt knows in a moment of clarity that he won’t be able to resist it forever. It’s only a matter of time.

But for now, though, he can draw in a shuddering breath and shove his appetite down deeper inside. He can hold off, for now.

“Could you come again?” he asks, voice timorous. “Would you want to?”

A little moan escapes Jaskier’s lips, his fingers skimming up and down the length of his co*ck ever so slightly. “All you have to do is say the word, Geralt.”

“Again for me.”

Jaskier’s body is obeying almost before Geralt can finish the words, adding further mess to his stomach and chest. He hadn’t even needed to stroke himself, not really. It was like magic-- seven hells, maybe it is magic that somehow surpasses physiology to make him come no matter how near or far he is to org*sm, and something so twisted should not make Geralt shudder with arousal. It should not make him want to give the command over and over again to see what it takes to wring Jaskier dry.

He’s still staring at Jaskier’s co*ck, twitching with the last throes of his org*sm, when a warm hand comes to rest on his own erection, utterly neglected and straining at his trousers. It’s the hand that used to be inside of Jaskier, and now there are traces of his slick soaking into Geralt’s clothing. “Want help?” Jaskier asks, still breathless, looking up at Geralt with clear eyes. His face is relaxed and pain-free, at least for the moment.

Geralt makes himself take a step back from the bed, and then another one, reaching out as if to take Jaskier’s outstretched hand in his own before catching himself and jerking it back. “No, thank you,” he says haltingly. “Is it-- how do you feel? I thought maybe if you-- if you had two, then maybe…”

Jaskier’s smile is a little sad. “Still hurts, but better.”

It isn’t a surprise by this point. The answer has been the same all day, regardless of what either of them has done to try to help ease his pain. Always better, still never enough. Geralt sighs as he nods and turns to walk to the washbasin near the window and wet a cloth. “I’m sorry. That was too much,” he tells his hands as he wrings the excess from the cloth. “I thought it would help, but clearly I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. I’m only making everything worse.”

There’s a minute or two of silence as Geralt cleans Jaskier up, keeping his movements cursory as he wipes Jaskier’s body clean of the mess. It takes both sides of the rag, between the streaks of cum and all of the shiny, fragrant slick between his legs. Once he’s finished his task there, he returns to the washbasin and gets a fresh rag. This time he picks up each of Jaskier’s hands and cleans them delicately as well, wiping away all traces of their deeds with soap and water. He has the strangest urge to kiss the back of Jaskier’s knuckles like he’s greeting royalty.

When he finishes the second hand, Jaskier’s fingers close around his and refuse to let go until Geralt meets his gaze. “Geralt, you know where I came from. You know a bit about what my life was like before. How can you honestly say, as I lay in a soft bed that’s all my own, being pampered by a kind, handsome man, having just had two lovely org*sms, that my life isn’t the best that it’s ever been?”

Geralt doesn’t pull his hand free yet, just lets Jaskier hold it while the words sink in. “You deserve better,” he says at last.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to have a response for that, and Geralt certainly isn’t one to be known for filling silences. Instead, he gives into that urge to press his lips to the clean, smooth skin of Jaskier’s knuckles, and then lets his hand go.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

As it turns out, two back to back org*sms will get you about three hours desperation-free with a Jaskier that hasn’t been f*cked in five days. The first few hours --after Jaskier is convinced to put on clothes and leave the bedroom again, lest they wind up spending the whole afternoon naked-- they spend out in the stables and the surrounding fields with Roach. Geralt has to bundle Jaskier up when they follow Roach out on her frolic through the snow, wrapped in many layers of sweaters and cloaks to prevent him from catching a chill. It also has the unintended side effect of muffling Jaskier’s scent, which does wonders for Geralt’s ability to control himself.

After a few hours of that, Jaskier starts to get restless again. His boots start kicking against the wooden fence he’s leaning on, fingers rapping against the top rail in a harsh staccato beat. Geralt thinks he recognizes the flushed frown on his face, so he jerks his head back towards the keep. “Come on, let’s head back. She’ll be running around for a while still. Let’s find something else to do.”

Jaskier goes with him easily enough, and since he seems to be vibrating with energy, Geralt decides to try to distract him with something physical. He gets Jaskier into the nice, warm courtyard and strips him out of all of his outer layers, then presses a stick about six inches long into Jaskier’s palm and says, “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Jaskier asks, seemingly bewildered, turning the stick over in his hands as if expecting to find a hidden inscription on it somewhere.

“For training,” replies Geralt. “That’s your very first dagger.”

There’s a moment of hesitation in which Geralt thinks Jaskier might refuse, hesitant like he was on the first night they met to take up arms against his master. But then Jaskier looks up at him with a little smile, eyes bright and curious, and gives Geralt a nod. “Might not be any good at it,” he says sheepishly, as if he’s warning Geralt.

“No one is when they first start. Gotta practice if you ever want to be,” Geralt hums. “We’ll start with form.”

That works for a while, as Geralt starts going through some basic strikes and how best to complete them. He’s not the best teacher by any means-- really, he should have had Vesemir give the lessons as he’d originally offered, since he’s got far more experience than Geralt at trying to put the movements into words that can be understood and duplicated. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, at least. He’s graceful enough that he can pull off most of the movements that Geralt asks of him, even if they’re a little clumsy in his unfamiliarity.

Then Geralt makes the mistake of trying to correct Jaskier’s footing, reaching down to tap at the inside of his thighs to encourage him to nudge them further apart to widen his stance, and with a rush of cinnamon all thoughts of daggers and dodges and daring defences are gone. Jaskier has to be dragged into a little nook behind a partially crumbled stairway and some empty crates so that the whole keep won’t be able to look out their windows and see Jaskier on his knees in front of Geralt, sucking him down with great enthusiasm while Geralt cards a hand through his hair and tries to steady his breathing.

This time when Geralt warns that he’s close to his peak, he frowns sharply when Jaskier pulls off and continues working Geralt with his hand alone. This morning had been one thing; Jaskier had confessed to having indulged in Geralt’s seed several times already, so it hadn’t been unusual for him to be sated. Now, though, Geralt can actually hear the man’s stomach rumbling, and there can be no mistaking his need. “Jaskier, I mean it. I’m --f*ck-- I’m close.”

“I know you are,” Jaskier says slyly. “I’ve got your number, witcher dear. Bet I could do a countdown and make you come exactly at zero if I wanted to.”

Geralt wouldn’t take that bet. He likes keeping his coin in his pockets, thank you, and Jaskier is more than capable of playing him like a fiddle, he knows. “You’re hungry,” he says desperately, feeling his balls tighten with anticipation of his impending release. “You need to-- to swallow my--”

“I don’t want to,” Jaskier pouts, lower lip jutting out ever so slightly. Geralt really ought to take the time to argue the issue, to make sure that Jaskier is taking care of himself and staying well fed. It’s difficult to do that, though, when he’s very distracted by the way that Jaskier’s hand continues to stroke and twist at his length, and when the skin of Jaskier’s cheek is so soft against the tip of his co*ck, and when Jaskier’s lashes are so long and delicate when he blinks up at Geralt, and--

Jaskier winds up with Geralt’s cum marking his cheek, running down his jaw and into the curve of his throat. He looks pretty as a picture, and Geralt tears his eyes away to look at the sky instead as he lets his head thunk against the stone wall behind him. “f*ck,” he tells a passing cloud.

He feels his co*ck being tucked back into his trousers with a delicate touch, and then Jaskier is standing and nuzzling into him like a cat-- with the clean side of his face, thankfully. “Did that feel nice, my witcher?”

“It always feels nice when you touch me,” Geralt huffs, all honesty and no filter. “But why didn’t you swallow? I know you’re hungry.”

His shoulder muffles Jaskier’s next words, but it sounds suspiciously like not for that. After another beat, though, Jaskier lifts his head and looks at Geralt seriously. “Are you angry with me?”

A headache threatens Geralt’s temples suddenly. How is he supposed to answer that question? “I’m concerned,” he says flatly, trying not to sigh. “But I’m hardly going to force you to do… that. At the end of the day, it’s your choice.”

He chances a glance at Jaskier’s face, and finds it graced with a fond smile. “You really are a kind man, you know that?”

Geralt doesn’t answer that one, opting instead to push off of the wall and lead Jaskier back inside the keep. “Let’s get you cleaned up. It’s almost time for dinner.”

Dinner proves no less frustrating, because once again Jaskier declines any nourishment. It’s sausages, potatoes, and onions, simple fare but flavorful, and everyone else is emptying their plates eagerly. Jaskier doesn’t touch the fork next to his plate, though, nor does he accept anything Geralt offers by hand. Geralt can still hear his stomach growling, and after a few failed attempts to get him to at least nibble on some food, he gives a vexed growl.

“Damn it Jaskier, can you at least try to help me here?” Geralt snaps, tossing the little cube of potato he’d been holding back onto the plate with a little more force than necessary. Does the man want to starve?

He isn’t sure what kind of reaction he’d been expecting from Jaskier, but this certainly isn’t it. Jaskier sees his anger and matches it, reaching out and shoving at the plate he’s been given. It knocks into Yennefer’s wine glass in the process and would have made a colossal mess if not for Eskel’s quick reflexes, but Jaskier doesn’t even look in their direction. He’s too busy glaring back at Geralt with a fire in his eyes that the witcher has never seen before.

“Will you at least try to get it through your abnormally thick skull that I’m not hungry?” Jaskier snaps, not giving Geralt a chance to respond before he rises from the bench and storms towards the exit without a backwards glance. Not that Geralt would have been able to respond anyway; all he can do is stare dumbfounded at Jaskier’s retreating form with mouth agape, same as everyone else at the table. The door slamming behind him is the only sound in the pin-drop silent room.

“Should I go--?” Geralt begins to ask.

Yennefer cuts him off with a scathing look. “You stay right where you are. Give him the dignity of a few minutes’ head start to regain some control over his emotions before you go chasing after him.” Her tone harbors no room for argument, and Geralt nods his agreement. If anyone knows how Geralt can improve his responses to a fight, it’d be Yen, who he’s argued with more times than he can count.

“You, uh, going to explain what that was all about?” Lambert says, grabbing Jaskier’s abandoned plate and starting to eat the food from it with a complete lack of shame.

“He hasn’t eaten all day,” Geralt seethes, but the wind has been taken out of his sails by Jaskier’s reaction. “I don’t understand why the f*ck he won’t just eat.”

“When you say he hasn’t eaten,” Vesmir begins delicately, “are we talking about just table food, or…?”

Absolutely everyone is looking at Geralt for his answer. “Nothing,” he confirms with a sigh. “He was… fed, several times, during the night last night. But ever since we woke up this morning, he’s refused any kind of nourishment.”

“You haven’t done anything with him all day?” Eskel asks, surprised and concerned.

This is quickly becoming the least favorite conversations of his life, and that’s including the one where someone explained to him what the Trial of the Grasses was going to be like. “We’ve both been…” Ah, f*ck it. What dignity does he have left, anyway? “I’ve made him come several times, and vice versa. By the way,” he says, turning his glare to Yen, “thanks for mentioning that he’s only able to come on command.”

“He’s only what?” Lambert says, flabbergasted.

“Someone has to tell him to come, or else he physically can’t. I didn’t even realize it until today when I suggested he pleasure himself and he looked like he wanted to throttle me.”

“I had no idea,” Yen says, looking shocked herself. “But I also didn’t have time to look at every second of the last three years of his life. I suppose in retrospect I don’t remember much that involved his pleasure at all. Seems that those moments were few and far between for him. And apparently very hard-won.”

The reminder of Jaskier’s past sobers them all. “How has he been feeling today?” Vesemir asks after a moment. “Have your couplings helped?”

Geralt shrugs and picks up his mug of ale, swirling the contents with a scowl. “He says it’s been helping him feel better, but it never holds. A few hours and he’s miserable and desperate again. And he won’t f*cking eat, which is the part that bothers me. We all saw how frail he was after a few days without. How long can he keep that up?”

“Not to sound indelicate,” Eskel says, rubbing at his chin in consideration, “but it kind of sounds like how some animals get during their mating seasons. They forgo whatever hunting they normally do and focus all their energy on finding their mate. Maybe it’s something like that?”

“That’s f*cked up,” Lambert says on everyone’s behalf.

“So what the hell am I supposed to do about that?” Geralt groans, letting his head fall forward to thunk onto the table.

“You could try making him expend a little less energy to get what he needs, for a start,” comments Yen, somehow managing to convey a tone of I told you so without saying it at all.

Before Geralt can snap at her in his irritation, Vesemir catches his eye and jerks his head towards the door Jaskier left through. “Go. Take care of it. Apologize, with words.”

Geralt does leave then, less because he thinks Vesemir is right and moreso because he’s getting goddamn tired of everyone having their own opinion on what was, in the end, his problem to deal with. They can probably hear him stomping around in the hallway kicking his boot petulantly at unyielding stone walls, but he doesn’t care about that any more than he cares about what they think he should do. He can handle his own sh*t just fine, thanks, and if he wanted a second opinion he would have f*cking asked for it.

Except that clearly he can’t handle his own sh*t, because the smell of cold tea and burnt sugar is thick in the hallway as Geralt unwittingly follows the trail of Jaskier’s anger and sadness all the way down the corridor. That’s what makes the shame kick in. He’s the cause of those emotions, and he can’t put that blame on anyone other than himself. Not the prying attitudes of the others, not the damage done by the Cats, and certainly not Jaskier. That’s all on Geralt and his big fat mouth.

The trail ends at Jaskier’s bedroom door, and Geralt takes a moment to center himself for what will be a distinctly unfun conversation before he knocks on the door. Inside there’s a sharp intake of breath, and no answer. “Jaskier? I wanna talk to you.” This time he gets only a sob in response, which is even more concerning. “Jaskier, let me in, please.”

The muffled sobs increase, and Geralt is torn. On the one hand, he had made a promise to Jaskier that no one would enter his room without Jaskier’s permission. It’s supposed to be his safe space, and if Geralt goes in without being invited, he’ll be betraying that trust. On the other hand, Jaskier is clearly upset, directly because of something that Geralt had done, and Geralt can’t make that right from out in the hallway. Neither option is a good one, and if Geralt chooses incorrectly and winds up hurting Jaskier further--

A faint metallic tang --blood-- drifts to Geralt’s nose from the crack beneath the door, and that makes up his mind for him.

“Jaskier, I’m coming in,” he declares, reaching for the knob at once. “I know you don’t want me here, and I’m sorry about that, but I need to make sure you’re alright.” There’s no response except continued stifled tears, but Geralt swings open the door and steps inside anyway. He hears Jaskier’s breath catch and hold nearby, but he doesn’t see him. Oddly enough, it sounds like the rabbit-quick beating of his heart is coming from… under the bed?

Geralt’s own heart breaks, and he wonders if it’s audible from Jaskier’s hiding place. That’s what it is, undeniably, a place for him to tuck himself away where he thinks he can’t be reached. Geralt doesn’t even need to look under the bed to check. He can smell the salt of his tears, hear the unsteadiness of his breath that belies trembling. That burnt sugar smell, too… anger and fear are such closely tied emotions that sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference between the two, but Geralt has never seen a man try to make himself so small as to be invisible because he’s full of wrath.

Slowly, very slowly, Geralt walks to the wall opposite the side of the bed where he thinks Jaskier’s head might be and turns his back to it, ignoring for now the way that Jaskier’s quiet breathing creeps towards hyperventilation with each of his steps. The scent of the blood remained faint even when Geralt entered the room, which means that whatever the injury is, it must be minor. That knowledge allows Geralt to stay calm and steady in his actions.

He sits on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his back resting against the stone. He knows that Jaskier is probably watching him from the gap between the bed and the floor, so he does his best to look nonthreatening. Places his hands flat on the floor. Fidgets for a bit and takes his boots off to place them to the side. Waits.

Several long minutes pass in silence, so Jaskier must be waiting for something, too. Geralt tries to speak as softly as possible when he says, “I’m sorry, for yelling at you back there. I lost my temper, and it was a mistake to lash out at you with my words like that.”

An inhale, then the sound of teeth clacking together as a jaw snaps shut. Finally, after another moment. “Will you make it quick?”

Hearing Jaskier’s voice, even rough with tears the way that it is, comes as a great relief for Geralt. The words are a little more concerning. “Make what quick, Jaskier?”

“My punishment. You’ve been kind to me so far. Will you make it quick, please?”

Geralt wants to bury himself in Kaer Morhen’s crypt just to get away from his shame. The idea that Jaskier had slipped back into expecting that made his stomach churn. “There is no punishment, Jaskier,” he says gently. “There aren’t any punishments here. When you do wrong, you fix it and you apologize to anyone who’s hurt by it. Just like I’m doing now. And anyways, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jaskier makes an odd noise then, in between a whine and a moan. “I yelled at you. I insulted you. I deserve to be beaten within an inch of my life for speaking to you that way.”

“It’s no worse than what I said to you,” Geralt shrugs. “Even worse, because I’ve been telling you all week that you get to make your own choices, and then tried to make them for you. What you deserve is forgiveness. And kindness. Among other things, but all of them good.”

More quiet, and Geralt can hear Jaskier’s breathing start to slow some. “You’re not angry anymore?”

“I’m not angry,” Geralt confirms. “Wasn’t really angry in the first place, anyways, I was just frustrated. I only want to make sure that you’re healthy and well. Speaking of which… I smelled blood, Jaskier. That’s why I came in. I know you’re hurt. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“What’s the blood from?”

“I-- there was something sharp on the bottom of the bed. A nail maybe? It scratched the back of my hand. I’m fine.”

“Hmm.” Geralt paused for a moment, considering how best to continue. “Would you allow me to get you some medicine to put on it, just in case? Even a little scratch can become infected if you aren’t careful.”

“That… that would be okay.”

“Thank you. It’s in my room. I’m going to go and get it, and then I’ll be right back. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Geralt wastes no time in doing as he said, retrieving a small jar of antibacterial salve from his stock of potions in the trunk in the next room. He doesn’t have much need for it, but it’s a handy thing to carry anyways. More than once he’s come across a wounded human with no knowledge of how to make such a concoction for themselves and no hope of being able to pay anyone to do it for them. In those moments it was almost nothing for him to help treat their wounds with the simple yet potentially life-saving paste, if they allowed him to get close enough to assist them without spitting in his face or screaming in fear. That was always, by far, the hardest part.

It’s a challenge that isn’t irrelevant here, either. When Geralt returns to the room, he announces, “I’m going to sit by the bed now,” and does just that when he doesn’t receive any protest. The jar he places on the floor next to him, not under the bed --not invading Jaskier’s territory, as it were-- but close enough to that invisible line that he won’t have to move far from safety to retrieve it.

There’s a long, still moment, and then one pale hand with an angry red line across the back of it comes sliding out from underneath the bed. Jaskier doesn’t reach for the jar, just lays it there on the floor next to Geralt’s leg, a silent request and invitation. Exhaling slowly, Geralt keeps his movements slow and steady as he reaches for the jar, unscrews the lid, and dips a single fingertip inside to scoop up some of the salve. “This is going to sting a little but it will fade,” he warns before smoothing the clear paste over Jaskier’s cut.

Jaskier barely flinches at the burn of the medicine, leaving his hand where it is even after Geralt finishes the treatment and screws the lid of the jar back on. Geralt’s hand returns to the floor as well, palm flat, unthreatening, and after a moment Geralt feels the smaller fingers slide lightly overtop his own. The contact, however tiny, makes Geralt heave a sigh of relief.

“If you’d like to come out now, you can,” Geralt says, making a face at his own awkward phrasing. “I mean, you always could, but. You’re safe. Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise. I don’t--” he cuts himself off, then decides to be honest anyways. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not a bad person, I promise, I’m just… an idiot sometimes.”

He might be mistaken, but Geralt swears he can hear Jaskier mumble something about it being the truth. Before he can get offended, there’s a gentle shuffling noise and a head of somewhat dusty brown hair appears from beneath the bed. It’s followed by bare shoulders and back, then a bottom, and then finally two legs. Once Jaskier has crawled free of his hidey hole, he sits upright and pulls his legs up to wrap his arms around them.

For a moment he just sits there looking at Geralt, still a little wary, lip caught between his teeth. The second Geralt opens his arms, however, Jaskier is right there in a flash, crawling right into his lap. He sits sideways, his legs still pulled up close to his chest, and Geralt pulls a fur down off of the bed to wrap around him for some cover. “Your clothes?” he asks, curious, wondering if he’ll have to fish them out from under the bed.

“In the hamper. I took them off when I got here. Knew I’d be in trouble.” Jaskier’s half-shrug is small, and he hides his face in Geralt’s shoulder to muffle the words. “I thought that if I were to strip and kneel before you came after me, that maybe you’d go easy on me. But then I-- I started thinking about how strong you are and how much it would hurt, and I got scared.”

Geralt doesn’t want to let his mind wander to imagine what kind of punishment Jaskier thought he was going to get, that involved being beaten and needing to kneel naked and wait for him. “I’m sorry,” he simply says again.

“I’m sorry, too,” Jaskier answers. “For being… difficult.”

“Well, I do enjoy a challenge,” Geralt says, huffing out a laugh. Compared to the last twenty minutes, everything feels like a breeze now. He pats Jaskier’s leg gently. “You should go to bed. You’ve had a long day.”

“Your bed?”

“If you want,” Geralt concedes.

“And you’ll come lay down with me?”

Truth be told, Geralt feels far too keyed up to go to sleep yet, and recent events notwithstanding, the act of laying in bed with Jaskier is only likely to spin him up further. He isn’t in the mood to deny Jaskier anything, though, so he only nods and shifts Jaskier so that he can stand and Geralt can follow him to the other room. Once there, Jaskier sinks into the freshly made bed with a contented sigh. “Your bed is so much nicer than mine.”

“I’m pretty sure they were made at the same time, in the exact same way.” Geralt says, sliding into his side of the bed. He’s careful to keep a little distance between them, despite how they’ve been all but glued to each other from dawn til dusk.

“Well, yours smells like you!”

“Fresh sheets. Wrecked the ones this morning.”

“Alright fine, your bed is just better because it has you in it,” huffs Jaskier, the eye roll clear in his voice even if Geralt can’t quite make it out in the dark room. Now will you come closer already? My bones hurt.”

And of course Geralt has no choice but to honor that request, and even if he did he’d still choose to roll onto his side and tug Jaskier close until they’re pressed together, front to back. Geralt is still fully clothed while Jaskier is nude, but he doesn’t seem to protest the feeling of fabric on his skin as long as Geralt is wrapped around him. They slot together perfectly, and Geralt’s nose buries itself in Jaskier’s hair completely of its own accord. He could care less about the tickling sensation it brings with every breath, because he’s awash in Jaskier’s scent that smells less and less like anxiety and sadness every minute.

Arousal soon takes its place, however. The smell alerts him to Jaskier’s state long before the movements of his hips. Those are gentler, more subtle, as if Jaskier is trying very hard not to let them happen. He grinds back ever so slightly into Geralt’s crotch, just one quick press every once in a while, the frequency increasing steadily until Jaskier is all but riding Geralt’s co*ck through his trousers, and f*ck if that’s not a hell of a mental image.

He waits, though, until Jaskier whines out a, “Geralt, can you--” and then he’s sliding his hand quickly down from Jaskier’s waist to his co*ck and taking it in hand. Jaskier responds to his touch easily, rocking his hips forward into Geralt’s motions with little mewls of pleasure. The precum leaking from the tip of his co*ck makes quick work of slicking up his length, and soon Jaskier is panting open-mouthed into the quiet room.

Things are so different even from the last time they’d found themselves here, tangled together in the dark with Geralt’s hands wringing pleasure out of Jaskier’s body. The knowledge that Jaskier’s pleasure depends on him in the most literal sense that there is makes Geralt feel slightly dizzy. He could make this moment last as long as he wanted it to, and gods is the temptation real.

Jaskier’s hand has reached back so that he can weave his fingers into Geralt’s hair and pull him in tighter over Jaskier’s shoulder, almost cheek to cheek, and Geralt can feel the flexing of Jaskier’s jaw beneath his lips every time the man gasps or groans or whispers Geralt’s name. He wants to be closer still. He wants to swallow those words, to taste them, to place words of his own on Jaskier’s tongue so that he can savor them, too. Suddenly, it strikes him that the sensation is one that he can’t stand to go another minute without, and he’ll be damned if he can hold himself back now.

“Can I kiss you?” he blurts out.

Jaskier’s head turns halfway back to look at Geralt and he bucks harder than ever into Geralt’s grip with a whimper. “Yes, yes, gods yes, Geralt--” he begins, rolling over in Geralt’s arms and guiding his hand back down to his length once more. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, and then cuts himself off by crashing his mouth into Geralt’s.

The taste of him.

Geralt forgets all about working Jaskier’s co*ck the second Jaskier’s tongue slides against his lower lip and the flavor of him explodes in Geralt’s mouth. He’d thought maybe Jaskier would taste like he smelled, like sweet treats from a fine bakery, but it’s different. He tastes like something entirely new, like some nameless concoction that was made specifically for Geralt to get him addicted with a single kiss. A shudder wracks through him, and Geralt shifts them both so that he can straddle Jaskier and hold that lovely face between his hands while he kisses him.

“f*ck,” he swears, hearing his own voice crack. It’s the only word in his head right now. “Jaskier, I-- f*ck.”

Jaskier seems similarly affected, his hips pressing up to rub his abandoned co*ck against Geralt’s clothed one. His hands shaking against Geralt’s skin, running up and down his torso as he explores. Fingers scrabble at the skin beneath Geralt’s shirt, rucking it up around his armpits. “Off,” he groans.

The word penetrates through the haze of sensation Geralt is lost in, and he jerks back to look down at Jaskier in horror. He starts to roll off of Jaskier at once. “Wha--? Are you okay?”

“The shirt, Geralt, not you! I want your clothes off, now, please!” Jaskier huffs, nails digging into Geralt’s back to keep him close. “Why the f*ck would I want you to get off of me?”

“You get mouthier and mouthier every day, you know that?” Geralt says, covering up his relief.

“Yeah, well, you’re a bad influence on me, I guess. Now please be naked with me, Geralt, I’m not above begging.”

He brushes Jaskier’s hands off of him regardless of the protests he receives. It’s a necessary evil, one small tragedy he has to suffer through so that he can roll off of the bed and divest himself of his clothing. It occurs to him that maybe he shouldn’t, but only dimly. Skin contact, right? So what if this is the first time the two of them will have been completely naked in a bed together. It’s the right thing to do, and anyways he’s mostly just concerned with how fast he can get back to tasting Jaskier, anyways.

When Geralt finishes ridding himself of his clothes, he looks over and finds that Jaskier is laid out in Geralt’s bed like an offering. “I want to suck you,” Geralt says, bolder than he’s ever been, and it’s only partially because he knows that without something to occupy it, his mouth will get him in trouble tonight. “Are you alright with that?”

“f*ck yes,” Jaskier breathes, Geralt wastes no time getting back on the bed and between Jaskier’s legs, breathing in the heady scent of his slick and savoring the taste of him as he finally gets his mouth on Jaskier’s co*ck.

It’s even better than the kiss, so good Geralt can’t hold back a groan that makes Jaskier’s thighs tremble around him. He makes a mental note to do that again as he starts bobbing his head. He’s not anywhere near as skilled as Jaskier is in this department; he’s never even performed this act before. He knows that his mouth must be a fumbling mess as he tries to create the right amount of suction around the unfamiliar weight on his tongue, but what he lacks in knowledge he makes up for in determination to make Jaskier feel a fraction as incredible as he does when the roles are reversed.

While he’d always been attracted to men for as long as he could remember being attracted to women, he’d only ever taken one to bed. Even that had been somewhat of an accident, the only whor* in some backwater brothel willing to lie with a witcher. Mikal had been as different from Jaskier as could be-- strongly built, bearded, and with a coldness about him that made it nearly intolerable to be in a bed with him. He hadn’t looked Geralt in the eyes at all as he’d methodically sucked Geralt’s co*ck and swallowed down his seed. He certainly hadn’t been eager to let Geralt return the favor as he usually tried to do with brothels, and that had been the end of that.

It hadn’t been a bad experience, per se, but it had hardly prepared him for this. This is an entirely new experience, a revelation, to be here with Jaskier. Jaskier, who is warm and alive beneath him, running his hands over Geralt’s hair and the sides of his face and what little of his shoulders he can reach. Jaskier, whose muscles tense and jerk and tremble all over with every movement of Geralt’s mouth on him. Jaskier, who is panting like he can’t get enough air, moaning a chorus of yes, Geralt, please, Geralt, f*ck, Geralt that the witcher wants on repeat for the rest of his life.

Jaskier’s breathy pleas turn into desperate gasps, and Geralt removes his mouth clumsily from Jaskier’s co*ck so that he can kiss his way up his torso. When he reaches his mouth, he swallows Jaskier’s begging with a kiss and hushes him, still stroking him with one hand as the other cradles the back of his neck. He can’t help but kiss at the skin where leather collar meets pounding pulse. “What do you need?” he asks Jaskier. “What can I do to make it good for you?”

“It’s so good, Geralt, please,” Jaskier says urgently. “Can I-- I want--”

He tries to silence himself with another bitten lip, and Geralt frees it with a kiss. He wants to hear it. “Tell me, Jaskier.”

“Please, make me come,” Jaskier sobs. “I want to come, please!”

Geralt groans and buries his face in Jaskier’s throat, teeth sinking into his collarbone as he resists the urge to tend to his own aching co*ck. The glide of his hand on Jaskier’s co*ck is far more important right now. “f*ck. Yes, Jaskier, come for me. Come on.”

He fully intends to make his way back down and give Jaskier his mouth again, but he doesn’t get there in time. He’s still only halfway down Jaskier’s torso when his co*ck flexes in Geralt’s grasp, shooting off until streaks of come paint his chest as he gasps and shouts his way through his release. Jaskier clings to him, hands scrabbling at Geralt for purchase, and Geralt kisses whatever part of him happens to be in front of his lips at any given second until Jaskier relaxes into the mattress, sated.

“Thank you, f*ck, thank you Geralt, so good,” Jaskier babbles, chest still heaving. Everything on his body is lax except where he’s gripping tightly to Geralt’s shoulder and arm as if afraid to let him go. “You’re so good to me. No one’s ever… given me that.”

“Hmm?” Geralt is only half listening. Jaskier smells so much like honey that he wants to lick it off of his skin. Or is that the urge to lick Jaskier’s cum off of his skin? We wonders if he’s allowed to do either. He decides not to push his luck.

“No one’s ever sucked my co*ck before,” Jaskier elaborates, easing his grip on Geralt just enough so that he can flop on his side next to Jaskier and run his hand irreverently through the mess on Jaskier’s stomach.

Geralt takes a moment to process that he’d been Jaskier’s first time with that experience, or at least the first he could remember. “I’m not a great benchmark for the experience,” he finally settles on saying. “I haven’t… done that before, either. I don’t have much experience with… pleasing men.”

Jaskier shifts around next to him, stretching his body and then relaxing it again. “But you do like men, don’t you? You find me attractive?”

A very juvenile part of Geralt wants to grind his co*ck, still very much hard, into Jaskier’s hip to demonstrate how stupid of a question that is. He doesn’t, though, because there’s a tremor of nervousness in Jaskier’s voice that he won’t ignore. Instead, he just says, “I do. Very much so.”

“Good,” Jaskier says with a little exhale of relief. “In that case, then, I give your performance a rave review. Highly recommended. Definitely would enjoy repeat performances in the future, if you’re ever so inclined.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Geralt snorts, heaving himself up off of the mattress. “Wait here a minute, let me get a cloth to clean you up.” Hands cling to Geralt and for a moment he worries that he won’t be allowed to leave the bed, but as it turns out Jaskier is just pulling him in for another heated kiss before he goes.

Now, outside of the passion of the moment, Geralt fully comprehends how dangerous of a concession it is to allow himself to kiss Jaskier. This is something that lovers do, and lovers alone. This is another boundary crossed, lost ground he can never recover. He teases his tongue over the tip of Jaskier’s and doesn’t care.

He does have to pull back, though, because every kiss makes his co*ck throb even harder with want, and he has other things to attend to, like warming the wash basin of water with a dash of igni and dipping a washcloth into it so that he can bring it back to Jaskier and wipe his skin clean. It feels like the millionth time he’s performed this task. It feels like one he could get used to.

A few minutes later, when he crawls back into bed and he and Jaskier are curled around each other once more, there is a gently curious hand that traces down the line of Geralt’s body and plays across his co*ck in a silent question. Geralt shakes his head slightly and simply says, “Later,” in a quiet promise. They drift off to sleep with the taste of Jaskier on his tongue, and Geralt has dreams of a strange new kind of falling.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

The room smells like Geralt’s new favorite concoction: honey and cinnamon swirled together into one intricate bouquet. It’s the smell of Jaskier’s happiness and his arousal, mixed together into one satisfying blend, marking Geralt’s sheets in a new and intimate way. These sheets had only ever smelled like him, and now things are different, and Geralt wants to give in to his baser instinct to roll around in the smell of a well-sated lover and kiss that man awake without fear of consequences.

There is, however, one small problem with that plan: Geralt is alone in this bed.

He’s still only half awake when one hand slides across the mattress to reel Jaskier in, but once his fingertips hit the far edge of the bed with no resistance in between, the problem becomes apparent. Jaskier isn’t in his bed anymore, and a sharp inhale as Geralt struggles to wakefulness says he isn’t even in the room, and Geralt is struck dumb with sudden anxiety.

Then he catches a whiff of black tea gone cold, and he’s out of bed like a shot.

He doesn’t even knock when he comes to Jaskier’s door. A door seems so trivial now, when he knows what Jaskier’s lips feel like beneath his own. He just twists the knob and shoves his shoulder against the wood in an effort to gain access to the room that much quicker, and it pays off when no time is wasted on his way to Jaskier’s bedside with the door swinging shut behind him. It’s too late for wasted seconds, not when Jaskier is there with tears on his cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” Geralt says at once, moving to perch on the edge of Jaskier’s mattress. “Are you alright? What hurts? How can I help?”

“It all hurts,” Jaskier hisses, his voice full of venom that barely masks agony. “Every inch of me. It f*cking hurts, Geralt.”

“Okay,” Geralt soothes, though it isn’t. “Alright, just take a deep breath. Let’s figure out what you need. We’ll get you through this, just like we’ve gotten you through--”

“I f*cking hate them,” Jaskier says, voice quieter and somehow infinitely more dangerous. His eyes burn straight into Geralt’s. “The Cat witchers. I hate them. I hate that my body hurts so much. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate what they did to me.”

“I know,” Geralt says, though it seems insultingly inadequate. There’s nothing else he can say, though. “I know.”

“It wasn’t right,” Jaskier insists, even though no one is arguing. “They changed my body and I never told them that they could. They touched me and I-- I hate it, Geralt. They shouldn’t have done that to me. I never told them that they could.”

“It was wrong,” Geralt affirms. “There was no excuse for it.”

“It was rape.”

The word hangs heavy in the air between them. It had always seemed a bit too big to be said aloud, and Jaskier a bit too delicate. Somehow, Geralt had imagined that calling it what it was would be like a hammer striking the chisel still lodged inside of Jaskier, splitting him down the middle with a single, well-placed stroke. He should have known Jaskier was made of tougher stuff than that.

“Yes. It was.”

Geralt needs no further convincing, but Jaskier hurls himself up off of the bed and into Geralt’s arms anyways, wrapping his arms around the witcher’s neck. “I didn’t have a chance to say no, and they didn’t care whether I liked it anyways. They were using me. They didn’t care if they hurt me. It wasn’t like you. It was wrong.”

Even as he’s saying it, Jaskier is trying to climb into Geralt’s lap as he has so many times over these last few days. It ought to be the same, and Geralt ought to push him off. He doesn’t, though. “It’s different here,” he says lowly.

“I know it is. You care. You’re kind to me, and you look at me like a person.” Jaskier’s head turns a little bit and his lips brush across Geralt’s in a kiss. “You care about how I feel and what I want. It’s different here. It’s different with someone who cares for you.”

And that’s when something clicks for Geralt.

The man who Geralt claimed as his Surprise a week ago was one who had suffered through unspeakable horrors, accepting that he deserved it all, accepting that he had no choice in the matter. He was someone who didn’t think it’s important whether he liked what was done to him. He had tried to undress Geralt the first time they met, even covered in the blood of his master, because he’d thought that’s what he was supposed to do.

That man wasn’t the one that Geralt holds in his arms now. That man doesn’t exist anymore.

The man before him is strong enough to know the difference between what he wants and what is given to him, between what life has allowed to happen to him and what he actually deserves. This is a man who understands choice, and understands his own personhood, and understands that the only person who should ever be allowed to have control over his body is him. He’s different. Everything is different.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, and Geralt makes a decision right then and there to stop wasting time.

“Jaskier,” he asks, a little breathless, smoothing his hands over the man’s bare back, “who is your master?”

“I don’t have one anymore,” Jaskier answers. “I’m my own master. I make my own choices.”

“What do you do if something does something to you that you don’t want or don’t enjoy?”

“I say stop, and it stops. Or ‘dandelion.’” he adds as an afterthought.

Geralt’s heart is thudding powerfully in his chest. Not quick like a human’s, but hard. Forcefully, exuberant in its own aliveness. “And do you want me to f*ck you?”

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate even for an instant. “Gods, yes,” he moans, nodding against Geralt’s jaw as he turns his head to seek a kiss. He only pauses a moment when his lip gets snared between Geralt’s teeth. “I want everything, with you.”

Geralt inhales. Exhales. “Okay.”

In their very next breath, Jaskier is on his back in the bed with Geralt on top of him, frantically kicking furs and quilts out of his way so that he can blanket Jaskier’s body with his own. “Geralt?” gasps Jaskier, his nails sinking into the skin of Geralt’s shoulders and arms like he’s afraid to let go of him. “You changed your mind, you--”

“I always wanted you,” Geralt tells him, and refuses to acknowledge that it comes out sounding like a whine. “I just thought that-- that you didn’t know what you were asking for. This is different. This is more.”

“I know it’s more.” Jaskier’s torso arches up as Geralt’s kisses trail down, breath shuddering when Geralt’s stubble brushes across his navel. “That’s why I wanted it.”

