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“Valdo Marx.”
Jaskier glances at Geralt. “Not a name I expected you to be saying right now,” he quips, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders. “You thinking of replacing me as your bard?”
Geralt shifts closer, lets his hand settle carefully at Jaskier’s waist. “I’m reliably informed he’s a terrible poet,” he says wryly.
Jaskier laughs. “True,” he says. “You’d definitely be downgrading.” He turns towards Geralt, leaning against the railing overlooking the training ground, and studies Geralt, forehead furrowed. “Why are you thinking about Valdo Marx, of all people?”
Geralt glances down at the training ground in the heart of Kaer Morhen, snow dusted across the frozen ground and icy rooftops, gathering in heaps around the edges of the flattened earth. Ciri is down there, ash-blonde hair shorn short around her ears, sparring with Lambert as Vesemir watches from the sidelines, and as Geralt watches Lambert taps Ciri’s hip with his blunted training sword, sends her crashing to the dirt. Why is he thinking about Valdo Marx?
But, as usual, Jaskier knows him better than he knows himself. “This is your family,” he says quietly, understanding. “This is your past. And now you’re wondering about mine.”
Geralt hums in agreement, and flexes his fingers around Jaskier’s hip.
Jaskier cocks his head. “What do you want to know?”
Geralt pauses, breathes in the cold mountain air. “What’s your history with him?” he asks, even though that isn’t the question he really wants to ask, even though he can’t quite figure out what the question he really wants to ask is.
Jaskier shrugs, the cold blushing red across his cheeks. “We studied together at Oxenfurt,” he says. “He’s an arrogant prick with a superiority complex who thinks he’s the gods’ gift to music. Fortunately, I tend to beat him in any competition we both play in.” His eyebrow tilts higher. “As you well know.” He pauses, looks at Geralt with quiet understanding blossoming in his eyes. “Is that what you want to ask about?”
Geralt abruptly realises that, yes, that’s exactly what he wants to ask about.
They’ve been together for twelve years, fucking for thirteen. It hasn’t exactly been straightforward, what with Yennefer, the dragon hunt, and Geralt’s fucking destiny dragging them from one end of the continent to the other, but they always spiral back to each other, in the end.
Geralt didn’t love Yennefer, no, he was attracted to her and she was clearly attracted to him and then he made that stupid wish, binding them together because he isn’t good with words and he just wanted her to not get murdered by a fucking djinn. And then they fucked, several times, and it got complicated, and Geralt couldn’t stand the betrayal in Jaskier’s eyes – because their relationship was always flexible like that, wasn’t it? The Marchioness de Nettenhal’s parties, for one, and Valdo fucking Marx, for another.
But their relationship wasn’t flexible like that. And Geralt fucking knew it wasn’t, he just chose to ignore that fact because Yennefer is immortal and Jaskier isn’t.
He’s never been good at dealing with loss.
When he found Jaskier, after the mountain, in a marketplace in rural Redania, after his unthinking, shattered words, after the heartbreak that flashed clear and bright in Jaskier’s voice, it was all Geralt could do not to fall to his knees in the dirt at his feet. Then they talked, and they kissed, and they fell into bed together, and then there was Ciri and Sodden and everything sort of fell apart for a while, but now they’re here, in Kaer Morhen, holed up among the winter snows.
They’ve talked, of course they have. But there’s still a darkness in Jaskier’s eyes when he looks at Geralt, sometimes, a ghost of his betrayal, ever-present.
“You don’t have to,” Geralt says, voice barely audible over the shouts and grunts from the training ground below.
Jaskier presses his gloved hand to Geralt’s chest. “It’s okay,” he says, eyes bright, a soft smile curling his lips that Geralt can’t quite define. “Ah, Valdo Marx and his magnificent cock. Where to begin?”
Geralt glances down at the training ground, fully aware that his Witcher hearing is shared by both Lambert and Vesemir—gods, he doesn’t want Vesemir hearing this conversation—but they both seem preoccupied. Ciri darts sideways, almost lands a blow at Lambert’s waist, but he pirouettes away, fast as blinking, and rests the tip of his training sword at the nape of her neck.
