Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s heard all sorts of stories. Things that maybe his nursemaid and governess shouldn’t have told him; but he was always an inquisitive little thing who would much rather hear folktales about the monsters in the woods and in the sea, rather than learn more arithmetic or the dreadfully boring history of his family.

The Viscount would have their heads on the battlements if he ever found out. What lived in the forests and seas weren’t for his heir’s ears. There wasn’t a time where monsters hadn’t roamed the Continent, so Jaskier really didn’t understand what the problem was. Not until a few years later when he suddenly found himself the only boy of the family, with a small army of sisters but no one to carry the Pankratz name forward but him. A life sentence if ever he heard one.

A small glint of freedom came in the form of Oxenfurt. It earned a small approving look from his father, something that got rarer and rarer as the years went on. But it was something lost when he found out that Jaskier wanted to pursue the seven liberal arts, something that would have him away from his father’s eye for four years.

Why couldn’t he study something useful? Medicine, technology, theology. Something that could help his standing as a Viscount in the years to come after his father was gone.

All Jaskier could do was eat silently as his mother tried to fight in his corner. The second he left, he started counting down the days until he was required to come home. An executioner’s axe seemed to be hanging above his head, always swinging.

It was his first summer home. A summer he could have stayed within the walls of the city with Shani, who didn’t have a home to go back to – or so she claimed. A woman he met on his first day and it felt like he had known her his whole life; someone who teased him relentlessly for the title that slouched around his shoulders like a shroud.

He offered his father a courteous smile, one that required more effort than he’ll ever admit to. The one he gave his mother was just as bright as the sun, gathering her close and smelling the familiar scent of lavender through her hair.

His first summer home from being away; slowly reminded of the rules of the house, how best he could avoid being alone with his father for any measure of time before the questions had a chance to start. How were his studies going? How were his grades? Would he give it all up and just return home? There are plenty of good instructors still around Lettenhove.

And he’s sure that’s true. But if he stays in Lettenhove, he’ll never be able to see what the rest of the world is like. He’ll be rooted into the ground of his home and never allowed to leave. And the thought of it has his chest tightening and his breath catching. The thought of flinging himself from the highest point in the house crossed his mind.

His youngest sister, Zofia, barely reaches his hip; cheeks round and a few teeth missing, wild chestnut hair that whips around as she shows Jaskier her latest dress. And he marvels at her, because she’s a child and doesn’t know that there is more to the world than dresses and toys and parties, gods bless her. His other sisters roll their eyes. Even the ones that are only a few summers older than their youngest are already sick of it, probably wishing that they could go with the changing wind and never come back. Their only hope is to marry someone else, go to another house, and hope that there isn’t as awfully suffocating as here.

He spends as much time with his youngest sister as he can. The world is a lot brighter through her eyes, and he can’t help but smile and laugh when he’s dragged through their home and to the stables outside, Zofia pointing excitedly at the newest foal born while he was away.

That’s when he spots it; a chestnut mare with a blazoned white stripe running down her face, tethered to one of the stable’s beams, munching happily on a haynet while her rider is gone. Jaskier frowns. His father was never one to have other horses around, gods forbid they would ever infect his purebreds. Her tack is nothing like a noble's; worn leather that has been stitched back together over and over again, saddlebags hanging from the side while a rolled-up sleeping back and blanket sit behind the back.

And a sword, glinting in the light even through its sheathe, strapped to her side.

Zofia rambles on about the foal, trying to stick her hand through the railings to pet it and its mother who sniffs her hand inquisitively. Jaskier tugs her away. “Come on, little flower,” he lilts, taking her hand and leading her back to the house. “Let’s go see who’s here.”

Their guest is elsewhere. Or, at least, that’s what Jaskier manages to gather. One sister shrugs him and his questions off, while another catches his elbow and leads him to a quieter corner in the house. Her words are almost blurred together with how quickly she speaks, a broad grin stretched across her lips and something glinting in her eyes. “Papa had a meeting with his landlords a few days before you got here,” she says, lowering her voice as some maids drift past with their arms laden with washbasins. “Apparently, there’s a monster terrorising the allotments. Papa didn’t want to believe it but the evidence is damning.”

Jaskier arches an eyebrow. “Evidence?”

Hanna leans forward, eyes glinting. “Whatever it is has been killing livestock for weeks now. A few of Papa’s tenants went out to try and fight it but ended up dead. The landlords aren’t too happy. The rest of the farmers are threatening to leave unless something is done about it, and who would want to rent land that’s being haunted by some monster?”

It’s...interesting. He won’t lie and say that his heart hasn’t quickened in his chest. He’s heard all about the sorts of things that can prowl through the night, but he’s never seen anything for himself. Some strange part of him even hoped for a glimpse of something on his journey to Oxenfurt, but nothing ever crossed his path.

Hanna’s eyes glint. “Papa hired a Witcher. A gods-honest Witcher, Julek, can you imagine? I haven’t seen it but Sasha has. It looks just like a man, but its hair is white, and it has golden eyes, and Sasha thought she could see scars. Gods, I hope it comes back. I want to speak with it.”

Jaskier frees his arm from her. “You can stop calling the Witcher it for a start,” he huffs lightly, looking down the hallway. Gods, if their father knew they spoke of these things, he can’t imagine what he would say or do. But Jaskier can imagine the kind of beet-red his face would turn as heat would scald his skin.

Hanna tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “It’s a Witcher, Julek. It’s not like it has feelings or anything. Remember the stories Yara used to tell us? The kinds of things they do to a person to turn it into a Witcher? Gods, imagine what that could have been like.”

He remembers everything. He was too young, or naive, to understand why Yara, his favourite nursemaid, had left during the night. But whispered stories, no matter how quiet, manage to find their way to his father’s ears. Another nursemaid came, though by that point, his father deemed him old enough to look after himself. He was given tutors and instructors and that seemed to be the end of that, until Hanna regaled him of all of the stories their governess still told her.

He won’t lie and say that he’s not interested. A Witcher, here, in a place where a certain Viscount of Lettenhove assured that there would be no need for such things; that they didn’t even exist because the world is perfect and not filled with terrible, horrendous things.

He tries not to let his excitement show on his face. Every hour that passes, he takes more and more glances out of the windows of the house, arching his neck to look down the roads leading away. Nothing. When dinner is called and his family gathers around the long mahogany table laden with food, no one else joins them. Disappointment threatens to show alongside eagerness, something that Hanna sees and snickers at, but a swift kick at her shin under the table has it stopped. 

The day is as dreadfully mundane as the rest of them tend to be. Zofia is his only chance of sanity, even though her age has her sitting by their mama, rattling off anything and everything she can think of to say. At the other end of the table, his father lords over his dinner. He eats as much as he’s able, but he’s troubled. Jaskier is old enough to know that particularly shadow that shrouds someone’s face and makes them quiet.

His heart nears jumps up to his throat when the doors to the dining room open. Jaskier swallows around his food as a footman strides in, dutifully falling to his father’s side and murmuring something into his ear. It’s a short message, whatever it is. Something too quiet and lost to the chatter around the table between his sisters and mother. Jaskier picks at whatever is left on his plate, making a show of not trying to strain his ears past the white noise and hone in one what’s being said.