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Geralt kisses the freckle just below his belly button and drags one fingertip down the crease of Jaskier’s hip, savoring the way that Jaskier shakes when it skirts around the bass of his co*ck, over his balls, and down to his hole. When the digit sinks inside just as easy as can be, Geralt thanks whatever devil he sold his soul to for this little piece of heaven on earth. “I had to be sure you were choosing me. That you knew you didn’t have to, and wanted me anyways.”

“I want you, gods yes,” Jaskier nods, and pulls at Geralt’s shoulder until he comes up once more for a kiss, clumsy and messy. Geralt goes without protest, adding another finger beside the first. He wouldn’t move so quickly, normally, but Jaskier’s body welcomes him eagerly, perfectly slick and yielding to his touch. Jaskier himself is far less satisfied with this development, however, and his hands push at Geralt’s until his hole is empty once more. “Know you’re going to take such good care of me. Geralt, give me more, please!”

He’s reached down between them and taken hold of Geralt’s co*ck as he says it, using his legs wrapped around Geralt’s back to drag him closer, attempting to guide his length directly inside of him. “Wait, wait, let me get you ready,” Geralt pants, hearing the note of begging in his own voice. “Just-- just wait another minute.”

The noise of frustration that Jaskier lets out can only be described as a growl. “No more f*cking waiting. I’ve waited enough. Now.”

Geralt can’t help but agree. All of his caution and protests seem stupid now, facing the moment they’ve both been waiting for. No more wasting time. He gives in, both to himself and to Jaskier, letting their combined urgency drive his hips forward until his co*ck sinks into Jaskier.

He feels like heaven, warm and slick and perfectly tight around Geralt’s co*ck. Jaskier hadn’t been kidding about how ready his body was for Geralt to slide right into him, his hole fluttering around Geralt’s length when their hips are finally flush. Geralt feels a bead of sweat roll down his temple. He should stay still, give Jaskier time to adjust, but he can’t help the way he rocks his hips into Jaskier’s just a little to savor the feeling of finally being inside of him the way that they both needed.

A hand winds around the back of Geralt’s neck and drags him down for a kiss, sloppy and biting in Jaskier’s urgency. His back arches, and Geralt follows his instinct to slide an arm beneath him, pressing their torsos together as Jaskier steals the air from his lungs. “You’re perfect,” Jaskier breathes against Geralt’s throat when he pulls back. “You gorgeous, perfect man.”

He’s taken the words right out of Geralt’s mouth, and in the absence of a single other coherent thought in his head, Geralt just starts f*cking him properly.

Jaskier’s wail on that first solid snap of Geralt’s hips announces his hearty approval of Geralt’s choice. “How do you want me?” Geralt asks, biting all along Jaskier’s neck and shoulder so as not to keep his mouth too busy to let out all of his lovely sounds. Geralt would miss it if he stifled a single gasp.

“You can take me however you want to,” Jaskier replies, eyes closed in bliss.

They fly wide open when Geralt stills, though, frowning down at the man beneath him. “What do you want, Jaskier?” he repeats with emphasis, skimming one hand up Jaskier’s side to watch him shiver. “What do you like? What feels good to you?”

“I’d like for you to stop teasing me,” Jaskier whimpers, squirming on Geralt’s co*ck until he starts moving again. “And I like… f*ck, I don’t know. I like you holding me close. I like you kissing me. I want you to make me come.”

“f*ck yes,” Geralt growls, already hurrying to wrap a hand around Jaskier’s co*ck. He knows without a doubt that this isn’t going to last long for him, what with the way that Jaskier’s body feels like coming home and the fact that they’ve both been waiting far too long for this. Not even witcher stamina can stave off this moment for long. The best that he can hope for is to make it as good for Jaskier as he can now, and hope that he can do better the next time. And then the next time, and the time after that, and anytime Jaskier will let him for the foreseeable future.

He tries to duck in for another kiss, ready and willing to fulfil each of Jaskier’s demands, but is halted when Jaskier reaches up to take hold of his jaw. He’s held there in suspense as Jaskier locks eyes with him to make sure his next words are duly noted. “And I want you to come inside of me, Geralt. I need you to fill me up, my witcher.”

As it turns out, nodding and kissing at the same time is very difficult to do, and Geralt tastes a hint of blood as one of his lips gets pinched between Jaskier’s teeth and his own. Most of his coordination is currently being focused on keeping the motion of his hips steady instead of spilling right then and there. “Yes, anything,” he groans in response. “Just tell me when you’re ready for me to--”

Jaskier cuts him off with a nip to Geralt’s jaw that’s impatient and demanding and Geralt f*cking lives for it. “Now, Geralt, I want it now.”

“Then come for me, Jask,” Geralt tells him, a split second before he gets lost in the feeling of Jaskier’s body tightly pulsing around him.

Geralt’s org*sm follows right after Jaskier’s like a chain reaction. The arm wrapped underneath Jaskier clutches him close as Geralt ruts deep inside of him and moans through the aftershocks. Dimly, Geralt is aware that one of Jaskier’s hands is yanking at his hair and that a mantra of Geralt, Geralt, Geralt is upon his lips. Geralt kisses him again, just to see what his name tastes like on Jaskier’s tongue.

He doesn’t pull out right away, not even when their breathing evens out and Jaskier’s heart no longer sounds like he’s been running a marathon. It feels nice to just stay like this, nestled inside of Jaskier, with his hands running up and down Geralt’s back like he’s some giant cat that needs petting. Geralt would argue, except that it feels too good to pretend like he doesn’t like it. He does try to support at least some of his weight on his forearms, though Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind much that he’s being slowly crushed to death under Geralt’s bulk.

He wants to ask Jaskier if it was good, but that seems silly, what with the way that Jaskier is looking up with him in utter adoration, his whole body relaxed and his scent all honey and cinnamon. He knows, with a deep satisfaction, that he’s made Jaskier happy at least for that moment. “Do you feel better?” he asks instead.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Jaskier says with a happy sigh. “It’s perfect.”

As impossible as it seems, that Jaskier might have been suffering so greatly in both body and mind for days on end and have it all ease with a single, quick f*ck… as far as Geralt can tell, it’s the truth. Jaskier’s skin is cooling rapidly, fading from the sensation of holding one’s palm to the fire into the pleasant warmth of a spring afternoon. The tension of pain leaves all of Jaskier’s muscles bit by bit. His teeth have unclenched, his eyelashes flutter, and he just looks… satisfied.

A primal part of Geralt swells with pride at the sight, fiercely happy to have been the one to make Jaskier look that way. He wants to see this look on Jaskier again. He wants to never stop seeing it.

Eventually he does pull out, rolling off of Jaskier to rest on his side, and Jaskier follows him. They lay there facing each other, lips just a whisper apart, making it easy for them to close the distance with slow, easy kisses. It’s hard to say who closes the gap, and easy to say that it doesn’t much matter. Something Geralt can only identify as a desperate happiness rises up in his throat.

“Do you want me to leave?” he murmurs around the lump. “I can.”

Jaskier’s lips drag across Geralt’s as he shakes his head, just a little. “No. I don’t want that.”

His eyes are closed, but he can probably still feel the twitch of a smile at the corner of Geralt’s mouth, as hard as he tries to contain his relief at the words. “You should rest,” he protests lightly. “Now that you’re feeling better. You should sleep, and you should eat.”

“So take a nap with me,” shrugs Jaskier, snuggling closer to Geralt’s chest. “And then when we wake up, you can bring me something to eat.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing, like it doesn’t turn Geralt’s world upside down just at the simple suggestion.

Witchers aren’t supposed to want things as much as Geralt wants this, is the thing. He’s supposed to be content with what destiny has given him; strength and speed above that of any other man, and in return, a long life filled with nothing but loneliness and the disdain of mankind. That’s what witchers are taught to expect out of life, and to want anything more than that is a waste of time. It’s futile to want kindness, to want affection, to want to lay in this bed with Jaskier all day and just… be at peace.

And yet, here he is.

Geralt reaches out and runs his thumb across Jaskier’s cheekbone before sliding his hand down to hold him close at the waist. “Sleep, then,” he says quietly, lest destiny hear him and take this moment away. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Jaskier must hear the shake in his voice, because he opens his eyes and looks across the pillow at Geralt with curiosity and concern. “What’s the matter? Why do you look as if I’ve led you to the gallows?”

“I don’t understand,” Geralt says simply.

“Don’t understand what?”

It should make him feel fragile, to say such a thing out loud, but the last few days have felt like a series of skipped steps on his way down a flight of stairs, and now that he’s at the bottom there’s nothing left for him to fear. “I don’t understand why I feel like... this. I’m not made to feel this way.”

Jaskier shrugs one shoulder, eyes closing once more like he has nothing more to worry about than his nap in Geralt’s arms. “Neither am I.”

And yet, here we are.

When Jaskier wakes a few hours later, Geralt kisses him deeply and rolls him onto his back and whispers a question in his ear. Jaskier’s smile when he replies would be answer enough in itself, even without the emphatic yes that slides across his lips. This time, when Geralt takes him, it’s slow and easy and Jaskier runs his hands all along Geralt’s body from start to finish. This time, when Geralt fills him up, it’s only after Jaskier has begged for his own pleasure twice and Geralt has given it freely, eyes watching Jaskier’s face with something akin to rapture as he does.

This time, it isn’t because either one of them needs it. It’s just the two of them, together, at peace, and it’s everything Geralt didn’t know he wanted. It’s everything.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Things get better.

Now that Jaskier’s body has gotten what it’s been craving, his symptoms disappear and stay gone. There’s one quietly fearful moment later that first afternoon where Jaskier asks if he’ll have to wait another week to have Geralt again. He says it’s fine if he does, if Geralt will only have him when he absolutely has to, but his tight-lipped smile and the sadness in his scent tell the truth far better than his words. Geralt takes him to bed and f*cks him gently and tells Jaskier that he’s done being foolish. Geralt is his anytime he wants.

Every day that passes sees Jaskier growing… brighter. It’s absurd to describe a person in terms of a star, but there’s no other way to do it. Jaskier radiates light, and energy, and he makes Kaer Morhen a new place. It’s been home to Geralt and his family for too many years to count, but always a kind of hopeless one, tangled up with even more years of pain and darkness. Jaskier changes that. He brings a little more laughter to the halls of Kaer Morhen, and many more smiles, and a touch of music when he wanders the halls and hums some half forgotten tune.

Things aren’t perfect.

Progress isn’t linear, Vesemir tells him on the bad days, when Jaskier seems to forget every lesson he’s learned since he comes here. Just like Jaskier is working against centuries of shadows as he fills Kaer Morhen with happy memories, the wolves face the same obstacle in Jaskier’s mind. For as long as Jaskier has been with them, he’s been in the hands of the Cats far longer, being abused and lied to and hurt in every imaginable way. It will take time for him to recover from that. It may take forever. Geralt is willing to wait.

There are still times when Jaskier takes suggestions as commands, or when he flinches at a raised voice. Sometimes he wakes up in the morning and calls Geralt “Master” before he’s awake enough to correct himself, and Geralt’s skin crawls. Sometimes he still bites back words, especially those that contain a request or a complaint, and has to be reminded that he can always speak freely, here. Progress isn’t linear. There are still bad days, even now that most of them are good.

But most of the time things are good, and Jaskier is bright, and Geralt is happy. Something about Jaskier’s presence focuses him, narrows down the world into just the four walls of Kaer Morhen and the people inside of it. There are still vast lands on the outside, with corrupt kings and waging wars and countless monsters waiting to be slain. Geralt is aware of that, but only dimly. Right now, his only concern is being here, with his family, with the man he l--

Cares for. The man that he cares for.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jaskier smiles, waving his hand in front of Geralt’s eyes as if to wake him from a dream. “You’re making a funny face. Do I have jam on my mouth or something?”

“Yes,” Geralt lies, because it gives him an excuse to lean in and run his tongue across Jaskier’s lower lip and pull him into a kiss at the breakfast table. It makes Jaskier laugh and Lambert feign throwing up from farther down the table, and Geralt does it again. It’s better than answering questions about the way his gaze gets stuck on Jaskier sometimes, anyways.

The serene moment doesn’t last forever, but it’s not so bad to have it broken by something else that makes Geralt’s chest swell so much with happiness that it feels a little tight. After a few weeks at the keep, Jaskier has finally agreed to some proper self defense lessons, beyond just the glorified stretches with sticks that he’d done with Geralt once before in a desperate attempt to be distracted from his body’s needs. Geralt hadn’t asked since then, and Jaskier hadn’t seemed to mind, until yesterday afternoon.

He’d been lounging on Geralt’s bed watching him care for his weapons after a morning of training when he’d quietly asked, “Do you think I could learn, still? Like you and Vesemir offered?”

“Hmm? Learn what?”

“How to protect myself,” Jaskier had explained, jerking his chin to indicate the dagger Geralt had taken off of his belt to clean, since Lambert had seen fit to attempt to mud wrestle him as they sparred. “I think that I’d like to learn more about that, if the offer stands.”

Geralt wants to tell him that he’ll never need to protect himself, because Geralt doesn’t have any intention of leaving him undefended for the rest of his life, but he knows that isn’t really a promise he can keep. Witchers rarely die slow enough to put their affairs in order before they’re gone, which means he might someday leave Jaskier to fend for himself. Any day of his life, a stray fang or talon could take him from this world before Jaskier is ready to let him go. That’s just the life of a witcher.

Or, perhaps even worse to think about, Jaskier may someday decide he no longer wants Geralt by his side. He thinks that he wants Geralt now, but it may not always be the case. If that day comes, Geralt needs to know that wherever Jaskier goes, he’s at least as safe as he can be. It won’t be enough to stop his heart from breaking, but at least Jaskier won’t have to suffer, too.

“We can start tomorrow,” Geralt tells him at once.

After a brief consultation with Vesemir, Geralt decides to start off with some basic defensive maneuvers that might help Jaskier should he ever find himself facing a stronger opponent who wishes him harm. No weapons today, just Geralt and Jaskier and their bare hands. Jaskier is bright-eyed and eager, as close to physically vibrating with excitement as Geralt has ever seen a human come, though his teeth chew at his lower lip with just the faintest hint of anxiety.

“You won’t laugh at me, will you?” he asks Geralt, offering up the cause of his nervousness easily.

“Why would I laugh at you?” Geralt frowns.

“Because I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’ll probably look like an idiot,” Jaskier says with a self-conscious chuckle. “It’s alright if you think that I look stupid, but don’t actually say it, alright? Let me retain some dignity.”

“Firstly, you’re one of the most graceful humans I know,” answers Geralt seriously, not taking the out that Jaskier’s teasing gives him. “I doubt that you’ll look stupid, even if it’s your first time trying these moves. And secondly, even if you did, there’s no shame in trying something new and being bad at it when you first start out. You’re still ahead of all of the countless others who won’t even make an attempt.”

Jaskier’s face flushes, and he ducks his head and fiddles with his collar, something Geralt has noticed seems to be a nervous habit for him. “Right. Well, that’s kind of you to say. Shall we-- well, where should we begin?”

They start off slow, with Geralt showing Jaskier several ways to break himself free of someone’s grip. He’s strong, but still not the most muscled man by far, and Geralt teaches him how to resist the temptation to pit strength against strength in an attempt to just yank free. Instead, he demonstrates how to move in ways that give his assailant less control over him, and where to strike so that their hold on him will be broken. Naturally he doesn’t use his full strength as he grabs onto Jaskier’s wrists and lets himself be fended off, but even still the look of pride and confidence on Jaskier’s face is well worth the pounding that Geralt’s forearms take.

Once that’s done and Jaskier has been coaxed into taking a water break, Geralt looks at him consideringly. “Would you like to try something a little more advanced?”

“Sure!” Jaskier answers, immediate and bright. “What did you have in mind?”

Geralt hesitates and almost takes back the offer, but it’s too late now. He’ll let Jaskier make the choices about what he does or doesn’t feel comfortable with. They’re his demons to fight, after all. “I could show you how to throw someone off of you if they’re on top of you. If you want that.”

Jaskier does pause, but only for a moment. “That does sound useful,” he says with a nod. “Alright, let’s do it. Show me the way.”

“Let’s-- actually, wait here a minute, will you? I’ll be right back.” Jaskier gives his confused agreement and Geralt jogs off, returning a few minutes later with a grumbling Lambert in tow. “It might be helpful for you to see the moves first, so that you can know what to do when it’s your turn.” So that you won’t have to feel powerless and pinned even for a second without the knowledge of what to do about it.

“Ooh, a performance,” Jaskier says, plopping himself down into the dirt a few feet away from where Geralt and Lambert are standing.

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to sing and dance,” Lambert grouses. “I’m only doing this so that Geralt will leave me the f*ck alone and let me brew my vodka in peace.”

“Stop complaining or I’ll dump all of that rat poison you call vodka into the snow,” Geralt says drily, getting down on the ground on his back and beckoning to Lambert. “Come on, mount me.”

Lambert does, his knees landing in the dirt on either side of Geralt as he sits down on Geralt’s hips, his arms crossed grumpily over his chest. “Now what?”

Geralt ignores him and looks at Jaskier. “See how his weight is resting on my hips and he’s sitting upright with good posture? First thing to do here is to upset his balance, breaking his posture and shifting his weight forward, making him easier to control and redistributing his weight. To do that, I’m going to plant my feet and then buck my hips up just like--”

“Hey!” Lambert complains when the move works exactly like it’s supposed to, resulting in him tipping forward until he’s on his hands and knees overtop of Geralt. “I thought we were fighting, not f*cking.”

“You wish,” Geralt snorts.

“Me, too,” mumbles Jaskier.

“I can still choke you from here,” Lambert says, after giving Jaskier an appreciative wink for his commentary. He brings both of his hands up to Geralt’s throat, leaning back to straighten his arms, as if intending to put all of his weight on Geralt and cut off his air flow.

Geralt brings his arms up in the space between their bodies, slipping his arms between Lambert’s and pushing outwards to knock them aside. Caught off guard, Lambert pitches forward towards Geralt and has to scramble to catch himself before their heads collide. “Remember how we talked about moving the arms out?” Geralt asks Jaskier, ignoring Lambert’s splutters of unfairness. “Same principle there. Lambert, do that again, slower.”

Jaskier watches raptly as Geralt proceeds to demonstrate how to take advantage of the person on top of you being low and close to roll them over, taking hold of Lambert’s head and trapping one leg with his own so that Lambert is fairly helpless as Geralt turns Lambert’s head to the side and pushes off the dirt, rolling them smoothly to one side.

“Where the head goes, the body will follow,” he says. Their positions are reversed now, with Geralt kneeling in between Lambert’s spread legs, and he mimes a few strikes to Lambert’s vulnerable points with fists and elbows.

“Can I try?” Jaskier asks eagerly when Geralt is done, kneeing over closer to the two of them. “I think I’ve got it. Knock them forward, sweep their arms, grab and turn their head, roll them over, go for the squishy bits.”

“And then run,” Geralt reminds him, even as he clears the way for Jaskier to take the position on the ground. Lambert is more than happy to take his leave, wandering off towards the keep as they get positioned. “First priority is getting as far away from that person as you can.”

“And then run,” Jaskier acquiesces.

There’s an uncomfortable tension in Geralt’s gut as he pretends to pin Jaskier, not liking even the pantomime of someone hurting him. It takes a lot of effort to ignore his instincts long enough to allow Jaskier to demonstrate that he had indeed been paying attention. He remembers almost every step, only needing a slight prompt to trap Geralt’s leg before he rolls him over, and Geralt feels a burst of fierce pride in his chest.

Jaskier looks like he’s similarly pleased with his own performance, beaming down at Geralt from his place atop him. “Not bad, eh?”

“Not bad at all,” hums Geralt. “Now we just have to do it until you don’t even have to think about it. You’d give any human who tried to take advantage of you a nasty surprise.”

It’s meant as a compliment, but Jaskier’s face falls a bit regardless. “And what if… what if it’s not a human? What if it’s someone who’s stronger and faster and tougher than any human?” He fingers his collar when he says it, and Geralt doesn’t have to ask who he’s thinking about.

“Then you take your dagger and you stab first and ask questions later,” he says calmly, no waver in his voice. “Witchers are no more fond of a blade in their gut than anyone else.”

“You don’t think that’s a bit much?” Jaskier is chewing on his lower lip again. “Punching someone in the balls is one thing, but pulling a weapon--”

“Is well within your rights to do, if someone is attacking you,” Geralt interrupts, shaking his head in the face of Jaskier’s doubt. “Make your safety a priority, as I do.”

That at least makes Jaskier smile, and he leans down to give Geralt a sweet, chaste kiss before pulling back. “Enough laying about,” he says, voice chipper but only a little forced. “Was that all you’ve got, or do you have any other tricks up your sleeve that you can show me?”

“More practice first, then we can talk about new things.”

“Let’s get to it, then, my mighty witcher.”

Later, when they’re both clean and dressed in fresh clothes and thinking of ways to keep busy for the rest of the day, a knock at Geralt’s door startles both of them. Jaskier jumps a little because he hadn’t heard anyone approach. Geralt had, naturally, but he’s shocked nonetheless; in a lifetime of winters at Kaer Morhen, the amount of times that Vesemir has come knocking on his door is low enough that even a half-wit like Lambert could count them. He opens the door regardless, revealing the old witcher standing there with a curiously shaped box in his hands.

“Boys,” Vesemir says in greeting, looking the two of them over, and Geralt is grateful that they hadn’t been in bed, for once. That’s more than Vesemir wants to see, he’s sure, and it’s definitely more than Geralt wants seen. Ever. “I come bearing a gift.”

“What is it?” Geralt says in confusion, reaching out for the box in Vesemir’s hands.

To his surprise, Vesemir pulls it back with an amused snort. “It’s not for you, pup. It’s for Jaskier. Something I found while rooting around in storage looking for some spare leather scraps. I don’t know if you’ll like it, or even be able to use it, but-- here.”

Jaskier’s face is wide-eyed but pinkened with pleasure as he rises from the armchair where he’s been curled up chattering at Geralt. “I don’t need anything,” he protests as he goes.

“Gifts aren’t supposed to be about what you need. Here, take it.”

He does, and then carries the box over to the bed with all the care of a father carrying his newborn child for the first time. Once it’s laid carefully on the mess of sheets and blankets, Jaskier’s slender hands seek out the clasps on the side and fumbles them open so that he can lift the lid. Geralt looks over his shoulder as a cloud of dust rises into the air, making Jaskier sneeze, then settles to reveal polished wood, painted swirls, and delicate carvings broken by a dozen or so straight white strings pulled taught over the surface of--

“A lute,” Jaskier says with a little gasp, fingertips tracing reverently down the strings. “Oh, it’s beautiful, too. I’ve never seen anything this fine. Or at least I don’t think I have.”

“It’s been in the school’s possession for many years now,” Vesemir explains, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching Jaskier carefully. “It’s elven made. Beautiful and heavily enchanted, which is why it hasn’t turned to dust in the back of that closet.”

“How did we come to have an elven lute?” Geralt asks, eyebrows raised. “Witchers aren’t exactly known for our musical talents.”

Vesemir scratches his chin as he thinks. “Received it as payment-- I think it was Berengar, or maybe Gweld. Years ago, in any case, and neither of them is alive to correct me so I suppose it doesn’t matter. Claimed it was Filavandrel’s, either way. Not sure if that’s true, but it does look fine enough for a king.”

“Why are you giving it to me, though?” Jaskier says, even as he picks the instrument up and cradles it to his chest. “I don’t understand.”

“You seem more inclined to music than any of us, and I’m not sure it’d make good firewood with all those spells on it,” Vesemir says gruffly. “I mean, you can use it or you can not, that’s up to you. But if you find yourself so inclined, we might be able to get ahold of a book or two about it for you. Just a thought.”

Jaskier continues to hold the thing in his hands for a few long moments, examining the dainty decorations all along it, before very carefully placing it back into the box and then turning and flinging himself at Vesemir. “Thank you,” he whispers when he has Vesemir locked in a tight hug. “I love it. You’re-- you’re too good to me. All of you.”

“Nonsense,” huffs Vesemir, but he claps his hand on Jaskier’s back and lets the hug linger anyways. He only steps back when Jaskier releases him, and then he nods to the both of them. “I’ll let you get on with your day. Never did find those leather scraps, and I have many more storage rooms to go through.”

“Do you need help?” Geralt offers, compelled to offer something to compensate Vesemir for his kindness.

“I can manage. You’ll be busy with laundry.” Geralt frowns, confused by his words, and Vesemir steps far enough into the hallway to be out of Jaskier’s line of sight before dropping his voice to a register too soft for any but a witcher to hear. “The room reeks, boy. If you’re not careful you’ll have the whole hallway smelling of you two for the next decade.”

He grumbles it as if this is a terrible outcome indeed, but Vesemir probably knows Geralt well enough to predict that it doesn’t sound all that bad to him. If he has his way, it’ll smell like them for a century at least.

…………………

Jaskier never officially gives up his room for Geralt’s, if only for the sake of convenience. In reality they spend every night in the same bed without fail, usually all but occupying the same space on the mattress. Having two beds to choose from is a nice luxury, however. It allows them to assess which of the two is currently cleaner before they decide to dirty it up again. Both sets of sheets will have holes in them from all of the many washes by the time spring rolls around, but that’s a sacrifice Geralt is willing to make.

This morning it’s Jaskier’s bed that Geralt wakes up in, alerted by the silent vibration of his medallion against his chest several hours before dawn. The spell he’d asked Yen to cast on it the night before to wake him up at a certain time is subtle enough that it doesn’t even disturb Jaskier despite his face being just inches away as he snoozes on Geralt’s shoulder. Tapping the nose of the wolf on the medallion to deactivate the silent alarm, Geralt takes great care as he extracts himself from Jaskier’s grasp and leaves the bed, covering Jaskier with furs as he goes so that he won’t find himself chilled without Geralt’s substantial warmth.

It pains him to leave the bed, but his arrival at Kaer Morhen with two guests and no supplies means that they’ll have to do more hunting for food over the course of the winter, and it’s only fair that Geralt shoulder that responsibility. He dresses himself warmly, considering as he does so what will be the best path to take to ensure that he finds game quickly. It wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a day under normal circ*mstances, out in nature doing something immediately productive and physical. He would happily have drawn out the task in previous years, if simply to have an excuse to get out of the keep.

Of course, in previous years, he didn’t have someone waiting for him to make him want to hurry home.

He kisses Jaskier awake, enjoying the way that the man’s lips stir to wakefulness before he does. He’s kissing Geralt back for several seconds before Jaskier’s brain catches up to his body and his eyes open, pulling back from the kiss ever so slightly to mumble, “Geralt? What’s the matter? Why are you dressed?”

“I need to go hunting today,” Geralt says as quietly as possible, trying not to stimulate Jaskier too much so that he can go back to sleep after Geralt leaves, if he wishes. “I’m sorry to wake you. Just wanted to let you know where I was going, and to see if you needed anything from me.”

Jaskier closes his eyes with a frown and scoots closer to the edge of the bed in a lazy approximation of a cuddle. “If I tell you I need something, will it convince you not to go?”

Probably. “I need to hunt. I’d tend to you, first, though. Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m just trying to think of excuses to make you stay.” He nuzzles lightly against the fabric of Geralt’s trousers and lets out a sigh that gets interrupted halfway by a yawn, ruining the effect. “How long will I be without my witcher?”

He looks soft and warm and perfect, and Geralt knows that the reality is even better than how he looks, and it’s very close to enough to tempt him back into bed even with Jaskier’s poorly disguised attempts at persuasion. “A few hours. I won’t make it a very long hunt. I can only carry so much back to the keep. And besides, I’ll miss you.”

The last part slips out on accident, but Geralt can’t regret it when he sees Jaskier instantly beam. Blue eyes open once more and look up at him with so much warmth it’s breathtaking. “Can I come with you? Then you won’t have to miss me, and I won’t have to miss you, either.”

“It’ll be boring,” Geralt says with the shake of his head. As much as he likes the idea of not having to be without Jaskier, even for a short while, he doesn’t want the man to be miserable. “Could be hours of sitting around waiting for a shot.”

“I’ll bring a book.”

“You’ll get cold. And wet.”

“You can warm me up after. And darling, you know I’m always wet around you.”

Geralt huffs out a little laugh at that, but he nods. If Jaskier is determined, who is he to say no? “Fine. Up you get. The earlier start we get, the better luck we’ll have. Where are those wool-lined trousers I found for you?”

It takes a little longer to do everything with Jaskier in tow, but Geralt can’t find that he minds all too much. Even staying perfectly quiet as Geralt had instructed, his presence is warm and reassuring at the witcher’s side. All in all, it isn’t a bad way to watch a sunrise.

He tracks the small herd of deer by hoofprints and smell alike, leading Jaskier through the forest after them. Tracking is something that he enjoys, even if most of the sport of it is taken out of things given the fact that he’s a witcher. It’s unfair to the creatures, really, but Geralt doesn’t allow himself to be burdened with guilt about it. There’s a food chain in every environment, predators and prey, and here at Kaer Morhen witchers are at the top of it. He won’t be ashamed of being the apex predator.

The wind shifts a little, and Geralt has to tilt his head to catch the scent of the herd on the breeze. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jaskier’s mouth open and his breath draw, but then he snaps his jaw shut with an audible click, still obedient to Geralt’s request for him to be silent. The herd is still far enough away that some light conversation won’t interfere with the hunt, so Geralt smiles at him. “I can see your words piling up in that mouth of yours. Any second now you’re going to burst.”

Jaskier makes a point of not responding, instead raising his eyebrows and drawing a firm X over his closed lips with one gloved fingertip. I can be quiet.

“I know you’d keep quiet if I asked. You’re doing very well. Better than Lambert can usually manage on a hunt,” Geralt says with a chuckle. “It’s alright, though, there’s nothing around us worth hunting at the moment. What are you thinking?”

The praise had brought a pleased blush to Jaskier’s cheeks, and he stands a little straighter after Geralt’s positive assessment. “Why are you sniffing like that?” he asks, fingers waggling in the direction of Geralt’s nose. “What does that do? Or is your nose just runny?”

Geralt snorts. “You know witchers have a keen sense of smell. Are you familiar with the concept of hunting dogs?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer right away, busy looking at Geralt in consternation. “You’re tracking something by smell?”

“And the marks in the snow, but yes. I can tell how long it’s been since the herd passed through here based off of how strong the scent is. Stronger scent means more recent passing. It’s the mutagens that have enhanced my senses,” Geralt explains, frowning a little at the continued look of shock on Jaskier’s face. “I know, it makes me more animal than man. It’s… useful, though.”

“You’re not an animal,”Jaskier says, sounding offended, roused from his surprise by Geralt’s self-deprecation. “You’re as much a man as I am. And gods, you’re a handy one-- that’s incredible, Geralt! I knew you could smell things I couldn’t, but I had no idea your senses were that strong.”

It will go to Geralt’s grave with him, how relieved he is to see no disgust in Jaskier’s face at this revelation. “It’s useful when hunting monsters, too. I can identify them by scent sometimes, which helps me to show up prepared instead of just having to take the word of some idiot villagers who don’t know a rooster from a co*ckatrice. And it helps me know when the idiot villagers are just outright lying to me, too.”

“I’m sorry, you can-- you can smell that they’re lying?” Jaskier says in wonderment.

“And see it on their face, and hear it in their heartbeat,” Geralt shrugs. “But yes, I can tell much about someone’s state of mind by their scent.”

“But how?”

“Bodies produce different hormones when you’re sad or happy or frightened. That combines with things like sweat or tears or… other bodily fluids, and together it paints a fairly clear picture of someone’s emotions. Not perfect, and it varies from person to person so there’s some interpretation involved, but it’s fairly reliable once you know how to read it.”

“Fascinating,” Jaskier breathes, eyes wide. “What do I smell like?”

A few weeks ago Geralt might have said a bakery, but he’s come to understand that’s too common of a description. “You smell like the kitchen in a castle of a king with a sweet tooth,” he says after a moment, reaching out to run his thumb across the side of Jaskier’s throat beneath his cloak, where his scent is always so strong. If only he didn’t have gloves on, so that he could feel Jaskier’s warmth bleeding into his skin. “You always smell like you want me to devour you.”

“Your nose is good, then,” Jaskier says wickedly, leaning in closer, eyes bright and a smirk on his face. “That’s true. I resent every moment you’re not devouring me.”

This shouldn’t be enticing, out here in the middle of the woods with the cold whipping at their faces. It’s still enticing. Geralt tugs Jaskier the little half-step closer to him by the waist, pulling their bodies flush. “I can smell your arousal,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s ear, and the cinnamon on the air only gets stronger. “Even when you think you’re being subtle, I still know the second you get wet for me.”

A shudder runs through Jaskier from head to toe, and he whines a bit as he darts forward to kiss at Geralt’s ear. “You going to do something about it, wolf?” he whispers.

The answer to that is a resounding yes, and always will be. Permission given, Geralt spins the two of them around until Jaskier’s back is pressed against a nearby tree and his front is covered by Geralt. He’s hard, and so is Geralt, and it’s a challenge to stop his teeth from nipping at Jaskier’s soft lips as they kiss. It’s a dangerous game, interrupting a wolf in the middle of a hunt. He fully intends to ask Jaskier what he wants, but instead it comes out, “What will you give me?”

“Anything,” Jaskier says with a shiver.

It’s a dangerous statement, and it makes Geralt hungry. His hands are already working at the ties of Jaskier’s clothes, struggling to get to him under far more layers of obstacles than he’s used to. Eventually he reaches skin, deliciously warm and soft, and pulls down all the fabric until it’s bunched around Jaskier’s thighs. The cool air makes Jaskier shiver, but it doesn’t seem to dull his enthusiasm; his co*ck is still jutting eagerly up towards his stomach as he grips the front of Geralt’s cloak for balance.

Pausing for a moment to consider the complications of the environment, Geralt hums and looks Jaskier up and down. “Like it better when I can get you in a bed. Don’t have to worry about trying to keep you bundled up.”

“Yes, well, I like it better when you don’t dilly-dally,” Jaskier says breathily, laughter in his voice. “Hurry up, don’t you have dinner to catch after this?”

Is that what they’re out here for? Geralt can hardly remember anymore as he kisses Jaskier roughly and steps back so he can turn the man around. Jaskier takes the cue and braces his forearms on the tree’s bark, cradling his head on them and widening his stance. Trying to keep as much of Jaskier covered as possible to protect him from the cold, Geralt bites at one of his gloves to pull it off and then lifts the back of Jaskier’s cloak so that he can run his bare fingers over Jaskier’s wet hole.

The first few times they’d coupled, Jaskier had protested Geralt’s insistence on getting fingers inside of him before Geralt gave him his co*ck. He didn’t need it, he’d argued, he was always going to be ready for Geralt’s co*ck. It wasn’t until Geralt had told him that this was for his comfort rather than Jaskier’s that he had relented. As unnecessary as it may seem to Jaskier, it’s essential to Geralt that he knows Jaskier will feel nothing but pleasure with Geralt inside of him. After he’d made that clear, Jaskier was content to let Geralt seek his reassurance however he saw fit.

It’s only a matter of moments for Geralt to work three fingers into Jaskier, slick running down the back of his hand as he does so. He’s pressed close to Jaskier’s back to keep him warm, so that when he pulls his fingers out from inside of Jaskier the tip of his co*ck is already right there, nudging against Jaskier’s hole. “Can I?” he still asks, just to be sure.

“Yes, please,” comes the reply from within Jaskier’s cloak.

It’s a quick f*ck, romanceless, just a desperate attempt to work off the sexual tension of the moment with an easy release. Jaskier’s body always feels like perfection, but the confines of his thick trousers around his thighs makes him feel even tighter around Geralt’s co*ck. He works his hand around beneath Jaskier’s cloak and takes hold of his co*ck, working it with the hand still coated in Jaskier’s slick.

“If I come inside of you, you’ll be uncomfortable the rest of the hunt,” Geralt pants, his own layers feeling suddenly stiflingly hot as his muscles generate heat in their exertion. “I’ll pull out.”

“You most certainly will not,” Jaskier says, sounding mortally offended even as his voice shakes a little with the impact of each of Geralt’s thrusts. He pushes back against Geralt and reaches one hand back to fist in his cloak as if to hold him in place. “Don’t deny me the pleasure of being filled with you, witcher. I like it, and I don’t care one bit about the mess. Come inside of me, make a mess of me. Then make me follow you. Please?”

What Geralt ever did to deserve this, he can’t be sure, but he’s willing to reap the rewards either way. “So bossy,” he grunts, little breath to spare for conversation as his peak approaches. “Spoiled.”

“And whose fault is that?”

It’s Geralt’s fault, no denying, and he has no intention of changing that anytime soon. It’s much more satisfying for everyone involved if he just gives in to every demand Jaskier makes, since they tend to be exactly what Geralt wants anyways. His only complaint is the way that he can’t kiss Jaskier as he jerks his hips into Jaskier’s those final few times and starts to spill his seed, can’t even nip at the fragrant skin at his throat as has become his habit. He has only a cold cloak to bury his face in. Later, he promises himself, when they get home to the keep, they can do this again but better.

He doesn’t pull out of Jaskier just yet, instead working his hand over Jaskier’s co*ck and enjoying the sound of the man’s groans. “I’m ready, Geralt,” he huffs, hole squeezing around Geralt’s softening length. “Please, can I come?”

“Yes,” Geralt tells him, smiling at the way that Jaskier’s length instantly flexes in his hand. He has just enough time to pull Jaskier’s cloak out of the way with his free hand before Jaskier is spurting ropes of cum that land on the tree rather than on fur lining. Somewhere a semi-hysterical part of Geralt’s mind thinks something about the marking of territory, but he keeps the thought to himself and just enjoys the sound of Jaskier moaning his name instead.

Eventually Jaskier stills, and Geralt pulls out as gently as he can. “You alright?” he asks, pulling Jaskier’s hood down for a moment so he can get a look at the man’s face. He’s gratified to see flushed cheeks and well bitten lips and a very enthusiastic nod. He kisses Jaskier briefly before squatting down to grab a fistful of snow, using it to scrub his palm clean so that he can refasten his trousers without coating them in cum and slick. Jaskier hasn’t moved from his position leaning against his forearm on the tree just watching his actions, and Geralt looks up at him consideringly. “I could clean you up this way too, if you’d like,” he offers thoughtfully.

“Geralt of Rivia, if you so much as think about rubbing snow on my lovely bottom, you’ll never see it again, mark my words.”