“The first time he fucked me,” Jaskier says, quiet and conversational, “was two weeks after we met.” Geralt’s gaze snaps back to him, to the intensity in his eyes, the spark of playfulness, and abruptly realises he’s got himself into something that he didn’t expect. “We were young, and we were drunk,” Jaskier says, fingers pressing warm through Geralt’s shirt. “We went down to the riverbank, and he pressed me up against the side of one of the ferryboats and fucked me with nothing but spit and the kind of youthful determination you have when you’re eighteen and studying at the best university on the continent.” His fingertips play absently with the laces of Geralt’s shirt, and, oh, Geralt knows the tone in his voice. He shifts his stance, a little closer, a little closer. “The first time I really got acquainted with that wonderful cock of his,” Jaskier continues, trailing his fingers a little lower, slowly teasing Geralt’s shirt out of his trousers, “was after a seminar in the middle of the afternoon. We’d been arguing in the seminar, I can’t remember over what, and when the professor dismissed us, we kept on arguing. Then in a corner of one of the gardens, he suddenly laughed at me, shoved me to my knees, and told me he was going to shut me up, one way or another.” Jaskier’s gaze flares. “And, my dear Geralt, you know how much I like being told what to do.”
Heat twists Geralt’s gut. “I didn’t mean for you to give me a detailed history of every time you’ve fucked Valdo Marx,” he says, eyebrow raised.
Jaskier’s hand strays lower still, hidden from the training ground by the angle of their bodies and the billow of their cloaks, and presses curiously against the growing bulge in Geralt’s trousers. His ensuing smile is deadly. “That was the first time I sucked his cock,” he says, ignoring Geralt’s interruption. “First time I’d sucked any cock, matter of fact. And what a cock to start with. Long enough that I could barely take half into my mouth before I was choking on it, thick enough that it made my jaw ache. I must have been doing something right, though, because he came pretty quickly. Mostly down my throat, but he pulled out before he was done, finished across my cheek and my neck.” His hand presses harder against Geralt’s crotch. “I had to walk back to my room with his come on my face and my clothes,” Jaskier says, holding Geralt’s gaze. “Ran into one of my favourite professors, who was pretty blind, fortunately, and ended up having a conversation with him about my astronomy dissertation for fifteen minutes with Valdo Marx’s come drying in the collar of my doublet.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and doesn’t know what he’s asking for.
Jaskier studies him for a moment, eyes dancing. “Is that enough information?” he asks, head tilted to one side, and all of a sudden that pressure against Geralt’s hardening cock is gone.
Painfully aware of how close they are to being overheard, Geralt grabs for Jaskier’s hand, brings it back to his clothed cock. “I never told you to stop,” he says, and, well, he does know how much Jaskier likes being told what to do.
Jaskier licks his lips, squeezes Geralt’s cock through his trousers, and continues. “We fucked throughout university,” he says, “and particularly the night after our results came out. I was top in music, of course, and he was second. As always. There was a celebration at the faculty, all the students were there, and after the professors had left, Valdo stripped me naked and fucked me in front of the whole room.” A blush colours Jaskier’s cheeks that’s nothing to do with the wind, and Geralt catches the smell of his arousal, building higher. “Then a couple of the other students had a go,” Jaskier says, hand slowly sliding up and down the length of Geralt’s cock, “and I guess that was where I got my first taste of the Marchioness de Nettenhal’s kind of fun.”
Down on the training ground, Geralt is vaguely aware, Vesemir has taken over sparring with Ciri. Lambert is watching from the side, drinking slowly from a waterskin.
“And then I met you,” Jaskier says. “In Posada, a couple of months after finishing at Oxenfurt. Valdo was busy settling into mediocrity in Cidaris while I was getting a career out of your adventures – and, well, I saw him a few times. Ran into him in Novigrad, once, and he fucked my throat in a back alley, came in my hair. A couple of times at the Marchioness’ parties. And then those few times with you.” Jaskier’s eyelids flutter, and his arousal spikes higher. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s own erection pressing against his thigh. “After the autumn festival in Oxenfurt,” he says, “when I had you both in me, oh, gods. That was… something special.”
Geralt’s heart twists. “That was the first time you told me you loved me,” he says, quieter than the falling snow.
Jaskier’s wicked smile softens, transforms. “It was,” he says, barely more than a whisper, and there’s no darkness in his eyes. “I meant it then, as I mean it now.”