The Viscount brow knits together, a familiar deep frown settling in. He regards his footman’s words for a moment before he sets his cutlery down and stands. The scrape of his chair’s legs quietens the table. He looks down the length of it, his frown not even budging. Jaskier’s mother clears her throat. “Julek,” she lilts, offering him a small smile, “how have your studies been going? Have you made any friends at the Academy?”

It’s just enough cover to let his father slip away. Jaskier manages to bumble out some sort of response. His studies are fine. Shani is his fondest friend there. The mention of a girl has his mother’s interest peaking, but he’s quick to quell it. Shani prefers the company of women, and Jaskier bonded with her for his preferred company of anyone interesting enough to hold his attention. He’s met plenty of interesting people at the Academy.

Footmen come in and strip the table of plates and platters. Jaskier’s eyes wander to the doors, wondering where his father has gone, and whose company he’s entertaining. The sun is already beginning to set, casting the sky into varying shades of reds and purples. Jaskier clears his throat. “Mama,” he says, setting a hand on to his stomach as she looks up at him. “I don’t feel well. May I head to bed early?”

His mother’s face drops. “Oh Julek,” she says, setting her cutlery down, “are you warm? Do you need a healer?—”

Because she would call an army of healers and medics and chemists to their house if he doesn’t stop her in her tracks. “I’m fine, Mama, I just feel tired.”

Her expression softens. “Of course, darling,” his mother says, waving her hand. “Get some rest. You’re probably still tired from your travels.”

Hanna arches an eyebrow at him as he stands, her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. He can pull a shroud over most people’s eyes but never his sister. If he were younger, he might have sneered at her, checked her shoulder as he walked behind her chair. But his feet can’t carry him fast enough out of the dining room, and the second the door clicks shut behind him, he darts along the hallway. Their house isn’t the biggest in the province, but winding hallways and a maze of rooms give enough of an illusion.

His father’s study is deep within the house, though he doubts he would invite a stranger into it. He checks it all the same, and frowns slightly when he hears the familiar crackle of his father’s voice snapping down the hall. “Absolutely not!” he barks. The door to his study is cracked open, with a beam of candlelight stretching out into the hallway. Jaskier softens his steps, knowing that some of the floorboards will creak under his weight. He sets a hand on to the wall and guides his steps, drawing closer to the room he spent much of his life trying to avoid. His father’s study will be his one day; a room he’ll be confined to if he stays and becomes the Viscount of Lettenhove. His stomach tightens with every step he takes towards it.

There’s another voice, one that is so unlike his father’s it has Jaskier almost stopping in his tracks. It is low and rumbling, almost like thunder. “We agreed on settling my payment once I discovered what was causing your tenants trouble.”

Jaskier’s breath stills in his throat. He tries to keep quiet. Memories of Yara’s stories come flooding back to him, things she whispered as they pretended to work on Jaskier’s arithmetic; things that she heard from here mama about Witchers. They have enhanced senses. They’re able to detect heartbeats from miles away. He wonders if the Witcher already knows that he’s here, if there’s someone cloaked in the shadows of the hallway listening in. His heart quickens in his chest.

Jaskier’s father splutters. “I didn’t think it would be this big of an issue! How was I to know it’s a nest of...whatever it is you said?”

Peering in through the slight crack of the door, Jaskier makes out the man inside. And that’s all he seems to be – just a man. His hair is different than most, sheer white and pulled back into a tie, and with his back to Jaskier and the door, he can’t figure out if the Witcher truly has the golden eyes Hanna told him about. His armour is worn and stitched back together again, and a longsword sits against his back, sheathed but still imposing as it catches the candlelight.

The Witcher sets his arms over his chest, somehow making himself look even broader. “Bigger problems call for bigger fees. Nekkers go for a hundred crowns a head,” he growls, “and there were seven in that nest.”

“Seven-hundred crowns?” Jaskier’s father glowers at the Witcher in front of him. “You must be mad. I’m not parting with that much gold, Witcher. Take what’s there and go.”

A small coin bag sits strung on to the middle of the desk, barely big enough to hold more than a few dozen coins. Jaskier’s tongue sours. His father has always been very tight with their money. Jaskier has to wonder if the Lettenhove estate is still as wealthy as it’s always been, or has it been bled dry.

The Witcher doesn’t budge. “This isn’t enough to carry me to the next town,” he rumbles, taking a steady step forward. Jaskier’s chest tightens. His father steps back, hand reaching for his chair as he almost falls back into it trying to get away from the Witcher approaching. “We agreed on terms, Lord Pankratz. I’m not leaving until I get what I’m owed.”

To his credit, his father tries to hold his own. He doesn’t tremble as Jaskier imagined he would. Tomek Pankratz has never been a brave man. The Viscount of Lettenhove might lord over his own home, but in the path of a man bigger than him, he’s nothing more than a field mouse. “I know what your kind is like, Witcher. What are you going to do? Kill me and my family? Strip my house of what you can before leaving?”

The Witcher growls. Something that shakes through the air and almost through Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier’s mouth dries. “There are plenty of other monsters worse than me, my lord.”

The air thickens, almost suffocating, and Jaskier is afraid to blink just in case he misses something. He can only imagine how quick a Witcher must be to survive the life he has. He might miss the glint of steel whipping through the air and striking Tomek Pankratz down. But his father swallows thickly, keeping his eyes on the Witcher as he reaches into some drawer of his desk, pulling out a slightly larger felt bag. “Here,” he says curtly, tossing it on to the table to join the other bag, “five hundred crowns.”

The Witcher tilts his head, voice holding firm. “It’s still not enough.”

Tomek’s eyes drift to the sword sheathed along the Witcher’s back; a finer made steel than any of his guards have. And calling them now would be too late, given how close the Witcher is standing to him. Tomek takes a measured breath, a slight twitch underneath his left eye. “Five hundred crowns, and I presume you need shelter for the night? A storm is coming in later. You may have one of the rooms as your own for the night. Listen to me, Witcher; you are not to interact with any of my household; not my family or staff. And I want you gone by the morning.”

The Witcher seems to consider it. Though summer has settled over the Continent, being near the sea invites all sorts of winds and storms to their lands. And Jaskier saw the darkened clouds heavily slumping down the nearby hills. It’s only a matter of time before they spill. The Witcher regards the felt bags on the table. “My horse?”

“She will be stabled and looked after. I’ll see that the stablehands know.” At that, Jaskier arches an eyebrow. His horses are his father’s dearest pets, almost bordering on being his own children. Letting a Witcher’s horse stable with them doesn’t seem like something he would do – unless he was trying to weasel his way out of paying for the Witcher’s service.

That seems to be the end of that. The Witcher grunts, something that could be taken as an agreement to their terms. Though Jaskier does watch the slight twitch shuddering through his father’s face grow as the Witcher turns his back to him to leave.

It’s only then, with the glow of candlelight catching him, does Jaskier gather a proper chance to see. And what he sees is very interesting. The Witcher does have golden eyes; a colour that he’s never seen in any creature before in his life, eyes that shouldn’t be that bright but somehow manage to shine through the darkening room. Jaskier takes in as much as he can, with what little breath he has left in his chest. A strong, stubble-rough jaw, the faint ghosts of scars barely catching the light. His armour bulks him out even more, but Jaskier can only assume that a life of fighting monsters, and surviving, has built muscle on to the Witcher.

