Chapter Text
“What do you mean he’s going into rut?” Jaskier knew the shock was plain on his face as he stared between his mate’s grim features and the distinctly amused countenance of the sorceress across from them. “He’s… how can that even happen?”
Yennefer just shrugged her elegant shoulders, a smile still lingering on her lips as she stared right back at him. “I believe you may only have yourself to blame for that one, Jaskier. It’s never happened before, so I can only presume it is a delightful little side effect of our friend here mating with a fertile human omega. Congratulations on being a biological catalyst stronger than any witcher’s mutagen to date. You must be very proud. Though it does lead one to wonder just what other consequences there might be...”
Jaskier shot her a look, not too pleased with her tone, though at the very least a smug sorceress was generally a helpful one. Considering they were in the middle of a situation totally without precedent he wasn’t about to turn down any assistance, snarky though it might be.
They’d originally come to Yennefer because Geralt had thought that he’d been cursed. No one had expected that of all the possible explanations for his strange behavior it could be something to simple as Geralt going into rut. For any other alpha it might have come to mind, but it was well known that witchers didn’t have a cycle. Their mutations rendered them infertile and nothing could reverse those. Or so they had thought.
As much as he hated to admit it she was right, Jaskier was feeling a little proud. After all, it wasn’t every day you had concrete proof that being with you had changed a supposedly ageless being irreversibly.
Of course Geralt didn't look so delighted. In fact, he looked decidedly ill for a man that who'd found out he hadn’t been cursed. Jaskier thought that was rather good news. As much as he loved the man he was not prepared to fight him until dawn. Now fucking on the other hand…
Well, even that was probably unfamiliar territory under the circumstances, but he was fairly certain he could rise to the challenge. It was hard to imagine Geralt, who was usually so strictly in control of himself consumed by instinct, but he couldn’t say he didn’t find himself a bit intrigued.
Feeling fairly resolved in his decision to help he turned to give Geralt a reassuring glance only to find the man not meeting his gaze at all. The witcher’s pale features were fraught with tension, and though Jaskier had seen him take some of his potions before the meeting, he still looked strained.
“No curse. That's good news, isn’t it, Geralt?” His mate’s solemn features didn’t change, but he’d worked with less. “Hm. So, first Witcher -maybe ever- to have a rut, what do you suggest we do?” He doubted there was an established protocol, but it didn’t hurt to ask.
“The same thing most bonded pairs do, I imagine. I know you’re well acquainted with the mechanics of such relations. I’ve been subject to the sound of your caterwauling the next room over often enough.”
The outrage must have been plain on his face, as the sorceress actually stifled laughter while he tried to think of a suitable rejoinder. The nerve of the woman! There were a lot of things to be said for him, but he had never ‘caterwauled’ a day in his life!
He was about to land a scathing riposte when he saw Geralt go nearly green. Jaskier would have thought it was the potions, but there was none of the bruising around his eyes that usually accompanied an overdose. He just looked nauseous, Jaskier would almost say frightened if he didn’t know any better.
Seeing the normally stable man like this tugged at something inside him. Before he knew it the bard was reaching forward to lay a gentle caress to Geralt’s extended knee. They made contact for a moment, and he saw the Geralt’s shoulders start to relax before the man abruptly recoiled, shoving his hand harshly away. The move startled Jaskier, his eyes wide as he took the appendage back to give the alpha his space even when the distance left him aching.
He struggled not to show it, but the bard was rattled. He hadn’t had the witcher be so cold to him since they’d first met at the tavern in Posada, and even then that hadn’t lasted but a moment. The rejection hurt, leaving that soft omega part of him wounded and confused. Jaskier’s gaze snapped up to Geralt, searching for an explanation only to find the witcher’s eyes firmly averted.
“We aren't doing anything. I'll find a secure location and lock myself up. It can’t last more than a week, I’ve survived worse accommodations.” Geralt’s tone was just as frigid as the gaze he set upon the little stone that had turned color to indicate his impending rut.