“Geralt.”
Geralt starts, and Jaskier jerks his hand away. Lambert is storming down the corridor towards them, thunder in his expression, and, well, Geralt didn’t even notice him leaving the training ground. “Lambert?” he asks, gruff as he can with his cock still hard in his trousers and the memory of Jaskier’s heartbreak on his lips.
Lambert jabs a finger into his chest, dangerously close, pointedly looking anywhere but Jaskier. “Unless you’re willing to share your pretty little bird, Geralt,” he growls, “keep his mouth shut when I’m in earshot. Understand?”
Geralt just stares Lambert down until he storms away again, shoulders hunched, fists clenched.
Jaskier barks a laugh. “Looks like we had an audience,” he says. “Unexpected, but not entirely unwanted.” He takes Geralt’s hand, fingers warm and long. “And unless you have somewhere else to be, may I suggest that we retire to our room?”
Geralt lifts his free hand to Jaskier’s cheek, brushes his hair out of his eyes, rests his fingertips against his skin, cold and chapped from the harshness of the mountains around Kaer Morhen. “I’m sorry,” he says, words torn from him like the tear he left in Jaskier’s heart.
Jaskier’s expression shifts, saddens. “I know you are,” he says, and leans forward, kisses Geralt softly, gently, just enough for him to know it’s real. “Now come on. I’ve got us both all worked up with this talk of Valdo fucking Marx, the ass, and I’m not about to let you wiggle out of fucking me senseless just because you’re letting your guilt eat you alive again. Okay?”
“Okay,” Geralt says, and lets Jaskier lead him away from the training ground.
Their room is cool but not completely cold, embers still smouldering in the fireplace. Geralt shrugs off his cloak and takes a moment to stir the coals, adding a couple of small logs and watching as tongues of flame start to lick through the bark and wood. He props the poker against the wall then turns back to Jaskier, who is in the process of shedding his many, many, many outer layers. Geralt watches as Jaskier strips down to nothing but his skin, every movement somewhere between economical and flamboyant, and he notes the scars and nicks and marks in Jaskier’s body. The white flare of scar tissue in his shoulder from a bandit’s rapier. The echo of a wyvern’s claws on his hip, the memory of a wolf’s bite on his ankle. The scar on his thigh from a childhood fall from a horse during a hunt his father forced him to go on.
“Geralt, stop staring,” Jaskier says, not impatient, not frustrated, just warm and affectionate and loving. “And take your damn clothes off. You’re going to find it difficult to fuck me wearing all that.” He raises an eyebrow, hands on his hips, scarred and naked and waiting. “Or am I going to have to tell you all about the time after I embarrassed him in a tutorial at Oxenfurt that Valdo gagged me, tied me facedown on the bed, and fucked me with one of his toys for literally hours until I came three times?”
Geralt crosses the space between them in a handful of strides, catches Jaskier’s face between his hands, and kisses him, hard and fierce. “Stop talking about Valdo Marx,” he growls, and kisses him again.
Jaskier laughs, nimble fingers already unlacing Geralt’s shirt. “You were the one who brought him up,” he murmurs, pulling Geralt’s shirt over his head. He pauses, kisses Geralt once more, then pulls his trousers open, takes out his cock and sinks to his knees. “I know I said a lot of things about Valdo’s cock,” Jaskier murmurs, looking up as Geralt’s hand settles in his hair, “but I have to say, I much prefer yours.”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier laughs quietly, and takes his cock into his mouth. Geralt winds his fingers through his hair, not holding, not guiding, just watching as Jaskier sucks his cock with the same kind of focus he reeks of when he’s composing, direct and all-encompassing and so fucking intent. Jaskier does something with his tongue that makes Geralt grunt and tighten his grip, thrusting deeper into Jaskier’s mouth – but then he forces himself to relax his grip, not to push, not to go too far, not to take too much.