And what he wouldn’t give to see it. He barely has any time to catch his thoughts before he has to run; scampering through the shadows of the hallway and upstairs, heading for his room. Their house may not be the largest in the province, but there are a handful of free rooms for their newest guest to choose from. It’s a small wonder why his father hadn’t sent the Witcher to bed down with the scullery maids and footmen in their quarters. But he supposes a comfortable bed in a warm house is worth more gold than the cots in the servants’ houses outside, with cracks in the walls that can barely keep out the wind.

Jaskier’s chest heaves with every breath as he slips into his room, quickly setting his back to the door and pressing it shut. Through the rush of blood in his ears, he can’t hear a damn thing. His breathing is harsh, something that he tries to settle but can’t.

The image that sits in front of his eyes is what he’s seen, what has been almost burnt into his memory. He’s attractive, the Witcher. Nothing like the monsters anyone has ever told him about at all. He might be a little gruff and the exact opposite of what his father is used to in people. And it’s delightful. It’s even beyond the reaches of Oxenfurt, of Redania. It’s wild and adventure, what he’s had to learn about in sonnets and ballads, and what he can only dream of experiencing himself just so he can write about those things.

He pushes away from the door, a small smile curling across his lips. Whispers dust against the shell of his ears. Whispers that had been murmuring to him for years, some days and nights more insistent than others, but it offers an image now. An image and promise of him leaving here, leaving all of it, letting him walk the roads and grasses and hills with someone who can take him far away.

It doesn’t take him long to gather what he needs. He’s had a similar plan to this one drifting around in his head long before the Witcher ever took one step into their home. A knapsack that will hold clothes, his journal, quill, and ink pot. A letter to his sisters; vague enough to be another language to his parents if – when – they force themselves to read it, but in the common-tongue of his siblings. Beneath the mattress of his bed, pinned to the bed’s frame, is an ample purse of gold and silver coins. Money he made on his own, in the streets of Oxenfurt, playing to whoever would listen. Money that if his father found, he would take away, alongside any hope Jaskier had of flying away from this place. He puts the purse of coins beneath his journal and clothes, making sure it’s well hidden as he draws up the ties of the back. He’ll either gather whatever food he can from the kitchen and stores when they leave or he’ll convince his new travelling companion to stop somewhere and buy some rations—

If he even agrees. Jaskier pauses, his normally nimble fingers stilling with the ties of his bag. Gods alive, what if the Witcher says no? What if he leaves in the morning, before Jaskier even has a chance to wake up and scamper after him? Something heavy and awful drops into the pit of his stomach.

His tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he tries to gather his thoughts, gathering what he’s going to say to the Witcher to try and convince him to let Jaskier come with him to...wherever it is that he’s going. Anywhere is better than here.

He spares a brief thought for Zofia, the youngest of them who will probably grow up with a shadowed, faint memory of him as she gets older. And Hanna, who he fights with constantly and has thought about throwing from the upper windows of their home, but who he would fight a war for if she asked. Sasha, Mama, the stablehands and maids he’s grown close to over the years. He’ll miss all of them. But the house and the man heading it shrouds over him and it’s enough of a darkness to sour everything else. He’ll die in the house, either as a withered grey-haired old man or as he is now, not wanting that version of his future self to come true.

Jaskier swallows, tightening the ties of his bag, putting it back underneath his bed to collect in a few hours, or just before the sun rises tomorrow morning. Right, he thinks. What are we doing?

His mother is an attentive sort. A loveless marriage that was too far gone to even try and fix just meant that any love she did harbour in her chest went to her children. There were enough of them for her to care for – Julian first, and she doted on him. Sasha next; her first girl, who she loved to see in dresses and have her long brown hair cascading down her back. Every child that came after was a blessing – even if, to Tomek, it seemed that the gods continued to curse him with daughters.

Lying to his mama is hard. It makes his throat tighten and the words stick in his throat. But when she comes to his room later, brows knitted together in worry as she sets a palm to his forehead and makes a plan to call the medic for him, he has to catch her wrist and assure her that he’s fine. He just needs to sleep. He needs the rest of the house to settle before he can put his plan in motion. Sasha and Hanna keep to themselves, bundling to bed after a sizeable dinner. And Zofia rarely stays up past dusk. When he manages to convince his mother that he’s fine, that she can go to bed and rest knowing that he’s okay, it’s only then does he slip out from his room.

The house can be so quiet. It’s different to the Academy; always bustling with noise, especially into the midnight hours. But Jaskier winces at the slight groan of his bedroom door slowly shutting behind him. He has to search for the looser floorboards, the ones that will whine and creak under his foot as he steps on them.

He’s snuck out of his room before. He knows the easiest path to take. The moon is barely just settling in the sky, somehow breaking through the heavy clouds of rain now spilling, rushing water against the windows of the house. A blink of bright white light flashes through the house, and almost a minute later, a dull rumble of thunder trembles after.  The storm rolled in without any notice, slipping down the nearby hills and settling over the plains of the land, drenching the ground underneath.

Jaskier shuffles along the hallway, setting his hand to the way to guide his way. There aren’t many free rooms within their house, all kept to the upper levels and away from the main traffic flow through the building. It’s quieter, with the only thing he can hear being the wind howling outside. Whatever free rooms are left free have their doors open, letting bright moonlight somehow find its way in through the windows. There’s only one door that’s closed. A room that doesn’t belong to any of his sisters; they’re rooms are on the other side of the hall. And his parents are on another floor.

Jaskier swallows thickly, staring at the mahogany grain of the door for a moment before gently rapping his knuckles against it. The moment he knocks, a sound barely heard by him let alone the person inside of the room, he regrets it. What in the name of the gods is he doing? This is a Witcher. The kind of monster his nursemaid told him about, who steal wayward and wandering children and don’t harbour any emotion at all.

Some part of him wants to drag him back to his own room, let him wait out most of the midnight hours until he can make his own way on to the road. As long as he can make it back to Oxenfurt for the new semester, he’ll be fine. It’s just a case of keeping himself alive until then—

He blinks at the door creaking open, a familiar figure filling the portal and glowering out at him. And Jaskier was right. Even though his black leather armour had bulked him out, the Witcher is still well-built in his own right. Stripped down to a worn black shirt that looks even more stitched together than his armour, and leather pants that do way too much to show the outline of his hips and thighs, the Witcher doesn’t look as foreboding as he once did.

That’s not to say Jaskier doesn’t shrink away slightly at golden eyes glaring at him. The Witcher is oddly silent for a moment, jaw tight and brows knitted together as he takes in the sight of Jaskier in the hallway. When he does speak, his voice is low and rough. “What?”

He’s always been good at words. His governess always said he had a way with them, and his mother was so proud of every song and poem he penned. But now they stick in his throat, and when he tries to push what he can out, they’re horribly bumbled and not at all what he has constructed in his mind of what he wanted to say. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” he breathes, letting the words stumble out of him without much effort at grappling them back into something coherent. “Take me with you.”

Something flashes over the Witcher’s face. His frown turns from something that looks like irritation to confusion. A short, sharp huff of a laugh huffs out of him. “I don’t take on strays,” he grunts, stepping back into the room and shutting the door.