The words had the omega’s lips twisted in a frown. Geralt planned to spend it alone? His first rut, possibly ever, and he thought it was a good idea to have it unaccompanied? “Do you have any idea what a rut is like? Or how bad it can be on your own when you’re mated? Your body knows that we’re bonded, Geralt. That’s obvious enough by the rut happening in the first place. I can’t just leave you alone to suffer, you'll tear yourself apart!” Just the thought made a sick feeling linger in Jaskier’s belly. Even if Geralt was being an ass to him right now, he couldn’t imagine leaving his mate like that in his time of need.
“You can and you will. There is no way of knowing what a rut might be like for a witcher, and I have no plan to risk you being there. I’ll do it on my own and you will stay at the Inn, I’m sure Yen can watch you in the meantime.”
Jaskier couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was like talking to a totally different person. This was not the man that had seen him through his heat, or the one that had taken him to bed a week past. This was a cold, alien alpha that seemed to want nothing to do with him.
It didn’t make sense.
The bard only noticed his hands were shaking when he caught himself fiddling with the braiding on his coat, cursing himself for the weakness. “And I just have no say in this? Your omega, who you bonded, does not get to decide for himself whether or not he wants to take the risk with you?”
“No.” There was a terrible finality to the words, and for the first time in a while Jaskier felt utterly unwelcome to approach.
He knew Geralt hated being out of control, but he still wouldn’t have expected the alpha to be so utterly against it. Even if it wasn’t something he’d dealt with before, a rut cycle was normal enough for every other alpha. It was a difficult time, to be sure, but Geralt wasn’t alone. He had Jaskier. Or at least he’d thought that Geralt knew that.
His instincts didn’t understand any of this. Even when he knew that he’d done nothing wrong he couldn’t help feeling like a ‘bad omega,’ like his alpha’s rejection was somehow a product of his failure. It was a dreadful feeling, and before he knew it Jaskier was furiously wiping at his eyes, hating the tears that burned his eyes and betrayed how deeply the rejection wounded him.
He knew it wasn’t his fault. All this was Geralt’s damnedable stubbornness and his awful inability to let the bard closer. No matter how close they came, the witcher still refused to see him like an equal. He might care for him, but at times like this it was very clear that Geralt still thought of Jaskier as little more than babe in the woods, too naïve to make his own decisions. It was insulting, to say the least, but more than that it hurt because the man wouldn’t even give him the chance to prove himself a worthy companion. Jaskier’s help was beneath him, and he would rather rave like a beast alone in a cave than give the bard a chance to soothe his pain.
“Well. If you’re so happy being alone then I will leave you to it. You'll have the room to yourself tonight, Geralt. I'm headed out.”
With that Jaskier forced himself to turn his back, ignoring the sour color of possessive need and anxiety that made the alpha’s scent harsh in his nose as he went to gather his things. He kept his gaze averted, hating that he had to scrub at his eyes occasionally as he threw a few items into a rucksack. Though the witcher may have been trying not to look at him, he could certainly feel the sorceress’s greedy gaze eating it up, no doubt loving the bit of drama.
But at the very least she didn’t intervene, even as he felt the witcher getting more agitated as he threw his lute over his shoulder. He didn’t know how long he would be, but it wouldn’t hurt to make some money along the way, since he hadn’t exactly taken his coin purse to their little meeting.
“Julian, wait, fuck—”
It was the first move the witcher had made to stop him, but it wasn’t an apology so Jaskier ignored it, closing the door firmly behind him. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by whatever paltry showing of remorse the witcher might manage to dredge up. He had hurt him, more than Jaskier wanted to admit, and he had no plans to just come crawling back because the man might have finally realized he’d made a mistake. Just as he had, Geralt would have to learn that there were consequences to his actions.
***
“Well… you cocked that up rather nicely.”
Geralt sat with his head in his hands, feeling his instincts rage at him for letting his mate walk out the door. “Not now, Yen.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Now seems a fine time to reflect on your failures. You went from a fortunate man looking at a week straight of spirited sexual delights to insensitive beast in less than three minutes. That has to be a record even for you.”
As much as he wanted to snap at her, it was impossible to deny the sinking feeling in his stomach that accompanied the dawning realization that he had royally fucked up. He had made Jaskier cry. Even now the scent of omega hurt left a stagnant sadness in the air. He hated it, almost as much as he hated himself for being the cause.