The bark of laughter Geralt lets loose startles a group of birds from the trees far above, and he kisses Jaskier in apology for the suggestion as he fixes Jaskier’s clothes, sealing the mess inside, just how Jaskier likes it. He still makes quick work of the hunt, leading Jaskier back to the keep soon after with two does and a handful of rabbits tied to a branch across his shoulders not long after that. Taking Jaskier to the hot springs and getting him clean is almost as much fun as making him dirty, anyways.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

As much as Geralt wouldn’t mind spending the entire winter just wrapped up in bed with Jaskier, there are actually some things that need doing around Kaer Morhen. It has always been the policy here in their ramshackle family that all are welcome, provided that they pull their weight. While Jaskier would probably argue that Geralt’s contribution to the good of the pack was tending to him, Geralt’s fellow wolves would likely disagree. Now that Jaskier is… stable, for lack of a better word, he makes a point to keep himself busy throughout the day so that he can give back to the men who have given so much to him.

Today he’s in the armory tending to the multitude of weapons there. It doesn’t make sense why there should be well over a hundred swords in a keep with only six residents on a busy year, but no one argues it. There’s something perverse about disarming a building that’s already been reduced to ruin. Let Kaer Morhen have her stronghold of silver and steel. Geralt doesn’t mind, even if it means having to actually maintain all of that weaponry.

Jaskier is with him, having trailed after him to the armory earlier for a lack of anything better to do. He’s helping, even; he perches on the edge of the table where Geralt is working and watches him scrub the blade clean of each and every mote of dust and dirt, then hops down when Geralt is through and returns the weapon to whatever rack or shelf it came from. Then he brings the next one, carrying it gently and with no small measure of nervousness. He looks as if he’s walking with a bomb in his hands instead of a length of metal that’s only harmful if you choose to make it so.

They don’t speak much as they --as Geralt, really-- works on the task, Jaskier drumming his fingertips on the tabletop and humming some wordless tune under his breath. Geralt listens in silence, casting his memory back. Is that a song he’s heard before, being dug out of Jaskier’s memory, or is it something he’s made up? He can’t quite tell, not having ever had much of an ear for music, but whatever it is, it sounds lovely.

Every so often Jaskier will lean in and give him a kiss, just because, and Geralt didn’t know that chores could be quite so pleasant. At some point the man wanders away and Geralt lets him go without comment, knowing that he’ll return eventually. And he does, a while later, with his lute in hand, and takes up his place on the table next to Geralt once more. He’s plucking at the strings slowly, fingers curled into a shape that looks so awkward that it can’t be right, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Listening to someone who doesn’t know how to play an instrument attempt to play it is notoriously horrible, but Geralt doesn’t say a word. If Jaskier wants to sit here and twang at the strings in Geralt’s presence, he can sit and listen and be a silent support. Jaskier doesn’t need to know how sensitive his ears are. Worst comes to worst, he could always fashion some makeshift ear plugs from wax to deafen the noise. If he pulls his hair out of his usual half-up style, it’ll probably cover his ears enough that Jaskier won’t have to be offended that Geralt doesn’t want to listen to his…

...actually pretty decent playing?

As Geralt sits there contemplating ways to avoid torture without hurting the man’s feelings, Jaskier apparently hits his stride. The random, discordant notes give way to a melodious little tune, not quite a song but the seed of one. It sounds pleasant and clear, like the notes are meant to be together, though Geralt doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe why it sounds good. It just has the air of something that’s right, something that’s proper music, and Jaskier’s sudden, bright smile says that he hears it, too.

“I think I know how to play the lute!” he says excitedly, continuing to work the strings. He’s no master, certainly, his fingers running afoul of a note every so often, but it still sounds good. “I don’t remember how I know it, but it feels… familiar somehow.”

“Vesemir always seems to be right about these things,” Geralt muses, putting his rags aside to watch Jaskier play, just for a minute. “Hell if I know how he does it, but he’s always right.”

Jaskier continues to play, and Geralt continues to work, and eventually they migrate out of the armory and towards the kitchens for some lunch. Jaskier plays idly as he goes, almost walking into walls a few times when he’s too distracted looking down at his hands to watch where he’s going. Luckily Geralt is there to steer his shoulders and keep him more or less walking in a straight line as they make their way through the halls. It gives Geralt a little thrill, to hear the notes and chords echoing off of the stone walls. There’s something almost illicit about it, to have such joy and music in a place that’s been filled with nothing but silence and somber memory for so long.

As they move through the keep, they gather a following. Lambert’s head comes poking out of a doorway with a quiet, “What the f*ck is that?” Eskel is sitting in a window seat in a little alcove they pass, and he raises his eyebrows in a question that Geralt has no answer for. When they pass the tower in which Yennefer and Vesemir have been doing their research, Geralt hears a murmur of conversation far above and then curious footsteps coming down the stairs. By the time they get to the dining hall, all of the residents of the keep are trailing behind Jaskier, and he flushes red when he turns around and sees them.

“Oh, sorry,” he says quickly, tucking the instrument behind his back like it’ll conceal the fact that he’s the source of the music. “I didn’t mean to make so much noise. I’ll-- I’ll keep it in my room from now on.”

“f*ck that, it sounded pretty good,” Lambert scoffs.

“You remember the music?” prompts Yen, eyes alight with curiosity. “That doesn’t seem like the skill of a few night’s practice alone.”

Jaskier holds the lute in front of him again and drums his fingertips on the surface as he considers. “I… I don’t think that I know any songs. But I feel like if I were to see a song, I would know how to play it. Kind of like I can read, even though I can’t remember reading any books before Geralt brought me to the library. Does that make sense?”

“Might have a songbook or two in that old library somewhere,” Vesemir says consideringly, rubbing at his chin. “I’ll take a look this afternoon, see what I can dig up.”

“So, our mystery man can read music and play the lute,” ponders Eskel, leaning against the wall closest to him. “The plot thickens. Apparently we have a bard among us.”

“Do you really think so?” Jaskier asks, delighted. “Is it possible I was a bard, before I was-- well, before all that nasty business with the bad witchers?”

Geralt wants to roll his eyes at that vast oversimplification of the events of Jaskier’s time at Stygga Citadel, but he doesn’t. “Seems as likely as anything else. You’ve got a strong body, you’re educated, you can play an instrument… sounds like a bard to me. Can you sing?”

All the eyes in the room turn to Jaskier expectantly, and he flushes redder. “I… I’m not sure. I haven’t tried. I mean, it’s hard to sing when you don’t know any songs.”

“I’ll look for those songbooks,” Vesemir says again, resolutely, and that’s that.

After they’ve all eaten their lunch and are sitting around the table with full bellies, Jaskier carefully cleans his hands and then takes up the lute once more, losing himself in the notes. This time, after a few minutes, Lambert breaks off from his conversation with Yennefer about the pros and cons of love potions to look at Jaskier sharply. “Hey, I know that one.”

Jaskier freezes like a deer caught in the witchlight. “You do?”

“Yeah, that’s the, uh, the f*ckin’ fishmonger song. About having goats for grandkids or whatever.” Lambert waves his hand vaguely. “It’s the kind of sh*t they play in taverns once everyone’s good and drunk. That’s the tune you’re playing.”

“He’s right,” Geralt chimes in, casting his mind back and finding a hazy memory of the song. It was filtered through several ales he’d drunk that night, but the tune is familiar enough. He mostly remembers being pissed off about the inaccuracies in the song, but he doesn’t mention that part.

“I know a song!” declares Jaskier proudly, plucking a triumphant note on one of the higher-pitched strings. “Or, well, I know half of a song, anyways. The music isn’t as much fun without the lyrics, is it? Unless…” Jaskier pauses for a moment, then looks over at Lambert shyly, expectantly. “Will you sing it for me, Lambert? So that I can learn the words to it?”

“No one wants to hear me sing,” Lambert immediately scoffs.

“We really, really don’t,” confirms Eskel.

But Jaskier is not deterred, and his natural stubbornness comes through a little stronger every day, and there’s really no denying that wide-eyed, earnest expression. “Well I want to hear it,” he says quietly, eyes locked on Lambert. “Please? I want to learn my first song.”

Needless to say, Lambert starts singing.

He mumbles the whole time, only giving the song a halfhearted rendition, but it’s enough for Jaskier to be happy. He continues to play the notes of the song, brow furrowed as he focuses on his hands, occasionally running afoul of one of the strings and making an uncomfortable twang of sound. Altogether it isn’t a great performance, and privately Geralt thinks that if he had been a bard in his previous life, Jaskier probably would have gotten pelted with food for a number like that. He’s happy, though, and that’s what matters.

Eskel snickers at Lambert when his voice cracks on the last verse, and Geralt has to pull Jaskier out of the way of the wrestling match that ensues. “Let’s get out of here,” he says with a snort, ushering Jaskier towards the door. “You can go see how Roach likes your music. She makes a better audience than these animals.”

…………………

“Your hair is getting long.”

Jaskier lifts his head off of Geralt’s chest and looks at him, mildly confused. He’s still sleepy from their nap, muffling a yawn in Geralt’s shirt before he can speak. “Is it?”

There’s a little curl at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, for some reason curving a little more sharply than the rest of Jaskier’s soft wavy hair. Geralt has been playing with it, wrapping it around his finger idly as Jaskier dozes on him. It hadn’t been there a month ago when Jaskier had first come to Kaer Morhen, he’s certain. “Mmhmm. When’s the last time it was cut, do you remember?”

“Not long before they moved me, I think,” muses Jaskier. “It’s hard to tell. There were no windows, where I was, so I couldn’t keep track of time very well. I know there was one day where they scrubbed me raw and trimmed my hair and nails, though, and I don’t think it was many more meals before they moved me from the crate in my room to the one on the cart.”

Jaskier’s casual marking of time by his transfer from one crate to another makes Geralt wince, but he doesn’t bring it up. “It’s not bad. The long hair, I mean. It still looks fine.”

“Fine?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “What a compliment to hear from your lover. ‘Your hair looks fine.’ Please, stop, before I have the pants charmed right off of me.”

Geralt gets a little caught on the word which Jaskier so casually throws around. Lover. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, after a month spent so tangled up in one another that it’s hard to tell where one stops and another starts. Not when Jaskier looks at him like he hung the moon in the sky and he looks back at Jaskier and his mind starts listing ways to make him happy. It’s a new word, and Geralt rather likes it.

“You fishing for compliments?” he teases lightly, playing with that single curl again. “Have I not convinced you how highly I think of you, lover?”

A wide grin stretches slowly across Jaskier’s face, and his eyes sparkle. “Don’t be silly, of course not. One can never hear often enough how darling they are.”

“Well, I think you look… ravishing,” Geralt tells him, thinking of the most ridiculous word he’s ever heard someone call another person they were trying to woo. He’s always thought it sounded like they were trying to eat someone, not bed them. Although, given how much of his time he spends with his mouth on Jaskier, perhaps it’s a good word after all.

The compliment works either way. “With an endorsem*nt like that, I might just keep it,” Jaskier says with a little blush. “I’d hate to disappoint my admirers.”

“Doesn’t have anything to do with your hair,” Geralt disagrees. “That’s just… you. Cut your hair however you want, you’ll still look just as good.”

Jaskier glances away then, but he looks pleased all the same. “It is getting a bit long,” he muses, playing with the fringe that swoops down across his brow. When he brushes it straight down with his fingers, it completely obscures his eyes and most of his nose, leaving only his lips exposed. Geralt swoops in to place a little peck of a kiss upon them, making Jaskier giggle. “Don’t suppose you know how to cut hair, do you?”

“I know how to hack off hunks of my own hair when I get particularly sticky entrails in it,” Geralt answers with a snort. “And I know how to shave with a knife. Not sure if that’s the kind of spa experience you’re looking for.”

“I suppose I could try it myself,” says Jaskier, miming scissors chopping at the uneven hair around his forehead. “Will you laugh at me if I do a horrible job?”

“Never,” says Geralt earnestly. “Lambert will, though,” he follows, which is even more truthful.

“Well, sh*t. Guess I’ll just stay shaggy all winter, then.”

“We could ask Yennefer. She might have a little more skill than you or I when it comes to beauty,” Geralt suggests. “I’ve never known her to have so much as a split end. You might be able to convince her to give it a try for you, if you want.”

Yennefer of course agrees, the moment that Jaskier asks her over their next meal. Apparently she’d spent several weeks upon leaving Aretuza practising cosmetology spells, certain that the moment she allowed her beauty to falter, the fantasy life she’d built for herself would come crashing down around her. She ushers Jaskier to her bedroom, in the same tower where she and Vesemir have been conducting their studies these past few weeks, and pushes him into a chair while she bustles around collecting the supplies that she’ll need.

Geralt takes the opportunity to look around the room, which is as wildly out of place in Kaer Morhen as the sorceress herself is. She’s decorated the room in finery, all lush purple velvet and drapes made of a thin, gauzy material that blow gently in a breeze that must be magical since there isn’t an open window in sight. The silk sheets on her artfully rumpled bed are certainly not ones that came from the stockpiles of the witchers. Geralt isn’t surprised; for Yennefer to voluntarily grace Kaer Morhen with her presence was just shy of a miracle, but for her to do so without significant alterations of the living conditions would have been a sure sign of the coming apocalypse.

“I’m going to wrap this towel around your neck so that the little hairs don’t fall all over you,” Yennefer says, flicking her fingers until said towel flies out of a nearby cupboard and into her hand so she can do just that. “Take your collar off for me so that they don’t get caught underneath and itch you half to death.”

Instantly, Jaskier’s shoulders go tight with unease. “No,” he says sharply, before trying to soften it. “I don’t-- no thank you. I don’t want to take it off.”

His fingers clutch tightly at the strip of leather, and Yennefer’s eyes linger on his grip for a long moment before she nods. “Alright, so be it. Just make sure you wash well underneath of it the next time you bathe. Okay? Now tell me, how short do you want it?”

Geralt zones out for a while then as Yennefer uses magic rather than scissors or a razor to trim Jaskier’s hair. She wets it first, then combs it in the way he normally likes to wear it, and flexes her fingers in front of his eyes in tiny increments to trim off a millimeter at a time Every so often she’ll have him open up his eyes and take a look at himself in the mirror she holds up for him, and he’ll tell her whether he’s satisfied with the length on that particular section. Bit by bit the last month’s growth falls away, and Jaskier’s smiling face reappears under all of the hair.

By the end of it he looks gorgeous, but that’s really no different than he looked at the beginning. Geralt smiles at him and tells him he likes the fresh new haircut, and takes him to the bath to wash the itchy evidence away.

He doesn’t mean to ask, really. It’s one of those things that Geralt has chosen as a battle he won’t fight, where there are so many other beasts to slay. Now that Yen has mentioned it, however, it seems like Jaskier’s collar is the biggest presence in the room. Geralt can hardly take his eyes off it as Jaskier sits on the bench next to him and washes himself, the soapy washcloth fumbling beneath the leather as Jaskier tries his best to clean his throat.

“You’re staring,” Jaskier informs him.

Geralt doesn’t answer right away, because of course it’s an accurate claim. He is staring. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can hardly stop. “Your collar,” he says slowly, quietly, as gently as he can. “You still don’t want to take it off.”

“I don’t want to, please,” Jaskier answers, placing a hand to it defensively. “I want to keep it.”

As much as he doesn’t like the idea, Geralt nods. “Your choice. I’m… surprised, though.”

“Why?”

“You understand now, about what was done to you. About how wrong it was,” Geralt says hesitantly. “You told me that you hate them for the way that they hurt you, and for how they messed with your mind. You know that you have no master except yourself now. I thought… I assumed that once you knew that truth, you wouldn’t want their mark on you anymore.”

Jaskier is quiet for a minute after that. He continues to wash himself, efficient and thorough as ever, not missing a single spot on his skin. When he finishes that, he drifts over into Geralts’s space, all but floating into his lap to rest there, secure in the circle of Geralt’s arms. “It’s not about that,” he says at last. “It’s not about belonging to them.”

“Okay,” Geralt promises him, kissing his ear. “What is it about?”

“I don’t have anything,” confesses Jaskier after another moment of silence. “Yennefer says I’ve been alive for damn near three decades, and I don’t have anything that is my own, really. This collar, it’s… I’ve always had it, Geralt. From my very first memory of opening my eyes in that cage, I’ve had it. I don’t know who I am without it.”

“You’re Jaskier,” Geralt hurries to tell him, brushing his hand up and down Jaskier’s spine, just once. “You don’t have to be anything else. Not what they asked you to be, or what you think you ought to be. Just you, you’re enough.”

His words get lost in Jaskier’s kiss after that.

…………………

Jaskier spends more time to himself now, though he still finds himself by Geralt’s side more often than not. That’s the way they both prefer it, really. Still, there are times when Geralt’s duties require his full attention or flat out just bore Jaskier, and when that happens he finds other things to do to occupy his time. He favors spending time with the horses, or reading, or playing his lute now that he knows that he can.

He gets a little better every day, which makes sense given the sheer number of hours he puts into practicing. He only ever stops when his fingers get so sore that he can’t pluck the strings correctly anymore, and then he’ll come to Geralt to heal what ails him. Geralt kisses each reddened fingertip and then rubs a salve onto them, a diluted version of what he used to rub into his own palms when he was a boy learning how to wield a sword. Eventually Jaskier will have calluses, he explains to the bardling, to protect his skin against the repetitive motions. It’ll only take time.

He writes now, too, little snippets of songs that he’s not quite sure if he’s remembering or creating anew. At first he does it on scrap pieces of parchment he finds in the library, until one day Eskel approaches him where he’s sunning in the courtyard playing a soft little tune for Geralt and hands him a small notebook. It’s not of the finest make, unevenly cut pages of parchment bound by a scrap of animal hide and fastened with a leather thong, but there’s care in the letter J that’s stitched on the front, at least.

“Every bard needs a songbook,” Eskel says by way of explanation. “It’s not much, but it’ll hold you until spring. Make Geralt buy you a better one when you get to a town.”

“Impossible,” Jaskier says fiercely, clutching the notebook to his chest. “This one is already perfect. I’ll have to write very small so that I won’t fill it too quickly.” Then, quieter, “Thank you, Eskel. I love it.”

“It’s nothing,” Eskel says with a shrug, ruffling Jaskier’s hair as he moves to walk away. It isn’t nothing, and Geralt loves his brother fiercely for that.

Jaskier is off with his notebook and his lute now, having discovered Vesemir’s greenhouse and apparently being greatly inspired by the blooming of plants both beautiful and useful even here in the harsh depths of winter. For once there’s nothing to be done, and the unexpected freedom is a little disorienting to Geralt. He considers following Jaskier to the greenhouse for a moment, but then dismisses the idea just as quickly. He’ll only be a distraction to Jaskier, and that wouldn’t be fair to him or to the music he’s trying to create.

He’s exceptionally adorable when he concentrates, Geralt has discovered. Jaskier’s brow gets all furrowed and his eyes light up with passionate determination, and if he’s not actively talking the tip of his tongue tends to poke out of the corner of his mouth in his focus. It takes all of Geralt’s self-control not to kiss him when he looks like that, lest he break the spell and get in the way of Jaskier’s thinking. One of these days Geralt hopes to hear Jaskier actually sing something, since as yet he’s been reluctant to do more than hum.

If he wants to get to that point, though, he’ll have to stop dragging Jaskier off to bed every time he looks good. He always looks gorgeous, is the problem, and they already spend enough of their time tangled up naked together.

Geralt’s co*ck starts to harden as he thinks about that, and he palms at it through his trousers where he reclines on his bed. The man doesn’t even have to be in the room to get him going, that’s how completely Geralt is under his spell. He should probably hold off, save his seed for Jaskier. Since things had settled down, Jaskier usually asked to taste him once or twice a day, and they coupled at least once on top of that, if not more. There’s a good chance that when Jaskier returns from his creative binge, he’ll want Geralt in one way or another.

Still… there’s something nice about the simplicity of working himself over. It’s peaceful. A man doesn’t have to worry about anyone’s pleasure but his own, or about what he looks or sounds like as he seeks it out. Geralt can just lie back and touch himself however he likes, nice and leisurely, with no care in the world except for what feels good.

It makes him think about the day he asked Jaskier to touch himself for the first time --and the last time, since he soon after claimed the privilege for himself. It wasn’t that long ago in reality, only a couple of weeks, but they were enough of a whirlwind that it felt like a lifetime ago just the same. He remembers Jaskier’s moan as he fingered himself open, how he’d watched those skilled hands pumping in and out of Jaskier’s hole. He’d missed it, he’d told Geralt, missed having a co*ck to fill him up so sweetly.

f*ck, Geralt can relate.

Of the many times they’ve had sex, never once has Jaskier mentioned a desire to take Geralt instead of the other way around. He’s made for being f*cked, and always so eager for it, whispering in Geralt’s ear how empty he is without it. And that’s fine-- it’s more than fine, it’s f*cking miraculous-- and Geralt is more than happy to oblige whenever Jaskier asks it of him. But… he’d be lying if he said that he doesn’t occasionally wish the tables were turned, just for a bit, to scratch that itch inside of him that he rarely has the opportunity to indulge.

He’s never had that with a man, of course, but there have been toys. Yennefer, for one, had never been a fan of letting her sex stop her from being wholly in charge. There’s a blown glass toy tucked away in a drawer here somewhere, a prank gift from Eskel and Lambert when he’d been especially cranky one year, delivered with a note that said, “Geralt, pull the stick out of your arse and try this instead. Love, E+L.” He’d never used it, too embarrassed --and pissed off at his brothers for their cheek, to boot-- but he’d never thrown it away, either. There’d been a little part of him that thought that someday he might actually want it…

To hell with it. No time like that present.

It takes a few minutes of rummaging for Geralt to find what he needs. The toy, blown glass carefully crafted into the shape of a fairly lengthy co*ck, is eventually located in the bottom of a trunk of spare linens, wrapped haphazardly in a pillowcase. Oil suitable for internal purposes is another challenge, since he doesn’t need it with Jaskier. He’s never been anything less than dripping for Geralt, but without those same talents, Geralt has to rely on a small vial of grapeseed oil that he sometimes uses for potion making. Not perfect, but it’ll have to do, since now that the idea is in his head, he’s eager to get the satisfaction of being full inside for the first time in a long time.

He thinks of Jaskier while he works himself open. He thinks about Jaskier’s body, always so warm and welcoming. The strength in his lithe form, like one of the predator cats he’s only seen in the menageries of kings. He thinks too of the tenderness of Jaskier’s kisses, and the glide of his palms over Geralt’s skin, and the way his voice breaks when he praises the way Geralt moves with him. He thinks about the way that his heart always stutters out of its steady rhythm every time Jaskier opens his eyes and meets Geralt’s gaze.

It feels amazing when the glass co*ck slides inside of him, though a little unfamiliar given the span of years since the last time he’d felt anything like this. There’s nothing else quite like it. That sensation of fullness simultaneously anchors him to the earth and yet sends him flying, even with the way that his motions are clumsy when he f*cks himself with it. The angle isn’t great, and Geralt isn’t skilled at this in any case. He can’t quite get the internal stimulation that he craves, the hot button inside of him getting only a tease of pressure that isn’t anything near what he wants.

He winds up just pressing the toy deep within himself and letting it rest there, held in place by the flared base that might resemble a set of balls if you squinted. When he squeezes his thighs together he can feel that fullness and stretch throughout his abdomen in the most delicious way. It’s not quite what he wanted, but it feels good, especially when he adds some oil to his palm and starts stroking his co*ck with quick, tight pulls. His face is hot, he can feel it, the cool draft that always leaks in under the window a relief on his skin. The tension ratchets higher, his back arching up off the bed just a little, shifting the toy inside of him to that he feels it afresh, and Geralt groans low and loud with his release when he makes a mess of seed all over his stomach.

Geralt allows himself to take a minute to just enjoy the afterglow, his breathing evening as he looks up at the unremarkable ceiling. It’s perhaps a minute too long, because the drag of the toy as he pulls it from his body makes him wince, but he’s experienced far worse. It might even be an experiment worth repeating sometime, he considers, carefully washing the toy and hiding it away in his trunk once more. Just when Jaskier’s busy, that’s all. What he doesn’t know about Geralt’s inclinations can’t hurt him.

…………………

The next twenty-four hours are… unsettling.

It’s a good thing that Geralt took himself in hand while he could, because Jaskier doesn’t seem interested in anything of that nature for the rest of that night and into the following morning. There’s nothing wrong with that, because it’s his body and he doesn’t owe it to anyone, least of all Geralt who has done nothing in this universe to deserve the right to touch him. It’s fine, really, it is. The only reason why Geralt is bothered at all by the change is because it’s so f*cking weird.

Since the moment that Geralt met him, Jaskier has always wanted. There are moments where he’s sated, where he isn’t actively begging for it, but he’s always eager enough for Geralt’s touch whenever it’s offered, in any capacity. Never before has he gone to sit by Geralt’s side and left space between them, enough that not even their elbows brush. Never has he reacted to a kiss on the cheek with statue-like stillness rather than turning his head in search of more. His scent is all cold tea with a current of burnt sugar underneath, and for the life of him Geralt can’t figure out why.

He starts to get truly worried when they retire that night, and while Jaskier doesn’t try to sleep in his own bed, he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s relishing being in Geralt’s, either. He keeps to the far side of the mattress, facing Geralt but with his arms tucked in tight and his eyes steadfastly shut, everything about him still and quiet. Too quiet, for a man who has brought an appreciation for noise into Geralt’s life.

“Is everything okay?” he asks in the darkness, instead of begging Jaskier to look at him, to kiss him, to return to himself before they fall asleep. “Are you… okay?”

“I’ll be alright,” Jaskier says, which isn’t really the same thing, but it appears to be the only answer he’s inclined to give at the moment. His eyes stay closed, and his body stays distant, and Geralt stays awake long after the other man has fallen asleep, wondering what all of this means. When he does drift off, his dreams don’t give him any good answers, either.

Geralt wakes the next morning aching for Jaskier in more ways than one, but the bed is empty. Jaskier’s is, too, and when he goes searching he finds the man working side by side with Lambert, cutting strips of leathered animal hide into scraps suitable for crafting. He looks up when Geralt enters and gives him a weak smile and a mumbled, “Good morning,” then returns to his task with no further comment.

Behind Jaskier’s back, Lambert points to him, then at Geralt rather accusingly. What the f*ck? he mouths, looking outraged. Geralt doesn’t have an answer for that, and it only makes the knot of tension in his gut twist tighter. He knows that Jaskier doesn’t seem to want him here, though, so he retreats from the room, closing the door behind him before he wanders off to find a practice dummy to beat black and blue until it feels how he kind of does.

When it’s lunch time and Jaskier doesn’t seem any better, pushing his food around his plate listlessly, Geralt can’t take it anymore. “I need to talk to you,” he says suddenly, heedless of whatever conversation he probably interrupted. He doesn’t think Jaskier was playing any more attention than he was, anyways.

The smell of sadness and anxiety only grow stronger, but Jaskier nods his assent. “Okay,” he says, dropping his fork to the plate with a clatter and standing.

Geralt hadn’t meant precisely this second, but if that’s the way that Jaskier took it, then lunch can wait. “Stables?” he says quietly, both so that Jaskier will know which direction to start heading and so that everyone else at the table will have the good sense not to wander that way for a while. Their concerned, understanding looks behind Jaskier’s back tell him that his message has hit home.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything else as he walks that way, Geralt at his heels. They move silently to the stables, Geralt desperately trying to think of what in the hell he’s going to say when they get there and coming up blank with every step. He watches as Jaskier slips into the building and makes a beeline for Roach’s stall, burying his face in the mare’s neck and hugging her like he’s dangling off of a cliff and she’s the last piece of rope keeping him tethered. “I’m going to miss you, Roach,” he whispers to her.

“‘Miss her?’” echoes Geralt with a frown. “Why would you miss her? Are you… planning on leaving?”

The ensuing pause is far too long, and when Jaskier finally turns around, there are tears on his face that cause Geralt a physical pang in his chest. Only Jaskier’s arms crossed defensively over his chest stop him from reaching out to wipe them away.

“You’re tired of me,” Jaskier whispers, like a confession. “I knew it was coming. I asked for too much of your time and your attention, and now I’ve worn out my welcome here and I’ll have to leave. New toys are only fun for so long.”

So much of that is wrong that Geralt hardly knows where to begin. “You’re not a toy,” he decides on, “and I’m not tired of you. Jaskier, what makes you say that?”

Jaskier swallows hard, and his voice is shaky. “Yesterday, when I went to go back to your room, I heard-- I heard you--”

More tears are brimming in his eyes, and Geralt can’t help himself. He reaches out and grabs Jaskier by the arm, tugging so hard that he’s all but thrown into Geralt’s embrace. Luckily Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s middle and hiding his face in his chest. Geralt holds him as tightly as he thinks a human can withstand. “You heard me getting off, didn’t you?”

“Getting off without me,” Jaskier says pitifully, still not showing his face. “I was right there, that’s what I’m there for, but you didn’t want me. I thought maybe-- I thought I’d at least have the winter, since there was no one else, that you’d at least still want me until spring, but--”

“I do want you, that’s not that any of this means,” Geralt says, growling with frustration. He isn’t sure whether it’s at Jaskier or at himself or just the universe in general. “I very much still want you. It was just… I wanted some things that I didn’t think you’d be interested in doing with me, so I took care of it myself. I just didn’t want to bother you. But I’m not tired of you, and I certainly don’t want you to leave. Understand?”

Jaskier squeezes him infinitesimally tighter. “You’re sure you still want to have sex with me?”

“More than just that,” Geralt answers hesitantly. “I don’t just want you around for sex. I mean I do want that, I-- I really like having sex with you. But also other things. I just like… being around you. Even when we’re not… doing that.”

Finally Jaskier lifts his head from Geralt’s shoulder, leaning back a bit to look at him. It leaves his face exposed so that Geralt can wipe the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Can I have a kiss?” Jaskier asks quietly, and Geralt doesn’t hesitate in delivering. His tears have made his lips salty, so Geralt cups his face and kisses him gently until he tastes nothing but sweet again. Jaskier rests his forehead against Geralt’s and gives him a watery smile. “I have a question.”

“Ask it. I’ll answer if I can.”

“You said that you didn’t want to bother me, because I wouldn’t like what you were doing. I’m--” Jaskier pauses, playing with the buttons at the front of Geralt’s shirt to avoid looking him in the eye. “I mean, if you just want to be alone and touch yourself, it’s fine. I can-- I get that. But if it’s because you didn’t think I’d want to… I like a lot of things, Geralt. And I can’t imagine many things that I wouldn’t be willing to do with you, if you asked,” he finally finishes.

“It’s nothing--” Geralt starts to dismiss, but cuts off when Jaskier scowls up at him, clearly preparing to call him on his bullsh*t. “Alright, alright! It’s only… I sometimes don’t mind being on the, ah, receiving end of things. But I don’t need that, if you don’t like it that way, and I know the men who took you made it so that you could-- Jaskier? Why are you laughing?”

What had started as a grin had quickly evolved into a giggle, and now Jaskier is laughing outright. Tears stream afresh from his eyes, though from mirth this time, and Jaskier has to step back to keep his balance when he nearly doubles over from it. “Please tell me you’re not that stupid,” he finally manages to gasp out between fits of giggles.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, vaguely aware he’s been insulted and not exactly sure how to defend himself. “I’m not… I’m not stupid?” he finishes, unsure.

“Geralt, why do you think I have a co*ck?” Jaskier asks with a grin.

How the f*ck does he expect Geralt to answer that? “Uh,” he supplies brilliantly.

“Why do you think that they specifically chose me, a person with a co*ck, and then did all the nonsense to me so that I could take one as well?” Jaskier elaborates, eyebrows raised as if Geralt is missing a very simple point. “Why not just take someone with a c*nt, who already has that capability, and skip all of that extra work?”

“Um-- hmm.”

“It’s so that I can do both, Geralt. So that I can give or receive. So that I can be whatever my partner wants me to be.”

Oh.

“So you wouldn’t mind, if sometimes…” Geralt trails off, still a little embarrassed. Doing something in bed is one thing. Talking about it, in broad daylight, right in front of Roach, is quite another. “Not all the time, but sometimes.”

Jaskier licks his lips with anticipation. “Darling, if you wanted me to take you apart, all you had to do was ask. Anytime you like. It’d be my pleasure.”

A simmer of anticipation settles in Geralt’s stomach, low and warm, and he nods with a smile of his own. “Noted.”

“Excellent. Now that we have that cleared up,” Jaskier says, reaching out a hand to grab at Geralt’s shirt and haul him closer, “how would you feel about a blowj*b? I’m bloody starving.”

Geralt has absolutely never done anything in his life to deserve any part of Jaskier’s existence. “Let’s get you fed, then.”

“Bed, though. Roach doesn’t need to see this.”

“Hmm. Race you there.”

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Of course their peace doesn't last for long.

If you'd asked Geralt a month ago what insatiable meant, he would have pointed to the way that Jaskier wanted him multiple times a day, each time as enthusiastically as the last. Perhaps he would have thought about those last few days before his self control broke, when it was only a matter of hours before Jaskier's happy glow vanished and he found himself in need once more. That was insatiable, a month ago. Now, with Jaskier riding his co*ck and trying to draw an org*sm out of him for the fifth time in an hour, Geralt has a whole new concept of the word.

"Come on, I know you can do it, darling," he croons as he bounces on Geralt's lap, taking a brief break from biting his lip half to death in order to cheer Geralt on. The encouragement, though much needed, doesn't do much to alleviate the aching in his balls. "You're perfection, you know that? Absolutely perfect. No one else on the continent could take such good care of me, Geralt."

"Not doing much of anything," Geralt grunts, though the heaving of his breath makes it sound like he's engaged in the most athletic feat of his life. "Pretty sure any man could lie back and let you ride him."

"Mmm," Jaskier says, curling forward so that he can kiss at Geralt's collarbone. "Maybe. Not every man has a co*ck like yours, though. And they certainly couldn't be as gloriously hard for me, even still."

Gloriously hard is a bit of an overstatement, but Jaskier's words get more poetic every day and Geralt has learned not to argue with it. In truth, he's hanging on by a thread, only the downright sinful picture of Jaskier on top of him and the tease of his hands across Geralt's skin keeping him stiff. The actual sensation on his co*ck is teetering right on the line between good stimulation and bad, and every time Geralt draws a breath he wonders if this will be the one he uses to tell Jaskier he can't do it anymore. Just one more, he keeps telling himself, perhaps optimistically, though the mess between Jaskier's legs (and all over Geralt's torso, and on every stitch of linen on the bed) says that's far from likely to be true.

"I don't know if I have another in me," he says honestly, hating Jaskier's disappointed whine but unable to overcome biology with willpower. "Even witchers have their limits, Jaskier."

"Not my witcher," Jaskier stubbornly replies. "My witcher was made for me, and I for him. You told me last night you'd f*ck me until my belly swelled with your seed." He takes Geralt's hand and presses it to his middle, right above where his hard co*ck bobs in spite of the several org*sms Geralt has talked him through already. "See? Not even full yet. I need more, Geralt, please? You promised."

"Yeah, and it was all talk then and it's all talk now. Jaskier, I can't."

"You can," Jaskier says with absolute confidence, and Geralt can't help but believe him.

It shouldn't be possible, not by the standards of witcher biology or any other, but Jaskier leans in to kiss his lips and squeezes vice tight around him, and Geralt has his fifth org*sm of the day with something akin to a whimper. If either of them had been able to see his release, he's sure it wouldn't have been much, if it was anything but dry. Geralt feels utterly wrung out, overstimulated in a way that isn't enjoyable anymore, not even when Jaskier gives quiet cries of praise in his ear.

His co*ck is still twitching a little bit when Geralt grabs Jaskier by the hips and physically lifts him off of his co*ck, seating Jaskier on his stomach instead. "No more," he says, attempting to sound firm. He sounds desperate instead, which is probably more accurate. "I'm done. I have to be done. I never thought I'd say it, but Jaskier, please don't touch my co*ck again for a very long time."

Jaskier laughs a little, planting his hands on Geralt's chest and pushing his hips backwards until his leaking hole comes into contact with Geralt's much-abused co*ck. "Oh don't be so grumpy, I know you can do it! A few minutes to catch your breath and then you'll be ready to be inside of me again--"

But Geralt takes hold of Jaskier's thighs and tugs him upwards again, away from his co*ck, holding him there this time. "I'm done," he says again, making sure Jaskier looks him in the eyes. "Quen. I'm done."

To his credit, Jaskier immediately ceases all attempts to seek further contact. He simply frowns and gives Geralt a nod, leaning in to peck at his mouth as he swings his leg over Geralt and curls up at his side. "I'm sorry," he says earnestly, hiding his face in Geralt's shoulder and kissing that, too, while he's at it. "I ask too much of you. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear."

"It's-- it's fine, I just need a break," Geralt huffs, kissing the top of Jaskier's head. "What's gotten into you today?"

"I just have a lot that I want, is all," Jaskier says with a little laugh. "Mainly, your co*ck, on repeat."

"Mmm. I noticed that. Is there anything else you want? Do you want to come again?"

He expects for Jaskier to say yes, because Jaskier always says yes to that question. He seems to be making up for his many years of deprivation by indulging in as many moments of pleasure as possible now, and Geralt is more than happy to assist him with that. This time, however, Jaskier just rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling with a rather dramatic sigh. "No, there's no point. It won't help. That's not what I need."

Geralt definitely doesn't like the sound of that. "Are you alright? Is it like before, when you were... withdrawing?" Without waiting for an answer, he reaches out to feel Jaskier's forehead, though it's hard to gauge how much of his warmth is from a fever and how much is from the vigorous exercise he's been engaging in for the last hour. "I don't understand, we've been sleeping together every day for weeks now, why--"

"It's not like that," Jaskier says, batting his hand away. "It doesn't hurt, like before. I feel fine. It's more like..." He trails off, fingers tapping on his breastbone consideringly. "It feels like when I had that song on my mind the other day, and I kept singing it over and over again because I couldn't stop thinking about it. It's like that, but instead of a song, it's-- well, you get the idea."

"The urge is of your mind, not of your body?"

"Exactly. I just can't get the idea out of my head that I'll positively die without that beautiful co*ck inside of me." Jaskier lifts his head to look down at the slain beast between Geralt's legs. "If I've broken you, I'll never forgive myself. Perhaps I should give it a kiss to make it feel better."