The cool air washes over Jaskier’s face as he stands there, staring at the door in front of him. There’s nothing for him to say. Nothing he can try and muster up because...well, he’s speechless. He’s had doors slammed in his face before. Former lovers of his who don’t have the time, or passion, for him anymore. Their fathers, or brothers, or intendeds, finding out what he’s been doing and threatening to castrate him if he’s ever seen around their part of the city, or countryside, again. Before long he’ll find himself firmly secluded to the Academy.

But this is his house. He’s the eldest, the heir. And this could possibly be the only time he’ll ever flex that title.

He knocks again. Something firmer, more insistent. And he really doesn’t expect a reply. Maybe a short grunted fuck off, or silence. All he’s met with is silence, and every second that slips by, the more his feet root firmly into the ground. His ears twitch at the sound of a muffled, aggravated huff inside of the room, followed by some firm footfalls before the door opens again and light from inside spills out on to him.

It takes every effort in him not to set his hands on his hips as he meets the Witcher’s glare. The man’s jaw tightens, a growl caught behind his teeth. Jaskier lifts his chin. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” he repeats slowly, “and you’re taking me with you.”

Shadows darken the Witcher’s face, and with every moment that passes it becomes more apparent how much bigger the Witcher is than him. He might be just under the crown of the other’s head, but the Witcher almost fills the entire portal of the door, blocking what Jaskier can see inside. Even without his armour and sword kept sheathed to his back, he looks imposing.

All Jaskier can do is hope his feet rooted to the ground can keep him upright.

The Witcher’s lips press into a thin line, sitting with Jaskier’s words for a moment before grunting. He steps to the side, and Jaskier blinks as the Witcher haphazardly gestures into the room. A silent invitation. It almost takes him a second too long to make his fete move, but he shuffles past the other man, stepping inside.

“Why do you want to come with me?” he asks gruffly, looking around at the room. Even though it’s a spare, and hardly anyone ever uses it, it’s still primly furnished with ornate furniture, gilded with gold, and cleaner than any tavern or inn bedroom Jaskier can only presume the Witcher has stayed in while on the road. “You seem to be quite comfortable here, lordling.”

Their room isn’t the biggest in the house. There isn’t much space for him to wander, or to reach out and run his fingers along the edges of furniture in some hope of not looking to the Witcher watching him. He can feel eyes on him; a sight burning his skin. Still, he’s sure of himself. His plan is burrowed into his skull, and he’s a stubborn bastard when he has his mind set on something. “I’ve had my taste of freedom, Witcher,” Jaskier lilts, not quite sure where to put his hands, so he lets his fingers thumb together and fidget. When he does stop his drifting around the room, standing across from the Witcher and taking a sure look at him, he lets his shoulders slacken.

All of the whispers of monsters and those even more monstrous designed to hunt and kill them drifts away. This isn’t a feral, emotionless thing who’s only function is to kill. He’s always been keen with people, knowing how to read them and burrow into their own minds. And the man standing in the room with him is nothing more than that – a man. A grumpy one with a sour face, that’s for sure. But nothing Jaskier can’t work with, or try and work out.

He’s come here in his own armour. Light linen braies and a billowed nightshirt, the collar barely kept together by loose ties. With ruffled hair and bared feet, he can only imagine what he looks like to the other man – if he’s encountered many other little lordlings, who knows? Young ladies might have glanced his way, interested in the danger of being within reach of something like a Witcher.

I don’t take strays. Others must have asked to come with him, then; sleep softened and dozing in the Witcher’s bed as he left. Jaskier’s throat bobs at the thought of the same happening to him.

The Witcher watches him carefully, golden eyes catching the dim candlelight of the room and wandering over Jaskier’s frame. “Is that freedom under threat?” he asks, his voice matching the rumble of thunder outside. Something quirks the corner of the Witcher’s lips. “A betrothal? Your father being unwell? Some other high-born problem?”

Teasing. That’s all the Witcher is doing. Letting his voice lilt and tease and Jaskier’s brows knit together. “It’s all well and good for someone like you,” he says, setting his hands on to his hips, “wandering around the Continent without a care in the world. But some of us don’t have that freedom, Witcher. Some of us are chained to where we are by expectations.”

Whatever had quirked the Witcher’s lips spreads; a sure smirk stretched across his face. The Witcher turns on his heel, wandering over to the side of the room to his bags. Jaskier’s eyes catch the sight of a second sword, sitting comfortably beside the other. When the Witcher speaks, it’s low and rumbling but somehow cuts through the next ripple of thunder shaking through the house. “I’m sure you have enough gold to make your own way out into the work, my lord,” he lilts, pulling out a few empty glass vials and setting them aside. A sharp acrid and aniseed scent stings through the air, wrinkling Jaskier’s nose.

For all he’s heard about Witchers, he doesn’t know much about them. Anything he has heard is slowly unravelling now – the man in front of him is capable of smiling, laughing at his misfortunes. Prick.

Jaskier’s frown darkens. “Listen, Witcher,” he says firmly, in a voice that sounds too much like some petulant young lordling not getting his way, “whether you want me or not, I’m coming with you tomorrow. Don’t you even think of waking up early and leaving without me. If I have to stay up all night, I will.”

It earns a look. The Witcher glances over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “And how do you plan on doing that? You won’t be ready for the road if you’re exhausted.”

Fine. Jaskier has worked his way into beds before. He’s not above it – especially if his potential bedmate is as gorgeous and interesting as the Witcher. Without even thinking, Jaskier’s hands slip from his hips. They sway as he steps towards the Witcher. Doe-eyed and with a smile slowly pulling at his lips, a lull to his step that has his hips swaying slightly and the Witcher’s eyes drifting down along his body.

The corner of his lip quirks. “Witcher,” he lets his voice lilt, watching his words wash over the man. The Witcher lifts his chin; golden eyes firmly focused on him, fingers twitching by his side with every step Jaskier takes towards him.

He’s slow with his movements. When Jaskier draws near, he reaches out. His fingers catch and curl into the Witcher’s, linking together. Jaskier tugs at his arm, pulling the Witcher flush to his front as he guides and settles the man’s hand on to his waist. The Witcher is only a fraction taller than him; but with wide shoulders and a full chest, more muscle on him than Jaskier has ever seen on just about anyone, he can’t help but feel as if the man could cover him completely. And the idea doesn’t sit wrong with him at all.

The Witcher’s hand stills on his waist, not budging even as Jaskier steps closer, flush against the man’s chest and settling his palms on to his chest. A thin linen shirt sits between his skin and the Witcher’s. His fingers curl into the fabric. It’s light and worn, definitely older than anything Jaskier has within his wardrobe. The top-most laces are undone, and Jaskier lets his eyes run over the length of the Witcher’s neck, tracing down to the dip towards his chest.

His voice is nothing more than a rasp. “I need to get out of here,” he says slowly, watching each word wash over the Witcher. Jaskier lets his hands wander, drifting up towards the laces of his shirt and setting his nimble fingers to them. “I’m going to be shackled to this house, and the thought of it makes me want to jump from the tower’s window. Knowing the gods, and how much they hate me, they’ll make sure I’ll survive – just to be spiteful bastards.”