He’d done it for the bard’s own good, but he still felt like a beast turning him away. He had never seen the cheerful brunette look so betrayed as when he pushed him away, but he didn’t want to let himself fall into the lure of letting nature take its course. Despite the aching of his alpha instincts, there was nothing natural about a witcher going into rut.
All witchers were infertile. Sterile creatures didn’t need a mating cycle, it didn’t make sense. They underwent the Trial of the Grasses during presentation, when their bodies were at their most malleable. What would have been that first false heat or rut was overwhelmed by the potions pumped into their veins. Their bodies were too busy breaking, burning and building all over again to have any semblance of sexuality in that moment of change. They either died or were forever altered, too mutated to respond to the changing seasons like other creatures did.
Though many might think they would lament the loss, Geralt had always thought it was for the best. The witcher had seen human alphas go into rut; how sensible enough men became ravening beasts under the influence of their season. It was an ugly sight, and he had put down more than a few men that had become monsters in such a state.
But a witcher mad with rut… that would be a deadly creature indeed; a berserker with inhuman reflexes determined to defend their territory, to fuck and kill until they collapsed from exhaustion. No one could control that, no matter how well intentioned, and he wasn’t going to risk Jaskier on the off chance that a mate was panacea enough to sate the need.
Finely buffed nails tapped on the small table between them, drawing his attention once more to the exasperated looking sorceress before him. “I can see the wheels turning in that pretty little head of yours, Geralt, and I think you’re working yourself up for nothing.”
A deep sigh strained the tight bodice of her elegant dress, but she didn’t seem to mind, too busy giving him a fond but judging gaze. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand. You and I have seen ugly things, but don’t let that make you think that just because others have fallen to their instincts means that you will as a matter of course. Trust that I have no intention of stroking your ego when I say that even in the depths of rut I don’t believe that you would hurt him.”
Geralt wanted to believe that, but that was the very reason he couldn’t trust himself. Every part of him was aching at the moment for the omega, but he couldn’t know how much of that was himself and how much was the result of his oncoming rut. If he gave in to its desires there was no telling when the next concession would come, what base urge he might submit to next. No witcher had ever had a cycle, and even if he liked to believe that he was well acquainted with restraint, there was still the chance for his will to fail at a crucial instant. There were many risks in life that were unavoidable, but this wasn’t one of them. Going it alone was the only way to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone.
He just wished Jaskier could see his feelings for what they were; a need to protect the omega, to keep him safe from the witcher’s more bestial nature. No matter the cost. “You can’t be certain of that.”
“Chaos preserve… you can be so bloody dense.” The sorceress threw her hands up in the air, standing up from the table to pace as if she was too frustrated to be still any longer. “Then there are potions, spells that can make you safe! You act like everything you do must be an act of your own indomitable will! If you would rely on someone else for once then there wouldn’t be a problem. You don’t have to do this alone, and it’s only being a crotchety old goat that makes you think you should.”
She left no room for argument, a sweep of her hand leaving Geralt silent just as he tried to protest. The press of magic sat poorly on him in pre-rut, but there was little he could do but wait for her to release it, which she likely wouldn’t do until she had said her piece.
After a good bit of profanity in the Elder tongue Yennefer finally collapsed back into her chair, looking quite pointedly at the door the bard had exited through. The same door the witcher was trying not to think about too hard. “You don’t want to lose him, Geralt. That bard might be a brat and a dandy, but he is hopelessly in love with you. No one would compose such songs, sing your praises, or endure your rotten moods if they weren’t.”
He knew that well enough already. It was plenty clear how the bard felt about him in every line of his face, in the lingering appreciation as he let the omega help him bathe, or the desperate relief every time he returned from a monster hunt unharmed. He knew he would be worse than a fool to push him away, but it was hard to break the instinct to protect him.
The bard trusted him, and despite how he treasured that trust he found it hard not to think it was misguided. Geralt hadn’t always done good in his life. He had made mistakes; costly ones, and he wasn’t ready to have another be at his bonded omega’s expense.