Jaskier sits back on his heels, lips red and slick. “You don’t have to be gentle with me, Geralt,” he says, blue eyes bright. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Geralt’s heart twists, and he pulls Jaskier to his feet, doesn’t say that he isn’t the problem, doesn’t say that he didn’t fuck everything up, no, instead he kisses him, hard, bruising, how he knows he likes to be kissed, reaches down and strokes his cock. Jaskier moans into his mouth, hips bucking forward, and Geralt walks him backwards towards their bed, pushes him onto the mattress, pins him down with his hands and his hips, bites a bruise into his neck. “Geralt,” Jaskier husks, and Geralt closes his eyes, ignores his heart, focuses on the smell of Jaskier’s want and the sound of his heartbeat, fast and fluttering under his hands.
Jaskier isn’t going anywhere.
“Oil,” Jaskier gasps, thrusting helplessly up against Geralt’s hip. “Please, Geralt.” – and Jaskier smiles and laughs and kisses, bright and airy, but there’s a neediness in his voice right now that Geralt knows isn’t wholly born of lust. Jaskier is strong, stronger than him in so many ways when it comes to their relationship, and Geralt might feel guilt dug deep into his heart, leaving a sour note on the back of his tongue every waking moment, but he didn’t have to watch Jaskier fuck a sorceress, didn’t have to hear Jaskier dismiss him with all the panicked, terrified cruelty he could manage, didn’t have to walk away with his heart in tatters in his chest.
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, soft, soothing, slipping his hands out of Geralt’s suddenly numb grasp and cupping his face. “Stop. Get out of your head. Come back to me.”
Geralt kisses him, leaves him just long enough to fetch a vial of oil and tug off the rest of his clothes, then comes back, comes back to Jaskier’s lips and Jaskier’s skin and Jaskier’s body, stretched out beneath him. He kisses Jaskier as he works his fingers into him, drawing hitching moans from his lips, littering his neck with teethmarks, and when he slides into him, hot and tight and slippery with oil, it’s as near to perfect as Geralt’s life has ever been.
“Stop thinking,” Jaskier gasps, his nails digging into Geralt’s shoulders, “and just fuck me, Geralt, gods.”
Geralt closes his eyes, stops thinking, and fucks Jaskier until he cries out, until his nails leave rents in Geralt’s shoulders, until he’s reduced to panting Geralt’s name over and over again, until he finally comes between them from nothing but the friction of their sweat-slick bodies. Jaskier goes limp, eyes closed, breaths hitching every time Geralt fucks into him, and then his hand comes to rest against Geralt’s cheek, light and fleeting, and he whispers, “I trust you.”
Geralt chokes, deep in his throat, and comes with a final stuttering thrust.
Jaskier strokes his hands through his hair as he catches his breath, then when Geralt slips out of him and collapses onto the mattress, he gets to his feet, goes to fetch a washcloth from the basin in the corner. Geralt lets Jaskier clean them both up, sweat drying in his hair, then watches as Jaskier comes back to bed, drawing a blanket over them back, twining their naked bodies together.
“I do, you know,” Jaskier says, his palm pressed flat to Geralt’s chest. “Trust you. And I forgive you.”
Geralt hums, breathes in the smell of Jaskier’s hair, his skin, his sweat, and doesn’t meet his gaze.
“I know you don’t believe me,” Jaskier says quietly. “It breaks my heart that you don’t.”
“You shouldn’t trust me,” Geralt rumbles. “Not after what I did.”
“And yet, I do.”
Geralt rolls onto his side, pulls Jaskier to him, kisses him quietly, carefully, and Jaskier laughs against his lips. “The first time I took you to the Marchioness’ party,” he says, “you took care of me while I got fucked by half a dozen men, maybe more.” He snorts. “Including Valdo Marx. Because I trusted you, Geralt. We weren’t even together then, but I trusted you to do that for me without even asking.” He runs a thumb along Geralt’s cheekbone, kisses him softly. “Maybe we should go to one of the Marchioness’ parties again,” he says softly. “Maybe that would convince you.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, but doesn’t really know where to go from there.
Jaskier sighs. “I know,” he says, and kisses him again. “I love you, too.”
The days are short and the nights are long in Kaer Morhen. Geralt spends most of the days with Ciri, teaching her, training her, watching her grow lithe and strong and fast, and he spends the nights with Jaskier, remembering what it’s like to love and be loved without reservation or hesitation. If Geralt winces whenever Jaskier whispers words of love and trust in his ear, if his gut twists dark and bitter whenever Jaskier gives himself to him without pause or question, then he doesn’t let it show.