The fingers catching his waist curl, though it’s mostly into the fabric and not at all where Jaskier would like them to be. A small smile quirks the corner of his lip. He leans forward, watching the Witcher’s nostrils flare slightly as he draws in scent. The gold in his eyes that Jaskier has grown so fond of slowly gets swallowed by his pupils expanding.

The Witcher lifts his chin. “Spoilt little lordling,” he rumbles, eyes drifting down to Jaskier’s lips. They linger there for a moment. “I know your type; thinking that the world will stop just for you. What use would you be to me on the roads, but another mouth to feed and to try and keep safe?”

“I have other talents,” Jaskier murmurs, hooded eyes wandering the stretch of muscles in front of him. “I’ve been told that I have a very talented mouth.”

Golden eyes drop to it. Jaskier watches the Witcher’s pupils. Not cat-like, as his sister informed him once. But there’s a constellation of colours marred through the man’s eyes that glint the gold and Jaskier can’t look away. His lips are full and bitten, and the warmth from the nearby lit hearth warms his skin into a faint flush. The corner of Jaskier’s mouth quirks. “An Oxenfurt scholar,” he says, his fingers curling through and unthreading the laces of the Witcher’s shirt. He has no doubts that if the Witcher didn’t want him that close, the pointed edge of a very sharp sword would be resting against his chest.

The more neck and chest revealed to him, the more he struggles to gather what words to say. Escape prospect aside, he’d love to return to Oxenfurt for the winter knowing he had a Witcher in his bed. Shani would clobber him for it, but it would be something to hound her with for years.

The Witcher hums. “A singer,” he mock-marvels, reaching up and catching Jaskier’s chin in between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you in a habit of selling your mouth, little lordling?”

Jaskier’s eyes flash. “A gift, Witcher, for all the hard work you’ve done for my father. For our countryside.”

The Witcher snorts. Something cracks through the hardened mortar sitting over his face, keeping his expression in nothing but a deeply etched scowl.

Jaskier’s fingers reach inside of the splayed lapels of the Witcher’s shirt. The moment he brushes his fingertips along the man’s skin, his breath threatens to catch in his throat. He’s warm. And he’s definitely bathed. Jaskier can’t smell the nearby moors or swamps on him, and the faintest hint of lavender tints the air. But something deeper sits beneath it; a musk that travellers have from the roads and their adventures. Jaskier pulls as much of that scent in as he can, letting his fingers map out the Witcher’s chest, encountering faint and raised lines of scars marring his skin.

A monster-hunter. Someone made and constructed to kill.

He’d be lying if the danger of it all didn’t send a plume of pleasure through him.

The Witcher hums, lifting Jaskier’s chin and letting his eyes run down the length of his neck. “Alright then, little lordling. You can travel with me, if you can prove how useful you’ll be to me.”

I can be plenty useful. He doesn’t have to say it. He’s sure the words flash in his eyes and the Witcher can read them just fine. The moment the Witcher frees his chin, Jaskier leans forward. His lips brush the line of the man’s neck, feeling a slow pulse begin to quicken into something human. And he’ll have to make a note of that. Witchers and their slowed heartbeats is something true. The lit hearth and the bath from before keeps his skin warm and soft under Jaskier’s lips and fingers. He kisses where he can reach, stepping forward until his chest presses along the Witcher’s—

Hmm.

Jaskier’s lips pause over the Witcher’s skin, pulling away slightly but not venturing too far away. “What’s your name?” he asks. His voice is already starting to lower and rasp.

The Witcher’s arms tighten around him. His hands have set to his hips, keeping Jaskier flush against him. “Why?”

“Even if you don’t take me with you – and you will, Witcher, because you won’t make it out of the front door before I have guards called to drag you to the nearest gallows – I can at least have your name.”

The Witcher hums. “Geralt.”

Geralt. He tastes it on his tongue before kissing along Geralt’s jaw, revelling in the light scratch of stubble against his lips and chin. The plains of muscle under his fingers, marred with scars, and sword-hardened hands that are slowly wandering underneath his shirt. Gods.

The worst of the tightness in his chest melts away at the feeling of the body underneath his hands slackening. Firm arms wind around his waist, gathering him close.

One of his hands wanders down, skimming along Geralt’s abdomen until he finds the front of the man’s pants. More laces to set his fingers to, but for the moment, standing in the middle of the room, with no current plan to drift over to the bed anytime soon, Jaskier curls his hand over the front of the man’s breeches. His breath almost stills.

One of the more adult rumours that he’s heard about Witchers warrants investigation. But even know, through slacks, he can feel a thick hardness pressing in to his hand. “Come with me, Geralt,” Jaskier lilts, threading his fingers through the Witcher’s and tugging him back towards the bed. If he’s going to find out if certain rumours are true, then no time like the present to invest in his research. It’s all for the betterment of science – or something like that.

Geralt goes where he’s led. A very well-behaved Witcher whose eyes are hooding as he looks over every stretch of the body leading him closer. The backs of Jaskier’s knees press into the mattress and he perches on the edge of the bed.

Geralt’s hand slips out of his, deft fingers catching the hem of his shirt and wrangling it over his head only to be dropped to the ground; forgotten about even before it hits the floor. Jaskier’s mouth dries as his eyes wander. A bared muscular chest littered in scars – stories behind every one of them that he’ll pry the Witcher about some day. There’s a world and a life outside of the boarders of their estate, and he’s going to live and breathe it as soon as he can.

The front ties of the Witcher’s trousers are nimbly undone, and Jaskier sets his hands behind himself, lounging in the sight being revealed to him. Geralt bends to divest himself of his breeches just as quickly as he shed his shirt, and Jaskier’s eyes drop.

His throat bobs. The thought of having the man’s cock in his mouth, full and gagging around it. It’s bigger than anything he’s seen or taken in Oxenfurt. Even the sons of lords and barons around the province don’t compare.

Everything about a Witcher is enhanced. Absolutely.

He’s painfully aware of his own clothes, and pulling them off in kind only to be chucked to some forgotten corner of the room is more effort that he’s willing to put up with. He does it, only because there’s a Witcher stepping forward, reaching out for his cheek.

Jaskier’s eyelids hood at the first brush of the man’s thumb across the ridge of his cheekbone. “Little lordling has a talented mouth, hmm?” he rumbles.

Jaskier’s lips quirk into a smile. He sets his hands on to the man’s hips, more scars to be mapped and chartered later. The Witcher’s cock bobs in front of him, already hard and flushed, and Jaskier’s mouth waters at the sight of it; at the thought of it sitting in his mouth and against his tongue. He reaches for the Witcher’s hand, drawing him close as he slips down from the bed, knees hitting the varnished wooden floor.

Golden eyes glint as Jaskier’s hands settle on to the Witcher’s waist, holding him for a moment as Jaskier sets his lips on to him. He presses kisses along the base of the man’s cock, inhaling scent that coats the roof of his mouth and threatening to suffocate him. The Witcher is hard already. The thick scent of both him and the familiar musk of arousal starts to wash over him.

Jaskier’s fingers are nimble and talented things. He curls one hand around Geralt’s cock, slowly stroking it to hardness before dusting his lips at the head. Jaskier looks up, blue eyes shimmering within the faint glow of candlelight. His lashes flutter as he parts his mouth. “Use my mouth, Witcher,” Jaskier lilts, dusting one last kiss to the head of Geralt’s cock before sealing his lips around it.