"Please don't," Geralt snorts, relieved when Jaskier returns his smile. This certainly isn't ideal --whatever this is-- but at least Jaskier isn't in physical pain this time around. Of course he'd prefer Jaskier to be pain free and happy, but if he can only have one, he'll take this over seeing Jaskier in tears any day.

They lay there quietly for a while, Jaskier getting up at one point to bring them rags to clean up with. The tremble of his legs as he walks doesn't escape Geralt's notice; even someone made for sex needed a little recovery time after riding a co*ck for an hour, it would seem. Once they're as clean as they're likely to get without the aid of the hot springs, Jaskier returns to his side, fidgeting a little restlessly in the crook of Geralt's arm but clearly trying his best to be still and let Geralt doze. Every so often he'll pick his head up and lift the corner of the blanket thrown over them just a little, as if checking the status of Geralt's co*ck just to be sure.

The third or fourth time he does so and finds Geralt no more willing or able to perform than before, Geralt heaves a heavy sigh. "Have you ever experienced something like this before? Does it... fade, at some point?"

Jaskier goes very still, then, and his face twists into a grimace. "I... remember feeling like this one other time, a very long time ago. Back when I first was..." He waves his hand vaguely. "I was going to say born, but that's not right. When I first woke up? Close to the beginning of my memory, for whatever that's worth."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what happened that time? Did you start to feel better at some point?"

Jaskier sits up slowly, not looking at Geralt as he goes. His arms wrap around his knees when he pulls them up to his chest, and those restless fingers start tapping away at his own bicep. "I don't think you want to know the answer to that question, witcher dearest."

He probably doesn't, but Geralt doesn't have much of a choice, either. If the options are to make himself uncomfortable or sit idly by while Jaskier suffers the same way, the choice is clear. "Tell me, so that I can help you if I can."

"Remember that you asked to hear this," Jaskier sighs, looking back over his shoulder at Geralt. "It stopped when I... got it out of my system, I suppose. Or when it was f*cked out of me."

Horrifying, but not all that surprising. Geralt grinds his teeth together briefly, then pries his jaw open to speak. "Alright. And how long did that take?"

"Not long, with the whole of the castle pitching in to help," Jaskier says matter of factly, a wry smile on his lips. "As I remember, when they figured out that I couldn't be satisfied via normal means, they took me to the entry hall and bent me over a table. Strapped me down and just let anyone walking by take a turn, until I stopped asking for it anymore."

Nausea rises up in Geralt like a flash flood, and he sits up and perches on the edge of the bed with his back to Jaskier, wondering briefly if he'll actually be physically sick. If he had anything in his stomach, he might, but seeing as they'd skipped breakfast this morning in favor of sex, he just sits there and reels instead. "f*cking hell," he swears, closing his eyes against the images that are swirling through his mind entirely without permission. "Those sick bastards, I'll skin them all."

He can sense Jaskier reaching out to touch him and stopping short, his palm hovering an inch from Geral's back. He leans back into it, not liking the smell of Jaskier's anxiety on the air. "Geralt? Don't be angry, it's alright."

"I am angry, and it's not alright," Geralt snaps. Jaskier's fingers twitch against his shoulderblade at the words. "Just hearing you talk about it--"

"Yes, well, I did try to warn you," Jaskier says, harsher than Geralt has heard him in a long while. "So don't be pissy with me just because you didn't listen."

He's right, of course, and as usual Geralt feels like a prick when the realization sinks in. He turns to Jaskier and captures the hand that falls from his shoulder, ducking down to press a kiss to the knuckles of it. "I'm sorry. I'm not-- it isn't you I'm angry with."

"I know. But I don't deserve to be caught in your crossfire either."

Geralt hums his agreement. "You don't, I know. I'm sorry," he adds again for good measure.

"You're forgiven," Jaskier tells him, pulling their clasped hands toward him so he can kiss the inside of Geralt's wrist. "Anyways, it doesn't matter. As you can see, the knowledge and experiences of yesteryear won't help me much now, unless you intend to grab a bundle of rope and carry me down to the dining hall."

"That would never happen to you here," Geralt assures him fiercely. "I'd skin myself, too, before I let it."

Whatever reaction he's expecting from the declaration, he isn't expecting the slight sag of Jaskier's shoulders or the tinge of sadness that taints the air. "I know you wouldn't," Jaskier says with a smile, but it's a tight one. "You're an excellent protector, darling."

Geralt pauses for a long moment, the gears of his mind churning as he tries to make sense of everything that his senses are telling him. It doesn't make sense at all, but he knows better than to doubt what his eyes and ears and nose, all such keen tools, are picking up from the man before him. "Jaskier, are you... disappointed?"

He might have worried about getting such an assumption wrong, but he needn't have. Jaskier's instant, embarrassed flush is answer enough. "Well, I-- not like that, obviously, in retrospect I fully understand that it was a terrible, horrible thing to have happened," he hurries to defend himself, not quite meeting Geralt's eye as he says it. "I only mean that--well, it helped. That part wasn't awful, at least."

The urge to argue with that logic is strong, but Geralt doesn't let himself. It isn't his place to say what parts of Jaskier's trauma he's allowed to take comfort from. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood and just looks at Jaskier's blushing profile, considering how he can possibly answer. Wondering what he could possibly have to say that won't make more of a mess than Geralt has already made of this whole conversation.

He tries to consider Jaskier's point of view. He wants relief, remembers getting it in a way that wasn't pleasant, but the results of which were desirable. For a moment, however brief, he had imagined something happening again, and hadn't been upset at the thought. Maybe it was a better prospect here than it had been before. Here, at least, he knows that no one will do him harm. He likes the people of Kaer Morhen, and is loved in return. Maybe it hadn't been as a repulsive of a thought to Jaskier as it had been to Geralt because of who that fantasy entailed.

"Alright," Geralt sighs, "hear me out for a moment. What if we could help you similar to how-- well, not like that, not at all like that. But what if-- if you wanted, and if it was okay with them, we could at least try it, anyways--"

"Spit it out, Geralt," Jaskier says with exasperation and a flicker of hope.

"What if I asked Eskel and Lambert to... help me help you?"

It's not an outlandish suggestion, really. He'd all but implied that he'd accept their help before, in the very beginning, when he'd still been resisting the current of Jaskier's desire and nearly drowning as a result. And they'd both seemed... willing enough. Lambert had made it abundantly clear that he'd have Jaskier just as soon as he was wanted. And Eskel, though more reserved by far, seemed to have a way of calming Jaskier that Geralt has yet to master, if he ever will. It's not so crazy a thought, in the end, to wonder if they might be willing to help Jaskier now in his hour of need.

If Jaskier's reaction is anything to go by, he doesn't think it's so crazy, either. He's launching himself at Geralt before the words are hardly out of his mouth, kissing him fiercely, both hands tangled in Geralt's already gnarled head of hair. "Do you mean it? Do you think they'd really--?"

"Can't be sure until we ask," Geralt cautions, "but I think so. They don't want to see you suffer any more than I do, and it's not as if having sex with you is a hardship."

"Well, certain things are hard, mainly your--"

"Please don't," Geralt snorts. "I can't handle puns right now. It's been a long morning."

"I'll handle your long--"

"Yeah, that settles it, you're their problem now," Geralt huffs, rising from the bed and leaving Jaskier to topple sideways on the mattress with a yelp without his support. His poor member protests even the slight friction caused by him dressing himself, but he'll be damned if he's caught walking around the halls of Kaer Morhen buck naked and limp as can be. "Put some clothes on. We'll divide and conquer. I'll see about Eskel, you go talk to Lambert."

"That'll be a short conversation," Jaskier remarks, not incorrectly. "He's an easy sell."

"Good, then you can meet me back here in no time," Geralt confirms. "Try not to let him f*ck you in the hallway, hmm? He was raised with manners, but then he went out on the Path and forgot them all."

"I won't make any promises," says Jaskier as he pulls on one of Geralt's oversized shirts and nothing else, then leans in to kiss Geralt's mouth. "I'll give it a shot, though."

It's no use taking time to collect himself outside Eskel's door when Geralt arrives there alone a few minutes later. For one thing, Eskel has likely sensed him coming from halfway down the corridor. For another, an extra few minutes aren't going to make any words occur to Geralt that will make this conversation any less bizarre and embarrassing than it's already destined to be. No, there's nothing to do about it except to just knock on the door and face the music, so that's exactly what Geralt does.

"Come in," Eskel says at once, and Geralt opens the door and slips inside without preamble. Eskel is sitting on the bed with a book in his hands, looking at Geralt with a small smile and a curious expression. "I'd say we missed you guys at breakfast this morning, but from the smell of you, I can tell you were busy. What'd you do to piss Jaskier off, though?"

"Hmm. Got all that from a whiff, did you?" Geralt says with an eye roll.

"That, and about eighty years of knowing you," Eskel fires back, closing his book with a snap. "Alright, out with it. What's wrong."

Right to the point, then. "I need your help. Jaskier, he's going through something, and I can't... satisfy him."

Eskel's scars pull strangely at his eyebrow when it raises skeptically. Geralt doesn't miss the way his gaze slides down to Geralt's crotch and back up again. "Well that's unexpected. Haven't heard him complaining about your ability to satisfy him before now."

"Yeah, well, it's a bit of a challenge after five rounds without a break," grouses Geralt. It takes all of his self control not to let this devolve into a pissing contest, but he has larger concerns at the moment. "That's why I need your help. He's got some kind of compulsion that I can't keep up with, and he says that the last time this happened, the only thing that helped was when he... when there were multiple... partners."

It isn't the right word at all, but Eskel's grimace shows that he knows exactly what Geralt means by it. "Seven hells," he swears. "Crazy f*ckers."

"Yeah. I know."

"So, what, the idea is to call in backup, and hope that works again?" Eskel runs a hand through his hair, appearing to think it over. "Even with the two of us, we might have our work cut out for us, if you're not exaggerating."

"I'm not. Believe me, my prick wishes I were. There'll be three of us, though, I'm hoping," he adds with a shrug. "Jaskier's talking to Lambert as we speak."

"Better odds than one," hums Eskel. "And you're... okay with this? You didn't seem too eager to let Lambert take a crack at him before when he was doing his best to become Jaskier's favorite witcher. What's changed?"

"I can't be all that he needs anymore," Geralt says simply. "Not right now, anyways. He needs more than that, and it wouldn't be right to deny him that just because I wish it weren't the case. Besides, you and Lambert are the people I trust most in the world. It's not like you're strangers off the street."

Eskel hears the meaning behind the words. "You can count on us. We won't hurt him, or let him be hurt. We care for him too."

"I know. That's why I ask. So you... you'll do it, then?"

"Of course," Eskel says, as if it's the easiest question in the world. "If you're on board, and Jaskier's on board, I'm on board, too."

"Great. Well, uh... you ready? I told Jaskier we'd meet him back at my room."

Eskel looks around the room and seems at a loss. "Should I... pack a bag, or something? Exactly how long does he need us to keep him busy for?"

"Hell if I know, but I don't think you'll be needing much clothing. Come on, let's get out of here. Jaskier's probably already waiting, knowing him."

Geralt is wrong, however, because when he and Eskel reach his bedroom, he doesn't find Jaskier and Lambert waiting inside as he'd expected, or even Jaskier by himself. The room is empty, conspicuously so. Curious and a little apprehensive, Geralt retraces the steps between Jaskier's room and Lambert's. They aren't anywhere along the way, either. It isn't until they reach the hallway that houses Lambert's room that he can hear them, two voices overlapping, along with the sounds of...

f*cking.

"So I take it you're not opposed to helping out," Geralt says drily, opening the door to Lambert's room without knocking. His answer is on the bed, with Jaskier on his knees and elbows and Lambert behind him, frantically snapping his hips into Jaskier's. Both of them are completely naked, an untidy heap of clothing at the end of the bed marking their haste. "Really, Lambert? You couldn't even wait until you got down the hall?"

"What? He said you were fine with it," Lambert says unapologetically, not pausing in his motions whatsoever. "And he walked in here already hard. What was I supposed to do, just leave him looking all lonely and neglected?"

"Not neglected," Jaskier is quick to correct him. "Gerlat's been taking excellent care of me all morning."

That, at least, does seem to soften Lambert a little. "I know, little bard, I'm not trying to f*ck with his reputation or anything," he laughs, smoothing his hand down Jaskier's spine as he says it. "I'm getting sloppy dozenths, here, by the feel of it."

Jaskier is preening before Geralt can reprimand Lambert for daring to imply that any part of Jaskier is anything but pristine. "So round it up to a baker's already, will you?" he teases, pushing his hips back into Lambert's. Geralt has been inside of Jaskier enough to know that when Lambert groans and curls forward to rest his forehead between Jaskier's shoulderblades, it's because Jaskier just clenched down on him hard enough to make him see stars. He'd feel bad for the pup if he didn't deserve a little humble pie.

It's... not a bad visual, watching the two of them f*ck, if Geralt is being honest with himself. He's never thought of either of his brothers in a sexual way, despite having grown up half naked around each other, but objectively speaking he knows that Lambert has a nice body. He's leaner than Geralt, closer to Jaskier's body type, but with a hard edge of muscles and scars that still make the difference between them stark in contrast. They look good together, with Lambert's hand wrapping around his hipbone and his teeth digging into the spot on Jaskier's shoulder where Geralt's own teeth have been so many times before.

Geralt finds a chair buried under a pile of dirty clothes and clears it off, not even caring about the lingering smell of Lambert's poor housekeeping because it feels so good to plop down in it and just rest. Technically he's been laying in bed most of the morning letting Jaskier do most of the work, but he's exhausted nonetheless, and he grunts a little involuntarily with relief at being able to sit there and shut his mind off for a minute. Eskel shoots him a concerned glance at the sound, but he waves it away. "Could use a nap," he mumbles by way of explanation, setting further into the slightly lumpy armchair as if it were a cloud.

His seat offers a decent view of the bed, and he continues to watch as Lambert proceeds to f*ck Jaskier even harder, until he's pressed into the mattress on his belly, simply allowing himself to be pounded. Geralt's co*ck even attempts to twitch in interest at the sight, but it's more of a painful sensation than one of pleasure, even after nearly an hour's rest. A small part of Geralt semi-hysterically thinks that Jaskier might have broken his prick after all. At least it's a good way to go.

Eskel is watching too, leaned back against the far wall with his arms crossed. His face is serious, calculating, as if he's constructing a battle strategy in his mind. The scent of his arousal gives him away, though, as does the tent in the front of his trousers. He's certainly not thinking of monster hunting at the moment, that much is clear. Though, given what Geralt saw of his penchant for being in charge some weeks ago, it's not out of the question that he's formulating some sort of plan of attack on Jaskier, as well. It's just not the violent kind, that's all.

"So what do I have to say to make you come?" Lambert pants after a few minutes, sounding strained. He's nosing at the back of Jaskier's neck, tongue darling out as if to taste the salt or the sex on Jaskier's skin. Knowing him, he probably is. "Is there like a specific word I have to say?"

"Several, actually," Jaskier replies at once, turning his face so that he can catch Geralt's eye with his own glazed ones. "Repeat after me. Hocus pocus, abracadabra, alakazam--"

Lambert, who had opened his mouth at first to obediently say his part until it had registered that he was being messed with, closes it again with a nip to Jaskier's nape. "Very funny," he says with a roll of his eyes, smacking lightly at the bit of Jaskier's flank beneath his palm. "Just shut up and come."

"That'll do it, too," Jaskier retorts, even as his face contorts with pleasure and his hips jerk forward into the mattress beneath him. "f*ck, come on, fill me up, I know you want to--"

It doesn't take much else to encourage Lambert. He drapes himself along Jaskier's back and clutches at him as he comes, his final few thrusts hard and deep. "f*ck yes," Geralt hears him groan, and he knows that feeling well. He has to press the heel of his hand into his crotch for a minute as he watches the two of them ride out their aftershocks, lest his body get too many wild ideas about being ready for more when he's still throbbing from the last time it was his turn.

This is going to be a long day, and it’s barely past breakfast.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

When Lambert pulls out and flops himself on the far side of the bed, Jaskier doesn't move right away. He's laying there quietly, face buried in the pillows once more, motionless except for the rise and fall of his back with every breath. Geralt fully intends to get up and check on him, but his tired body seems to be working on a time delay and Eskel is by the side of the bed before Geralt has even managed to remember which of his limbs are the ones with feet attached to the ends.

"Jaskier?" Eskel asks, grabbing the man gently by the back of his neck and turning his head so that his face is visible. He's got his eyes closed, face an expression of mild contentment. "How are you feeling?"

The only answer is a happy sigh and a tongue that swipes across Jaskier's lips. Lambert punches a fist into the air above him, looking silently smug. That look lasts for all of ten seconds, for as long as Jaskier remains subdued. Then Jaskier reaches up to grab for the laces of Eskel's trousers, murmuring a cheerful, "Your turn!"

"Dammit," whines Lambert. "Thought I had him for a second there."

"Welcome to the club," Geralt says with a yawn. "Only four more failed attempts and they'll upgrade your membership."

Eskel isn't paying their banter any mind, focused solely on Jaskier. He lets his trousers be unlaced and his co*ck pulled free, but he takes hold of Jaskier's wrist before he can give the length a single stroke. "Slow down," he says, voice low and firm. Jaskier moves his head forward as if to take Eskel into his mouth, but Eskel is too quick for him. He steps back easily, out of Jaskier's reach, shaking his head with an admonishing smile. "Impatient. Roll over, and put your hands above your head, since you don't know how to keep them to yourself."

"Sorry, Sir," Jaskier says, not sounding sorry in the least. He does as Eskel instructs, however, wiggling until he's on his back and putting his arms up until his fingertips meet the headboard. "I'll be good, I promise."

"Likely story," Geralt comments, but he winks at Jaskier when he meets his gaze. "Watch out for that one, Eskel. He's trouble."

"I think I can manage." Eskel appears to be in no hurry despite Jaskier's fidgeting, undressing himself at a leisurely pace. Jaskier's gaze follows every article of clothing as it drops to the floor, but it never leaves Eskel for long. By the time that Eskel takes his co*ck in hand to stroke himself lightly while he looks Jaskier over, Jaskier is all but drooling before him. "Let me get a good look at you."

It's a little silly to say, considering this isn't the first time that Eskel has seen Jaskier naked, but it does make him preen with the knowledge that he'll soon be the object of Eskel's undivided attention. Geralt can't quite see Eskel's eyes from here, but he can track the movement of his gaze by where he touches on Jaskier's body. It starts with the wrists above his head, Eskel humming a bit and readjusting them to cross at the wrist very prettily. Then it's his hair, ruffled fondly for a moment before passing the back of his hand across Jaskier's forehead as if he's concerned about fever the same way Geralt had been earlier. He must find the heat of Jaskier's skin acceptable, because he moves on to play fingertips across his cheekbones and his lips, down his throat, across the curve of his collarbone and down his breastbone, ever so gently.

When his hands reach Jaskier's chest, Eskel detours to tweak at one of his nipples for a moment. He discovers the same thing that Geralt has in recent weeks: Jaskier is sensitive there, his whole body reacting with a shiver when Eskel swirls a fingertip over the little nub. Both sides get the same attention, and then Eskel is moving on, roaming further south to swipe through the mess of Jaskier's seed smeared across his belly. He brings his fingertips up to his lips and flicks his tongue over them, humming at the flavor.

"How do I taste?" Jaskier says with a little smirk, watching Eskel's face for a reaction.

"Don't fish for compliments. You know you taste good." Eskel is smiling, which softens his reprimand, and he collects another smear on his finger and holds it out to Jaskier's lips. "Open."

Jaskier knows what's expected of him and he delivers without hesitation, taking Eskel's fingertip into his mouth and sucking it clean. Eskel grunts, and Geralt sympathizes. Jaskier's mouth is a sinful, heavenly thing, even when it's not working a co*ck, and keeping your composure while on the receiving end of that is a Herculean feat. After a moment Jaskier pulls off the digit with a little pop, eyelashes fluttering as he smiles innocently up at Eskel. "Decadent. Thanks for sharing."

"Nice manners. Always refreshing to hear someone around this place knows how to act." Jaskier giggles at Eskel's compliment, but doesn't join in the teasing that's probably at least partially at Geralt's expense, if he had enough of his wits about him to examine that. Eskel has moved on anyways, at Jaskier's hips now in his slow exploration, running a fingertip down the underside of Jaskier's co*ck --still hard-- and across his balls and down to his profusely leaking hole. "Quite a mess we've made of you already, little bird."

"Yes, Sir."

"How many times has someone come inside you this morning?"

A quick pause for mental math, then, "Five. Geralt's first this morning was in my mouth, then four after that, and then Lambert. Yours will be six, Sir."

"Presumptuous."

"Optimistic, Sir."

"What if I decided to come elsewhere? Would that have the same effect on you? Would it satisfy your craving if I decided to mark up that pretty face of yours? Leave it for whoever comes next to lick you clean?"

Jaskier's emphatic, "f*ck yes," comes at almost the same moment as Geralt's tortured, "Oh, f*ck." Eskel's words have caused a dangerous redistribution of blood in the lower half of his body, and while his prick is starting to feel better with every passing moment of rest, it's still far too soon to be thinking about getting back into anyone's bed.

Three pairs of eyes turn to inspect Geralt, even Lambert rising up off the pillows next to Jaskier to look him over. "Geralt?" Jaskier asks, sounding a little concerned. "Are you alright?"

"I'm good. Really," he adds when Jaskier continues to squint at him suspiciously. "I'm just... taking in the scenery. It's good."

Jaskier looks down to where Geralt is pressing down at the base of his co*ck once more, desperately trying to avoid getting hard again too soon. His expression is a little wistful as he watches Geralt's movements. "I miss you," he says with a sigh.

"Are you talking to me, or my co*ck?"

"Can it be both?"

Geralt barks out a laugh at that, and so do the others. Eskel puts a palm to the center of Jaskier's chest and pushes at him until he lays back on the bed once more, back under Eskel's control. "What's your safeword?" Eskel asks.

"Dandelion." Jaskier's eyes are sharp and curious as he looks at Eskel now. "What are you planning to do with me, that you think you're going to test my limits?"

"Nothing without a lengthier conversation, but you don't seem like you're in the mood to stop and talk." Jaskier starts to shake his head, then shivers as his reply is interrupted by the feeling of Eskel slipping a few fingers inside his hole. "But I'd still like to know, either way. Just because I'm not intending to push any boundaries doesn't mean I won't find one anyways, and I need to know you feel comfortable telling me to stop. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir. Give me more, I can take it."

"Hush, don't you worry about how much I give you. Close your eyes and keep them closed, and just let me. Alright? No talking unless you need to stop me."

Asking for silence out of Jaskier is a tall order, but he at least looks inclined to try. His eyes close and he licks his lips, looking like there are words desperate to escape him already. Eskel continues to work his fingers inside of Jaskier, his other hand running appreciatively over the rest of his body. He really is a mess, having been f*cked too many times today already to even pretend at decency, but Eskel's hands don't shy away from it. He only smears things further, making a further debauched sight out of Jaskier, and Jaskier groans and rocks his hips down onto his fingers in response.

Eskel looks like he's about to say something to answer that wordless demand, but Lambert beats him to it. "Eternal fire," he swears, laughing from where he's reclined on the bed. "Needy little slu*t, aren't you?"

Jaskier's head turns to the side, eyes snapping open as he looks at Lambert. "Dandelion," he says with a quaver in his voice.

The effect is instantaneous. Geralt is out of his chair and across the room in an instant, and would have pulled Eskel off of Jaskier by force if it was necessary, though of course it isn't. Eskel's hands are already off of him completely, and he's leaning over in an attempt to catch Jaskier's eye. "Talk to me, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No, not that," Jaskier says, looking briefly up at Eskel before turning his face back to Lambert once more. "I didn't like that," he says, quiet but fierce.

"Me?" Lambert asks, incredulous. "I wasn't even touching you, what did I do?"

"What you said, I didn't like that," Jaskier tells him. "Don't make fun of me for what my body needs. It isn't my fault. I don't have a choice."

Geralt wants to knock Lambert's teeth in, but Lambert looks pretty furious himself. "Ah, sh*t. I didn't mean it like that, I swear. I was just running my mouth. Dirty talk or whatever. I didn't f*ckin' mean to make fun of you, honest. I think it's great that you're so horny all the time."

"Lambert," Eskel says warningly, "not helping."

"I mean, it isn't great, obviously it's super f*cked up and all. I just mean-- you're great, alright? I'm just an idiot, ignore everything I say."

It's probably the worst attempt at taking back an insult that Geralt has ever seen, but it seems to be good enough for Jaskier, at least. "I... I know you didn't mean it like that. It just made me feel gross," he says, reaching out a hand and rubbing his hand on Lambert's arm as if he's the one in need of comforting. "Maybe you could just not call me... that? In the future, I mean. If you don't mind."

"f*ck no," Lambert says, "of course I won't. I'm sorry I said it in the first place. Forgive me?"

"Already have," answers Jaskier with a smile. He turns to Eskel, then, expression falling. "Sorry I moved. And made you stop. You didn't have to-- I wasn't talking to you," he says with an embarrassed flush.

"You did perfect," Geralt tells him fiercely before Eskel can. He leans in to press a kiss to Jaskier's forehead, one hand tenderly cradling his cheek. "Never apologize for needing to put a pause on things."

He kisses Jaskier's lips next, and Jaskier lets him for a moment before pulling back ever so slightly so he can murmur a request in the little space between them. "Will you stay close? I like having you near, even if it can't be you, yet."

There are far too many gross, naked, sweaty, cum-covered people in this room for that to make Geralt feel as tender as it does, but Jaskier is a master of defying expectations. "We're going to break this bed if we all try to climb in," he says with a chuckle.

"So build me a stronger bed."

Lambert laughs and Eskel snorts, and Geralt gives Jaskier another lingering kiss before stepping back to go retrieve the armchair he'd been sitting in before. He pulls it up close to the edge of the bed near Jaskier's head, close enough so that when he sits in it, he can reach out and fit the curve of Jaskier's ribs with his palm. "How's this?" he asks, running his hand along Jaskier's side tenderly. "Good enough?"

Jaskier wiggles a little, testing the contact as he returns his arms to their crossed position above his head where Eskel had placed him, before. "Perfect," he declares as his eyes close again.

After all that, Eskel doesn't seem inclined to tease Jaskier by making him wait much longer. He finishes stripping out of his clothes and climbs onto the bed between Jaskier's legs, carefully bending his knees and arranging his limbs so that he can take Eskel's co*ck comfortably when he eventually slides in. Jaskier groans, then, something aching and desperate, and once again Geralt's co*ck tries to insist that it's ready to participate in the proceedings.

Several times Jaskier opens his mouth like he's going to say something, probably make a demand for more if Geralt knows him half as well as he thinks he does, but then he remembers Eskel's instructions and snaps his jaw shut once more. It's admirable, really, the amount of effort he's putting into doing something so strongly against his nature simply because he was asked to. Geralt is suddenly fiercely proud of him, in a way that isn't touched by the fact that he's currently being f*cked by Geralt's best friend and brother in arms. No matter what, Jaskier always tries to be so good.

Eskel seems to notice his struggling, too, and reaches up to run a thumb over Jaskier's closed lips. "It's hard for you, isn't it? To keep yourself from talking and just relax?" Jaskier nods emphatically, lower lip pushing out in a little pout beneath Eskel's touch. "Would you like some help? You can answer with your words."

"Help how?" Jaskier asks at once.

"Could give you something to keep your mouth busy," Eskel offers, thumbing at Jaskier's chin now and pulling his mouth open so he can hook a thumb inside. Geralt understands at once, and so must Lambert, because he slides off of the bed at once to move to the washbasin, quickly cleaning himself off with a soapy cloth. "Would you like that? If Lambert were to fill your mouth while I f*ck you, help you to be a good boy?"

Jaskier's full body shiver at the words makes Geralt want to pounce, to shove Eskel and Lambert off of him and let Jaskier know exactly how good Geralt thinks that he is. He'd do it, if his body wasn't melting more completely into the chair he's sitting in with every exhale. He adds it to his mental list for later, along with building Jaskier a bed sturdy enough to hold whoever he wants in it.

Lambert's co*ck pushes into Jaskier's mouth a moment later, once Jaskier has given his emphatic agreement to the idea and Eskel has instructed him to snap his fingers to signal a need to stop, now that his mouth is full. The look on Jaskier's face is one of absolute bliss, and Geralt closes his eyes to sear the image into his mind of Jaskier safe and happy in this bed with one of them on each side, giving and receiving pleasure, perfectly content.

He doesn't notice himself starting to lean over onto the mattress, slumped forward with his hand still curled around Jaskier's side. Eskel's thrusts are rocking the bed a little, slow and steady, and it almost feels like the sway of the saddle or the gentle bobbing of a boat on the sea. Someone's hand is in his hair-- Jaskier's? He's vaguely aware that Jaskier's hands are supposed to be elsewhere, but he can't remember exactly why. All he knows is that someone's fingers are combing through his hair and rubbing gently at his scalp, and not even the pleased whimpers and sighs and groans coming from elsewhere in this bed are enough to keep Geralt from nodding off, just a tiny bit, just for a minute.

The next he's aware, someone is squeezing his shoulder and calling his name. It's Eskel, Geralt discovers when he lifts his head to investigate, standing by the side of the bed holding a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread in one large hand. The sun is higher in the sky than it had been when Geralt had closed his eyes a second ago. "What... happened?" he says blearily, running a hand across his face.

"You fell asleep, stupid," Lambert remarks from the bed. Jaskier is on his belly and Lambert is kneeling behind him, one hand on each of the globes of Jaskier's arse. Lambert's mouth is wet with spit, and curled into a scowl. "And you're in trouble."

"For sleeping?" Geralt says, sitting upright and taking the food Eskel is pushing into his hands. He tucks into it ravenously, starting to calculate how long it's been since he ate and giving up when he has to go past a dozen hours. Too long for a witcher, that's how long.

"No, the sleeping was a good idea, you looked exhausted," Jaskier says, face flushed and breath heaving. "You're in trouble for never doing this to me."

Geralt is confused for a moment, until Lambert ducks down and buries his face between Jaskier's cheeks and Jaskier lets out a moan the likes of which he's never made with Geralt. The realization of what Lambert must be doing dawns on Geralt all at once, and he inhales so sharply that his mouthful of broth attempts to enter his lungs and drown him before the embarrassment can do the job. He splutters and coughs, Eskel's hand pounding at his back, until finally he can draw a clear breath again and look through watery eyes at the sinful tableau before him.

"I... wasn't aware that was a thing people even did," Geralt mumbles, face hot. He's done it to a c*nt before, but with a man... the thought has never even occurred to him. "It's... it feels good, then?"

"It feels --oh, f*ck, do that again, please-- fantastic," Jaskier gasps, one of his hands reaching back to grab at what little there is of Lambert's hair. "I've done it for others before, back when I was-- well, you know, but I've never been on the receiving end, and sweet gods in heaven Lambert is my new favorite now."

"Can't believe you've been neglecting him, Geralt," Lambert says sourly, pulling back and replacing his mouth with two fingers tucked into Jaskier's hole. "Seriously, no one likes a guy who won't give oral."

"Look, I've never had a man as a lover before, alright?" Geralt grumbles, self-conscious. "It's a learning curve."

At the word 'lover,' Jaskier turns and looks Geralt right in the eye, gaze alight with hunger. A wide grin spreads across his face. "Practice makes perfect, darling. How's your co*ck?"

Hard, actually, now that Jaskier mentions it, apparently having recovered sometime during his nap. Before he can reply, however, Eskel interjects with a firm, "Food first. We've all had our fill, but you need to eat, too. You're no good to anyone passed out from hunger."

Jaskier doesn't like the sound of that, and his scowl makes it clear. "But it's been hours since he's f*cked me, Eskel, I want--"

"And I'm sure he'll be happy to give it to you," laughs Eskel, "but another ten minutes of waiting won't hurt you. Be patient, bardling."

Eskel's almost certainly right, that another ten minutes without Geralt probably won't do Jaskier any harm. It might drive Geralt insane, though, so he makes haste to start working on emptying his bowl. "Where'd the food come from, anyways? You walk down to the kitchen like that?" he asks Eskel in between bites.

"Didn't have to," Eskel answers, jerking his chin to indicate a tray of food and dishes over on the table off to one side. Geralt notices for the first time the faint whiff of lilac and gooseberries on the air, and recognizes Yennefer's handwriting on the little card propped up among the dishes.

You all f*ck too loud. xx -Yen

"Leave it to Yen to overhear us... occupied and not even question it," Geralt snorts. "She doesn't think it's a little unusual that we're doing this? Just sends a tray of food?"

"You really think after all the weird sh*t that's happened this winter that me and Eskel f*cking your boyfriend is going to ruffle her feathers?" laughs Lambert, wrist still flexing as he moves his fingers inside of Jaskier. "Nah, we've crossed weirder lines already. All bets are off in Kaer Morhen now."

Geralt doesn't really have a valid argument for that, so he just finishes his stew and bread and climbs onto the bed eagerly. Jaskier wiggles out of Lambert's grasp and crawls into his lap at once, pressing him back into the pillows and crowding in close. "Hey," he says briefly, before kissing Geralt slowly, intimately. He keeps his voice low, like the words are just for Geralt, like their audience isn't there. "I missed you."

"I didn't leave," reasons Geralt, but then he runs his fingers over the gentle curve of Jaskier's waist and reconsiders. "I missed you, too. They treat you right?"

"Several times apiece, in fact," confirms Jaskier. "They're perfect gentlemen."

"You gonna pick one of them over me?" Geralt smiles against Jaskier's mouth when he says it, so that no one will know it's a serious question.

Jaskier might know anyways, because his hands grip Geralt's biceps tightly, as if daring him to try to pull away. "Not a chance. Now come on, I could have sworn you said you missed me, and yet I'm still empty. Put your coin where your mouth is, witcher."

Far be it from Geralt to refuse a challenge like that.

.....................

It takes another solid 12 hours of f*cking before Jaskier relents. With the three of them working together, they can take turns and almost keep him satisfied, though he still complains if he's without someone's co*ck in one of his holes for more than five minutes at a time. Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, Lambert has to stumble out to get them some Swallow to knock back just to keep up.

Geralt almost doesn't do it; he's seen the fearful look in humans' eyes when they see a witcher with his eyes and veins gone black with toxicity, and he doesn't want to know what it's like to see Jaskier wearing that expression and looking at him. Of course he needn't have worried. Jaskier takes one look at him, consumed by the more animalistic side of his mutations, and declares that he's going to suck Geralt's co*ck now and there's nothing anyone can do to stop him.

They clean him up as often as they can, though it's an act of futility. The insides of his thighs are starting to chafe by sunset, and Eskel smooths balm onto the sensitive skin there even though Jaskier insists it's fine. They make sure he eats, too, both seed and solid food, as well as remain hydrated from water skins they press to his lips every so often. Eventually, late into the night, Jaskier just falls asleep outright, sprawled on Geralt's chest, with Eskel's co*ck still inside of him. The three witchers exchange a startled look at Jaskier's snore, then Eskel slowly, carefully, withdraws from him.

When he doesn't stir at the loss, Lambert whispers to Geralt, "So is that it? Is he done?"

"How the hell should I know? I don't have any more idea what's going on here than either of you." Geralt shifts a little and Jaskier doesn't stir in the least. "I think I could take him back to my room without him waking up."

"Good, I want my bed back. I'm f*cking tired," yawns Lambert, watching as Geralt carefully stands, adjusting Jaskier in his arms into a bridal carry. Jaskier snuffles and mumbles a bit, then tucks his face into Geralt's shoulder and continues sleeping undeterred. As soon as the bed is vacant, Lambert sprawls out across the whole of it with a satisfied sigh. "No one wake me up until like... spring."

"That's disgusting," Eskel says drily, wrinkling his nose at Lambert. "Do you know how much cum is on those sheets?"

"About as much cum as is already on me."

"I... alright, that's a fair point."

"I'm too tired to care anyways," Lambert yawns. "It'll be Geralt's problem tomorrow, when he's doing my laundry for me."

"Consider it done," Geralt says, trying to keep his voice to the barest of whispers, lest he disturb the drooling man in his arms. "I owe you both far more than laundry services."

Eskel snorts. "What, like coin? If you pay us for sex, doesn't that make us whor*s?"

"Yeah," defends Lambert, "and we're damn good whor*s, too. I expect a heavy tip, so don't be f*cking cheap."

It's a great attempt at lightening the mood in the room, but Geralt has a lump in his throat that won't quite let him laugh. He's too busy choking on the genuine gratitude that threatens to overwhelm him. "I mean it. Thank you. Both of you. I... don't know what I would have done without you."

"Would have f*cked him until your prick fell off, probably, because you're a martyr," Eskel remarks, patting his shoulder gently. "But I'm glad you didn't have to. You know that we have your back, no matter what."

"And Jaskier's back," Lambert says into his pillow. "And his front. All parts of him, honestly, at some point today."

Geralt rolls his eyes at the antics, turning for the door. "You're getting stupid now," he says drily. "Go to sleep. I'll get your sheets for you in the morning."

Eskel walks with him to get the doors along the way, not pestering Geralt with conversation as they walk. Just one of the many reasons Geralt loves him. "If he wakes up and needs... more, again, let me know," he says when they reach Geralt's door, holding it open so that Geralt can slip inside and lay Jaskier on the mattress. Immediately he rolls over and settles on his belly with a happy sigh, and Eskel is already at Geralt's side holding out a fur to drape over him. "As long as it's noon or later, anyways. If you even think about knocking on my door before noon, I'll remove your arm from your body."

"No you won't."

"No, I won't," Eskel agrees. "Goodnight brother."

Geralt closes the door gently behind him, then slides into the sliver of space Jaskier has left for him in the bed. Normally he'd pull Jaskier in close, but after such a day, Geralt has had just about all the skin contact he can handle for now. He'll cuddle Jaskier tomorrow, he tells himself as his body relaxes into sleep once more. It'll hold. He'll make sure Jaskier feels loved tomorrow.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

When a humble bard,
graced by cruel fate,
was seen by Geralt of Rivia,
his soul did it grate...