But Jaskier sees, of course. Jaskier knows him too well by now not to see.
Geralt feels Jaskier watching him, during the cold days, wrapped up in his fur-lined cloak, tips of his ears red in the biting mountain air. He lets him, because he doesn’t know what else he should do – and in the evenings he watches Jaskier in turn, watches him laughing with the other Witchers, watches him strumming his lute and softly singing in front of the crackling fire, watches him sitting with Ciri’s head in his lap, braiding her hair and commiserating as she complains about her bruises.
Geralt doesn’t know how he ever could have thought he wanted anything more than this.
It’s late, the sun long since set and Ciri long since put to bed by Vesemir, who retired to his own rooms soon after. Geralt sits in the small hall of the keep with his brothers and his bard, sharing a plate of dried fruits with Coën at the long table as Jaskier sits between Eskel and Lambert on a bench next to the fire, passing around a demijohn of vodka.
Coën eyes the three of them with amusement in his eyes. “Why is this the first time you’ve brought the bard here?” he asks, chewing on a prune. “Given you’ve been with him for, what, half his life so far?”
Geralt shrugs, eats an apricot. “Didn’t think he’d like it here,” he says. “Too cold.”
Coën snorts. “He does complain about the weather a lot, that’s true,” he says. “But he seems happy enough.” His lips twist. “Although I think Vesemir might kill him if he keeps penning lyrics about the silver wolf of Kaer Morhen.”
Geralt hums. “Trust me,” he says. “It could be worse.”
“Oh, I know,” Coën says, raising an eyebrow. “I heard a particular ballad in a tavern in Temeria about sheathing the White Wolf’s blade that seemed like it was a little too… enthusiastic to be talking about actual swordplay.”
Geralt sighs. “That’s not even the worst one,” he grumbles, and looks over at Jaskier for a moment, letting himself enjoy the warmth brimming in his heart without guilt, without pain, without regret.
Jaskier is looking back at him, gaze heavy, lips red and parted. His shoulder is pressed heavily against Eskel’s, Geralt notes with a heavy thud of his heart, and his hand rests lightly on Lambert’s forearm – and he’s watching Geralt even as he smiles at whatever joke Lambert is making, laughs at whatever retort Eskel fires back. He’s watching Geralt, heavy, loaded, and Geralt knows what he’s offering.
Trust, Geralt thinks.
Jaskier’s hand slips from Lambert’s forearm to his upper thigh, settles there and squeezes, just lightly.
“Geralt,” Coën says, an odd note in his voice. “Is there a reason why your bard currently smells like he does when he drags you off to your room in the middle of the day?”
Jaskier laughs. “A good question, Coën,” he says, his thumb rubbing circles against Lambert’s inner thigh. “See, the other day, Lambert here told Geralt that he should make sure I keep my mouth shut unless he was willing to share me. I was just wondering whether anyone else felt the same?”
Lambert shifts, glancing sharply between Geralt and Jaskier. “Geralt?” he asks, sounding a little strangled.
Geralt holds Jaskier’s gaze a moment longer, then looks to Lambert. “We’ve shared whores before,” he says, and hears Coën’s sharp inhale of surprise. “This is no different.”
“He’s not a whore, Geralt,” Lambert blurts, cheeks flushed red, Jaskier’s hand still resting on his thigh. “He’s your lover.”
Geralt gets to his feet, sharply aware of the tension in the room, the eyes on him, feeling a familiar flood of heat in his belly at the same time as he smells the musk of Jaskier’s growing arousal. The fact that he knows his brothers can smell it too just makes his senses pitch higher, and he comes to a halt in front of Jaskier, tilts his chin up, wraps his fingers around his throat. Trust. “He’s more than just my lover,” he says softly, “but sometimes he likes to be treated like a whore.”
“Gods,” Lambert growls, and Geralt squeezes his fingers tighter around Jaskier’s throat, watches as Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, as his head falls back against Eskel’s shoulder.
Coën shifts from the table, comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Geralt. He’s studying Jaskier intently, nostrils flared. “He’s human, Geralt,” he says. “Four Witchers is a lot for one human to take.”
“I know how much he can take,” Geralt says.