Firm, calloused fingers knot into his hair, tugging and guiding Jaskier down. A muffled moan trembles out of him as his mouth is filled. A heavy cock fed into his mouth, resting along his tongue. The Witcher is big. Jaskier’s hand has to cover what he can’t take himself. The fingers knotted in his hair hold him firm, letting him get used to the feeling of the weighted girth resting on his tongue. “Such a pretty mouth,” a low voice rumbles above him. Jaskier looks up through his lashes, another moan lured out of him when Geralt reaches down, running the tip of his finger over the stretch of his lips. He has to pull in as much air as he can through his nose, and it’s heavy and thick with the scent of him. Golden eyes watch him as he hollows his cheeks and sucks. The start of a haze starts to dull the Witcher’s eyes. The first flush of colour warming his cheeks as a thin moan is lured out of him. “This is what you want to do, lordling? Hmm? Keep my bed warm at night? When I come back from my hunts, you’ll be on your knees ready for me?”

If it gets him away from this gods-damned house. But even then, a plume of pleasure washes through him and Jaskier’s throat bobs. He’ll spend the rest of his days on his knees, until the ground wears them thin, if he could feel what he’s feeling now. The fingers resting on the Witcher’s hip curl, pressing into the soft give of muscle there. A silent request.

It’s enough of an answer to the Witcher. A low rumbling laugh tremors out of his chest. He guides Jaskier’s head back, tight lips stretching around his length until only the head remains caught. Jaskier breathes through his mouth as best as he can before the Witcher rolls his hips and drags him forward, stuffing him again.

Jaskier’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head. Reverent murmurs above him have his skin prickling with heat. The air thickens in the room, and all he can smell and taste and hear is Geralt—

The Witcher’s hips snap forward. The head of his cock brushes the back of Jaskier’s throat. He doesn’t gag. He’s been on his knees for countless other students and lordlings, and he knows exactly how to manoeuvre around a rough thrust into his mouth. Jaskier hums, sucking around Geralt’s length. One of his hands reaches down, fingers cupping and rolling the Witcher’s balls.

Geralt’s moan is tight. “Attentive little thing,” he grunts. His hips snap that bit harder and quicker. Jaskier’s senses are flooded with him. Everything he tastes and smells, and when he blearily opens his eyes and looks up through his lashes, all that he sees is Geralt.

Geralt lets loose of a harsh breath. “Fuck, you’re good, lordling,” he grunts, catching a moan behind his teeth as his eyes flutter closed. Jaskier watches, even through the prickle of tears in his eyes. It’s too much and not enough. The sensations washing over him. He doesn’t want it to stop. Gods and Divines alike help the Witcher if he leaves in the morning without him. There won’t be a rock or field on this Continent where he won’t be able to hide from Jaskier.

He tightens his lips, hollowing his cheeks and sucking as best as he can with Geralt’s harsh thrusts. He’s desperate now, Jaskier knows. Hips stuttering and breath thinning ever so slightly. He cups the Witcher’s balls, moaning around his length. If he wants a bedmate, a lithe plaything to come back to after hunts and mount like a common whore, then fine. Jaskier’s all for it. If he can keep the man’s skin and fingers and cock around him, then Geralt can do whatever the fuck he likes with him.

Jaskier redoubles his efforts. The fingers knotted in his hair tighten, pulling at the strands, before Geralt’s hips stutter to a stop and a moan slips from his lips.

Jaskier moans. Spend floods his mouth, coating his tongue. As he pulls back, letting it gather within him, golden eyes watch. Jaskier holds their gaze. His lips are still stretched, even as he pulls back to the head of Geralt’s cock. He swallows what he can, letting the sound echo through the room.

Geralt’s breath catches and a glint flashes in his eye. Calloused fingertips graze Jaskier’s cheek, dusting lightly across the skin. Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed. “Pretty little thing,” Geralt rumbles, tilting his head slightly to look at the sight at his feet.

It doesn’t occur to him right away, but rather when Geralt tugs him away from his cock. A thin stream of spit still connects him to it, something Geralt catches with his thumb. Jaskier’s eyes hood. Gods alive, he’s desperate. His own prick aches and leaks against his thigh, utterly forgotten about. Fingers, lips, cock, anything. He needs something—

Geralt huffs a quiet laugh. “Don’t worry, sweet bird,” he murmurs, reaching down to stroke himself. “We’re not done yet.”

It occurs to him then. Jaskier’s hooded eyes become more aware. The Witcher is still hard. Jaskier stares at it, lips open and mouth watering again. He doesn’t know which god or divine creature to thank.

Geralt nods behind him. “Bed,” he orders, watching Jaskier all but scampers back up on to the bed, finding a comfortable space to lie and lounge and watch the Witcher stalk around the shadows beyond the edge. He swallows at the sight in front of him. Rippling muscles, broad shoulders, marred skin; all set by a glow of candlelight. His eyes wander down, to Geralt’s hand still around himself. He strokes lazily, loosely. Not nearly enough to edge him along, but to just keep him interested. And golden eyes watch him, running over every long line of Jaskier. His legs, the arches of his hips, his stomach and lightly furred chest. The corners of the Witcher’s lips quirk. He lets his hand fall away from himself, stalking up on to the bed and covering Jaskier with his bulk.

It’s a struggle to reach out, because he doesn’t know what to touch first. White hair fraying out of its tie, begging to have his fingers around it and tugged. Broad shoulders and a firm chest to dig his nails into and mark. Jaskier sinks back into the mattress and lets his legs spread and splay out, inviting a Witcher between them. He lets his arms stay languid over his head, almost lost to the mountain of pillows stacked against the headboard.

Geralt’s lips chart him, mapping his skin and muscle from the arch of his hip to his chest, lingering for a moment over his heart. Surely he must be able to feel how quickly it’s beating. The Witcher arches an eyebrow at him. “Are you frightened?” he murmurs, lips paused just above his chest.

Jaskier shakes his head, never more sure of an answer in his life.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of Geralt’s lips. “Do you often fall into strangers’ beds?” he murmurs, continuing his path towards Jaskier’s collarbone. A lithe moan slips out of him when the Witcher’s teeth graze the thin skin there. His words, spoken against him, almost rumble down through his muscle and bones. “Would you have been this keen with a passing lord or baron? Would you have hoped they saved you too?”

Jaskier watches the Witcher prowling over him. They were the same height, with maybe a sliver of an inch separating them. But now, with his lithe form completely covered by the Witcher’s bulk, it’s hard not to sink down into the mattress below him. “Maybe,” he murmurs, fingers fidgeting with the tasselled edges of the pillows behind him. When Geralt looks up at him again, Jaskier offers him a small smile. “But I’m glad it’s you. You’re a much better lay than any dusty old baron from gods-know-where. Melitele forbid I would have to woo him; I might just make his heart give out.”

A laugh shakes through the Witcher, almost lost to the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. “Do you know how old I am, little lordling?” Geralt rumbles, letting his fingers and hand join in on the mapping out of Jaskier’s bared body.

“Ancient, I imagine,” Jaskier hums, reaching out and catching stray strands of white hair with his fingers.