"Well that's a bit sh*t, isn't it?" Jaskier muses, interrupting his own mumbled singing with a frown.

"I don't think it was sh*t," Geralt lies. "It was... catchy."

"You have to say that, you're my lover," Jaskier counters, rolling his eyes. "It's in the fine print of the contract that you have to support me in all of my terrible endeavors."

"Hmm."

"Oh, shut up, Geralt." Jaskier's smile softens the words, and he continues to strum idly at his lute while Geralt fumbles with the keys. "What exactly are we looking for, again?"

"It'll be a big stone pot, full of a white paste. Don't touch it," Geralt is sure to emphasize, turning to narrow his eyes at Jaskier. "It's used for alchemy. Vesemir swears he has a whole vat of it stored away in here. One of these winters we really ought to go through and take inventory of what we have."

"It does seem like that would remove a lot of stress from all of your lives, especially Vesemir's," Jaskier agrees. "Just let me know when you do it, next winter or whenever, so I can help."

Geralt's stomach flutters warmly at the simple offer. It's a promise of future winters, here, with this family, working to help them. It probably doesn't mean much of anything to Jaskier other than the promise of a few tedious hours writing down the names of a bunch of broken, dusty items while the witchers dig through the precarious piles. To Geralt it means much more. It means everything.

Eventually he finds the right key and gets the door unlocked, snapping his fingers into igni to light a few torches lining the walls. This isn't even a storage room-- or at least, it wasn't intended to be, when Kaer Morhen was built so many centuries ago. It's wide and long, topped with high ceilings that make it feel a bit like a cave within the mountain itself. Geralt almost might have said it was originally intended as a ballroom, if he didn't know witchers better. Whatever the original use had been, now it was filled nearly to bursting with tall piles of... junk.

"This is a sh*tshow," Geralt growls, already irritated with their task. It'll take hours for them to find what they're looking for in this mess, if they find it at all. Half of the time when Vesemir knows 'for a fact' that a certain item is in a certain place, that item doesn't even exist whatsoever except as a figment of Vesemir's imagination.

"Nonsense!" Jaskier declares with a cheerful little ditty on his lute, always the ray of sunshine in every cloud. "It's an adventure! Let's split up, yes? Many hands --or in this case, eyes-- make idle work."

"Was that a pun?"

"It wasn't but it should have been, you brilliant bastard."

They do as Jaskier suggests and take off in separate paths through the large room, looking around as carefully as possible for the alchemy paste that may or may not exist. Geralt can hear Jaskier still strumming softly at his lute, occasionally humming a little snippet of a tune, before interrupting himself to comment on some oddity or another tucked away in a pile of garbage. Geralt's own search is a little more focused, if only because he has a very strong desire to be finished with this stupid task so that he can move on with his day. There are a lot of other things he'd like to do today, like take a nap and make out with Jaskier.

He's so intent on his search that it only vaguely registers in his awareness when Jaskier's gentle music suddenly cuts off in a sharp, discordant twang and a gasp of breath. Jaskier is becoming known around Kaer Morhen for his emerging sense of drama, so it wouldn't be unlikely for him to react to a particularly beautiful dust bunny as if it were a mythical creature. He'll share his discovery with Geralt when he feels like it, probably in a poem with lots of unnecessary details. Geralt doesn't comment, choosing instead to lift the edge of a fallen tapestry to check underneath.

Then he smells the unmistakable reeking of Jaskier's fear permeate the room, and he's off like a shot.

"Jaskier? Jaskier, where are you?" Geralt curses, wandering around in the maze of the room, attempting to find the source of Jaskier's distressed burnt-sugar smell. He doesn't get any response except for shallow, rapid breaths from somewhere ahead of him, paired with a thundering heartbeat and the additional salty tang of sweat on the air. "Jaskier! Where the f*ck--"

Finally Geralt rounds a tower of broken chairs and finds Jaskier at last, standing there in a little clearing with his back pressed up against a wall and his lute clutched desperately to his chest. His whole body is trembling, eyes wide with fear and fixed in front of him. Satisfied with his split-second assessment that Jaskier isn't physically hurt, Geralt follows the line of his gaze to find the source of his fear.

The sight of the old table, even coated in decades of dust, is enough to make Geralt's blood run cold. It's a rusty, rickety old thing that Vesemir calls 'Sad Albert,' the wrist cuffs worn from hundreds of young boys tugging at them, trying to get away from the agony that is the Trial of the Grasses. It's been decades since Geralt himself was strapped into it, screaming in a wordless plea for death that wouldn't be answered, immobilized so completely that all he could do was lie there and endure. It's been decades, and it still feels like yesterday.

When he can tear his eyes away from the horrifying contraption, Geralt looks back at Jaskier and finds tears streaking down his cheeks. "Hey," he says, pushing aside the way his whole being feels off kilter at the discovered memory so that he can move towards Jaskier to comfort him. "It's alright, come here--"

"No!" Jaskier shouts, eyes snapping to Geralt's face at last, horror and fear written plainly on his features. He tries to move even further away from Geralt, only to trip backwards and wind up falling arse-first on a pile of dusty furs. The hand not clutching his lute raises uselessly toward Geralt as if to ward him off. "No, you can't make me! I won't do it, I won't!"

Geralt takes another slow, careful step towards him. "Jaskier, what are you talking about? I'm only going to--"

"You said it was different here," Jaskier croaks through the tears that fall faster now, and the sound of pure betrayal in his voice is enough to crack Geralt's heart right in two. "You said you were different. You promised me that no one would hurt me and that you wouldn't make me do anything I didn't want to do, but then you bring me here, to that."

The gears in Geralt's mind turn rapidly as he tries to catch up to Jaskier's line of logic. When the truth falls into place, he suddenly wishes that it hadn't. Of course Jaskier probably has much the same reaction to the sight of Sad Albert as he does; it was probably the same kind of table, or similar enough to bring back old nightmares, to what the Cats must have used when they tortured and experimented on Jaskier in the past. Of course he'd see this thing and be transported right back to those times, because how could such a horror ever spell anything but pain for someone like them?

Somewhere out there is a table much like this one that had held Jaskier while he screamed. There are wrist cuffs that probably have traces of Jaskier's blood on the inside, if he'd struggled against the pain as hard as Geralt had. Somewhere out there are people who had strapped Jaskier down and forced poison into his veins just to use him for their own purposes, and Jaskier is looking at him like he's one of them.

It takes a few swallows before Geralt is certain that he can speak without being sick. "Jaskier, that's not-- let's go, alright? Let's get out of here. Come with me, and--"

"Just stay the f*ck away from me!" Jaskier yells, and then springs from his unwilling perch on the furs in a burst of motion so sudden that Geralt stumbles back a half step on instinct. Jaskier moves to push past him, flinging his lute at Geralt as he does. In his surprise, Geralt almost drops it, fumbling with the instrument for a few perilous seconds before snatching it up right before it hits the ground. It's enough of a distraction for Jaskier to get past him, sobs ripping out of his chest as he flees into the stacks and disappears.

Swearing, Geralt puts the lute gently on a nearby stack of practice swords, knowing that when --Geralt refuses to entertain the possibility of if-- Jaskier calms down and is ready to speak to him again, he'll want his instrument to be safe and sound. Then he's scurrying after Jaskier, calling his name. Ordinarily it would be all but impossible for a human to outrun him, but the treacherous terrain slows him, letting Jaskier keep just enough of a lead that Geralt never catches more than a glimpse of a shirtsleeve as they scamper through the makeshift maze.

"Jaskier, stop," Geralt growls, frustrated, then immediately regrets it when Jaskier's next sob is even louder than the ones before. This is all wrong, and he knows how it must feel; Jaskier is fleeing like prey with an apex predator nipping at his heels, fearful and hurt and betrayed and convinced in his fractured mind that if he's caught, something unspeakable will happen to him. Geralt knows all of this, and he can't think of a gods-damned thing to do about it.

Suddenly he hears a door opening, Jaskier finally having found his way to an exit, and Geralt pushes himself to put on a little extra speed to catch up. He sends a pile of glass vials toppling in the process, raining down on the stone floor in a cacophony of breaking glass, but it's just enough to let him close the distance between them. He reaches out and snares Jaskier by the upper arm, yanking him back as gently as he can until Jaskier is wrapped in the circle of his arms, face pressed against Geralt's chest in a tight embrace. "Hey, relax, I've got you, Jask. I have you, alright?"

"No!" Jaskier shouts again, still hysterical in his fear. His arms wriggle free of the hold that Geralt has on him, and his hands ball into fists that clobber Geralt's unprotected sides. "No, you can't! I don't want you to, please! Let me go!"

Geralt just lets him at it, knowing from personal experience that sometimes the only way to release an anger that all-consuming it through action. He can take it, if that's what Jaskier needs. "Shh, shh," he tries to soothe, rubbing at Jaskier's back. "It's fine, just relax."

"I don't want it, I don't want you to! Let me go, let me--"

The comparatively feeble impacts of Jaskier's fists are suddenly, violently overshadowed by a much more powerful impact of a fist at the corner of Geralt's jaw. "What the f*ck do you think you're doing?" someone shouts, and Geralt only knows that it's Lambert from the sound of his voice. He can't see a thing past the lightshow playing across his vision from the force of the blow, which has forced him back a few steps.

Jaskier is gone from his grasp in a heartbeat, disappearing past Lambert and down the hallway as fast as his feet will carry him. Lambert is still standing there when the spots clear, face furious, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at Geralt. "Well? Do you have something to f*cking say for yourself?"

Geralt has to pop his jaw back into place before he can answer. "Yeah, I say to get the f*ck out of my way so I can go get Jaskier," he growls, attempting to shove past his brother to continue another round of pursuit. He's blocked, however, by a forceful shove to the center of the chest. "The hell is your problem, Lambert?"

"My problem is that I heard all kinds of yelling coming from down here, and I come to check it out and find you pinning Jaskier in place and telling him to be quiet while he screams and cries and tries to get away," Lambert snaps, expression murderous. "Have you lost your f*cking mind? sh*t, we're all glad that you decided to get down off of your high horse, but no still f*cking means no, dickwad!"

"What are you-- f*ck, no, that wasn't what it looked like," Geralt swears, nauseous all over again. "It wasn't anything like that. He was having a panic attack or something, I was just trying to get him to calm down!"

"By trapping him?" Lambert asks, incredulous. "f*cking seven hells, Geralt, I'm supposed to be the dumb one!"

"I wasn't trapping him," argues Geralt, repulsed by the very thought. "I wouldn't do that, I was just--"

"Hugging him so forcefully that he couldn't get away from you, even though he very clearly wanted to? Otherwise known as f*cking trapping him?" Geralt doesn't have any response to that other than to admit that Lambert kind of sounds right, and he sure as sh*t isn't going to do that, so he remains silent. After a moment, Lambert's tense pose relaxes a bit. "Look, you can't do sh*t like that, alright? Unless he's about to hurt himself or something, just let him have space if he wants it. Not everyone likes to be touched when they're losing their sh*t like that."

Great, and now Geralt has dug his grave even deeper into the ground by handling an already sh*tty situation in an even sh*ttier way. "How do you know so much about this, anyways? You go out and get a healer's education this year instead of doing your job?" he grumbles without heat.

Surprisingly, Lambert doesn't meet his eyes when he answers in an uncharacteristic display of evasiveness. "I know somebody who gets like that sometimes. A friend. He doesn't like to be touched either."

"A friend?" Geralt raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you had any friends."

"Shut up,"grouses Lambert, scowling. "Anyways, point is, give him space to figure out what kind of sh*t is going on in his head. What the hell spooked him like that in the first place?"

Geralt glances towards the door to the storage room with a sigh. He'll have to go back in for the lute, obviously, but aside from that he'd just as soon burn the whole room down. He'll make Vesemir a fresh batch of alchemy paste, for all that it's worth. "Found Sad Albert. I think it triggered some bad memories for Jaskier."

"f*ck, no wonder." Lambert's eyes are dark with his own shadows. "I don't think anyone could look at that thing without having bad memories."

"Yeah, it... didn't exactly make me jump for joy, either," Geralt winced. "f*ck, I messed this one up."

"On the bright side, you f*ck stuff up all the time, so Jaskier probably won't even notice anything is different about today." Lambert's cheerful clap on Lambert's shoulder makes Geralt want to drag him to the nearest river and drown him, just a little bit. "Just give him some time to work through his sh*t without going after him and trying to play the hero. He'll come talk to you when he's ready And if he does something truly idiotic like try to leave the keep, the wards will let us know and then we can stop him."

"You say that like there's no harm that can come to a human within the walls of Kaer Morhen," Geralt says darkly, thinking about their surroundings. Miles of dark corridors filled with rotting staircases that could collapse at any moment and crumbled stones that one might trip over without the keen senses of a witcher... not to mention that if Jaskier were to get himself lost somewhere, he might damn well starve to death before he was able to find his way back again.

"I'll give him until sundown," Geralt says firmly, jaw already aching with how hard he's gritting his teeth at the decision. "If he hasn't at least shown his face to one of us by sundown, I'm going to go find him and make sure he's safe. Even if he hates me for it, I can't let anything bad happen to him."

"Sounds like as square a deal as any," Lambert shrugs. "Try not to destroy all the training dummies today, yeah?"

Geralt makes no promises about that, mainly because he knows he can't keep them.

.....................

The whole afternoon passes without anyone in the castle hearing from Jaskier, and as much as Geralt would like to think that he's a level-headed person, it doesn't take a genius to see that the stress of not knowing is wearing on him. The third time he goes to Yennefer to ask her if she can sense anything about Jaskier's well-being, she answers in the form of a hand-stiched boot with a deadly stiletto heel that whizzes right past his ear. After that, he contents himself to punishing practice dummies for their imaginary sins (sorry, Lambert) and pacing the halls like a caged animal, trying without realizing it to follow the scent of Jaskier that criss-crosses throughout the keep.

"This is ridiculous. You're a grown man, pull yourself together," Geralt growls to himself, then turns on his heel and starts heading for the stables. If he's going to spend the whole day fretting like an old woman, he might as well do something productive in the meantime like take care of Roach. She'll keep him grounded, just like she always does.

Except that when Geralt reaches Roach's stall he finds it already occupied, and not just by Roach herself. Jaskier is already there, curled up on a pile of straw in the corner, dozing in the quiet of the afternoon. He's going to sneak away, but Roach ruins the silent exit by nickering loudly and stamping her foot in acknowledgement of Geralt's arrival, which in turn causes Jaskier to stir. It's barely a heartbeat after Geralt enters the building that Jaskier opens his eyes and looks at him, bleary and still a little wild, with his stunning blue eyes still rimmed with tragic red.

"I'm sorry," Geralt says, first and foremost, because everything feels secondary to that. "I didn't mean to bother you. I'll go--"

"Don't," Jaskier says quickly, and there's no way he can possibly know how it makes Geralt's heart soar to hear those words. "I don't want you to go, I just want--"

He doesn't finish the sentence, unless him surging towards Geralt and wrapping him in a hug counts as punctuation. He hugs Geralt, and Geralt hugs him back, and everything is quiet for a minute.

"I'm sorry," Geralt repeats. "I didn't mean to upset you, earlier. I was just..." It's hard to explain himself when every explanation sounds stupid even to his own ears. "That table, it wasn't there for you. I know you couldn't have known that, and I can see how it felt different for you. I just... I don't know. I wasn't expecting--"

Words fail completely then, and Jaskier has to take over. "I'm sorry, too. I don't know what came over me. Everything narrowed down to a tiny space in front of me, and all I could think about was that awful table, and I knew it couldn't be true but it just felt so certain that you were going to hurt me just like the others did."

"Never," Geralt promises, squeezing him tighter. "Never."

"Why did you have that? That table?" Jaskier asks a moment later, voice quiet and small. "It looks just like the one they used to hurt me."

"It was the same one that was used to hurt me," Geralt tells him, unable to be anything but honest. "That's the table that is used --or was used, many years ago-- to hold down young boys as they were made into Wolves. Eskel, myself, Lambert... we all were on it at one point. I imagine it was used for much the same purpose in the Feline school as well."

"I hate it," shudders Jaskier. "I looked at it and all I could remember was pain. And the thought that you would-- that you might be trying to--"

"Jaskier," Geralt says firmly, taking the man's face in his hands and holding him steady so that the only thing he can see is Geralt's own, unwavering gaze, "I would never hurt you like that. I will never force you to do anything that you don't want to do. You're safe here. I meant that before I loved you, and I mean it now."

The words slip out naturally, caught up in a landslide of other confessions, but they don't go unnoticed no matter how hard Geralt tries to swallow them. They catch on the way down, lodging in Geralt's chest and making Jaskier's eyes go wide in sudden revelation. "You--"

And it's too late now to back down, but even if he could, there really isn't any point. It's no more use to deny this truth than it is to claim that the sun doesn't rise in the east every morning. "I love you," Geralt tells him. "I know that probably doesn't make sense, but I do."

Jaskier looks at him for one more long moment, then kisses him, slow and firm and easy in a way that feels as natural as breathing. "It doesn't make any sense at all, but I love you, too."

The world ought to shift, then. In the face of such a revelation, there ought to be a sudden tilt to the earth to mark the passage of time from Before into After. Oddly enough, it doesn't, and Geralt has to credit the fact that maybe the both of them already knew, somewhere inside of them, that this was the truth.

Geralt doesn't mind one bit.

.....................

It takes Geralt a few grimy days in Kaer Morhen's dusty forge and countless promised favors owed to Yennefer, but within a week, Geralt has something that he's proud of. It isn't much, small enough to fit in the pocket of his trousers even when wrapped carefully in a scrap from one of his worn shirts for protection. It's tiny, really, a miniscule thing, and yet it seems to weigh a hundred pounds for the entire two days that Geralt carries it around. Who knew that significance could add so much weight to such an ordinary object.

Jaskier has to notice it; they spend enough time tangled up together that it would be impossible for him not to, really. Every time Geralt's trousers hit the floor there's a soft metallic clank as muffled metal hits stone, but Jaskier never comments. He lets Geralt have his secrets and doesn't even bat an eyelash, as if Geralt didn't love him enough already.

Now that it's out there, a truth finally spoken, Geralt can't stop telling him. I love you. Geralt hates talking about pretty much anything, except for that. Those three words he never hesitates to say, whenever they pop into his mind.

Eventually he works up the nerve to bring forth his creation, as crude as it is. Geralt is taking one of his rare turns making dinner for the keep --apparently his skills with a saucepan leave something to be desired-- and Jaskier is sitting on a nearby counter, alternating between strums at his lute and scribbles at the open page of his notebook. He's mumbling something about elves and devils that sounds like complete nonsense, but his smile is content and his eyes twinkle and that's enough for Geralt.

"I made something for you," he says, a little stilted, waiting until Jaskier looks at him in acknowledgement of his words before casting his eyes down again, staring resolutely at the simmering venison steaks in the pan. "I don't know if you'll like it, but."

"Well it's hardly just for me, darling, though I'm pleased you're thinking of me especially," Jaskier says cheerily, unflappable as ever. "And I'm sure it's quite-- well, I'm sure it's edible, anyways. It's winter, calories are calories, aren't they?"

"Not the food," grumbles Geralt, resisting the urge to argue against Jaskier's estimation of his food. So what if he doesn't like spices, at least he cooks the meat before serving it to other people, alright? "It's something else. Just for you. A present."

"A present, for me?" Jaskier repeats excitedly, straightening. "Well what on earth are you waiting for, silly witcher? I'm ready to be dazzled!"

Geralt's enthusiasm flags a little bit. "You won't be dazzled. It's... not much."

But that just makes Jaskier's eyes go soft and he reaches out to grab a handful of Geralt's shirt, pulling him in close to kiss his cheek. "If it was made by you, with me in mind, I'm certain it'll be the loveliest gift that I've ever received."

There's nothing Geralt can say to that, so he simply steels himself for a moment and finally brings forth the little bundle from his pocket and practically shoves it into Jaskier's hands. "You don't have to wear it," he says gruffly, looking at the wall behind Jaskier's head. "I just thought... I don't know."

Jaskier unwraps it slowly, painfully so, either oblivious to Geralt's anxious gaze on him or uncaring of it. The scrap of shirt falls away, revealing a small piece of metal formed crudely into the shape of a wolf's head. It's a smaller version of the medallion that adorns Geralt's neck, as well as the rest of his family, with a thinner metal loop at the top. The color is uneven, a product of too many different pieces of scrap metal melted down to fill the mold and an unskilled blacksmith to boot. Even still, he's confident that anyone looking at it would be able to tell that the wearer was of Kaer Morhen. They'd be able to tell where Jaskier's home was.

"Geralt," Jaskier breathes, his voice a little tremulous. "What is this?"

"It's the sign of the Wolf, like mine," Geralt explains, stomach in an uncomfortable knot low in his belly. "I know that you're... that you don't want to give up your collar, and so I thought maybe you'd like to add your own touch to it. I had Yennefer put some enchantments on it, so that I could always know if you were hurt or in danger. Or lost. That way, even if you leave, I would always be able to find you again. You'd never have to worry, because I'd always come for you."

For a moment, Geralt can't read him. There's a strange expression on his face that looks like a mix of every emotion a human has ever felt, and it briefly crosses Geralt's mind how uncomfortable it would be to feel so many feelings all at once. He's going to ask if Jaskier is okay, or offer to take it back, or something, but Jaskier opens his arms in an unmistakable request for a hug before he gets the chance. Geralt folds himself into it, letting Jaskier squeeze him tight and hide his face in Geralt's long hair.

"Thank you," Jaskier whispers after a moment, voice a little hoarse. "This is... I don't know how to thank you for this."

Geralt pulls back, face warm. "It's nothing, really--"

"It most certainly is not 'nothing,'" Jaskier says fiercely, clutching the item to his chest as he's done so many times with his lute. "It's thoughtful and personal and if it's enchanted like you say it is by a witch as powerful as Yennefer, it's priceless besides. Not that I mean to imply that I expect to be brought expensive gifts," he hurries to amend. "I have you, and that's more than I could have ever dared to dream of. I'm content with that alone."

Personally, Geralt thinks that he could spend a lifetime finding priceless trinkets for Jaskier and it still wouldn't be as much as he deserves, but he doesn't know how to say that. Instead, he gently pries the gnarled piece of metal from Jaskier's hand and gestures towards his throat. "May I?"

Jaskier tilts his head back obligingly, baring his throat to Geralt, and the wolf in him wants to give into the instinct to mark his territory just a little bit and leave a line of lovebites from the underside of his chin down to that thin leather strip. He resists the urge, even if only barely. It takes a moment of fiddling with the little link at the top of the miniature medallion to pry it open, and then feed it through the metal loop on the front of Jaskier's collar no doubt intended for just this purpose. Once the link is closed once more, he lets go and watches the metal fall lightly against Jaskier's skin just between his collarbones.

"Well? Does it suit me?" Jaskier asks, running his fingers over the points that Geralt had so painstakingly filed down until he was certain they wouldn't scratch Jaskier or cause him any discomfort. "How do I look?"

Sinful. Gorgeous. Soft. Tempting. "You look like you're mine."

When Geralt can tear his gaze away from the medallion long enough to look at Jaskier's face again, his pupils are blown wide. "Love it when you look at me like that. My hungry wolf, ready to sink his teeth into me."

A shiver runs through Geralt. "Your instincts are sh*t. Ought to run away from wolves who want to eat you."

Jaskier hums noncommittally, tilting his head and running his eyes down Geralt's body and slowly up again. "And what if I want to be devoured?"

It's only the smell of meat beginning to brown that stops Geralt from giving him exactly what he asks for. "After dinner," he says, a rejection and a promise all rolled into one. There are three other wolves in this keep, and they're expecting a hot meal to come out of this kitchen in a few minutes."

"You're a hot meal who's coming inside of this kitchen in a few minutes."

"Jaskier, that doesn't even make any sense."

"Fine, fine, I suppose I can wait until after dinner," Jaskier relents with a roll of his eyes. "But this better be the best damn steak I've ever had."

It won't be, but Geralt is fairly sure that Jaskier will love him anyways.

Later, after dinner has been cleared and an appropriate amount off smalltalk has been made with the others and Geralt and Jaskier have made their polite excuses and a nearly-casual exit, Geralt finds himself in Jaskier's bedroom with the bardling backed up against the door and him crowded in close, their legs tangled together and their lips frantically working in tandem. Hands are at the ties to Geralt's trousers, working them open and pushing at the fabric of them and Geralt's underclothes until the material bunches around his thighs.

"Mmm, always worth the wait, getting to touch you," Jaskier murmurs contentedly, wrapping his hand around Geralt's co*ck and stroking it lovingly. "What can I give you, darling? What do you want?"

Something about the way that he says it, so open-ended and without hesitation, makes the breath catch in Geralt's chest for a second. He really does mean that, really is offering Geralt whatever he wants. Not that there are any bad options; Jaskier has never touched him in a way that didn't make Geralt feel f*cking incredible. Still, it's like finding a hole beneath your foot where you expected solid ground-- a momentary thrill of danger that makes everything get sharp, just for a second.

Geralt reaches down and gently removes Jaskier's hand from his co*ck. Slowly, pulling back a bit so he can watch Jaskier's face, he brings their hands behind him until Jaskier's hand is cupping his arse, the tips of those slender fingers playing at the cleft just the slightest bit. "If you want," he says unevenly, heart thudding in his chest the way a witcher's never should.

Jaskier's pupils blow even wider, an excited blush rising to his cheeks as cinnamon and sugar fill the room. "Oh, I would love to."

Before Geralt has time to brace himself or even process what they're intending to do, Jaskier is spreading him open with his other hand so that he can run the freshly lute-calloused pad of one finger over Geralt's hole. He isn't proud of the way that his knees wobble. "Bed," he grunts, pushing himself back in that direction and pulling Jaskier along with him. "And less clothes."

He's obliged on both counts, and after a few minutes of fumbling around in their haste, Geralt is on his back on the bed, bare except for a nervous smile as Jaskier climbs overtop of him with equally little concealing his perfect body. Jaskier being on top is far from an unfamiliar position for them, with Jaskier all too willing to be the one in charge of finding his own pleasure while bouncing on Geralt's co*ck, but the feeling of Jaskier's fingers, slicked with oil, teasing at Geralt's hole instead of his own is a first.

"You said you've never done this with with a man before, right?" Jaskier asks a few minutes later, a few of his fingers pressing into Geralt and a few of his lovebites decorating Geralt's stomach and thighs. The soft impressions of Jaskier's blunt teeth that will soon be gone from his skin next to the scars of some long-forgotten beast's razor-sharp fangs make Geralt's co*ck twitch.

He nods a little when he realizes that he hasn't answered in a few long seconds. "Only toys."

"Alone?"

"And uh, with partners," Geralt says with a flush. "Just Yen, really."

"Ooh, saucy, love a beautiful woman with a well-made strap-on," Jaskier says almost wistfully, without a hint of judgment. "Still, take it from an expert, the real thing is an entirely new experience. Feeling your lover's co*ck flexing inside of you..." He shuffles around for a second until he can lean down and then gives the underside of Geralt's co*ck an affectionate kiss. "Knowing that just the feel of you around them is giving them that much pleasure... that's a kind of intoxicating experience, in my humble opinion. Can't get that with glass. Although I did read in one of the books on magical theory I found in the library that there's a spell that might theoretically be able to imbue an object with the ability to relay sensation to the body of a person, so maybe--"

"Jaskier," Geralt says with no small amount of exasperation, "can we talk about dild* magic later?"

"Right, yes, certainly," Jaskier answers, grinning. "Sorry, you know how my head gets. Let me make it up to you, dearest witcher."

He has his mouth around Geralt's co*ck when he adds his third finger and starts stroking them in little swoops across Geralt's prostate, which is why he ends up swallowing a load of cum while Geralt's thighs quake with his org*sm and attempt to squeeze tight around Jaskier's wrist. As always, he wastes nothing, humming his appreciation and licking Geralt's length clean with a smile. "f*ck, sorry," Geralt still feels compelled to apologize. "Felt good."

"Yes, love, that's sort of the point," Jaskier grins. "Would you like me to stop? I know not everyone enjoys overstimulation--"

"Don't stop," Geralt hurries to say, tilting his hips a little on the mattress to encourage Jaskier to move his fingers again. "Now that you've talked up how good it's going to feel and all."

"Yes, well, I didn't mean that as an imperative," Jaskier frowns, though he does comply and start working his fingers inside of Geralt again. "We have all the time in the world, we can save that for another day."

Impatient, Geralt reaches down and takes hold of Jaskier, manhandling him until he's kneeling between Geralt's spread thighs with their co*cks pressed together and their faces mere inches apart. He punctuates each word of his directive with a kiss. "I... want... you... inside... me."

"Right, don't have to tell me twice," Jaskier says breathily, shifting around so that he can start pushing his co*ck into Geralt.

Geralt wants to point out that he has told Jaskier multiple times now, but he forgets about that intention when Jaskier works his way inside. It feels good --very good, like scratching an itch he's been ignoring for a while-- but he almost doesn't notice because he's too busy watching Jaskier's face. He looks like he's out of it, one hand supporting the back of Geralt's thigh as he holds him open so that he can get deeper, the other bracing himself on Geralt's chest. His fingers twitch against the skin right overtop Geralt's pounding heart, and Geralt doesn't attempt to resist the impulse to cover it with his own and hold it there.

"Dear sweet gods in heaven, you feel good," Jaskier groans, rocking his hips out and then back in, slowly the first few times and then with a little more energy. "f*ck am I glad you decided to let me share this with you, Geralt. Knew it would be beautiful. Everything about you always is."

He feels a little raw, suddenly, a little too exposed, but oddly enough it wasn't in a bad way. It's just in the kind of way that makes Geralt curl himself up off the mattress until he can grab Jaskier by the back of the neck and pull him in close until they're forehead to forehead. "C'mon, Jask. Like you mean it."

As it turns out, Jaskier f*cking like he means it is an experience Geralt wasn't altogether prepared for. Every snap of Jaskier's hips is precise and skillful, and the fact that he doesn't have a witcher's strength doesn't stop him from making an impact. It isn't long before Jaskier's breathing gets ragged and his hands tremble with the familiar signs of his pleasure. Had he been an average man, able to climax whenever he wished, Geralt knows he would have done so already by now. As it is, he's stuck there on the precipice waiting for Geralt to do something about it.

"Jaskier," he says, voice cracking a little, "go ahead and c--"

"Stop, don't say it!" Jaskier hurriedly interjects, squeezing his eyes shut like it'll prevent him from hearing the command. "Not yet. Not until I make you come. f*ck, tell me what you need."

Instead of speaking, Geralt just props one leg up on Jaskier's shoulder, ignoring the uncomfortable strain of the position and focusing instead on the feeling of Jaskier working deep inside of him. Jaskier gives a choked-off groan and kisses the inside of his calf before reaching down to take hold of Geralt's co*ck, and it's all downhill from there.

The second time Geralt comes, he squeezes tight around Jaskier's length in a way that makes him moan so loudly that Geralt is almost afraid that he's hurt him. Then Jaskier manages to draw in a breath and starts up a mantra of, "Oh yes, yes, perfect, love, so perfect, feel so good for me, f*ck. Gods, now Geralt, can I please--"

"Please, yeah, come for me, inside," Geralt tells him at once, not even sure whether the words make sense, but apparently it's good enough for Jaskier. He clutches Geralt close and f*cks into him a few more times, moaning his release into the hollow of Geralt's throat. Geralt can feel it, can feel a little rush of warmth and wetness with every new thrust while Jaskier's co*ck flexes in the tight space. Maybe it's his heightened senses, or maybe it's the high of Jaskier f*cking him making him delusional, but he swears he can feel himself suddenly just... full. He loves it.

"So?" Jaskier asks, winded, a few moments later. "What did you think?"

"I didn't, very much," Geralt retorts, generously waiting until Jaskier has pulled out before he rolls them over to put Jaskier on his back. It's better this way, easier for Geralt to wrap around his warmth and drape himself lazily half on top of the smaller frame. "Hard to think when you're getting thoroughly f*cked."

"I'll consider that a glowing review," Jaskier says fondly, patting at Geralt's side. "Now let me up, I'll fetch a rag."

Geralt tightens his arm around Jaskier's middle. "No."

"You're not going to like how cum feels leaking out of your arse, dear."

"You do."

"I'm different."

"And I'm comfortable." Geralt nuzzles at the corner of Jaskier's jaw, then places a little kiss in the spot. "In a minute," he says quietly, a compromise.

Jaskier hums, sounding pleased, and cards his fingers through Geralt's hair. "Alright, love. In a minute, then."

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Life is good for Jaskier, here at Kaer Morhen. It's incredible, phenomenal, perfect when compared to the kind of life that he thought he was going to have, back before he met Geralt.

Although, he hadn't always known that life was bad, back then. It was simple, at least, back when all he had to worry about was keeping himself still and clean and quiet. He was pretty good at obeying orders, when he concentrated, so it wasn't even all that often that he had to endure punishments. He was fed and sheltered and f*cked and that seemed like a good life to Jaskier, back then.

It wasn't until Geralt had come along and shown him that there was a world beyond the foot of someone's bed that Jaskier had come to realize how close he'd come to leading a life that many would call hell. It makes him treasure this place and these people all the more in comparison. Here he is, in a place where he's loved and protected and supported, when he was only ever intended to be a warm, wet place to stick a co*ck.

(Not that he's opposed to having co*ck inside of him, mind you. It's one of his favorite pastimes, in fact, second only to his music. And he's discovered to his absolute delight that the two activities aren't necessarily ones that can't coexist, so life truly is blessed these days.)

By far the best part of Kaer Morhen, however, is Geralt. Jaskier still gets a little quiver of emotion in his belly whenever he looks at the man, with all of his muscles and his soft white hair and his enthralling yellow eyes. He's attractive, yes, but that hardly covers it; the witcher's physical beauty becomes all but irrelevant when compared to the heartstopping loveliness of his soul. Who gives a rat's arse about how the man looks when he has the biggest heart and the softest touches and the sweetest lips that Jaskier has ever known?

Alright, so Jaskier does like how hot he is, but it's fine. He can like both. Humanity is complex.

It's beginning to make Jaskier think crazy thoughts, the way that Geralt holds him. It's making him think about forevers spent by Geralt's side, even in a few weeks when spring comes and Geralt leaves this magical place that has so far sheltered Jaskier from all the evils of the world. It doesn't much matter where they go. They'll be together, and that's enough to convince Jaskier to follow him to the ends of the earth.

He's beginning to daydream about springtime wardrobes when the day comes along where he strolls into Geralt's room and finds with a half-filled travel pack on his bed and an expression that says he's lost in thought. His eyes go wide when he looks up at Jaskier, like he's actually surprised to see him, so he must have been deep in his own mind indeed. "Oh ho ho, got a big adventure planned, darling?" he asks, already mentally calculating how many things he can fit into his own pack. He'll have to leave room for all of the things he'll buy in the first town, of course.

"Yes," Geralt says after a moment, frowning a little. "First thing in the morning."

"Well, that's rather sudden, isn't it?" muses Jaskier. He'll have to earn some coin, and quick. He has no idea what's fashionable out there in the great wide world, but he'll bet that it isn't cheap. That's alright, though, he can find places to play his lute for coin, like a proper bard. He has marketable skills now! "I thought you don't like to leave for the Path until the snow starts to melt."

The witcher is standing there looking a little pained, a pair of trousers hanging limply from his hands, so Jaskier takes them from him and starts rolling them up into a tight little bundle before tucking it into the pack. When that's done, he picks up the next article of clothing laying on the mattress and repeats the action with it, too. Geralt watches him do it for a moment, then clears his throat a little before speaking. "I... don't. My destination doesn't have anything to do with the Path."

"Oh? Where are we going, then? Have you friends in need of a visit? Ooh, are we attending a wedding? I've never been, but they sound so beautiful in books, Geralt, I hope we meet at least one pair of lovers along the way so we can go to a real wedding. I could play for the newlyweds, and I bet you'd look just dashing in silk garments. I'll make you dance with me, though, just a fair warning, so I hope you're--"

Jaskier stops talking as one of Geralt's large, calloused hands comes to rest on top of Jaskier's, stilling his motions. When he looks up, Geralt's face is sorrowful and Jaskier's stomach drops right through the floor. "Jaskier," the witcher tells him slowly, "you're not coming with me."

The winter has been long enough, and filled with enough love, that Jaskier is able to quickly stem the tide of instinctual panic that makes his head echo with left behind, doesn't want you, gone forever. He knows that can't be true. He can feel Geralt's love for him every single time they kiss. There has to be another explanation for Geralt's words, because they just can't mean what they sound like.

"How long?" he whispers after a long moment of fighting the lump stuck in his throat.

A muscle in Geralt's jaw jumps a little as he grits his teeth. "I'll be as quick as I possibly can. But... I don't know. Could be a few days, or a few weeks."

Jaskier's eyes go a little hot with the threat of tears, but he ignores the sensation and the rush of dread at the thought of weeks without Geralt. "Where?" Where is it that you must so urgently go? Where are you going that I can't follow?

This time, Geralt doesn't answer right away. His thumb strokes over Jaskier's skin where their hands are still joined, but his eyes are looking off somewhere far away as he gets wrapped up in his thoughts again. "I... I can't tell you, not yet. It wouldn't be a good idea. But I'm-- there's someone out there who's responsible for hurting many people, and I need to stop him."

It sounds dangerous, and shady, and Jaskier hates the idea with every fiber of his being. "Okay, I understand," he lies. "You're not going alone, right? You'll have help? If this person is as bad as you say he is, you shouldn't go by yourself. If you get hurt, I-- if you're killed--" My heart will break, and there'll be no one left to fix it.

"Yennefer will be with me, we'll both be fine, I promise," Geralt hurries to assure him, an earnest look in his eyes.

"Yennefer? So you can portal! We don't have to spend the whole time apart, you could go do what you have to do during the day and then come home to me at night, and it..." Jaskier trails off, because he can tell by the rueful look on Geralt's face that his brilliant idea isn't going to be so brilliant after all. "Right. No portals?"

"We'll be taking a portal when we leave Kaer Morhen, but once we find this... person, it won't be safe anymore. He could detect magic of that magnitude easily and the element of surprise could make all the difference in whether we're successful or not." Geralt swallows hard, and then faster than Jaskier's eyes can track the movements he's pulling Jaskier into his arms and burying his face in the curve of his throat. "You smell so sad. I hate it."