Eskel’s arm snakes around Jaskier’s waist, his hand sliding under his loose shirt. “If you’re sure, Geralt,” he says, and noses through the hair at Jaskier’s temple. “I’ve been smelling his fucking lust since the pair of you got here. Been driving me mad.”
“I’m sure,” Geralt says, and releases his grip on Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier gasps for breath, his hands fluttering upwards to his abused throat – but Coën catches his wrists, holds them pinned together in one hand, an assessing look in his eyes. Geralt goes back to the table, takes a seat, and watches as Eskel pulls Jaskier into his lap, one hand sliding up his chest, the other palming his cock through his clothes. Jaskier’s hips stutter, his breath hitches, and then Lambert’s hand replaces Geralt’s around his throat, flexing experimentally.
“We should get him out of those clothes,” Coën says, a guttural note low in his voice.
Eskel hums his agreement and promptly rips Jaskier’s shirt wide open, exposing his heaving chest. Jaskier makes a muffled noise of outrage, but then Eskel squeezes his cock through his trousers again and it devolves into a moan.
Geralt huffs a laugh. “Thanks, Eskel,” he says. “He’ll be complaining about that for days.”
A growl builds low in Lambert’s chest, and his hand squeezes tighter. “Your little bird should have known better than to play with wolves,” he says, thick with want, and crushes his lips to Jaskier’s in a kiss that borders on the violent.
Eskel makes short work of the rest of Jaskier’s clothes, ripping his trousers and smallclothes apart at the seams, dumping the ruined material in a pile next to the fireplace, and then he closes his fingers around Jaskier’s cock, thumbing the head, stroking him with rough movements. “I want to see how much you can take from us, bard,” he says, bitten off into Jaskier’s ear as Lambert plunders his mouth. “You’ve fucked one Witcher, you know what our stamina is like. You really think you can deal with all of us at once?”
Jaskier tears his mouth away from Lambert, gasps for breath against the hand around his throat and wheezes out, “I think you should stop talking and start fucking.”
Coën laughs. “I see why you like him, Geralt,” he says, then tugs at Jaskier’s wrists, pulls him forward off Eskel’s lap. “On your knees.”
Jaskier goes willingly, gladly, and when Coën releases his hands he reaches eagerly for the laces of Coën’s trousers. “No,” Coën says sharply, running a hand through Jaskier’s hair. “No hands, bard. Use your mouth.” He glances up at Eskel, still sprawled out on the bench. “Care to hold him still for me?”
Eskel comes to kneel behind Jaskier, wraps his hands around Jaskier’s wrists and pulls them behind his back. “Do as you’re told,” he says, teeth nipping at the lobe of Jaskier’s ear. “Put that mouth to good use and maybe I’ll touch your cock.”
Jaskier doesn’t answer, but that’s because he’s already busy, tugging at the laces of Coën’s trousers with his teeth, mouthing at the fabric, leaving spit tracked across the leather. He manages to drag Coën’s trousers down off his hips, and Coën runs a hand through his hair, says, “Mouth open,” and sinks his cock into Jaskier’s willing mouth with barely a moment’s pause.
Geralt sits at the table, plate of dried fruit at his elbow, and watches.
Coën isn’t frantic, isn’t punishing, isn’t demanding, no, he’s almost gentle, thrusting in and out of Jaskier’s mouth at a leisurely pace. Eskel, however, keeps Jaskier’s wrists pinned behind his back with one hand and jerks his cock bruisingly fast with the other, wrenching choked moans from Jaskier’s spit-flecked lips. He smells of lust, of want, of need, and Lambert comes to join Coën, takes his cock out of his trousers, then roughly drags Jaskier’s mouth away from Coën and fucks it with his own. “Gods,” Lambert grunts. “The sounds he makes.”
Coën hums his agreement. “As good as any professional,” he says, light, teasing, and takes Jaskier’s mouth back from Lambert in turn, slow and calm.
“Geralt,” Eskel says, his hand shifting from Jaskier’s cock to fondle his balls. “We got any oil?”
Geralt stands, leaves the table, comes to join his brothers. He hums softly, brushes his fingers through Jaskier’s hair as Lambert takes Coën’s place again, then says, “Between the four of us, we should have enough spit.”
Lips stretched around Lambert’s cock, Jaskier moans.