Geralt hums. “Not far off,” he murmurs. A shiver shakes through Jaskier. Light lips dusting along his neck, kissing and savouring the taste of him. His breath thins at the first scrape of teeth that catches just underneath his jaw.

The Witcher sidles over him, setting their hips together and rocking them. Their cocks brush; Geralt’s still wet and hard and nudging against Jaskier’s. His fingers curl into the fabric casings of the pillows, knotting it into his fists. A fresh plume of pleasure washes through him. And just as it crests, Geralt rolls their hips again. And again, and again. A sure and firm grind. He reaches down, settling a hand on to Jaskier’s hip, guiding them.

A high-pitched whine slips from Jaskier’s throat. “Fuck,” he moans, letting his head back and baring the stretch of his neck for Geralt’s lips and teeth. “Oh gods, more. More, Geralt, please.”

The Witcher hums against his jaw. Through the haze washing over him, he’s distantly aware of Geralt’s other arm moving, bracing just beside Jaskier’s head. His hand seeks out one of Jaskier’s, their fingers coiling and locking together. “You’ll have to learn to keep up, little bird,” the Witcher murmurs, lips drifting to the shell of his ear. Every breath and word has shivers shaking through him. His grip on Geralt’s hand tightens. “A Witcher’s stamina extends to all things, especially the bedroom.”

He’ll die. He’ll be freed from this wretched house and die in some tavern room in some nameless village in the middle of fucking nowhere, and all because of a Witcher’s cock.

And he’s not mad about it. At all.

He rocks up against Geralt, luring a moan out of the man that he’s quick to bury against Jaskier’s ear. Words rumble out of him. “Oil, little bird,” he grunts. “Is there any?”

The words take a moment to wade through the haze clouding his mind. When they do eventually reach him, he lifts his head, blearily blinking around the room until his eyes fall on to a bedside table. “There should, fuck,” he moans at a particularly strong rock of their hips together, “there should be some in there, I don’t know.”

Geralt doesn’t move too far away from him, leaning over and almost ripping the drawer out completely as he rummages for the bottle of oil that Jaskier hopes to every god he can remember the name of is in there. True, this is a spare room. But even travelling and visiting dignitaries have needs – right? He fucking hopes so.

Before a whine can slip out of his lips, with the Witcher being away for even a moment too long, he’s back and covering Jaskier. A thin glass bottle, ornately gilded, is uncorked and used to wet Geralt’s hand and fingers. Jaskier watches him. His eyes can’t break away, watching the glisten of oil coat the Witcher’s hand before the bottle is re-corked and lost to the sea of rumpled sheets. His breath catches in his throat as Geralt holds himself over him, reaching down to brush the tips of his fingers against the tight furl of Jaskier’s hole.

Golden eyes burrow into his. “Watch me, little bird,” Geralt murmurs, “just let yourself feel.” One fingertip nudges at his entrance, gently running around the rim and wetting him just enough. Jaskier breathes, the mingling scent of the both of them entwining and almost suffocating him as it sets to the roof of his mouth.

At the first press of Geralt’s finger against him, he moans. It’s louder than any sound the Witcher has been able to lure out of him so far. And the second it slips from his lips, Geralt leans down, quickly catching him in a deep kiss. Jaskier’s fingers tighten into the pillows above him. “Quiet, sweet thing,” Geralt mumbles as he pulls away, not venturing too far. “You don’t want us to be disturbed, do you?”

The warm wash of the man’s breath over him, the areas of them both that are flushed against each other and touching, the insistent press of Geralt’s finger into him – it’s all too much. Jaskier releases one hand from above him, reaching out blearily and catching Geralt’s shoulder. He drags him into a kiss, moaning against his lips.

The Witcher’s finger slides deeper into him, pressing and beginning the stretch for him. Jaskier’s throat bobs. Geralt isn’t small. He’ll need to be plied apart and wet for him. And that takes time; time that he’s not sure he’s willing to give, knowing that his skin is set alight with every press of the man’s flesh against his own, or the occasional brush of their cocks together. He needs Geralt, and he needs him now.

His fingers curl into the man’s shoulder, fingertips pressing into and marking the skin and muscle there. When they break their kiss for air, Jaskier moans. “Fuck me,” he whines, breathing against Geralt’s lips as he kisses him again.

Geralt is meticulous. One finger presses in and out, a steady rhythm that has Jaskier getting used to having something in him again. His last lay within Oxenfurt was the last night he was on the campus – some older student who he forgot the name of the moment he stepped out on to the main road home.

A second finger joins the first, and Jaskier’s moan would be louder, if not caught against Geralt’s lips. A sound rumbles out of the Witcher’s chest. Quiet. If anyone were to find them out now, he might just take up on his mind’s earlier offer to throw himself from the tower’s highest window.

Geralt does free his lips through. He doesn’t wander too far, breathing against his cheek and jaw as he peppers Jaskier’s skin with kisses and nips. His fingers delve in and out of Jaskier, spreading occasionally to stretch and open him. At every shake of noise out of Jaskier, it lures a moan out of the man above him. “Tighter than a whore,” Geralt rumbles against his skin. “You’re gripping around my fingers, little bird. How am I going to get inside of you when you’re as tight as this, hmm?”

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care at all. If he doesn’t have the Witcher’s cock in him now—

There’s a deep murmured laugh smothered against his jaw. “Desperate little thing,” Geralt says. “I suppose we’ll just have to work on that, won’t we? If you’re to keep my bed warm, sweet bird, then you’ll need to be able to take what I give you.”

Jaskier’s eyes threaten to roll. The images flashing and blinking in front of him; kept by a fireside, mounted against a bedroll or the dirt, his moans and cries lost to plains of grass or the trees around them; waiting on a tavern bed, lounging as he plucks at his lute, waiting for his hunter to return and ply him apart again—

Jaskier clenches around the fingers inside of him. His legs splay and spread apart. He’s loosening up, the inside of his thighs wet with oil.

At the nudge of a third finger against him, Jaskier pushes down against it, seeking out Geralt for a deep and messy kiss just to muffle the sounds pulled out of him. Firm and calloused fingers know what to do; where to delve in and stretch, and where to curl against that spot inside of Jaskier that has his toes curling and his breath stilling in his throat.

Jaskier reaches up, tangling his fingers into the Witcher’s hair at the back of his head. “I’m ready,” he pants, “please, Geralt. Fuck me, I need you. Please!”

Geralt hushes him, gentle fingers reaching to card through his own hair and comb it back from his sweat-slickened brow. “Gentle, little bird, I have you,” he murmurs, letting his fingers slip free of Jaskier. A whine lurches out of his throat. He clenches around nothing, wet and stretched but empty—

Geralt’s lips set by his ear. “Patience. I’m here, I have you,” he repeats, reaching down and slickening his cock. When the head is pressed against him, Jaskier’s eyes roll and flutter closed. His grip on Geralt’s hair and the pillows propping him up tighten. His lips stretch around a cut-off and silent moan as Geralt pushes in. He parts around the Witcher’s cock, and he’s big. Gentle rocks of his hips forward and back guide the way. Geralt sets a gentle hand on to Jaskier’s hip, keeping him from arching too far away from the bed. “Good, good,” he rasps against Jaskier’s ear, voice thick as he finally bottoms out.