But Jaskier didn’t see that. He just saw the witcher pushing him away; disregarding him. Geralt had wanted to spare him pain, but he had only hurt him in the process.
Even though every inch of his body vibrated with the desire to run after Jaskier, to demand he came back, he settled back into the chair. He had done the bard wrong and he didn’t deserve to go demanding his forgiveness now, not until he had some way to make it up to him.
Sometimes he forgot in the generally easy-going manner of their camaraderie that people and their emotions could be hard to deal with. He may not be as bereft as many witchers, but he still struggled dealing with relationships. Jaskier had fit in into his life so naturally that he rarely noticed how the man so well accommodated him. He was a good omega, and likely deserved better than an irritable old Witcher, but Jaskier didn’t want that.
If Geralt wanted to keep him he would have to resist his instinctive desire to smother Jaskier with his protection. Strange as it seemed, the bard wanted to help him, no matter the risk. And though Geralt would have been more than willing to suffer the rut screaming himself hoarse in a cave for days, it seemed that wouldn’t be an option, not if he wanted to fix this and get his damn barker back.
“Fine. You mentioned spells?”
***
Jaskier was three cups in at the local inn and feeling terribly sorry for himself.
He’d started drinking after his third and most maudlin rendition of “Toss a Coin to your Witcher" was booed off stage. He must have looked a sight to have the whores not fishing hanging off him as they did. That, and he may have nearly burst into tears when someone had asked him when his witcher was coming to pick him up.
Not long ago he would have been over the moon to have his face buried in the perfumed bosom of a beautiful woman while three others cooed around him, but at the moment all he could think about was that stubborn Witcher and how he wished the man was here to be jealous.
At the very least the comforting scent of fellow omegas was helping to calm his nerves. He let the sturdy whore who had first pulled him over stroke his hair as he tried to stifle his sniffles. Weepy bards made for exceptionally depressing company and he was sure it wasn’t doing anything for the tavern’s side business. It was just hard to shake his melancholy.
After all the two had been through Geralt still refused to trust him. He may not be a mage, brute or brawler, but he contributed in his own way. Just because he was no fighter didn’t mean that he was to be dismissed.
For Geralt to think that something so integral to the alpha wasn’t his business… and particularly after the two of them had shared his heat. Everyone knew that witchers were infertile, so he’d rather given up on the idea of helping Geralt through a rut, but when he’d found out that it was possible, that it was happening… that had changed things.
But no, Geralt thought it didn’t involve him. He didn’t care what his bonded mate had to say on such a matter. He was determined to be a proper asshole and ignore anything Jaskier had to say. It was typical of the man to think he knew better than the bard, but what really got to him was being once again pushed away by the monster hunter.
And maybe he was being petty to stomp off, to not give Geralt a chance to further explain himself, but honestly this was a terribly familiar tale. He just didn’t see why he always had to do all the emotional labor in their relationship.
Well, not this time. If Geralt wanted to be forgiven, if he wanted to make things right he would actually apologize. He owed Jaskier that much.
It was later into the evening and most of the patrons had retired while the bard had at last transitioned to water. He sang a few quiet lines in the relative stillness of the tavern, trying quite hard not to think of the void where his usual brooding audience would sit. The lute’s chord struck wrong, and quietly the bard cursed as he adjusted the tension, displeased at the clear evidence of his own mental preoccupation.
An awful clatter at the table beside him actually startled the bard, his bright blue gaze snapping to the ruggedly handsome visage that was both familiar and infuriating in equal parts. It hadn’t even been an entire day and already he’d missed that grumpy face. Damn his pining poet’s heart… he had to be strong.
“Geralt. What are you doing here?”
“This is me…apologizing.” Geralt didn't look terribly contrite. He looked like he had indigestion.
Jaskier frowned, his gaze tracking downward to see that clatter at his table had apparently been Geralt throwing down a set of… handcuffs? The dark metal bracelets were modestly padded and heavy with runes, much more severe in appearance than their usual fair. While typically such things would be exceptionally relevant to his interests, he had no intention of playing any kinky games with a man that couldn’t admit he was wrong. “If you think considering how you’ve treated me that I'm in the mood to play—”
“They’re not for you… they’re for me.”