Yeah, me too. "You saying I stink, witcher?" he jokes weakly, pretending to sniff under one arm. "I'll have you know I smell like roses, thank you very much."

"Cold tea," Geralt says inexplicably, then sighs heavily. "Will you-- you'll let Eskel and Lambert take care of you while I'm gone, won't you?"

Jaskier knows exactly what he's asking, which is exactly why he avoids the question. "I think I've proved I can take care of myself. Even Vesemir says I'm a menace with my daggers now. You should be worried about them, honestly."

It gets a tiny smile out of Geralt, but it isn't quite enough to distract him from the answer he's determined to get. "Jaskier," he says quietly. "Please?"

He's referring to the special needs that Jaskier's body has, his cravings and his addictions, the hunger pains that Jaskier hasn't felt in so long now that he has Geralt to keep him whole. He's asking if Jaskier will allow them to f*ck him, to give him their cum, like they did once before when his traitorous body insisted it needed more than one witcher to keep him satisfied. Without Geralt there, his brothers are the ones who he'll be asking to tend to Jaskier when he needs it.

It's not a terrible suggestion. Jaskier likes Eskel and Lambert, and trusts them. He knows that they won't hurt him or take advantage of him, even knowing all of his terrible secrets like they do. He's done just about every sexual act a man can do with them --or to them, or for them, or at least in front of them. There's nothing left to be scared or embarrassed about when it comes to asking them to help him the same way they did before. There's nothing wrong with that, as plans go, except for the fact that they aren't Geralt and that means they'll never quite be what he wants.

He doesn't say any of that out loud, because it won't help either of them to borrow trouble from their future selves and because there's an hourglass in Jaskier's head now that's counting down the hours until Geralt is gone and he doesn't want to waste a single grain of sand. "Can packing wait?" he says instead, and the words sound as fragile as they feel.

Geralt doesn't even glance at the bag. "Yes."

"Then take me to bed, love," Jaskier tells him, and lets himself get swept up in Geralt's arms.

When he wakes in the morning, it's to a pleasant soreness between his legs and an empty expanse of sheets beside him. Geralt is gone, and even as Jaskier bites his lower lip to stop himself from crying, he can't blame him. If he'd stayed until morning, Jaskier would have asked for one more kiss, one more coupling, one more day with Geralt, and he never would have been able to leave because he's never been able to deny Jaskier anything, not in a long time. It's better this way, that he left before Jaskier was awake to watch him go. It'll hurt them both less that way.

Jaskier rolls over and pulls the Geralt-scented blankets over his head and tries to pretend that's true.

.....................

Kaer Morhen, Jaskier discovers, is absolute hell without Geralt.

It's still a thousand times better than anywhere else in the world that Jaskier could have wound up, and he's aware very dimly that he's being a big baby about this, but it feels true just the same. Geralt leaves, and Jaskier's joy goes with him, and everything just sucks.

He goes through the motions well enough, he supposes. Bards are performers, after all, so if he wants to be a bard someday if --when- Geralt comes back for him and takes him on the Path, he'll have to get used to putting on shows. He does chores and goes to see Roach and makes sure he's seen around the keep at least a few times a day, reading a book or playing his lute like he normally would. At mealtimes, he shows up and eats some food and counts to 500 in his head before he excuses himself from the table. It's a good show, honestly.

Eskel and Lambert, bless them, are trying so hard to be helpful without being obnoxious. Whenever they see him, they trade glances heavily laden with significance and then one or the other of them will ever-so-casually ask, "Need anything?" To which Jaskier will smile, despite the way the expression feels unfamiliar on his own face these days, and shake his head in a silent rejection of their offer to help. He doesn't need them, not that way, not yet. Geralt could be home at any minute, and then he can take care of Jaskier, and everything will be alright again.

The only flaw with that plan is that four days have passed since Geralt left, and everything is starting to hurt.

The hunger comes first, a hollowness in Jaskier's belly that won't abate no matter how much he puts on his plate at mealtimes. It's a distracting sort of hunger, an ache in his stomach and a burn in his throat that never quite leave his awareness even when he attempts to distract himself. That endeavor gets more useless with every passing hour as the withdrawal starts to take over him, bringing with it the fever and the head to toe pain that makes it hard to think of anything except how empty he feels.

Vesemir, who's spending more time out and about in Kaer Morhen now that Yennefer isn't around for him to collaborate with, keeps looking at Jaskier with too-keen eyes. Not that Jaskier has any delusions about still fooling anyone; he knows that he just smell like nothing except misery and pain and hunger by now, and he's given up on trying to force his face into a smile. It's all he can do to leave his bed on occasion and go through the motions. Vesemir's eyes, though, are especially knowing, and eventually Jaskier stops trying to leave the bed and just hides himself away to avoid being so... seen.

And the boys, to their credit, still try. They keep showing up in Jaskier's room, always hanging around and offering to help him however they can. They're getting more and more frustrated, Jaskier can tell; he's learned to read the emotions of witchers, especially the emotions that are most likely to end with him hurt. Every time he tells them that he's fine and they can leave, he can see their jaws clench and their eyes meet above him with pointed, concerned expressions. They never push, but they never give up, either, and Jaskier hates it.

He hates it because of how badly he wants it. They keep offering, and every time it gets a little harder to say no. He wants them, either one of them, or maybe both at the same time filling him up from both ends. He knows it would make him feel better in an instant, that the second their cum was inside of him all of the pain and hunger would stop, and he could do something other than lie in this bed uselessly all day. He knows that, and he hates it, because he just wants to be good and wait for Geralt.

That's the thing that keeps him focused, when everything else gets all hazy with pain. Geralt will be home soon, and he'll be so pleased with Jaskier for being strong enough to wait for him. He'll see how good Jaskier can be, and then he'll never leave him behind ever again.

He can do that. If he can just hold on, he can prove it to Geralt. He has to.

"This is f*cking ridiculous," he hears Lambert swear somewhere nearby, voice low like he doesn't want Jaskier to overhear. "Look at him, Esk!"

"I see him. But what the hell can we do, when he keeps refusing our help?"

Lambert's growl is full of impatience. "We have to convince him somehow."

"And how the hell do you suggest we do that, Axii him into thinking that sleeping with us is a good idea?" There's a brief pause, and then Eskel says sharply. "You can't actually mean--"

"f*ck no, of course I don't," Lambert interrupts, obviously offended even just from the sound of his voice. "I would never. I just-- you gave me an idea, that's all."

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

Jaskier hears some sort of thump, then Lambert snaps, "Just stay here for a minute, I'll be back. Do that thing with your voice where you chill him out, or something."

The door closes rather forcefully, and then the bed shifts a little as Eskel comes to sit next to Jaskier. He can't help himself; the urge to seek just a little bit of comfort from the witcher is too strong, and Jaskier winds up burying his face in Eskel's lap. Being this close to his co*ck, even soft and two layers of clothing away, somehow makes everything better and yet worse. Eskel's gentle hand carding through his hair makes his chest ache.

"I'm sorry that I'm upsetting you two," Jaskier says quietly a long moment later. "I don't want to make you fight. You should just go."

"Lambert and I would find something to fight over no matter what," Eskel tells him reasonably. "That's what we do. And we're not going to leave you alone, Jaskier, even if you don't want us to help you. We'll be here for you, either way."

"And what if... what if being near me is too much for you?" Jaskier asks, thinking back to those hazy memories of the time he spent with the other witchers. He remembers men tearing through bars to get to him, taking him even though they were forbidden, whispering in his ear as they f*cked him that he just smelled too goddamn good to resist.

He can tell by the brief tensing of Eskel's body that the witcher follows his train of thought, but then he relaxes again and just keeps petting Jaskier's hair as if nothing is amiss. "If it gets that bad then we'll handle it. But no one is going to touch you here unless you ask for it. That's always been true and it won't change now."

Jaskier knows it's true. He never had any doubt, really. The wolves are as stubborn as they are noble, and wouldn't compromise on something this important in a million years. They won't crack. It'll be Jaskier who does, who caves to the urges of his body and gives in. Geralt will come home to a whor*, and then--

"Jaskier?"

It's Geralt's voice, and Jaskier sits up so fast that his head spins, already weak and a little dizzy from his self-imposed starvation. Eskel has to reach out and steady him, but Jaskier doesn't pay him any mind, looking around wildly for Geralt. There's only Lambert though, standing there in the doorway, looking hopeful and holding something cradled in the palm of one hand.

It's the same little device that Geralt had used back at the start of winter, on their first night together, in fact. He'd used it to call Yennefer magically from many miles away. As quick as his hope had risen, Jaskier feels it come crashing down. Not Geralt then. Just a voice, a shadow of the real thing.

Even still, it’s enough to have Jaskier struggling to free himself from the tangle of Eskel's loose embrace to try to get to the little box. Lambert quickly moves forward to save him the trouble, passing the item easily into Jaskier's grasping hands. "Geralt?"

"Hey, little bardling," Geralt's miniature voice says, and immediately Jaskier wants to whimper with how much he misses the way that voice feels rumbling through Geralt's chest beneath Jaskier's cheek. "Gods, I miss you."

"Not half as much as I miss you," Jaskier says mournfully. "How did you--? I thought you had one and Yen had the other?"

"I gave mine to Vesemir before I left, in case of an emergency. Is everything okay? Are you alright?"

He opens his mouth to tell Geralt that he's fine, but before he can utter so much as a squeak, Eskel is interrupting to say, "No, he's not. He's ill, and it's getting bad. He's fevered, and refusing to eat."

There's a pause, and then Geralt says, anguished and exasperated, "Jaskier."

"Don't listen to him, Geralt, he's being dramatic," Jaskier says, shooting a betrayed look at Eskel. "It's not that bad, really."

"I'm having to help hold you upright to have this conversation," counters Eskel.

It's not a lie, unfortunately, and Jaskier scowls harder as he yanks his elbow out of Eskel's grip as if to demonstrate that he can handle this on his own, thank you very much. "I just-- I can wait for you to come home, it isn't so bad," Jaskier tells the little box in his hands. "Are you almost home? Did you... finish what you had to do?"

The following pause after Jaskier's question is answer enough. If the news had been good news, Geralt wouldn't have hesitated to tell him. The silence that rings in the room means that his love is still far away, and won't be home any time soon.

"I don't want you to be hurting, Jaskier," Geralt says softly. "I know it's a lot to ask. It isn't fair. But I can't-- I can't come home until I finish this. I have to make sure the world is safe for you."

Jaskier feels his shoulders sag, and then Lambert is right there with an arm around him, taking his weight as Jaskier loses the last of the burst of strength that Geralt's voice had given him. The contact of Lambert's body against his feels so f*cking good, and Jaskier wants to get these clothes off and get more of it. He shakes his head like he can dislodge the very thought from his brain. "It'll be different, when you get back," he croaks, throat raw with thirst and the force of holding back tears. "Things between us won't ever be the same. They can't be."

He can hear Geralt's sharp inhale, followed by a heavy, unsteady exhale. When he speaks, he sounds strangled. "Okay. I... deserve that. I know this is hurting you, and if that changes the way you feel about me, I can't argue with that. I hope that you'll give me a chance, at least, to get your trust back someday."

Jaskier's going to cry. He's held it together thus far, but he's actually going to cry from how much he hates everything right now. "You're so f*cking stupid, Geralt," he groans, digging his nails into someone's nearby arm. Eskel's probably, from his muted protest. "I'm not talking about that, f*ck. I'm not mad at you, I just want you right f*cking here, right f*cking now."

"Then why will things be different, Jask?" Geralt asks, sounding confused. "If it's not about you being angry with me--"

"Because you won't be able to look at me the same anymore, when you come home," Jaskier blurts out. The words burn his mouth. "I'll be used, dirty... and you won't love me like you did before."

It takes Geralt so long to respond that Jaskier almost wonders whether they've lost the connection. Eskel and Lambert certainly heard him, because all of a sudden he's the center of a witcher sandwich, sitting in Lambert's lap with his face pressing into Eskel's shoulder as he's firmly hugged. Then comes Geralt's voice, sharp and sure, insisting, "Jaskier, I would never think that about you. There's nothing that you could do that would make me love you any less, and certainly not that. None of this is your fault. It doesn't matter to me, I promise."

"It matters to me," Jaskier says, turning his face reluctantly away from Eskel's chest so that his voice will carry clearly to the magical device in his hand. "How could it not bother you, that your brothers have... that they know..."

"I don't care about that. I didn't before, when you needed all three of us, and I don't care now. Why would that be different?"

"Because you were there, before, you got a show. It was good for you, too. But this is-- this is selfish." Jaskier swallows, feeling sick. "It's not for you at all, you get nothing out of it. It'll be different."

"Of course I get something out of it, I get to know that you're safe and healthy. And besides, you think I don't like showing you off? I'm proud of you, Jask," Geralt insists. "f*ck, you say that like you're not a goddamn prize."

"Now I know you're full of sh*t," Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. He tries not to grind his hips forward into Eskel's leg and is almost successful. "Why in the world would you be proud of me being a whor*?"

"Because every time they feel your touch, they know that I'm the one who gets to enjoy you all the time. They know exactly how lucky I am to have you in my bed every night."

The words, spoken in the low, heavy voice that Jaskier has never heard Geralt use before except in instances where one or both of them is about to have a spectacular org*sm, send a rush of heat through Jaskier from head to toe. His mouth is suddenly on Eskel's throat, lips parted, inhaling the scent of him. His hands are guiding Lambert's up underneath his shirt, savoring the feel of warm palms against his skin. "Geralt, I--"

"You're so strong, and talented, and resilient," Geralt interrupts him. "I'm not an idiot, I know I'm gods-damned lucky you're in my life."

Jaskier tries to shake his head to get rid of the fog of arousal Geralt's praise is inviting into his head. He's hard, and every nerve ending is lit up with something that's pain for now but which he knows could turn to pleasure in an instant if he just gives in to it. "Please," he whimpers without knowing what he's asking for, "Geralt, please."

"Go ahead, love. Show them how good it is to be me."

It's probably only surprise that lets Jaskier push Eskel back against the pillows, considering that the man is about twice his size and a witcher besides, but either way, it means that now Jaskier has easy access to the ties of his trousers. "You want me to?" he asks, not sure exactly who he's addressing.

"Yes," all three witchers answer, and that's enough for him.

Things get a little hazy, when Jaskier finally gets his mouth on Eskel's co*ck. He remembers the first moment that the weight hits his tongue, his mouth suddenly perfectly full. The texture of that delicate skin against his lips. The way the length stiffens quickly when he swallows it down, choking him like a dream. The musky taste of sex on the back of his tongue, so long-craved that the first hint of it sends a shudder down Jaskier's spine like electricity.

He's aware of the sound of Geralt's voice, still audible through the magical connection, praising him and coaxing him in turns, making him work that much harder to make this the single best blowj*b he's ever given. He's aware of Eskel swearing and his chest heaving, desperately trying to hold onto his control as Jaskier works hard to take it from him and succeeds. He's aware of a hand in his hair and the sound of someone growling.

He remembers the way that Eskel's cum feels in his throat as he swallows it down greedily, and he remembers not stopping. He remembers trying to say something with a mouthful of co*ck that he refuses to let soften, and all that comes out out is a desperate little gargle. The hand in his hair pulling him up and off. Someone asking him what he's trying to say, and him managing to form the words, "Lambert, in, now," before smacking the restraining hand away so me can set to work making Eskel come again.

He knows that there are tears running down his face as someone slides off his smallclothes and pushes a co*ck into him, some very small part of him still convinced that this is a mistake and Geralt will surely never come back, now. He knows that someone someone wipes them away, and rubs his back soothingly when he has to pull off for a minute because a few sobs push through his lips and make it hard to breathe for a minute. He knows that both of them keep asking him if he's alright, and if he needs them to stop, and he keeps asking for more because seven f*cking hells does he want it to go on forever.

Mostly, though, he focuses on the pain that melts away a little more with every touch, until Lambert spills his seed deep inside of Jaskier and all he can feel is relief.

It's just like the last time he'd gone too long without, with Geralt, where all it had taken was one f*ck to set the world right again. The same, in that the inferno retreats from his skin and the ache in every limb subsides and he no longer feels hollow in his bones. And yet different, because Geralt isn't there to say he loves him and thank him and make everything that much better with the unrelenting force of his adoration. No one is there to kiss him until the world is rightside up again.

They don't kiss, him and Eskel and Lambert. Not last time, and not now. That, at least, can be something just for Geralt. That one can be theirs.

He tunes back in to feel himself being cared for by Eskel and Lambert, hands cleaning him up and rubbing his back and playing gently in his hair. "Thank you," he tries to say, but the words get caught up in a yawn. It's only then that he realizes how exhausted he is. He isn’t hard, and no one makes him answer for that, mercifully. They just let him rest like the merciful things that they are.

"How are you feeling, Jask?" Geralt's voice is asking him. Jaskier lifts his head off of Lambert's chest, having no recollection how he got into that position in the first place, and has to look around for a second to be able to find the source of the voice. The device has wound up on the bedside table, angled towards them to allow both sides to speak freely. "Jask?"

"Good, a lot better," Jaskier hurries to answer. "Sleepy, but good."

Geralt's sigh is full of relief. "Good. That's-- that was perfect. You were perfect. f*ck, I need a drink," he mumbles, almost too quiet to carry across the magical connection. "Did I mention how much I f*cking miss you?"

The words make Jaskier smile, but it's a sad one. "You're about to say your goodbyes, aren't you?" he says gloomily. "I can tell from the sound of your voice."

"I don't want to," Geralt says, and at least he sounds deeply regretful. "But I'm already in trouble with Yen for talking to you for this long."

Right, Yennefer, who gets to be right there by the side of his lover while Jaskier waits at home. A little jealousy sours Jaskier's mood, and he feels Eskel scratch gently at his scalp in an attempt at comfort. "Right. Stealth mode."

"Yeah. I... probably won't be able to talk like this again. We're getting closer to finding this guy, and the closer we get, the more dangerous this kind of magic would be. We need to do this right, so that we can stay safe and get home as quickly as possible."

He isn't trying to scold Jaskier, the man knows, but it still makes him want to tuck his metaphorical tail between his legs anyways. Translation: needing this conversation was greedy and he can't expect it again. to grow a pair and do better on his own. "I want you to be safe, and I want you to come home soon. I'll do better on my end, I promise."

"You'll let them help you?" asks Geralt hopefully. "I know it isn't ideal, but if we-- it'll help me rest easier at night, knowing you're safe and well at home."

"I'll let them help me," confirms Jaskier, helpless to refuse when it's framed like that. "I'm sorry I made anyone worry in the first place. It was silly of me to try to hold out when I knew what would happen. But I'll change that, don't worry. A shag a day keeps the fever away, eh? Not like it's a hardship, anyways. You know how much I love being full."

Geralt groans then, low and pained, and makes some sort of jumbled up promise about being home as soon as he can so he can do the job himself, and Jaskier considers that a win in the end.

.....................

It takes another two long, painful weeks for Geralt to make it home to him. Not physically painful; Jaskier had made good on his promise and allowed Eskel and Lambert to help him with his body's needs in the interim. When he's the kind of hungry that food doesn't quite satisfy, he seeks them out for a snack, and at least once a day he invites one of them to his room. It's enough to keep him well, even if he spends most of what should be intimate moments thinking about Geralt, and he can't deny that he likes the encounters, either.

Even still, when Jaskier is woken late one night by a gentle hand on his cheek and a whispered, Jaskier, I'm home, it's the single best thing Jaskier has ever heard. He struggles free of sleep in an instant, sitting up and immediately throwing his arms around the familiar form of his lover so that he can squeeze him tight. "Geralt!" he cries, heart swelling with happiness and relief in his chest. "Oh thank Melitele you're home, I f*cking missed you like crazy."

"Portalled back as soon as it was done, couldn't wait to see you," Geralt replies, though it's a little hard to understand him around the way that Jaskier has climbed into his lap and is kissing him relentlessly. Whatever, who needs clarity anyways?

When the words catch up to Jaskier's slightly muddled brain, it occurs to him that maybe he should spare some concern for the fact that Geralt hasn't just been gone for three weeks on a vacation, but has been off on some secret, dangerous mission. "Are you both alright? Wait, let me look at you," Jaskier eventually has the presence of mind to say, scooting back off of Geralt's lap so that he can look him over. He has to, if he wants to be sure, since gods know that Geralt isn't going to speak up about an injury, the stubborn prick.

He looks alright, at least, no limbs missing or giant gaping wounds, though it's clear in his posture and the bags beneath his eyes that he's utterly exhausted. His armor is a little worse for the wear, too, dented and torn in new ways since the last time Jaskier had occasion to see him in it, and the idea of something attacking Geralt with enough force to do that to such finely crafted armor makes Jaskier's stomach churn. He brushes his fingers over what looks like a burn mark and frowns.

Geralt doesn't give him a chance to ask for details, though. He lets Jaskier look in silence for all of about fifteen seconds, then tugs him back into his lap so that he can bury his nose in the crook of Jaskier's neck. "I missed you," he says into Jaskier's skin, so quietly that Jaskier felt it more than he heard it. "Thought I was remembering you wrong. Kept thinking there was no way you actually smelled that good, but you're really that perfect. You truly do smell as incredible as I remembered."

And what the f*ck is Jaskier supposed to do with that, a compliment so bizarre and intimate that only Geralt could pull it off without Jaskier feeling the urge to laugh in his face? He smiles softly and plays with a strand of Geralt's hair that has become twisted around his finger. It isn't as soft and clean as usual, without Jaskier to keep up the maintenance for him, and that just won't do. "Wish I could say the same for you, darling," he says teasingly, tugging on the little piece of hair. "You, however, are downright rank. You're very lucky that I love you, because now my bed is going to smell like dirty witcher."

Geralt takes the ribbing good-naturedly, huffing out a laugh into the curve of Jaskier's shoulder. "Trust me, I have no illusions about how lucky I am. Thought about bathing first, but couldn't make myself stay away from you for any longer."

"You're a sap," Jaskier accuses with a grin that Geralt can't see but can probably hear in his voice. "Though I can't say I blame you. I'd have done the same. Now you've seen me, though, so if you want to go bathe we could go down together."

"You should go back to sleep," replies Geralt as he pulls back, his face conflicted in the low lighting. "There are still hours until dawn, I should let you rest."

"Bold of you to assume I'm going to be doing any resting now that you're home. I have a very full schedule for the rest of the night, I'll have you know." Jaskier makes a show of running his eyes over Geralt's body again, though this time it's with different intent. He's not looking for injuries now, he's just... enjoying. Taking in the glorious view. Letting his eyes linger on the front of Geralt's trousers, which start tenting before his eyes. "Ah, see, your co*ck has the right idea. Always knew it was the most brilliant part of you."

"Should I be-- f*ck, offended?" Geralt grunts as Jaskier starts untying the laces, then seems to lose his train of thought for a moment when Jaskier gets his hand wrapped around him. "f*ck, f*ck, gods I missed you. Not that I only missed you for the sex, but--"

"But you can't wait to f*ck me six ways from Sunday?"

"f*ck yes."

"Good, then we're on the same page."

It isn't going to be the most impressive or intimate of couplings, with both of them fully dressed and Geralt tired and unwashed beneath him, but Jaskier can't resist the temptation. He just wants to spend a while stroking Geralt, re-memorizing the way he feels in Jaskier's hand and the little noises he makes when Jaskier squeezes tighter at just the right part of each tug. His way is slicked by the precum that Geralt is leaking freely, and Jaskier wants to feel him spill over his fist. He wants to feel the org*sm make Geralt quake.

As it turns out, he gets his wish far quicker than he'd anticipated. It only takes a few moments of quiet panting before Geralt is coming with a deep groan, his seed making a mess of Jaskier's hand and his nightshirt and only adding to the filth on his own armor. Jaskier swallows his surprise and keeps working his co*ck through it, until finally --after what seems like a borderline neverending org*sm-- Geralt's body relaxes with the release and he lays back on the bed with a dazed expression.

"Sorry," he's saying before Jaskier has the chance to get a word in. His face is red, and not with the flush of sex. Jaskier can tell by the way he doesn't make eye contact when he speaks. "I didn't mean to... finish. Sorry."

Jaskier makes a show of bringing his hand up to his mouth and licking a broad stripe through the mess of cum on his palm. "Darling, when have you ever known me to complain about you taking your pleasure? You know good and well that the sound of you coming is my favorite song."

"Usually takes a little longer, though," Geralt mumbles. "I haven't... been touched in weeks, so I'm just... sensitive. Obviously."

A little knot of tension in Jaskier's gut, which he hadn't been aware of until exactly that moment, releases at the words. "So you and Yennefer didn't...?" he says quietly, voicing a fear he hadn't known he'd harbored.

Now Geralt looks him in the eye, expression fierce. "No, absolutely not," he says firmly. "It never even crossed my mind."

"I wouldn't have minded," Jaskier says, then rolls his eyes at Geralt's skeptical expression. Right, the bastard can smell lies. "Okay, fine, I would have hated it. But I wouldn't have blamed you, either. It'd only be fair. Considering that while you were off doing important world-saving things, I was at home f*cking your brothers." Now it's Jaskier's turn to avoid eye contact. "Not like I could tell you not to seek your pleasure elsewhere when I'm doing just that."

"That's different," Geralt rumbles, rubbing his palm soothingly up and down Jaskier's thigh. "You have a biological need. And we'd talked about it beforehand. I'd asked you to do that. Would have been different for me to go and f*ck someone else without seeing how you felt about it first."

"I wouldn't have stopped you, if you wanted to," Jaskier still feels compelled to say.

"Yeah, well, it's a moot point anyways," Geralt says dismissively. "I don't think about Yen that way, not anymore. Not in a very long time. The only person I want is you, Jaskier, and you're worth the wait."

His hands are moving on Jaskier, tugging him down so that Jaskier is on his hands and knees above Geralt, straddling his hips. One warm palm is sliding down the back of Jaskier's smallclothes, squeezing gently at the swell of his arse. Jaskier kisses Geralt hungrily as fingertips slide nearer to his center, stroking lightly around his entrance, a sure and imminent promise.

For a brief instant, Jaskier tenses up when it occurs to him what Geralt is going to feel when he touches him there. He's going to find a hole that's still a little f*cked out from when he'd had Eskel inside of him just a few hours ago. He's going to find cum still leaking out of Jaskier, cum that isn't his own, and what if Geralt was wrong after all? What if when he sees the evidence of what Jaskier has been up to, so soon after Geralt has confessed that he hasn't been touched in weeks, things do change? Jaskier braces himself for the moment when Geralt pulls back, when he pushes Jaskier off--

But of course he doesn't, because it's Geralt and he's perfect and he understands. He just dips his fingers into Jaskier's hole, hums a little at the slightly obscene sound of his brother's cum squelching inside of Jaskier, and murmurs, "So good for me, Jask."

"Bath, now," Jaskier replies, because he has so many plans for this lovely creature that he'd like to get started on. More specifically, pampering him from head to toe in the hot springs, and then hauling him back upstairs and starting to work on the three week's worth of org*sms Jaskier owes him. Far be it from Jaskier to leave a debt unpaid.

And if Jaskier gets a pretty sweet deal out of the process, too... well, life is charmed these days.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

It takes a while for them to be fit for decent company again, well past dawn. They're much more than just sex to each other, really, but gods is it good to be naked in a bed with Geralt again. There are the several rounds of reunion sex, to start with, and then several more after that when Jaskier accidentally reveals that in the two weeks that he's been f*cking Eskel and Lambert, he has yet to allow them to make him come or kiss him on the mouth. He lets that information slip while he's riding Geralt's co*ck slow and steady and combing his fingers through Geralt's long, silken hair, and he isn't expecting such a reaction.

It's meant to be a consolation prize, some small comfort to Geralt, who surely must be feeling at least a little resentful towards his brothers for the parts of Jaskier that they got to enjoy whilst he was away. Apparently for Geralt it's a bigger deal than Jaskier had realized. It lights Geralt on fire, making him roll them over on the bed and f*ck Jaskier like his very life depends on it, practically begging him to come, over and over again until even Jaskier's enhanced body starts to ache with it. He kisses Jaskier so much that it's hard to breathe, and he can taste a little blood where Geralt's teeth have sunk in with a little too much vigor.

In short, Jaskier is starting to see the sense in the old adage about distance making the heart grow fonder. He's not sure that he loves Geralt any more than he had before he'd left on his mission, but he sure does like the reunion sex.

When they've had their fill of each other --for now-- and join the rest of the pack for some lunch, the mood is far less joyous than Jaskier had anticipated. With Geralt and Yennefer home, this should be a celebration. Instead, Vesemir and Eskel and Lambert all look like they're attending a funeral, or maybe gearing up for a death match, if the way they're stabbing every bite of food with their forks is any indication. No one speaks, and unless Jaskier is mistaken, everyone except Geralt is working very hard to avoid looking at him.

"Alright, out with it," Jaskier declares after ten minutes of blistering silence, letting his fork clatter down onto the plate rather dramatically. He's pleased to see that it has the effect of drawing every pair of amber and violet eyes alike. "Clearly Yennefer has told you something about whatever happened on this super secret mission, since you all look like a rock troll pissed in your stew. So what is it, what aren't you telling me?"

Eskel shakes his head. "It's nothing, Jaskier, don't w--"

"f*ck that, we should tell him," Lambert interrupts, scowling. "It matters more to him than it does to any of us. If anyone should know, it's Jaskier. Besides, he's proved he's a stubborn little f*cker when he wants to be. It's not like you're going to break him with a little bad news."

Privately Jaskier thinks that's a bit of an exaggeration of his psychoemotional strength, but he nods anyways. "I want to know and I deserve to know," he affirms simply. "So go on, tell me the story."

Geralt and Yennefer exchange brief looks, then the witcher nods once, slowly. "Alright, you deserve to know. It... it wasn't a random killer we were chasing, Jask. It was someone who has to do with your past."

A flutter of nerves lights up in Jaskier's belly. "My past? Like my-- my past that I can't remember, or someone from when I was with the other witchers?"

"He was working with the Cats," Yennefer says. Her voice is soft, sympathetic, and that's enough to warn Jaskier to brace himself. "I'm getting closer to figuring out how to help you remember your old life, though. The man we killed was the sorcerer that created the magical block in your memory."

He should have known it would be something like that. What else would be so urgent that Geralt would run off and leave Jaskier behind at a moment's notice? Everything makes sense now, from Geralt's urgency to his insistence that he was making the world a safer place for Jaskier. Of course that's who it was.

The knowledge brings him more horror than comfort. "You-- he's-- dead? Are you sure?" Jaskier says numbly, wrapping his arms around his stomach like that'll stop the vague nausea within.

"Without a doubt," Yennefer answers confidently. "I called in a few favors, had them work some of their own magic on the blood sample that you gave me so that they could trace back to a source of some kind. I should have noticed it sooner, but the magic within your mind... it reeks of Stregobor."

The name strikes something in Jaskier, ringing uncomfortably in his chest. "f*ck. That name, I remember. They used to have him come visit me, but I never got to saw his face. He would come up behind me and put his hands on either side of my head, and I never knew what he was doing, but... it hurt, every time." Geralt tries to put his arm around him then, to hold him, but Jaskier shrugs him off. He can stand this on his own. He has to. "So? What happened exactly? How did you find him?"

"It wasn't difficult," Yennefer says breezily. "He's a powerful magician, yes, but he's also horribly co*cksure. I just followed rumors of a wizard who thought himself god and found the town that he was hiding in, fancying himself the king of the hill. He had quite the magical fortress built up, and a small army's worth of ensorcelled fighters defending it, but nothing we couldn't handle. It felt good to crack his magic down the middle after what he did to you and the others."

Jaskier gets lost in his thoughts for a moment, thinking about hazy memories of his time in captivity and an ominous shadow on a wall. He thinks too about Yennefer and Geralt fighting through dangerous magic and dead-eyed men to end that shadow forever. Making the world safe for him. Suddenly, Yennefer's words catch up to him. "Wait, did you say-- others?"

He hates the depth of sadness and anger in those beloved yellow eyes as Geralt answers, "You weren't the only one they did this to."

Others, just like him. Taken captive, minds erased, bodies mutated and manipulated against their will. Others that had been kept in cells just like Jaskier's, trained just like him, to be sent out to people like Algoras just as Jaskier had been. The only difference is that none of the others like him --and f*ck, if that isn't an exhilarating and horrifying thing, to realize that he isn't the only of his kind-- got such a happy ending. There's only one Geralt, only one Kaer Morhen, which means that everyone else got less than that. Everyone else who Jaskier can relate to is probably still living their own personal hell, while Jaskier sits in the lap of luxury.

"Right," he says, as firmly as he can with his voice quavering breathlessly in his chest, "so when are we going to rescue them?"

"We aren't going anywhere and doing anything," Geralt stops him with a scowl. "You're going to stay put, and we will take care of this problem." He uses his finger to draw a circle in the air that connects himself with the rest of the group besides Jaskier. "The last thing we need is to be worried about you getting hurt on this mission."

"Well that's a terrible idea," Yennefer drawls, unimpressed. "You're just going to leave him here, undefended?"

"Not to mention, if we all go and leave him behind, who's going to take care of him?" Eskel adds with a raised eyebrow. "Something goes wrong and we get delayed, Jaskier's f*cked. Or, you know, isn't."

Geralt apparently doesn't think that joke is funny. "Fine. One of us can stay. But Jaskier's not going."

"f*ck that sh*t! If anyone deserves to go stab some Cats, it's Jaskier." Lambert's two cents are delivered along with a scowl. "This is his revenge mission, after all."

"It's too dangerous," Geralt growls back. "I'm not going to risk him being hurt or killed when we can safely handle this without him. He stays."

Jaskier sees red, just a little, just for a split second, and maybe Geralt smells it on him because his head whips around to look at Jaskier in surprise before he even manages to start getting the words out. "He is standing right here, a fully functional human being who is perfectly capable of making his own choices," he says hotly.

He doesn't pull the metaphorical punch, even when Geralt winces at his words. "Jaskier, I'm not trying to say--"

"Just because you aren't trying to say something doesn't mean you're not sending that message anyways." Jaskier keeps his spine straight and his chin high with determination. "Try to leave me behind if you want, but the second you portal out of here I'll walk out the doors into the snow and take the long way if I have to. So unless you're prepared to lock me up in a cage after all, Geralt, it might behoove you to at least keep me close to people who can help keep me safe."

There's absolute, pin-drop silence in the room at his words. Geralt and Jaskier just stare at each other for a long moment in a battle of wills, until the tension is broken by Vesemir's quiet chuckle. "Give up, pup, you know you're beat."

Jaskier rounds on him, ready to come up with some brilliant rebuttal that he hasn't thought of yet, only to realize that Vesemir isn't looking at him. It's Geralt whose shoulder's slump under the older witcher's piercing gaze, right before he grits out a, "Fine. But I'm not happy about this."

"You don't have to be," Vesemir shrugs, still looking amused. "There's no law that says that you have to be happy when others make choices that you don't agree with. You just have to respect that the choice is theirs to make."

Geralt looks back at Jaskier then, sighing deeply and taking him by the hand so he can press a kiss to the back of Jaskier's knuckles. "Your choice," he says with a little twist of his mouth that might have been described as a pout if Jaskier were interested in started yet another fight today.

"I choose closure," Jaskier tells him, then turns to the group. "Alright, so what's the plan?"

The plan, as it turns out, is simple enough. Once they're inside the castle, having arrived under cover of darkness, they'll split into three teams and spread out, go on the offensive rather than waiting for a whole clowder of Cats to come find them. It seems instinctually wrong to Jaskier for them to split up, but Geralt explains that the Feline school is notorious for their speed, agility, and flexibility. In order to win out over them, the Wolves will need to stop thinking as a pack and tailor their attack to their enemy.

It surprises Jaskier even more when Geralt decides that Eskel and Vesemir will make up one team, Geralt and Lambert another, and Jaskier and Yennefer the third. He hadn't expected Geralt to let him out of his sight, let alone trust his safety to someone else. "I know better than anyone how dangerous Yennefer can be in a fight," Geralt explains when Jaskier asks. "She's more than capable of keeping you safe. Besides, she's more of a ranged fighter. If anyone gets close enough that I can cut them down with my sword, they're already far closer to you than I want them to be."

As far as how they'll get into the building in the first place? "I know a guy who can get us in," Lambert says, somewhat reluctantly, after a dozen different infiltration strategies have been discussed and discarded. "If we can make a stop along the way to pick him up, he'll help."

"You have an ace in the hole, and you wait until now to mention it?" Geralt says with a frown. "What the hell?"

"You won't like him," sighs Lambert. "In fact, you're going to flip your sh*t. But he can get us in, guaranteed."

"Why wouldn't we like someone who can help us?" Jaskier co*cks his head and looks at Lambert closely. "What kind of monster is he?"

Lambert meets his gaze with a grimace. "He's a Cat."

Jaskier can't help the little tingle of fear that runs down his spine. The people who hurt him, who broke his mind, and Lambert wants to trust one of them? More than that-- he wants his entire family to trust one? Words spin around wildly in Jaskier's mind, a million things that he wants to say all at once. "Oh," is all that comes out.

"You can't be serious," Geralt snarls. "After what they did to Jaskier--"

"He wasn't part of that, he hasn't been home in damn near a decade," Lambert interrupts hotly. "f*cking hell, you think I'd be friends with someone who would do something like that? f*ck no! He's a good guy. Not his fault what school he came from."

"If he's so out of touch with the other Cats, what makes you think that he'll be able to help us infiltrate their keep in the first place?" questions Vesemir. "Doesn't sound like he's in their good graces."

"He's the one who chooses to stay away from them," Lambert counters. "They're f*ckin' batsh*t. And I mean, Aiden is, too, but at least he's still a good guy. He stopped wintering with them years ago because he couldn't take all of the drama and infighting. Says he could go back anytime he wanted, he just doesn't want to."

"Sounds like you'll have a hard time convincing him to help us in the first place." Yennefer's arched-eyebrow dubious stares are always withering, but this one especially so. "You really think that he's going to take us to a place he's been avoiding for a decade just so that he can help us with our own personal mission?"

"He'd do it for me," Lambert says quietly.

Geralt squints across the table at Lambert like he's trying to see right through the little wolf's extraordinarily thick skull and read his mind. "This Aiden... he the friend that taught you about how to help people when they're upset?" At Lambert's nod, he leans back and scratches at his chin consideringly. "Hmm."