There isn’t a place in him that Geralt’s cock isn’t pushing against. He can almost feel the man in his throat. His own cock leaks between them, red and ruddy and forgotten about. Drops of precum leak on to his abdomen.

His grip on the man’s hair loosens, eventually falling away entirely. Jaskier settles a shaking hand on to Geralt’s shoulder, his fingertips set against the muscle there. The Witcher is still, almost quivering as he waits for a sign or word to move. Jaskier flutters around his cock, clenching down and trying to draw him in impossibly deeper.

He doesn’t trust his own voice. Gods know how quiet or loud any sort of sound might spill out of him. But when he does speak, it’s rasping and deep. “Move,” he lulls, hooking his legs around Geralt’s hips and setting his ankles into the small of the Witcher’s back. “Fuck me, Geralt. Make me yours.”

Geralt makes a sound against him, something almost-feral and wild that’s half lost against his skin. His hips rock back, leaving just the head of his cock inside of the man below him, before he fucks in sharply. Jaskier catches his moan behind his teeth. The fingers against Geralt’s shoulder press in, and his hold on the pillows tighten. Gods alive, he looks to the wooden rafters and vaults above them, knowing that if he looks down, to the rippling movements of the Witcher’s muscles, he’ll be lost.

There’s a steady rhythm; Geralt fucking him steadily and surely, grunting against Jaskier’s neck and burying his nose into a spot behind his ear. Every breath the Witcher takes is full of Jaskier’s scent. Freshly scrubbed from an earlier bath, but even the scent underneath it all. Something that’s him; and slowly mixing with the tang of sweat and sex, and the hints of Geralt’s own smell pressing against him.

He suddenly doesn’t care about the rest of the house. The stone walls around them should hold back most of the noise, but gods alive, he wants to loosen his throat and shout and moan and scream the Witcher’s name until it’s embedded in every stone, mortar, and wooden plank making up this room. Some small part of him wants his father to know; to know that his eldest son, his heir, is beneath a Witcher, planning on travelling the Continent with him instead of taking up his birthplace.

Jaskier whines. “Put your claim on me, Witcher,” he groans, digging his heels into the small of Geralt’s back. “Make me yours. Fuck me, spill in me. Make me remember who I belong to—”

Geralt’s hands set on either side of him, arms stretched out and holding him just above Jaskier’s body. Golden eyes glinted with something feral and inhuman stare down at him. Jaskier’s legs tighten around Geralt’s hips, guiding every sure and sharp thrust. Jaskier stretches out underneath him, showing every line of him for the Witcher’s lips and teeth. And if the slightly lifted lip is anything to go by, the Witcher is barely holding on to a resolve not to pepper marks all over the body below him.

Jaskier lifts his chin, a fucked-out and near-delirious smile starting to curl along his lip. “You said it yourself, Witcher,” he groans, letting one hand travel down his body, over his chest and nipples, over his abdomen speckled with white, until his fingers curl around his cock. He strokes, earning a deep moan out of the Witcher as Jaskier’s tightens around him. “I’ll be warming your bed, won’t I? Wouldn’t want to have any wandering eyes falling on to me – I’m sure you can make sure people know who I belong to now, don’t you?”

Geralt’s hands catch his hips in a tight hold. Before Jaskier can blink and figure out what’s happening, he’s being moved. He’s caught and gathered against Geralt’s chest, his hips flush against Jaskier’s as he rolls them. Geralt stretches out underneath him, perching Jaskier on to his cock and letting him sit down on it fully. It’s even more of a push into him, stretching and filling him in ways he’s never been filled. And Jaskier slumps forward, just catching himself by putting a steadying hand on Geralt’s furred chest.

The Witcher’s hips thrust, fucking up into him as Jaskier struggles to coordinate his own movements. Every sharp hit of Geralt’s cock against his prostate steals what’s left of his air. “That’s it, Geralt,” he whines, eyes fluttering closed and lips stretched around moans flowing freely from his throat. “There, yes! Gods, fuck me. Claim me. You feel so good, fuck—”

He’s almost bent over Geralt entirely, slumped against the man’s chest. Geralt’s hands are tight on his hips, holding and guiding him down on to every thrust. Eventually, deeper and desperate sounds start to spill from Geralt’s lips. The golden eyes that had watched him begin to haze as his brows knit together. He’s close. Jaskier teetering on the edge, luring the other man with him as he rolls his hips down, fucking himself on to Geralt and getting him as deep as he can.

“Good, so good, Geralt,” Jaskier slurs, fingers curling into the man’s chest. “Are you going to fill me? Cum inside of me and leave your mark there?”

He watches his words tighten Geralt’s frown. His lips thin as his thrusts begin to falter. Jaskier reaches down, curling his fingers around his cock and stroking it in time. A moan lurches out of him. “Geralt, please, I need you. You feel so good, fucking me so deep. Cum for me, darling. Cum for me and fill me up.”

He spills first. White streaks stain his hand and Geralt’s abdomen as his breath catches in his throat. It’s the hardest he’s ever cum, almost bending him over as pleasure shakes through him. And it’s heightened at the sight below him. A feral Witcher with a firm grip on his hips, wildly fucking up into the tight wet heat quivering around him until Geralt snarls, bringing Jaskier’s ass flush against him as he comes. Jaskier moans again, feeling himself be flooded. Claimed. Gods alive, how could he ever fall into anyone else’s bed? Knowing that this existed in the world, and that it’s his.

The promise Geralt and he shared sit over them, amid the mingled thick scent of the both of them and the tang of sex and sweat. As the Witcher’s hold on him loosens, Jaskier falls forward, lying down and flush against the man’s chest. Strong arms wind around him, gathering him close as they move. Jaskier barely grunts at being lain on his side, among the sheets and pillows he’ll spend one last night sleeping amongst. But now it’s stained with the scent of both of them, and some small part of him delights in some maid having to strip the bed, having some inkling what happened the night before.

Jaskier’s fingers curl into Geralt’s chest. He winces as the Witcher’s cock pulls out of him, trailing oil and cum with it. Mustering more energy than Jaskier could ever hope of trying to get back, he watches as the Witcher slips away with a barely concealed grunt, padding through the room to find a discarded towel and washbasin.

Through the dimming candlelight, Jaskier watches the ripple and movement of muscle. Skin marred with scars – stories behind every single one of them, and stories he’ll wring out of the Witcher one way or another.

Sleep prods at him, dragging him further and further under with every moment that passes. He barely makes a sound or movement when Geralt cleans between his thighs, running calloused fingers lightly over the skin of his hips, checking for marks.

He hopes they stay; bruises and indents left from nails that will ache in the morning. Reminders of his newfound freedom found with someone else.

The bed dips and Geralt slips underneath the sheets, somehow manoeuvring Jaskier under them too to ward off the chill stalking in from the shadows. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he parts with one last look at the Witcher burrowing into the bed, white hair fanning out around him as he sets to sleep.

A rumble tremors out of his chest. “I’ll wake you at first light,” Geralt mumbles, eyes closed and inviting sleep to take him under. “Gather your things and we’ll go.”

A smile curls along Jaskier’s lip, one that stays with him even as sleep pulls at him.