“For you?” Now that was different. Jaskier could admit he was intrigued despite himself, but no… he couldn’t let himself get distracted.
“If you really want to see me through my rut, I'll let you.”
Jaskier blinked twice in rapid succession, his brows nearly disappearing into his hairline. “You’ll let me? Oh, what an honor, oh Geralt the great and powerful witcher.”
“Come on, Jaskier, give me a break. I…” the witcher paused, looking terribly frustrated before he visibly took a moment to gather himself, “I'm trying, alright?”
Well, he was that. It was a rare day indeed that the White Wolf of Rivia came pawing at his door, tail tucked between his legs. But he knew he could do better. He’d yet to hear an apology, odd bondage implements aside. “I'm sure you’re feeling very magnanimous right now, Geralt, to come to me like my company is anything less than a privilege… but I’ve also yet to hear you say the magic words.”
The handsome idiot just frowned at him for a moment, confusion painted all over his striking features. “…please?”
“That’s nice too, but I meant ‘sorry,’ Geralt. You’ve yet to apologize for treating me like a child. I'm not your ward, no matter what games we play. If we’re going to be in a bonded partnership I want to know you think of me as an adult, capable of making my own decisions.” The bitter tang of remorse tinted the Witcher’s scent like wilted flowers, but he had to stand his ground. If he let Geralt get away with this the man would always try and use his emotional constipation as an excuse.
“I… I’m sorry, Julian.”
Those golden pupils were wide and too vulnerable looking for such a large, scary man. Still, the bard refused to let himself be so easily swayed, kitten eyes or no. “And what are you apologizing for, Geralt?”
“Dammit, Jaskier…” the monster slayer groaned, looking up to the sky, no doubt for a deliverance that would never come. It wasn’t some unseen force that the witcher should be looking to, because it was Jaskier the man had offended, and it was him he would be apologizing to if he didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. “I’m sorry for saying my rut wasn’t your business.”
“It’s not that, Geralt and you know it. If you truly wanted to spend your rut on your own that was one thing, I’m upset with you because you wanted to do it because you thought that I didn’t deserve to decide for myself if I was comfortable helping you through it.”
“Fuck, I know. I’m sorry for treating you like a child, alright? You know I’m not used to relying on anyone else, and I certainly never wanted anyone relying on me. But we’re bonded now, and yes, you deserve to have a say in whether you want to see me through it or not. I wanted to keep you safe, but I realize that may have come off as… presumptuous.”
“It was incredibly infantilizing and insulting, but yes, you get the idea.” Jaskier was finally looking fully at the large man verbally prostrated before him, so clearly uncomfortable in a position of humility. It wasn’t that Geralt was an exceptionally arrogant man, but he was well aware of his own talents and abilities, and was not used to being so entirely at a disadvantage. This wasn’t hunting beasts or saving kingdoms, this was just the more fragile politics between two people, and he was very unaccustomed to navigating it.
He knew he should take a hard line with him, make the monster hunter really grovel for his forgiveness, but Jaskier couldn’t help it. He had an awful weakness for the large man seeming so out of his depth. And looking at him now it was easier to feel like the man was truly sorry.
He never really thought that Geralt meant to hurt him, even when he snapped at him or shied under his touch. The man was just not used to regular handling, like an animal that had been poorly socialized. He could be lovely and doting when he wanted to be, and it was easy to forget sometimes that all of this was rather new to him.
The White Wolf might have fucked almost every sorceress, whore, and the occasional humanoid monster, but he was not used to long term relations, that was for certain. “Fine. I accept your apology, Geralt. But I don’t want you to make a habit of this, alright? We’re bonded now, you’re not alone and neither am I.”
For his part the witcher just looked relieved. It actually gave Jaskier a bit of a shock when the pale haired man reached for his hand to briskly rub their wrists together, transferring his scent onto the shocked omega. Their pheromones blended, and all at once some of the tension dissipated in the air. The headache he hadn’t known was burgeoning tapered off, and even still somewhat perturbed with the man, he felt those feelings overlaid by a terrible fondness.
“Alright… so what’s this about shackles then you perverted old man?”