Coën raises an eyebrow. “He likes the idea,” he says, a little surprised. “I can smell it on him. Not what I would have expected.”
Lambert huffs a laugh. “From the things I heard at the training ground the other day, I think that there’s a lot of things Geralt’s little bird likes that we wouldn’t expect.”
Jaskier makes an odd little noise, half heat, half disquiet, and Geralt understands immediately. “Eskel, stop,” he says, and Eskel’s hand pauses on Jaskier’s cock. “He’s going to come if you keep doing that, and he doesn’t want to. Not yet.”
Eskel releases Jaskier’s cock. “Well, we’d better get started on that pretty arse of his, hadn’t we?” he says, and leans forward, bites a little too hard, a little too rough at Jaskier’s shoulder. “It’ll be easier for my brothers to fuck you once I’ve already come in your arse – and then we’ll really see how much you can take.”
Jaskier growls around Lambert’s cock, and Coën laughs, takes his mouth back. “I think that means fuck you, Eskel,” he says.
“I don’t think so, bard,” Eskel says, and spits on his fingers with a deliberately exaggerated noise. “If you mean fuck me, Eskel, though, I’m sure I can oblige.” He reaches down, starts to press one spit-slick fingertip into Jaskier’s arse, and Geralt watches, eagle-eyed, as Jaskier tries to adjust. Eskel makes an admiring noise. “Geralt, your bard is tight,” he says. “Gonna need plenty more spit before I can fuck him.”
Geralt spits in his palm, drips the saliva down onto Eskel’s fingers, and that one fingertip sinks deeper in. Jaskier makes a whining noise deep in his throat, high-pitched and needy, a shudder wracking his whole body.
“More?” Eskel asks.
Geralt nods. “More.”
“I have an idea,” Coën says, his voice getting tighter. He grips Jaskier’s hair tighter, thrusts getting faster, harder, then says, “Don’t swallow, little bird,” and comes in Jaskier’s mouth, eyes closed, forehead furrowed.
Eskel laughs, then releases Jaskier’s wrists, puts that hand in front of Jaskier’s mouth as Coën steps away, chest heaving. “Give me Coën’s come, bard,” he says, and Jaskier obediently spits a mouthful of come and saliva into his palm. He doesn’t get a chance to say a word because Lambert takes his words away, roughly shoving his cock between his lips, ignoring Coën’s leisurely pace and starting to fuck his mouth in earnest.
Eskel withdraws his spit-slick finger from Jaskier’s arse and coats it in the mess of come and saliva in his hand. “That’s better,” he says, sliding the finger back into Jaskier with much less difficulty, then offers Geralt the rest of the slippery pool in his palm. “Care to help?”
Geralt swipes his fingers through the mess and kneels beside Eskel, rubs their improvised lubricant into the rim of Jaskier’s arse before slowly pressing his own finger inside. They fuck Jaskier open slowly, carefully, adding more spit when that whine whispers low in Jaskier’s throat, and then when Lambert comes in Jaskier’s mouth with a barking moan, Jaskier spits his come into Geralt’s palm and they add that, too.
It doesn’t take long until Geralt and Eskel are both two fingers deep in Jaskier’s arse, and Jaskier’s head is lolled back against Eskel’s shoulder, mouth open and panting. “Please,” he moans. “Geralt, please.”
Eskel makes an amused noise. “Please what, bard? I’m going to need you to ask.”
Jaskier groans. “Get your cock in me, Eskel,” he rasps.
Coën’s sitting at the table, slowly stripping off his clothes as Lambert pants his recovery next to him. “Demanding,” Coën says wryly.
Eskel glances to Geralt. “What do you think, White Wolf?” he asks. “Should I give him what he wants?”
“He won’t shut up until you do,” Geralt observes.
Eskel laughs. “You make a strange pair,” he says, then slips his fingers out of Jaskier’s arse and quickly starts pulling off his shirt, boots, and trousers. Geralt’s the only one left with Jaskier, now, fingers still buried in his arse, and he feels a thrill of warmth in his heart as Jaskier leans into him, hand seeking Geralt’s arm, meeting his gaze. His pupils are flooded wide with lust, with desire, but that’s not what Geralt sees, no, he sees the love. He sees the trust.
His heart stutters in his chest.