No one says anything for a moment, until Eskel drains the rest of the ale from his mug and slams it back down onto the table with finality. "I think we should do it. Let's get Lambert's friend to help us."

Even Lambert looks surprised at that. "Yeah?"

Eskel shrugs. "I've heard you talk about your friend Aiden for years, and from everything you've ever told me, he seems like decent folk. At the very least, you trust him, and you're not exactly the type who trusts easily. Of course, you never mentioned that he was one of those psychopaths, but... If you think he's someone we can count on here, I believe you."

"I'm inclined to think the same," Vesemir hums. "It isn't my favorite plan, but we also don't have any others. Now is not the time to be throwing away viable options just because they don't make us entirely happy. However," he adds, his tone shifting to something a little gentler, "it should be up to Jaskier. He's the one who has demons to fight here."

All eyes turn to Jaskier then, and he squirms a little under the sudden attention. "I think..." he begins, then has to pause for a moment to think about it. How does he feel about this? Conflicted, that's for sure. He can't pin down his thoughts for a long minute, but no one rushes him on it. Of course they don't, not when they themselves are so close to nonverbal half of the time. Geralt especially just looks at him steadily, waiting patiently for his answer.

"I think people can surprise you," Jaskier settles on at last, thinking about the assumptions that he had made about Geralt the first time he'd seen him. He had seen him with his yellow eyes and his ferocious snarl and assumed that he would be just like the other witchers that Jaskier had had the misfortune to know. "I don't think it's fair for us to assume that just because he's part of the same group as others who have done bad things, that he'll also be bad. We ought to give him a chance to prove us wrong."

"Oh, you're just a darling, aren't you?" Yennefer says with a soft little smile. "Gods, imagine being so kind to people after being so hurt. Personally, I'm more a fan of just destroying everything in retribution, but to each his own."

"It's not entirely selfless," Jaskier says with a wry smirk of his own. "I really, really want to get into that castle and try the Yennefer method, and I think we might need him in order to do that, so. Besides, if we're wrong about him and he winds up being a bad idea after all, it's not like I'm defenseless, right?"

"You'll never be without one of us by your side," Geralt affirms. "I promise you that."

"I was talking about how good I've gotten at throwing daggers into the faces of those practice dummies this winter, but sure, that's good to know, too," Jaskier winks.

From there, the preparations begin. For the witchers, that means preparing their weapons and their swords. Not that they're ever not ready for a sudden battle, mind you; privately, Jaskier thinks it must be f*cking exhausting to be so ready all the time, for anything and everything. But if it makes them feel better to run through their stock of potions and run the whetstone over their blades until the edges are so sharp they could cut a falling strand of hair clean in two, so be it. Jaskier, having no potions and swords to tend to, focuses on preparing them some packs full of food and water and medical supplies, just in case. Gods only know what Yennefer is doing to prepare, but there are enough loud noises and bright flashes of light from her part of the keep to make sure no one disturbs her.

They make a plan to leave early in the morning, and everyone returns to their rooms after dinner to try and get some rest. Try being the operative word, since for Jaskier's part, at least, he's far too restless to do anything except doze on Geralt's chest despite the witcher's best efforts to soothe him to sleep. When the time comes for Geralt to wake him properly, he doesn't even feel tired-- he's buzzing with energy in a way that supercedes physical exhaustion.

Geralt offers him some... nourishment before they leave, but Jaskier shakes his head and presses his lips together. Far be it from him to turn down any chance to get his mouth around Geralt's co*ck, normally, but this morning he doesn't think he could. Just the idea of eating anything --food or otherwise-- makes him feel a little nauseous. He won't be alone this time. If he needs to eat later, he can. Geralt frowns, the way he always does when he's worried about Jaskier, but doesn't press the issue.

Yennefer summons the portal, and Jaskier had forgotten what a terrifying sight magic of that magnitude is. He'd been asleep both times that she'd summoned them for her and Geralt to travel to and from Stregobor's hideout, and that second day with Geralt was so long ago that Jaskier feels like the experience might have happened to a different person altogether. Now, though, facing down the giant swirling mass of light and noise and chaos, at least he knows what it'll be like. Even more important, he knows and trusts the people that he'll be stepping through it with. However terrifying the display of Yen's power might be, he knows that he's on the right side of it.

They step one by one into the portal in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, and they step out of it in a clearing in the woods somewhere that must be far away indeed. The air smells different here, and the temperature is warmer. The ground beneath Jaskier's boots is soft and muddy, puddles of water mixed into the marshy grass around them. "So where exactly are we?" Jaskier says when the whirling of his brain inside of his skull slows down enough to allow him to speak. "I've never seen--"

He doesn't get to finish his question, because all of a sudden the ground about thirty feet in front of them explodes upwards in a shower of mud and filth. Jaskier has to blink a few times to make sure that his eyes aren't deceiving him. The monster --for it is a monster, it has to be-- looks something akin to an old woman, except far more gruesome. She's filthy from head to toe, naked to expose sallow skin and tit* that sag to her belly, with lanky dark hair that falls across her face. Her body is grotesquely disproportionate, with long arms that dip down into the mud at her feet as she screeches at the party wordlessly.

"Oh, gross," Eskel says calmly.

"Man, I hate water hags," Lambert grumbles.

"I got it," Geralt snarls, reaching behind himself to unsheath one terrifying sword with a ringing metallic tone.

It only takes a few moments, but Jaskier watches the whole event with rapt attention. It's a little hard to see through the tight ring of witches and witchers that are suddenly surrounding Jaskier, but he finds that if he sort of hops up onto Eskel's back like a child who wants carrying, he can get a decent enough view of the show. And a marvelous show it is; Geralt is a whirl of activity almost too quick for the eye to see, just a blur of flashing armor and whipping silver tresses that are going to make a f*cking incredible ballad the next time Jaskier is left alone with a piece of paper and a quill.

The creature --the water hag, Lambert had called her-- uses her long arms to fling mud first at the party, then at Geralt when he leaps into her immediate field of vision and asserts himself as her primary target. He rolls to the side easily, avoiding the handful of muck that surely would have obscured his vision as he starts moving in to slash at her with his sword. She slashes right back with horrendously clawed hands, swiping at his face and chest anytime that he moves within range. He dodges those, too, or else blocks her with his sword, not a single blow landing on him. It's a terrifying, deadly dance, and yet Geralt doesn't even appear to be breathing hard.

More and more slashes open on the water hag's skin, but she continues to attack him relentlessly. Lambert snorts quietly. "What a f*ckin' idiot. This would have been over already if he'd just used--"

"I don't need the commentary, Lambert," Geralt snaps, having overheard even over the creature's shrieking and the clang of his weapon. "I was just making sure I'd only need one. Not all of us have an infinite supply of bombs, you know."

"Sounds like a personal problem to me," Lambert retorts, even quieter, and Jaskier giggles.

Geralt reaches into a pocket and pulls out something that Jaskier's eyes are too weak to see from this distance. He figures it out from context a moment later, though, when Geralt lobs it at the creature and there's an unmistakable explosion-- abomb. Instead of shrapnel and fire, however, this bomb seems to explode ice and wind like they're right back in Kaer Morhen in the heart of winter again. The water hag is encased in ice, frozen solid like a gruesome statue for long enough for Geralt to do one final twirling leap in her direction and bring his sword slashing down to cleave her head clean from her shoulders.

"Nice," Eskel comments. "Make a good trophy."

"Northern Wind, gets 'em every time," Lambert says smugly.

"Holy sh*t," Jaskier breathes. "He's really f*cking good at that."

Geralt doesn't take a trophy as Eskel had pondered, but instead makes his way back over to the group and peers closely at Jaskier's face. "Are you alright? You're not hurt at all, are you?"

"Hard for him to be hurt when you took care of that threat in a whopping sixty seconds flat," Yennefer remarks drily. "He's fine, Geralt."

"That was some sloppy footwork," Vesemir chimes in. "You shouldn't have to be leaning to avoid projectiles, you should have already moved your feet enough to be out of the damn way. You lean like that, you're going to throw off your center of balance, and then one good hit from her and--"

"Well I thought it was brilliant," Jaskier interrupts, because Geralt looks like he's about to roll his eyes so hard that it'll do lasting physical damage to his optical nerve. He weasels his way past his bodyguards so that he can press himself chest to chest with Geralt, a decision he instantly regrets when something gross --he's not looking down to see what-- transfers from Geralt's armor to Jaskier's shirt. Whatever, worth it. "Gods, that was really something. Even better than when you were fighting off those guards that time. That was-- I've never seen anyone move like that, and you didn't even bat an eye at the fact that she was all horrid looking!"

"Someone please tell me that my sense of smell is broken and that Jaskier isn't horny right now," Lambert snorts.

"No, he's definitely horny right now," confirms Eskel.

Jaskier puts his chin high in the air, ever defiant, but he does take a step back from Geralt considering that they're in the presence of somewhat polite company. "What can I say? I enjoy competency."

They set off then in what Lambert assures them is the right direction, although the woods on all sides of them look exactly the same to Jaskier. It's only Lambert's confidence that guides them, but at least it doesn't seem poorly founded. After about ten minutes of slogging through the swampy woodland, they come upon a little hut tucked between two trees. It's tiny, and the whole thing leans slightly to the left, but there are signs of someone working hard to keep it up. Little repairs here and there, all relatively recent, mark is as inhabited.

That, and the figure who exits it a moment after the hut comes into view, as silent and graceful as a shadow in his all-black clothing. He's got olive skin and dark, curly hair that's pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head. He also has the yellow eyes of a witcher, almost luminous in the wash of green and brown of the forest. The white glint of his teeth is also distractingly vibrant when the man smiles at them easily.

"Hey, asshole," Lambert calls, voice loud enough to startle a flock of birds from the trees above, "who the f*ck told you to get lazy? Just ran into a water hag out there. Keep your f*ckin' yard clean."

"Oh no, not Ol' Betsy!" Aiden --for this has to be Aiden-- cries, schooling his face into a very convincing little pout. "She was my favorite neighbor, you bastard. Now who will keep the children out of my swamp?"

"The sight of that ugly mug of yours ought to do the trick." Lambert has reached the hut, and while everyone else lingers back a bit, he walks right up and pulls Aiden into a tight embrace. If the barbed words and accidental murders of the last few minutes have damaged their friendship at all, you can't tell it from the way that they cling to each other for a long moment. Jaskier notices Lambert turn his head ever so slightly to press his nose into the curve of Aiden's neck, the way that Geralt does to him sometimes when he's trying to breathe in his scent. When he looks even closer, he sees Aiden doing it right back.

Jaskier goes to give Geralt a significant what the f*ck is that?? look, and finds him already sharing that exact surprised and confused look with the others in their group. At least they're all on the same page, even if that page is just the word "friend" with a giant question mark after it.

Everyone keeps their mouth shut, though, and eventually the two drop their embrace and step back a bit from each other, though not for. "It's a little early for you to be out of the doghouse," Aiden remarks, head tilted to the side a bit. He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest, not in a hostile way, but more so with an air of barely contained amusem*nt. "And with such an entourage, too. Hell, I knew you were trouble, but I didn't know you needed five babysitters all to yourself."

"Go f*ck yourself," Lambert says breezily, but then he hesitates. "Actually I-- we need help."

Aiden's look of surprise isn't unkind. "Oh? With what?"

"We're in a little bit of a sh*tty situation, and... it's life or death. For us, and for a lot of innocent people. You said once that you'd have my back if I ever needed it, so. I need it. Bad."

All of that teasing energy is gone from Aiden, then. He stands up straighter and rolls his shoulders a couple of times like he might be asked to jump into combat right that very second. "I meant it. What can I do?"

Watching Lambert explain the situation to Aiden, with some input from Yennefer and Geralt regarding what they found on their own mission, is not a pleasant experience. The man is, in short, livid. It starts the moment that Lambert tells him that they'd abducted Jaskier and held him hostage, and it only grows from there as he gets more details about the exact nature of his bretheren's atrocities. He's pacing back and forth in the hard-packed earth before the hut, every line of his body vibrating with anger, hands clenching and flexing at his sides like he longs for a weapon to hold in them.

"I'll kill them," he spits when Lambert is done, teeth pulled back in a rather wolf-like snarl. "I'll skin them all, for that. Those sick, crazy--" Suddenly Aiden stops and claws at the medallion around his throat, yanking off the cat insignia and pulling his arm back to hurl it deep into the swamp. Only Lambert's hand reaching out quick as a snake and snagging his wrist prevents him from sending the medallion careening into the endless mud, never to be seen again.

"Hey, nothing you can't undo," Lambert says lowly, barely loud enough for Jaskier to hear. "Alright? We can go blow some sh*t up if you need to, but you only get one of these."

"I don't want it," Aiden snaps, though he doesn't pull free of Lambert's grasp.

"Yeah, well, I need you to have it, at least for now. After you get us into the citadel though, I know a recipe for some acid so strong it eats through my lead cauldron. Bet it would look cool as f*ck melting a hunk of silver."

Aiden cracks a smile at that, though it's only a small one. He slowly lowers his hand, though Jaskier notices that he tucks the medallion into his pocket instead of putting it back around his neck. "I'll help. I can get you into Stygga, and then I'll fight by your side."

"You would kill your own family?" Yennefer asks quietly. Her voice holds no judgment, and Jaskier remembers what Geralt said of her own origin story and the family who betrayed her. If anyone understands that blood ties aren't always enough to protect you from bloodshed, it's her. Rather, she looks as though she's seeing a new side of Aiden and approving. "That's what it'll come to, if you fight with us. They will die, at your own hand. So consider carefully. Will you be able to kill your own family?"

Another sad smile, but Aiden doesn't hesitate in his answer. "The Feline school is different than the Wolf school, witch. We aren't a pack. It's every witcher for himself, we just all happen to inhabit the same space on occasion. Trust me, I have no family."

They make a camp in the space in front of the hut, since the building itself is far too small to hold even half of them. Eskel carries out a table that they spread out several blank sheets of parchment on, soon filling them with sketches of what must be Stygga Citadel. Jaskier peers at them like he might recognize something, but the little lines and scribbled words look nothing like the single, dark cell that he remembers of the place.

Once the map is drawn, the strategizing starts. Jaskier doesn't know enough about planning a battle to fully follow their words, but he knows enough to feel mounting anxiety in his gut with every word. There's talk of exit strategies, and how many opponents they're likely to face, and even just a short while after seeing Geralt in action against a monster, Jaskier can't help but feel that the whole endeavor is slightly hopeless. There are so few of them, and potentially so many of the Cats, and what if things don't go as smoothly as his wolves seem to be expecting? What if one of them is hurt, or gods forbid killed, because of him?

Geralt responds to his anxiety as wordlessly as Jaskier expresses it, pressing close to him and letting Jaskier take comfort in his presence. He makes sure to suggest ways to keep everyone safe wherever he sees them, though the few books that he's read about military strategy suddenly seem woefully inadequate for participating in this process.

At one point, Vesemir voices the same question that he'd asked of Lambert back at Kaer Morhen, this time directly to Aiden himself. "Are you sure that they'll let you in? From the sound of things, you aren't exactly on speaking terms with the others of your school."

"Oh, trust me, they'll let me in. We're Cats, all we do is feel big feelings." Aiden waved a hand dismissively in the air. "If we excommunicated people every time there was a falling out, the place would be empty. No, we're fickle, but we're also forgiving."

Sometime in the afternoon, when planning has given way to a kind of anxious waiting for nightfall, Geralt stands from the log he'd made his stool, stretched, and declared that he would go and gather some firewood. They would need it for tonight, since they'd be sleeping outside with two humans among them. They'll need a roaring fire to keep them warm, and it would be poor manners to use up all of Aiden's stockpile.

He holds his hand out to Jaskier in invitation, and the man goes with him willingly, though with a little confusion. It isn't like Geralt to ask Jaskier to take part in more labor than necessary, spoiled thing that he is, especially with Lambert and Eskel sitting on their arses a few feet away. He's not going to say no to doing his part, though.

It all becomes clear when they're a little ways into the woods, however, surrounded only by the quiet rustling of the trees and the animals in them, and Geralt pulls Jaskier into a tight embrace that still manages to make him feel made of glass. "Hey. Are you alright?" Geralt says, clearly having deemed this place private enough for a conversation just between the two of them. "This can't be-- it's probably not enjoyable to hear us talk about this."

"Not as bad as I expected," Jaskier says honestly. "I'm worried, but it's manageable."

"We won't let anything happen to you," promises Geralt.

"It's not me that I'm worried about," sighs Jaskier. "Or rather, I am worried about myself, but not myself alone. I worry for all of you, Geralt. I worry for the whole pack. I don't want any of you hurt for my sake."

"We're not just doing this for you, Jask. Yes, you're the reason why we're here, but even if you hadn't-- if I had never--" Geralt breaks off them and looks off into the trees for a long moment, considering. Jaskier can see him rearranging and discarding words in his mind. "Even if you weren't part of our lives, and we just heard tell that this was happening at Stygga, we still would come. No one should have to go through what you did, and what these others still are. We would still be here. The fact that we all know and love you only makes it more... fun."

"Fun?" echoes Jaskier with a smile, though it's mostly only to cover up the sudden tears of gratitude. "I don't think that you and I have the same definition of 'fun.'"

"That's because you're not insane. Someone has to be the normal one, and it's certainly not going to be any of us."

That makes Jaskier laugh, and Geralt's whole body seems to relax a little at the sound. His hold on Jaskier becomes a little less frantic, as if he's no longer trying to hold Jaskier together, merely enjoying the feel of him. Jaskier can relate. He tilts his head a little so that he can press a chaste kiss to Geralt's lips. "Happy to be of help, my love."

Geralt rumbles a little bit in the hmm that Jaskier has come to know as his approving one. "I had another reason for bringing you out here other than the firewood," he confesses.

"I know, you wanted privacy so that we could talk. You're not very subtle, witcher mine."

"No. Well, yes, but-- there's something I'd like to ask of you." Geralt's expression goes sheepish, or as much as his expression ever does anything. "It would make me feel better if you'd swallow some of my seed. I didn't want to ask you in front of the others, especially not someone you just met, but I thought maybe if I brought you out here with me--"

"Geralt of Rivia, did you bring me out into the woods to proposition me?" Jaskier teases, clutching at his imaginary pearls with an offended expression. "I'm scandalized. We are in the middle of preparing for my first battle and you're just trying to get your co*ck wet. Unbelievable."

Geralt has to know that he's kidding, if not because of how well he knows Jaskier then at least because he'd smell any real anger on him, but the witcher grimaces anyway and fixes his gaze on his boots. "That's not what I meant. I just meant that you didn't-- you haven't had any of that since yesterday, and I want you to keep your strength up. If you're not in the mood, it doesn't have to be... intimate."

"Melitele's sweet tit*, please tell me you're not about to go get a bowl and a spoon again," Jaskier says in genuine disbelief. "You and this cum bowl, honestly."

"That was one time, and I was trying to be respectful!" Geralt defends, eyes rolling with exasperation. If the conversation has the air of an old argument, it's only because Jaskier and the others have given him endless sh*t for that boneheaded move a hundred times over the course of the winter. "It's not exactly easy to strike a balance between consent and biology here, alright?"

"But you do it wonderfully," Jaskier assures him, unable to continue teasing him about something he's watched the man struggle with for months now. "You're an icon in the field. Now come here, you absolutely ridiculous bastard, and let me get that pretty co*ck of yours down my throat, hmm?"

They leave the woods a while later with Jaskier's belly full and Geralt's arms heavily laden with the firewood they'd promised. No one is fooled by the pretense, of course-- Jaskier knows that he looks f*cked out right now, just like he knows it's his best look. Still, the fire is nice when they go to settle down for the night. Jaskier shares a bedroll with Geralt, and with the witcher at his back and the fire before him, Jaskier barely feels the chill of the fading winter.

The others settle into their own bedrolls around the makeshift campsite, and Aiden goes back into the little hut with a wish for them all to sleep well. Eskel yawns across the fire and waits until the door is closed to say, "So, are we all agreeing to just pretend like we won't notice when Lambert sneaks past us in an hour and goes to the hut?"

"Huh? I'm not going into the hut," Lambert says, a little too innocent. If Jaskier were a witcher, he'd bet he could smell the lie on him. "Aiden said it's only big enough for one, you all f*ckin' heard him."

Geralt is shaking with suppressed laughter behind him. "Any bed is big enough for two if you're determined enough. You wouldn't mind having to get in real close with Aiden, would you, Lamby?"

"Listen, f*cker--"

"Of course," Eskel interrupts, "you could also conserve space by stacking up. You could always just get on top of Aiden. Or underneath him, both ways can be good."

There's a sudden rustle of fabric as Lambert struggles free of his layers. "Alright you little sh*t, that's it--"

"Enough, boys," Vesemir says exasperatedly from where he's seated on a nearby tree stump taking first watch, just in case. "Go the f*ck to sleep."

After a few more mumbled death threats and whispered innuendos, everyone does settle. The leftover tiredness from the sleepless night before does Jaskier some good now, and even his churning nerves can't keep him awake. Geralt's closeness helps, too; it's hard to stay awake for long when Jaskier focuses on that slow, steady heartbeat. That rhythm lulls him to sleep flawlessly now, protecting from worry for a few hours until the sun can rise again.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

It seems counterintuitive to Jaskier that they would go during broad daylight, until Aiden had explained that Cats are more given to a nocturnal lifestyle, particularly when they're settled for winter. When they take another portal to a place a few miles from Stygga Citadel at noon the next morning, it's something akin to arriving at midnight for anyone else in the world. Most everyone would be asleep, he assures them, and only one or two will be assigned to stand watch.

They take with them a horse and cart, enchanted by Yennefer to look like it's full of casks of ale and crates of food. It's also spelled to make the combined weight of four witchers, a sorceress, and a bard feel no heavier to the poor horse than a few bales of hay. "The enchantment won't mask your scent or any sounds you make," she explains as they all pile in, "and any sudden movements might cause the visual aspect to ripple for any observers. So stay still, shut up, and hope that they don't get close enough to sniff us out before we can get inside."

The first time that Stygga Citadel comes into view, with Aiden leading the horse by the reins and all the rest silent and still in the cart, Jaskier doesn't want to believe it. It seems impossible, that this might be the place where he was held captive, raped, and experimented on in both body and mind. This can't be the right place, because it just looks so... normal.

The shape of the building is different, with more spires and towers than Kaer Morhen, but familiar in the way that both keeps have fallen into utter disrepair. Bricks crumble, ivy overtakes the walls, and there's a sad sense of near-emptiness that pervades the building and the grounds surrounding it. There's a wide trench that surrounds the citadel, in what might have been called a moat if it was filled with water, but which can only be described as a threat as it is now, filled with wooden spikes filed to deadly points.

"Who's that, there?" a voice calls from far above them, and Jaskier barely stops himself from jerking his head up to seek out the source. Instead, he moves only his eyes, up and up until he sees a solitary figure perched high upon the wall of the keep, one leg dangling casually over the side, twirling a knife between his fingers with a bored expression.

Immediately, Jaskier's heart starts to pound. Does he know this man? Has he been hurt by him? There were so many men, and so much of his memory from that time is hazy now, and Jaskier can't place this face in particular, but it might well be one of the people who hurt him and Jaskier doesn't know what to do with that. Staring down his former captors had sounded like such a good idea in the safety of Kaer Morhen, but here, protected only by magic that he can't see or sense it's all too--

Geralt's hand slides overtop of Jaskier's ever so slowly, until he can curl his fingers around Jaskier's and squeeze in what little show of comfort he can give at the moment. Jaskier inhales and exhales, as soft as he can, and tries to recenter himself. He's not alone. He's not alone, and he won't ever be alone again, and he can do this, damn it.

"You wound me, Axel!" Aiden cries, throwing his arms in the air dramatically. "What, it's been a few measly years, and suddenly you don't remember my face anymore?" He lifts his medallion --donned reluctantly once more this morning before they departed-- off of his chest and waggles it at the guard. "Can't believe you'd forget your old schoolmate so easily."

There's a pause as the man upon the wall squints down at Aiden with his head co*cked. "Aiden?" he finally says.

"Yes, you bastard, now let me in." Aiden urges the horse and cart forward until they're right at the edge of the trench, then stops when the drawbridge doesn't lower. "Well? Come on, I don't have all day."

"Why are you showing up so late in the season?" Axel says slowly, his tone suspicious. "There's barely a few weeks left before spring. Why return now from wherever the hell you've been f*cked off to the last ten years?"

"Because I was f*ckin' busy, that's why. If you want a story, at least let me in to tell it. I don't feel like standing out here yowling at you from the other side of the pit like a stray tomcat, you prick."

The noise Axel makes can only be described as a hiss, and if Jaskier wasn't so close to throwing up from nerves, he might have laughed. Then those yellow eyes turn to the cart, and even though Jaskier knows that Yen's enchantment is bound to be a good one, he still has never felt so horrifyingly seen in his entire life. But Axel just roves his eyes over the goods that aren't really there and asks, "You got some ale with you?"

"Of course I do, wouldn't show up without it."

"Good. We're out. Hang on a minute, let me get the bridge."

Axel disappears, and Jaskier exhales for what feels like the first time in several hours. The danger hasn't passed, however; Jaskier is smart enough to know that while the distance from their hiding place in the cart to the top of the wall might have been enough of a cover to conceal them from even a witcher's senses, that won't soon be the case. The drawbridge lowers, and with every click of the chain they draw closer to the moment in which no spell will conceal the presence of six extra heartbeats.

Aiden strolls across the drawbridge, leading them all into the keep one agonizing clip-clop of hooves at a time. The sudden shade of the interior hallway running around the perimeter of the citadel makes Jaskier's eyes useless for a long moment, blinking rapidly as he struggles to be able to see in the lower light. Finally he's able to look around a bit, and sees that Axel is still in the other room along with the drawbridge controls, bringing the bridge back up now. Any minute now, he'll walk back out and it'll all be over then.

Everyone stays still as a whisper. Aiden frees one of the long knives on his belt and holds it behind his back, twirling it almost playfully. Jaskier rethinks every goddamn decision that he's ever made that has led him to this moment.

"So tell me, alleycat," Axel says from the other room, his voice drawing louder as he approaches once more. Jaskier wants to close his eyes against what he knows is coming, but he can't. Here it comes. This is the moment, whether Jaskier is ready or not. Just a few more heartbearts, and then, "I'm curious, what had you playing the stray all these years? They say--"

The words get caught in Axel's throat as he enters the hallway and his eyes immediately go wide with the realization that something is amiss. A split second later, Aiden's knife gets caught in his throat, too.

The body slides to the floor with a lot less blood than Jaskier would have expected, though he supposes that it makes sense given that there's a blade still stuck in his jugular vein. "Kind of a shame, I really would have liked to know what they've been saying about me," Aiden remarks, putting his hands on his hips and looking down at his former classmate with a frown. "The rumors that fly around here are vicious, but gods are they tasty."

"You can indulge your vanity later," Geralt rumbles, voice still quiet, standing beside Jaskier and getting out of the cart. All the others are doing the same, and Jaskier scrambles to follow suit, only stumbling a little on his shaking legs. "Let's get moving, before someone sniffs us out. Stay with your partners, give the signal if you bite off more than you can chew." Everyone nods and gives their weapons one final adjustment, but Geralt just looks down at Jaskier. "Are you alright?"

"Think I bit off more than I can chew just by coming here with you," Jaskier says, voice trembling. He feels a little lightheaded with the pounding of his pulse. "What the hell am I doing here?"

"Reminding yourself where you came from, and how far you've come since then," Geralt says before pulling him into a quick, chaste kiss. "I love you. Go, stay with Yen. Be safe. I'll see you when we meet up for a glass of wine in a castle of skinned Cats."

"I love you, too," Jaskier says, a little steel back in his spine at Geralt's words, and then they're off.

Yennefer takes up the lead, of course, her hands empty and yet deadly where she keeps them raised protectively in front of her. Jaskier's own palms are slick with nervous sweat around the handles of his two daggers, fingers constantly shifting grip as he tries to take in every sight and sound in the hallway. His senses feel heightened by the adrenaline, and maybe it's all in his head but he swears he can smell the memory of this place.

That's the only thing that feels the same. The halls that Yennefer leads them down, heading towards the dormitories that Aiden had described, are far too open and free to have been anything Jaskier was ever allowed to wander. Nothing here looks familiar at all. The smell though... there's something about the air that Jaskier remembers, like a ghost imprint on his lungs, and he finds himself sucking in more of it in spite of himself. He shouldn't; this is the air of murderers and rapists, of scientists gone mad, of thugs who think themselves gods. He shouldn't want this air in his lungs anymore, and yet Jaskier keeps breathing it in greedily because this place, this musty air, is the only thing he owns.

Was. It was the only thing he owns. He's not the boy in the dark room anymore.

He gets lost in the memory for only a split second, but it's enough to get sloppy. He's drawn back to reality when Yennefer comes to a sudden stop in front of him, whirling in a tight little arc around him and throwing her hands up in a burst of light. Jaskier's head follows her movement just a second too late, and by the time he looks around to see the object of her wrath, the witcher who had been less than a foot from sinking his sword through the center of Jaskier's back has already been halted by a ring of glowing magic that wraps around his throat, slowly choking him. His mouth forms silent words, most likely a cry for help that never made it past his lips.

"Goodness, and here I thought they might actually give me a challenge, these wily Cats I've heard so much about," Yennefer says in an utterly bored tone. "I'm actually a little disappointed."

Before Jaskier can answer --though honestly, he has no idea what in the seven hells his answer would be-- she's flicking her hand and the witcher drops to the floor, already dead. There's no visible sign of what has killed him, and that makes it somehow even more terrifying to witness. The sword clatters to the stone at Jaskier's feet, and he startles backwards on instinct despite the blade being harmless now that there's no one to wield it, gasping like it's a snake in the grass prepared to bite him.

His own sudden motion throws off his balance, and Jaskier has to take several steps backwards to keep himself upright. He stumbles into something, a tapestry by the feel of it, and feels it give way unexpectedly, like there's an empty space where the wall behind it should be. He catches himself, standing upright on his own two feet once more, but not before his ears pick up on a faint little whooshing sound. A whistle, actually, one that gets rapidly louder and louder until a ghostly growl seems to fill the air of the citadel all around them.

"INTRUDERS IN THE SOUTH WING!"

"Oh, f*ck, leave it to you to find a magical tripwire in this place," Yennefer says, but a moment later her face is overtaken by a wide grin. "Might actually have a little fun now. You ready, bard?"

"Uh," Jaskier says eloquently. "Um?"

Then, without any further warning, absolute chaos descends. There are people running, voices shouting in the distance, and Jaskier knows without a doubt that there are people coming. Many people, if the way the stone ricochets with voices and the metallic glides of weapons being unsheathed is any indication. The whole keep is coming for them, whether Jaskier is ready for that or not.

Yennefer, at least, looks like she is. Her hands are raised in front of her once more, and they seem to radiate energy even without a spell currently active on her lips. She turns her back to Jaskier, like he's some sort of prize that she's guarding, pressing him back against the wall he'd just stumbled into. "Stay put. I'll keep them back. If anyone gets too close, you know what to do with those knives of yours."

And then, as no less than 6 witchers round the corner and come into their view, she allows a glowing magical fire to consume her hands. Jaskier watches in fascination the way that the unnatural light source casts her face in an appropriately terrifying, ghostly light. She looks beautiful and deadly, an effect that only intensifies when she throws her head back and howls like a wolf to the moon. She's a wild thing, magic and ferocity, and Jaskier is suddenly certain of nothing so much as he's certain of the fact that it's a bad night to be a Cat.

Two answering howls from elsewhere in the keep snap Jaskier back to reality as he remembers that the howl wasn't just a marker of Yen's definite insanity, but rather a signal to the others that all hell has broken loose and they need assistance. The answering howls mean that help is on the way, but they sound distant to Jaskier's ears. Right, he's all the backup that Yennefer is likely to have, at least for a few minutes. He readies himself, taking a firmer grip on his daggers, bending his knees, and bracing himself for the moment he'll need to strike.

Geralt hadn't been wrong about Yennefer's range; with her magic firing off blasts left and right, no one gets within ten feet of them. It isn't long before the witchers who start coming to seek them out --all dressed in their nightclothes and looking rather frazzled, Jaskier notices-- have to climb over the bodies of their fallen schoolmates before they're able to pass through the narrow hallway to reach the intruders. Jaskier suddenly feels a little useless, because what good are his little knives when put next to Yennefer's.... Yenniferness?

Then the first explosion rocks the hallway, and Yen screams, and Jaskier kisses his brief moment of assuredness goodbye.

Jaskier has spent enough time around Lambert this winter watching him design, make, and talk about bombs like they were his children to know that this is one meant to specifically target magic. It will render Yennefer unable to tap into her Chaos for a short period of time, and while she'll be able to use it again before too long, Jaskier is willing to bet that isn't the only such bomb that the Cats have in their armory. They'll keep chucking them in Yen's direction until she can't fight anymore, and then... it'll be a bad night to be a Jaskier, too.

They need an exit, and now. Jaskier throws his head back and gives a howl just as Yennefer did, his throat burning with the force at which he lets the noise rip through him and into the air. Once again, he hears other howls from elsewhere in the keep, maybe a little closer than before, but not close enough. They're probably fighting off their own groups of enemies, struggling to push through. If help arrives, it'll be too late. Jaskier needs to find a solution, now.

He looks around wildly, and finds his answer in the tapestry that he'd stumbled into --and through-- just a few moments before. There was some sort of empty space behind it. It might have been just covering up a damaged section of wall, as many tapestries of Kaer Morhen do, but there's at least a chance that behind it might be some sort of escape for him and Yennefer. Maybe, if he's just a little bit lucky, there might be a way out.

Jaskier turns with no further hesitation and darts to the tapestry, pulling it away from the wall and finding, to his immense relief, a hallway behind it. "Yen, through here!" he yells, and grabs her by the elbow to yank her in after him. She's still firing off spells as she goes, killing the last few witchers in the hallway to cover their retreat. By the time more come, maybe they won't notice where he and Yennefer have gone. Maybe they'll be safe to hide here until help comes, and Yennefer can conceal them with her magic, and then--

"Jaskier," Yennefer says, and he's alarmed to hear that her voice sounds like it has all of the strength of a soaking wet piece of parchment. He whips his head around to look at her and finds her swaying on her feet, clutching at a place at her side where wet, red blood has soaked through the fabric of her corset and coated her fingers. "I'm going to pass out now."

She immediately follows through on the promise, dropping so fast that Jaskier is barely able to catch her before she hits the floor in a dead faint. "Oh, f*ck," Jaskier whispers, a sense of dread washing over him. This is bad. This is very, very bad. For all of the many things that Jaskier has learned over his winter with the Wolves, how to care for gaping wounds in someone's side is not among them.

If Yennefer is going to survive this, he's going to need to find help, or at least some sort of medical kit. That's probably a thing that they have around here somewhere, right? He doesn't ever remember getting medical care while he was here, but surely the witchers have something that they use for themselves, given the dangerous nature of their job. He's pretty small and unassuming;if he tries to be stealthy, he might be able to sneak around a bit and find something that'll do the trick, at least in a pinch.

"I'll be right back," Jaskier whispers to Yennefer, though she's currently beyond hearing much of anything. "I'm going to go find something that'll help you and I'll be back as soon as I can, okay? Just--- stay alive for a little bit longer." Overall, not his best pep talk. Probably a good thing no one is around to hear it.

He stands on unsteady legs, feeling a little lightheaded with all of the adrenaline and fear, and looks around him for some sort of direction about where to go. It's pretty simple, actually; there's only one way down the hallway and that's forward. Easy enough choice to make, since he sure as hell isn't going back towards the area where all the Cats are heading. Maybe he can try one of the numerous metal doors along the hallway and see if one of them might lead to--

Jaskier freezes suddenly as a sickening wave of recognition washes over him. He's never seen one of these doors from this side, but he can perfectly picture what they look like from the other; they're cold, forbidding dark gray rectangles with small slits at the bottom through which trays of food could be slipped through. No window, no handle, no hope of ever passing through unless your Master came to collect you, caged and blindfolded, to take you somewhere else. On the inside, that door is the only decoration to break up the monotony of four walls of identical dark brick. Rows and rows of stone that, if you counted them over and over again every day over the course of three years, you might have memorized the exact number of purely because it's the only thing you have to think about that isn't... unthinkable.

It's the cells. Each of these doors leads to a cell just like the one that Jaskier spent the vast majority of his remembered life in. The whole time, he had been just on the other side of a wall from --if the number of doors is anything to go off of-- dozens of others just like him. The whole time he'd thought he was alone, and he was just a breath away from others like him.

He has to get to them. He has to free them, to end their suffering as Geralt ended his. He reaches for the handle of the door closest to him even as he understands that the action will be useless. Sure enough, as he tugs on it, the door remains firmly closed, locked tight with keys that Jaskier doesn't have. Dropping to the floor, he finds that even the food slot at the bottom is locked, preventing him from slipping so much as a fingertip into the room beyond.

Frustration rises up in him, instantaneous and sickly. If Yennefer were awake, this would be no obstacle. What was a steel door in the face of her Chaos? She could rip every door in this hallway off the hinges with a snap of her fingers, and then they could all be on their way out of here. But Yennefer isn't awake, and the poor bastards trapped in these cells have no one but a single useless bard to count on for rescue. A bard with nothing but shaking, useless hands that can barely hold onto his daggers.

But just because Jaskier can't get to them himself doesn't mean that he can't help, and he holds onto that fact like a lifeline. He can find the medical kit, he can patch Yennefer up, and she can free the other captives. He can do that, at least. Steeling himself to ignore the waves of horror that keep striking him every time he looks at one of the doors, Jaskier turns and sets off down the hallway away from Yennefer's collapsed form. He'll find something eventually, he has to, and then everything will be okay.

He doesn't make it far down the hallway before something in Jaskier's gut twists in a strange, intangible sense of foreboding. His body knows that something is wrong, and instinct has him wanting to stop in his tracks. He ignores it, because he has learned to trust his mind to be stronger than his body and he'll be damned if he's going to go back to his old ways now. Whatever it is, whatever is coming, he's ready. He has to be ready.

He isn't ready.

There is no amount of mental preparation or dagger training or well rehearsed plans of attack that could have allowed Jaskier to be ready for the sight of the figure who appears at the end of the hall. He enters the hallway like a shadow, sliding from some alcove or offshoot in a single graceful motion and standing there, hands in pockets and looking almost bored, and Jaskier knows that face. How could he forget, when it was the just about the only face he saw every day for three years? How could he forget, when sometimes that face still appears in his dreams-- or more accurately, his nightmares?

"Well, well, well," comes the bored voice of Gaetan, Jaskier's former master, "look what the cat dragged in. Didn't expect to see you here again, little slu*t. What happened? Too much trouble for your new master to want to keep you around? Or did you just miss my co*ck so much that you couldn't stay away?"

He should make some sort of scathing comment. Jaskier is an intelligent person who's been trading barbs with Lambert all winter, and he knows how to use his words to cut a man to ribbons. When he opens his mouth to speak, however, nothing comes out. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the thing before him is no man at all, just a monster.

Seeing his face again, even after all this time, is like a punch to the gut. For so long, the sight of Gaetan --not that Jaskier ever dared to address him as anything but Master, then-- was one that filled him with hope. When Master walked into his room, it meant a chance to prove himself. He could be good, and he could show his Master that he was learning and behaving just like he was told. Maybe he would be allowed to suck his co*ck, or have his hole be used. Maybe Master would even touch his cheek and call him a good boy, after, if he did it right.

But now, looking at the same man, with a few months of freedom under his belt, Jaskier doesn't feel anything except disgust. "f*ck you," he manages to say at last, though his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Now you know that's not how it goes around here," Gaetan says wickedly. "Just like you know you're going to regret using such language towards me, little slu*t. I won't tolerate this disrespect." He starts to walk towards Jaskier --stalk towards him, really-- with a purely predatory expression. "Clearly I need to remind you of your manners."

"Don't come any closer," Jaskier says quickly, a little stronger this time, raising one of his daggers to point at Gaetan's chest. "I know how to use these and so help me Melitele I will."

"Sure, and I know that sometimes even the most promising of tools prove useless in the end," the witcher sneers. His teeth look sharp when he bares them at Jaskier. "Drop them."

"f*ck you," Jaskier says again, "I don't answer to you--"

"I said, drop them."

This time when he says it, there's an authoritative boom to his voice that Jaskier hasn't heard in months, and fear rises up violently in his chest at the familiar tone. Is it the magical hold that they put over his mind that makes him quake and his hands drop the weapons of their own accord, or is it just some weakness of Jaskier's spirit? Either way, it's like his body wants to be back under this monster's control, and the clatter of the daggers on the floor sound awfully like a death sentence.

"Come here," Gaetan says coolly, though his smirk is satisfied and his eyes still burn with anger. Once again, Jaskier's body moves without permission, drawing him forward until they're almost chest to chest. Gaetan co*cks his head at him consideringly. "I wouldn't have thought that you'd have the balls to come back here. You were always a pathetic little thing. The way that you cried when we first brought you in, always begging for mercy. So weak."

"You kidnapped me," Jaskier tells him when he finds his tongue again, ashamed to feel tears on his cheeks. "You stole my mind and experimented on me. You raped me. You're monsters, all of you."

"You don't seem to think the same of your pet witchers out there," Gaetan says, unaffected by the insults and accusations alike. "You've certainly got them suckered, haven't you? Got them all convinced they should come play hero with you. Ah, well, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. You always were an exceptionally good co*cksucker, and it's hard to say no to someone when they're taking your co*ck so well."

Shame makes Jaskier's face go hot, and he thinks for a moment that he might be sick as he suddenly, viscerally recalls all of the times that this monster's hands have been on him. "They're my pack," he says fiercely, through gritted teeth. "It isn't about sex. They love me. They care about me."

"You can't be that naive," snorts the witcher. "They don't love you. They can't. You'd have to be a person in order to be capable of being loved. They can't love you when you're just a set of holes."

"I am someone," Jaskier tells him. His breath is coming shallow and too quick, air wheezing in and out of his lungs like he's gasping for air. "I'm Jaskier the bard, of Kaer Morhen."

"Jaskier?" Gaetan actually throws his head back and laughs at that, a twisted, cruel sound. "A name that I gave you. You're nothing without me, can't you see that? Everything that you are is mine."

Jaskier shakes his head. "I belong to no one but myself. I'll never belong to anyone again."

"Oh, little slu*t," Gaetan says, almost sympathetically, "You'll always belong to me. Now, enough talk. Get on your knees."

"No," Jaskier whispers, dread flooding him. This can't happen. It can't, he won't let it, never again. "You don't own me, I'll never kneel for you again."

Gaetan's aloof, smug expression cracks for the first time, and the anger that's been burning in his eyes spreads across his face as he leans in close and bares his teeth at Jaskier's defiance. His breath fans across Jaskier's skin, and Jaskier knows, with the absolute certainty of a mouse caught under a tomcat's paw, that he has no hope of escape. It's over for him. "On. Your. Knees."

For a moment, everything is suspended. Jaskier goes temporarily numb to the world, unable to see or hear or feel anything that isn't Gaetan's eyes, inches away and staring him down. Everything else is irrelevant for that one moment as destiny waits to see whether Jaskier will stand or fall, and Jaskier waits to see the same.

The first sensation to come back is that of Gaetan's blood spilling hot over Jaskier's hand. It makes it kind of tricky to keep hold of the now-slick hilt of the hidden dagger that Aiden had tucked into the small of his back this morning, so Jaskier goes ahead and thrusts it deeper into Gaetan's heart for safekeeping.

It takes longer than Jaskier would have anticipated for Gaetan to fall to his knees. There are a good fifteen seconds or so that he just stands there looking shocked, his blood soaking Jaskier's torso as well as his own, before the poison that the blade is lined with starts circulating through his body with the final, feeble beats of his heart. Then his eyes glaze over and he starts to collapse, knees thudding against the stone, and when Jaskier finally convinces his bloodied fingers to let go of the knife, the witcher falls sideways in an untidy pile. A few more breaths rattle in and out of his chest, eyes still locked on Jaskier in surprise, lips moving like he's trying to form words that Jaskier can't hear and has no desire to anyways. He's done listening to this man's lies. He has better things to do.

Jaskier's fairly certain that Gaetan's still at least a little bit alive when he steps over the prone body to continue on his way. That’s fine. Some men deserve a witness to their passing, and some deserve to die alone on a floor in a hallway with no one to mourn them.

All of the doors are locked, some small, numb part of Jaskier's brain notes. He really ought to find a key. Maybe Gaetan has the key. He should go back and check the body. He thinks that maybe if he goes back he'll be sick, though, so Jaskier just keeps walking, tugging at the handle of every locked door that he finds. He leaves bloody handprints on them all. If he just keeps moving, eventually a door will open, and Jaskier will find something to help Yen, and everything will be alright.

A hand falls on Jaskier's shoulder, and if he weren't in shock, Jaskier would probably be ashamed of how weak his attempt to shake it off is. Luckily for him, the hand is connected to Geralt, who turns Jaskier around and grabs his face between his hands. "Jaskier, are you alright? The blood--"

"There's a lot of it, isn't there?" Jaskier's mouth feels a bit like it isn't connected to the rest of him. "I didn't know that there was so much blood in a person. Where do we keep it all?"

Geralt makes a face and pulls back a bit, tugging at Jaskier's shirt and running his hands over his torso urgently. "Are you hurt? Is any of the blood yours? Jask, tell me you're alright."

"It isn't my blood," Jaskier says after a moment, because the more connected he feels to his body the more he realizes that he's shaking like a leaf, and saying that he's alright feels like a rather big ask right now. "It's not mine, it's Gaetan's. He was my old master, before we met. He told me to get on my knees, and I stabbed him."

When Geralt pulls him into his arms now, it's cautious, like he isn't sure that he's allowed to do so. "Good. I'm proud of you."

"You're not...?" Jaskier doesn't finish the question because he doesn't know how to say it. What's the best way to ask whether someone still loves you now that you've taken another's life? "I'm sorry," he finishes after a moment.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," Geralt tells him fiercely. "You did what you had to do, and he deserved it. You kept yourself safe. That's what I care about."

Speaking of kept safe-- "Yennefer!" Jaskier gasps as the gears in his brain start turning again. He tries to pull himself free of Geralt's hold, urgently pointing down the hall where her body is. "f*ck, Yen, she's hurt, we have to--"

"We've got her already," Geralt soothes. He doesn't grab for Jaskier again. "Eskel is patching her up. She's awake, and pissed about missing out on all of the fun."

Relief washes over Jaskier. She's in good hands now, and she's going to be alright. "The rest of the Cats?"

"They're dead. We took them all out." Geralt must sense the next question readying itself at Jaskier's lips, because he continues, "No one else was hurt. Lambert and Vesemir and Aiden are all with Yennefer and Eskel. It took us more time to get to you than I would have wanted, but we all made it." For a second, his jaw twitches as Geralt clenches his teeth against some emotion. "Hearing you giving the signal for help-- I--"

"I'm okay," Jaskier says, reaching up like he's going to stroke his thumb across Geralt's cheek and only pulling away when he realizes the digit is still stained with blood. The sight of it sends another bolt of shock through him, and he hurriedly tucks his hand under his arm so he won't have to look at it anymore. That's another horror for another time. "We need the keys. Did you find the keys?"

He doesn't ask what the keys are for. Geralt isn't stupid; he can probably at least guess what these endless rows of doors are for. He just nods and holds the key ring out to Jaskier, waiting until Jaskier holds out his own palm to let the heavy loop of metal drop from his hand into Jaskier's. "They were on the body of the man you killed. I didn't think that you'd want to go back for them."

"Why are you giving them to me?" Jaskier rolls the keys in the palm of his hand, feeling the heft of so much stolen freedom and finding it lacking. These keys aren't heavy enough. He's holding dozens of worlds in his hands.

"Do you really think that the first person they want to see when we open the door is another witcher?" Geralt asks, his eyes sad. "I think they might-- it might be better, if it's you."

The truly sick thing is that when Jaskier takes the ring of keys around and unlocks all of the doors, none of them question the requests to come out of their cells and step over the bodies of their captors to assemble in the courtyard. They look surprised, sure, to see a man in a collar not unlike their own standing there covered in blood telling them that they're safe. It doesn't even take a witcher's keen senses to pick up on their fear when they step from their cells to witness the carnage just beyond their doors. It would take someone far more stoic than a witcher even to not feel something at that.

Even still, they never flinch. They let Lambert and Aiden lead them to the central open space without hesitation, because following orders is what they're made to do. Some vague part of Jaskier wonders if he was ever that compliant, and aches to know that yes, he probably was. He squeezes Geralt's hand a little tighter at the realization, and lets the squeeze he receives in return be his anchor

It takes a few hours --and a few reviving potions that Vesemir has brought with him-- before Yennefer is well enough to open a portal to take the whole lot of them back to Kaer Morhen. In that time, Eskel and Lambert and Aiden make quick of searching the soon-abandoned keep for anything of value. They wind up with several carts full of supplies, books, papers, and whatever other interesting things they can find, packed and ready to return home with them. Jaskier leans against Geralt in the courtyard, afraid that if he sits down then he'll fall asleep on the spot. Geralt doesn't bother him with conversation, just stands there solid and steady to be his support however he needs it.

Twenty four placid faces watch them with interest. None one comments.

They'd talked about this, when they were making their rescue plans, about what to do with the men and women that they liberated. It had seemed obvious, then, that they should all come to Kaer Morhen. Where else on the continent could be safe for people such as them? Now, however, as the wolves scurry around trying to coordinate a meal and a sleeping roll for twenty-four newcomers --twenty-five, really, if you count Aiden, but Jaskier doubts he'll be sleeping on the floor in the great hall-- it seems like an underplanned disaster.

There are people everywhere, far more people than Jaskier can ever remember seeing in his life, and he feels like he's caught in the center of a storm that hasn't quite touched him yet, but threatens to sweep him away any moment now. He stands there and watches everything happen with a dazed sort of distance, like he isn't all the way there, until Geralt appears before him and tugs him gently from the room by his wrist. "Come on, come with me."

"I'm alright," Jaskier says on instinct, without actually pulling himself free. "I should... do something. I should help."

"You've helped enough," Geralt hushes him. "There's nothing left to do that the others can't handle doing on their own."

Jaskier shakes his head, though Geralt isn't looking. He's leading him off down the hallway determinedly, though slow enough that Jaskier doesn't stumble over his own clumsy feet. "They're tired, though. They fought today."

"So did you."

"Not the same way that they did," argues Jaskier.

Geralt does look back at that, but when he does, it's to send Jaskier a stern glare. "You're right, they fought differently. They fought like men who have been trained to their whole lives, and who have killed before, and who will kill again. You fought like someone who was facing fears and taking a life for the first time, even though your hands were never meant for violence. Your fight was harder than theirs."

Jaskier doesn't know what to say to that. "I'm not a child," he finally settles on. "I can take care of myself."

"I know," Geralt replies. "Let me take care of you anyways."

A little while later, once Geralt has freed him of his bloody clothes and sat him on the edge of Jaskier's favorite pool of the hot spring, Jaskier starts to feel all the way real again. It isn't exactly a fun awakening. His body starts to shake of its own accord, not from the cold but from the sudden well of emotions inside of him. Geralt doesn't comment as he smooths a washcloth over his skin, over and over again. The cloth turns pink, and Jaskier's skin slowly returns to white, and the day's sins are washed away little by little.

As Geralt bathes him, he speaks very quietly of what the others discovered in their search of the citadel and interviews with the freed prisoners. Jaskier doesn't remember Geralt ever having taken the time to talk these things through with anyone, but then again, there's a lot about today that he already can't remember as though it's just a distant dream.

In any case, the news is all good; none one else had been sent out of Stygga Citadel before winter closed in, so the people rescued were all of them. They’d expected that there would be others who they would have to go and seek out, in the homes of lordlings like the one who had bought Jaskier. Knowing that it’s truly over now is a weight off of all of their shoulders. The horror is done, now.

Not only that, but apparently somewhere in between the time that they started their first experiment --Jaskier-- and all the rest that followed, the Cats learned a thing or two about how to manipulate the human body. They'd ironed out the kinks, and made it so that all subsequent versions of the experiment yielded far better results. They have all of the assets that Jaskier has, but without the dependency. With a little time to come to terms with their own personhood, they'll be able to go out into the world and lead normal lives, without worrying about where they'll satisfy their inhuman urges or who it's safe to satisfy them with.

It must be obvious how relieved Jaskier is to hear that, because Geralt pauses in his wiping away of the blood on Jaskier's collarbone to look at him intently, nostrils flared a little. "I'm happy too, but either way, we would have dealt with it. We wouldn't have let any harm come to them," he says reassuringly.

"I know you wouldn't," Jaskier says softly, reaching up to cup Geralt's cheek. He feels better about doing that now, without the bloodstains threatening to mar his lovely face. "Is it terrible to say that I'm a little glad for selfish reasons, too? I know that it makes me a hypocrite, but I'm not sure how I'd feel about having to share my white wolf. Or any of my wolves. I'd not have stood in the way, if their lives depended on it, but I wouldn't have liked it, either."

Geralt's eyes go soft, then. "Nothing wrong with liking or not liking something," he rumbles. "Though I do think you might have to share at least a little bit."

"Oh?" Jaskier doesn't like the sound of that, but he tries his best to keep his face neutral.

"Don't tell anyone I told you this," Geralt says conspiratorially, leaning in close until their lips are just a whisper apart, "but I saw Lambert bringing extra blankets up to his room. Think he's just extra cold all of a sudden, or...?"

It feels strange to laugh, but Jaskier does, and wraps his arms around Geralt and allows himself to be drawn into the water until the hot, clean current has removed all traces of tragedy from him. He washes Geralt's hair, too, takes care of him in equal measure, and together they lose track of time in the warm, quiet room. Eventually, once Jaskiers fingers and toes have turned pruny, they towel off and return to their bed and fall into a deeper sleep than Jaskier has ever known in his life.

Gods it's good to be home.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

Spring seems to come fast after that, faster than Jaskier perhaps would have liked. The sands of time are relentless, however much Jaskier might protest having to leave home. Every day only gets better, and Jaskier tries his hardest not to lose sight of his joy by trying to hold so tightly to something he'll never be able to grasp. There will be other winters, many trips home to Kaer Morhen, and in the meantime, he won't have to spend so much as a day without Geralt by his side. That's enough reason for happiness to keep a man afloat for a lifetime.

Some of the refugees are gone from the keep now, though not all. Some of them were able to find their identities in the many reams of notes that they'd taken from Stygga, and they chose to go back to homes that they didn't remember in order to seek new memories for themselves. Others were not as fortunate, but still chose to go regardless. Kaer Morhen kept no prisoners; those who did not wish to stay were escorted to the location of their choosing and wished well as they started their new adventures alone.

Only six remained, five women and one man, who eventually were put up in the keep's many empty bedrooms. They're pleasant enough company, though every now and then Jaskier catches a glassy look in one of their eyes that makes his stomach turn a little uncomfortably. That realization that he had looked the same not so long ago is as unsettling as it is hopeful. On the one hand, Jaskier is painfully aware of his own good fortune in having been Geralt's Surprise. On the other hand, if he can overcome such odds, even with his body only half his own, any of these men and women who came after him have more than a fighting chance.

And his body, Jaskier discovers, feels more and more his own these days. Maybe it's a result of what happened at Stygga, some spell they'd unwittingly broken, but Jaskier privately thinks that it has more to do with closure. There are no more of the men who once owned him, and Jaskier knows that, and as many times as Geralt has said it before, Jaskier feels for the first time that it might be true, that he's free. At the very least, it certainly feels like freedom when he falls into bed with the love of his life and nothing in the world matters except the two of them.

And if Jaskier is a bit bossier these days, Geralt is kind enough not to call him out on it. He just smiles and gives Jaskier what he wants, and then everyone gets to be happy.

Like right now, as Jaskier balances on knees and elbows with his face buried in a pillow and his legs spread to allow Geralt to work at will between them. "Yes, darling, that's-- oh, good, that was good, do it like that aga--!" The rest of Jaskier's praise gets swallowed by sensation, his bardic mastery of words no match for the feeling of Geralt's tongue flickering over his hole. It's just so gods-damned good when juxtaposed with the heat between Jaskier's cheeks caused by Geralt's beard rubbing him raw.

Geralt, true to form, doesn't answer. He does it again, just like that, ever so eager to make Jaskier feel good. The thumb of one hand digs into the soft flesh of Jaskier's arse, holding him open for easier access. The other hand is between Jaskier's legs, stroking his co*ck just right, driving him right to the edge. Maybe it's Jaskier imagination, but the other side feels closer today. Maybe he's crazy, but that far-away feeling seems close enough to touch.

"Don't stop," Jaskier tells him, voice quiet, and Geralt's answering affirmative hum makes Jaskier vibrate in some fabulous ways, and his pleasure ratchets higher. f*ck. "I mean it, keep doing exactly what you're doing and don't stop until I tell you to, okay? f*ck, Geralt, your hands. And the way you move your-- gods, yes, that's perfect!"

It's kind of like the meditation that Eskel has tried to teach him, Jaskier reflects as he deliberately clears all thoughts from his mind except for his awareness of Geralt and the sensations of his body. All the sounds and smells of the room fade away. Even the ache of his knees start to fade. None of that matters except the flickering of Geralt's tongue and the twisting of his wrist. Everything narrows down to the tightening of his balls, the shaking of his thighs, and then--

"Please don't f*cking stop," Jaskier gasps one more time before starts coming all over the bedsheets.

Never let it be said that Geralt can't take direction; he continues to rim Jaskier like it's his job the whole time, though Jaskier can feel his fingers tighten on his flank and his breathing quicken in surprise. He only stops when Jaskier reaches back and fists a hand in his hair and tugs until he relents. "f*ck," Geralt says when his mouth is no longer occupied. "You came."

Jaskier looks back over his shoulder at him, even as his trembling legs give out and he collapses to his belly on the mattress. "I came," he confirms with a grin.

"You came without me telling you to," Geralt says, looking dazed and yet... predatory?

"Well, you were very convincing, it was just in a nonverbal sort of way--"

"I need to f*ck you," Geralt groans, suddenly draped along Jaskier's back. "Please, can I? f*ck, never thought it would-- that I could-- Jaskier, please."

Jaskier has been babbling yes on repeat for a while now, and eventually the words must get through to Geralt's brain because then there's a co*ck pressing into Jaskier's hole and Geralt is moving Jaskier's legs out of the way so that he can f*ck him nice and deep. He isn't gentle about it; Jaskier can't remember Geralt ever taking him quite so vigorously, with hands grabbing at Jaskier's sides and his teeth sinking deep into the meaty part of Jaskier's shoulder to stifle his moans. Then again, Jaskier also can't remember Geralt being so unabashedly turned on before, either. His breath shakes against Jaskier's skin in a way that's entirely new.

"Could-- get used-- to this--" Jaskier manages to get out, though it's difficult to form words when he's being rutted so perfectly. If anyone could f*ck the ability to speak out of a bard, it would be Geralt.

"I just want to make you come," Geralt pants, somehow managing to make it sound reverent. "Over and over again. The way that it felt-- knowing that I could--"

He loses the thread after that, but Jaskier doesn't need words to enjoy this part.

It takes concentration, and a little adjustment for Geralt to get a hand underneath Jaskier and start stroking him again, but Jaskier manages to come unaided once more. Geralt's all but feral as he snarls his victory and reaches his own climax, co*ck flexing so hard inside of Jaskier that he can feel it. Little by little, the littering of bite marks turns to kisses, and Geralt returns to his senses. He eases himself out of Jaskier and falls into bed beside him, chest heaving and eyes hooded as he grins across the pillow at Jaskier.

"Well," Jaskier remarks as he tries to catch his breath, "that was a new side of you." Geralt opens his mouth with a little frown, but Jaskier cuts him off. "Try to apologize and I'll throw you out of that window, witcher. If I leave this world being f*cked to death by a witcher who's overexcited to make me come, then I leave this world happy."

"Hmmm," Geralt muses, smile returning. "And what about you f*cking the witcher instead? What are your feelings on that?"

"Give me a few minutes for the feeling to return to my poor knees and we'll find out," Jaskier winks.

Geralt only pauses for the briefest of moments before rolling Jaskier onto his back and throwing a leg over his waist. "I'm impatient," he says, and it isn't an apology.

Jaskier isn't looking for one anyways. "Then by all means, witcher dear, let the experimentation begin."

.....................

The good news just keeps on coming. Yennefer has been poring over the notes that they lifted from the citadel, looking for any more scraps of information, and she winds up finding them in spades. Details about the mutagens that were used on the humans, combinations that even Vesemir has never heard of, with ingredients from creatures that have been hunted into near-extinction by the witchers themselves. There are also details about where to find the last of these creatures, which Eskel copies down onto a piece of parchment that he can take with him on the Path next week when he plans to leave. Power like that, he says solemnly, doesn't need to be in anyone's hands.

She bursts into the courtyard one day soon after they return, a clutch of papers grasped in her hand and a wild expression on her face. "They're witchers!" she says, a grin growing as she looks around at everyone gathered --the wolves, Jaskier, and a smattering of their refugees.

A long pause ensues, and then Jaskier slowly says, "Yes, darling, we've noticed. The yellow eyes kind of give them away. You're a sorceress, if you hadn't caught that one either."

"No, not them, you," Yennefer says impatiently. "You, and the others we rescued! According to these notes, you're basically witchers. The lifespan, the regeneration abilities... the similarities are remarkable."

"Lifespan? What do you mean, lifespan?" Geralt asks, wide eyes. "Are you saying that Jaskier will--?"

"Live as long as you will, and heal from injuries provided that he doesn't go and do anything too colossally stupid?" Yennefer smirks. "That's exactly what I mean."

"I don't understand," Jaskier says, a little dazedly. "I don't-- are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Yennefer affirms. "You're going to be with us for a long, long time, little bard."

It's an immense gift, one that Jaskier didn't realize he needed, to know that he'll be able to spend many years by Geralt's side. He hadn't ever stopped to consider the difference in their lifespans. He hadn't even stopped to think about how vulnerable he is in comparison to Geralt, except to dismiss it as not a good enough reason for Geralt to leave him behind when it's time to go out on the Path. But now, to know that he can hold his own... it's a relief. And if the way that Geralt kisses him is any indication, he feels that and more.

That would have been good news enough, but Yennefer isn't done. "I found out some more about the memory spells Stregobor used, as well," she says slowly, and Jaskier can tell just by the tone of her voice that something big is about to happen. "I think... if you wanted, Jaskier, I could unlock your mind."

Jaskier can only blink at her for a long minute. He'd known that this was a possibility, of course, in some sort of distant sense. He'd known that Yennefer was working on uncovering this secret for him. He also knew that she's one of the most powerful sorceresses on the continent, so the fact that she's figured out the mystery should not come as a great surprise to him or anyone. Everything about this makes perfect sense.

He's still speechless.

"You don't have to, Jaskier," Geralt says quietly, and Jaskier looks at him just as dazedly as he's been looking at Yen. "No one's going to force you to do it. It's your mind, after all. No one else can make that choice for you."

"But how can I not? How can I live the rest of my life not knowing?" Jaskier asks solemnly. "What if I have someone out there who's been missing me for all these years, just waiting to find their answers about where I've gone?"

And that's the crux of it, the true cause of the panic that's rising unbidden in Jaskier's chest at the mere suggestion of unlocking his own mind. It's easy for him to stand here now and say that there's nothing that he would rather do than stay by Geralt's side. But if he remembers his past, what if there's something out there that forces him to go? What if there's something out there that makes him want to go?

"I'm afraid of what I'll find out," he confesses, refusing to let himself break eye contact with Geralt as he says it. "I'm happy here, with you. I don't want to mess it up, not even with my own memories."

Geralt pauses for a moment to consider the words with fitting gravity, then takes Jaskier's face between his hands and presses their foreheads together. "I love you, Jaskier of Kaer Morhen and Elsewhere. That doesn't have to do with the years you spent at Stygga or anything that happened in the years prior to that. Whatever your past holds, you'll have me. Nothing will change that."

Jaskier titled his chin up to steal a kiss from Geralt's lips, then turns to nod at Yennefer. "Right, then. How do we unlock the door?"

It feels like a familiar and yet distant echo of before, when Yennefer had first inspected his mind and found the door was locked in the first place. He remembers being nervous, but in a numb, hazy sort of way. He had thought his own feelings were unimportant then, as long as it was pleasing his new master. It hadn't felt like such a big deal whether they actually learned anything from the exercise or not. It wasn't Jaskier's place to have any concerns except pleasing those who cared for him.

He remembers relishing the closeness of Geralt sitting on the bed next to him as he lay there awaiting whatever would happen to him when the kind but angry witch started to dig around in his skull. That's what he focused on to distract himself from the fear-- how close Geralt was, and how maybe, once they were done, he'd be pleased enough with Jaskier to give him a treat. They were in a bed together, which was already far closer to Jaskier's goal than they'd been so far, and he let that hope focus him away from the fear and the hunger, just for a little while.

Now, nestled in the vee of Geralt's legs, comfortable and safe, things are different. He knows that he's loved, and cared for, and won't have to beg for anything ever again. He knows that his choices and his feelings are important, not just to him, but to the myriad of people who make his well-being their concern, as he does theirs. He has a home now, and a future, and very soon, he'd have a past, too.

"Let's do it," he tells Yennefer, who's been hovering by the side of the bed, and she sets to work.

.....................

His mother looking at him with a smile on her face, calling him precious Julek, kissing the scrape on his knee

Two little sisters tugging on his shirtsleeve, giggling and demanding his attention.

His father, surrounded by books and scrolls, pushing one across the table to him.

A girl with strawberry blonde pigtails that he reaches out to pull. She shrieks and runs away, and he gives chase.

Another dusty book, another stern frown from his father. "Noblemen put their studies before their play, Julian."

Priscilla coughing at the dinner table, just like she has every night for the last 8 months. Eight year-olds aren't supposed to look that tired and thin.

A lute in a merchant's stall as he passes by, and he can't help reaching out to touch it. His coin was supposed to be for a new doublet, something more suitable for court. He sneaks the lute home that afternoon and tells his father he lost the coin purse, and the smack across the face he receives in turn is worth it.

His mother stares out of windows a lot. She stares out of them too much. When he speaks to her, she tells him to leave her, because she's too tired today.

Essie braids Pri's hair as she lies in bed. She's too weak to turn her head so the braids are crooked, but Essie tells her that she's beautiful anyways. He plays them both a song on his lute, very quietly.

There's a boy who works as the tailor's apprentice who has a dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. When Julian kisses him in the back storeroom between a bolt of pink silk and one of yellow cotton, the world has never seemed brighter. The feeling of another's hand on the small of his waist stays with him for hours after he returns home.

His father's voice is cutting as he tells Julian that he's a man now and must put aside all of his childish things to focus on his future as a Viscount. This title will be his one day, and his father will not have a daydreaming buffoon take his place. Julian composes a song about lovers in a field of pink and yellow flowers in his head instead of listening.

Pri's bed is empty now, except when his mother lays in it with her back to the room and ignores Julian when he talks to her. He doesn't remember what color her eyes are anymore. Essie doesn't like to talk about it. No one likes to talk about it. The tailor's apprentice listens.

He plays his lute in the garden on a summer day, until something comes along to block out the sun. "If you want to ignore the world in favor of music, then do it. Go on, leave. Go wander around and be a bard for as long as the world will take you, and then when you're ready you can come crawling home. You'll appreciate the luxury of Lettenhove more when you've spent some time in the gutter."

Essie cries when he packs his bags. Julian cries, too, but not until he's well on the road with his home behind him. He won't let his father have the satisfaction, and his mother isn't looking anyways. He still doesn't remember what color her eyes are.

He kisses the tailor's apprentice one last time before he goes. Someday when he comes back, he'll tell him a tale of adventure and magic that will make his dimple curl deep into his cheek. Emil blinks at him and asks him how he's going to pay his way in the world with no money from his father, and Julian doesn't let his smile falter. That little lie is his first performance as a bard.

He sleeps in gutters, and in stables, and in haybales behind shops. He sings on streetcorners and in taverns --when they'll have him-- and recites sonnets to ladies in fine dresses until they toss a coin into the case of his lute. He walks until his feet ache, and smiles until his face goes numb, and when he reaches the next town, he does it again. Most of the time he barely makes enough coin to put food in his belly, and he pushes all thoughts of Emil and Essie and home out of his head because no one likes a sad bard.

He travels. He sees mountains and rolling plains, ancient forests and magical ponds. He kisses men with beards that make his skin tingle. He slides his hand up ladies' skirts until they sigh his name. He gets into fights to defend his own honor, and more often than not, he loses them. But he strolls out of town with a busted lip and his chin held high because "that bastard bard who keeps coming around," at least, is a title he's earned. It's a title he loves.

He lives life and he loves it, and he always, unfailingly, seeks adventure. He strolls into a town and hears tell of a witcher passing through, and he goes in pursuit of his next great song. When those yellow eyes turn to him, Julian knows deep in his heart with an excited thrill that his life is about to change forever.

"Well hello, little buttercup," Gaetan says.

.....................

He cries for a while after that. He doesn't mean to; for a long, tenuous moment after he opens his eyes, Jaskier stares up at Yennefer's purple, worried gaze and almost, almost holds it together. It won't help anything to cry about it now, after all. He knows now, with clarity, that Pri has been dead for damn near a decade, and his house has not been his home for a lot longer than that. No amount of tears will fix that, so he might as well skip that part and get to the moving on.

Then Geralt's thumb brushes over the back of Jaskier's hand, and he turns to him with his mouth opened to tell him how fine he is, and he catches sight of yellow eyes gone all honeyed with worry and love, and everything falls apart, just a little.

Yennefer leaves after the first few sobs tear their way out of his chest. Maybe she saw what he did, and she knows what he now does about the life he left behind-- or the lack thereof. Maybe she just knows what it's like to reach a low point and not want anyone to see. He's grateful for this little act of kindness, even if he can't quite catch enough of a breath right now to say so. She probably knows anyways.

Geralt stays, though. He stays and wraps his arms around Jaskier when he buries his face in his witcher's chest and lets go of the sudden outpouring of emotions in his heart. He feels like walls around Jaskier, so sturdy and impervious, but not the kind that cage him in. Rather, they're the kind of walls that keep out the world for a little while, until Jaskier is strong enough to face it on his own again.

When he regains a little of his steel, Jaskier wipes his face free of the tears --and the snot, very attractive-- and sits up enough that he's freed gently from Geralt's embrace. He turns to face him, and it almost feels like looking at a stranger's face. Maybe he's different now, seen through the lens of an entire lifetime instead of just a few shuttered years. More likely, it's Jaskier that's different now.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Geralt asks after a pause. He sounds hesitant, and Jaskier can hardly blame him. "You don't have to. Just. If you want to."

Does he want to? Of course not. Of course he doesn't want to dig up a part of him so old and long-forgotten that it's all but atrophied. He wants to let it wither away and pretend that none of it ever happened, and focus instead on the happy life that has here and now, with the people that he loves, in the home that he's found for himself despite all odds. For the first time in his life, he thinks, Jaskier has found something that he doesn't want to talk about.

But Jaskier, for all the many flaws that he's now come to know about himself, is not a coward. He won't run from this.

"My name," he begins, "is Julian."

The whole tale comes spilling out of him, little by little, with a few more breaks for Jaskier to try and fail and try again to regain his composure. He tells Geralt about his sisters, his parents, his first love. He even tells him about his years spent wandering homeless and yet hopeful throughout the seven kingdoms.

He tells him also, in a quiet voice, about how much he misses home, and Geralt answers just as quietly that the Path takes him all kinds of places. Maybe, one of these years, when Jaskier is ready, the Path can take them to a tiny viscounty by the sea-- if Jaskier feels inclined to wander that way, that is. Jaskier loves him fiercely for the way he says without saying that the Path could also wind another way, too, if that's what Jaskier wants. Jaskier isn't sure yet, but no one ever said he couldn't make the plan up as he went.

"Would you prefer that I call you Julian?" Geralt asks at some point, expression calm and neutral. Jaskier knows that if he says yes, Geralt will make the change at once, even if it takes time for him to adjust. "It would make sense if you do. That's your given name. Or at least, given by your parents instead of someone who hurt you."

His parents aren't exactly exempt from the category of people who hurt him, but that wound is still a little too fresh to joke about. Instead, Jaskier considers the question at hand. "No," he says after a moment's thought. "No, I think I'll stay Jaskier. I'm not the same person I was before, so it's fitting that I get a new name. Even if this one did come from a right bastard, it's mine now, too, just as much as Julian ever was. Besides, it sounds more dramatic and bard-ly, don't you think?"

Geralt smiles a little at that. "They'll be begging to have you on their stage. You've been shy about singing for us, but now we know the truth."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"That we have a celebrity under our roof," Geralt says with a wink. "You may not remember your time as a traveling bard as very successful, but performers without a stable position rarely last long unless they're very good. From the sound of it, you traveled almost as widely as I do on the Path. Wonder how many near misses we had. You strolling into town from one end while I snuck out the other."

"What a sentimental thought," Jaskier laughs, and the sound only hurts on the way out for a second. "Are you sure you're not the bard, darling?"

"I'll leave that to the professionals," Geralt snorts.

And isn't that a thought, Jaskier reflects a few days later, as Geralt is off making last minute preparations. Tomorrow they leave Kaer Morhen to go out on the Path, and as excited as he is to see the world once more, Jaskier's mind is elsewhere. He's a professional, just as Geralt had said. He's a true bard, one who's going to go out into the world and perform and be good at it.

He'd never been entirely sure how much of the Wolves' praise was due to their actual enjoyment of his music or just their unwillingness to break his heart, but this... here is proof, in the unshakeable fact of his own memory, that he had been a real performer, and a damn good one at that. He remembers what it's like to take a bow before a cheering crowd. He remembers what it's like to have an innkeeper push coin across the counter to him for bringing life to his establishment for a night.

He remembers having accomplished great things in his life, on his own two feet alone, and he knows without lingering fear that he'll accomplish many more.

That night, when he joins the others for their final meal together, it's with a new lightness in his step. Everyone is a little distracted by talk of their departure in the morning, even Geralt, who splits most of his attention between his food and his argument with Lambert about how many bombs it was appropriate to arm a half-witcher bardling with. He looks up when Jaskier approaches though, a smile already on his lips. "Jask, do you--"

But whatever words he had planned to say dissipate on his tongue as he takes Jaskier in, yellow eyes widening and then getting suspiciously misty as they fixate on the smooth, bare curve of Jaskier's throat.

"I know you hate last-minute packing," Jaskier says quietly into the hushed room, "but do you think we could look for a chain I could wear as a necklace tonight before we go? Got a bit tired of the old aesthetic, but I'd like to still wear your gift, if that's alright with you." He fingers the body-warmed metal of his medallion in one hand.

Somehow, standing here fully clothed but without his collar, he feels more exposed than he ever has in his life. Luckily, there's nothing but love and fierce pride in this room to greet this final stripe of freed skin. He watches Geralt swallow twice, blinking stoically, before he nods and says, "Nothing would make me happier."

Vesemir wanders off as they eat and comes back with a chain, delicate enough in look but sturdy, especially once Yennefer bolsters it with a few flickers of chaos around her fingers. When he puts it on, the wolf's head falls right over Jaskier's heart, everything just feels right.

The heavy weight against his chest is a comfort to his pounding heart a little later, when all the plates are empty and the bellies are full and Jaskier's hand closes around the neck of his lute. He doesn't ask them if he can play a song; he knows already what the answer would be. Instead, he just positions his fingers over the strings and takes a deep, steadying breath, and a hush falls over the room.

He knows what Geralt will say when it's over. That it's all a fantasy, inaccurate in a hundred different ways, and that it’s too flattering by far. He also knows that Geralt will love him even when he rolls his eyes, and what's a few white lies in the face of making life better for someone he loves? If he can change the world with a song --and Jaskier has a flicker of intuition that says he just might-- then there's no time like tonight to start singing.

Jaskier opens his mouth and sings for the first time in his new life, here in his new home, surrounded by the people he loves and who love him back, and already the world is changed.

When a humble bard

graced a ride along

with Geralt of Rivia,

along came this song...

--The End--