Eskel kneels behind Jaskier, naked and hard, and pushes Geralt’s hands away. “Come on,” he murmurs, pulling Jaskier back into his lap. “You wanted us to fuck you? I guess I’ll give you what you want.” He guides Jaskier down onto his cock, sinking inside in one long, smooth motion, and Jaskier gasps, hands grabbing at Eskel’s thighs, flecks of come spattered across his cheeks and lips. Eskel pulls Jaskier until his back is flush against his chest, then buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and breathes in. He laughs, reaches around, gives Jaskier’s cock a few lazy strokes. “Fucking hell, Geralt,” he says. “He’s got my cock in him, he’s had Coën and Lambert both come in his mouth, and he still smells like you.”
“Because he’s mine,” Geralt says, settling his hand around Jaskier’s throat.
“That, he is,” Eskel says, and starts to fuck Jaskier, hard and fast, one hand on his hip, the other spread wide across his chest, keeping him pinned in place. Geralt watches, fingers curled loosely around Jaskier’s neck, watches the arch of his spine, the red o of his lips, the ecstasy in his lidded eyes. There’s a constant low whine coming from him, now, and Eskel shifts under him, thrusting harder, every movement bouncing Jaskier in his lap like a rag doll. “Fuck,” he bites out, lips curling back in a snarl, and then Geralt smells the sharp flood of his orgasm, spurting to join the slick of come and spit already smeared inside Jaskier’s body.
Coën gets up from the table, one hand curled loosely around his cock. “Does he need a break?” he asks Geralt, eyeing Jaskier’s blissed-out expression. “Or can I take over?”
Geralt lifts Jaskier off Eskel’s lap, sets him back down on his knees. “He’s good,” he says, running a hand through Jaskier’s hair, his heart quietly singing in his chest as Jaskier leans absently into the touch.
Coën’s lips twist. “Excellent,” he says, and comes to stand next to Jaskier, tilts his chin up with his fingertips. “Can you stand?” he asks.
Jaskier pauses, thinks, then nods.
“Then stand up,” Coën says, offering Jaskier his hand.
Geralt goes back to the table, takes a seat and watches as Coën helps Jaskier up. Jaskier’s a little shaky, a little unsteady, but Coën supports him, holds him, crowds him close and kisses him, sensuous, almost tender. “I think Geralt might be right about you,” he says softly. “A human bard, keeping up with four Witchers? I’m impressed.” His hands slide down Jaskier’s back, his fingers sliding casually into his arse. “Ready for my cock, too, little bird?”
Jaskier groans. “Gods, yes.”
Coën turns Jaskier round in his arms, holding him steady, one arm wrapped around his chest, then bends his knees a little and pushes his cock into Jaskier’s arse. Coën’s satisfied sigh mingles perfectly with Jaskier’s whine, and then Coën reaches down, hooks his hand under Jaskier’s right knee, lifts his leg up to deepen the angle. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s ear as he wobbles, just a little, letting out a muted yelp of surprise. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.” He thrusts just once, and draws a long, rich moan from Jaskier’s lips. “And I think you’ll like this. Nice and slow.”
Eskel collapses down into the seat next to Geralt, still breathing hard. On his other side, Lambert is slowly stroking his own growing erection, gaze fixed on where Coën’s cock is sliding in and out of Jaskier’s arse, slow, attentive. “Fuck, Geralt, he smells good,” Eskel drawls. “I’m not surprised the two of you spend half the time fucking each other. If he was mine, I’d never let him out of my bed.”
Geralt smiles, and hums.
Jaskier’s breathing is hitching, eyes rolled back in his head, a familiar low groan building in his throat. Geralt knows what that means, knows that groan and that hitch better than he knows himself. “He’s going to come soon,” he says.
Coën glances up at him. “Want me to stop?”
Geralt shakes his head. “He wants it.”
Jaskier groans. “Geralt.”
Coën huffs a fractured laugh. “I should probably be offended that he’s saying your name while I fuck him,” he mutters, “but he feels so damn good I don’t care.”
Lambert shifts, stands, pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the table, then kicks out of his boots and trousers. He steps forward, runs a hand down Jaskier’s chest, then sinks to his knees and takes Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. Jaskier lets out a startled shout, then before Lambert has a chance to suck him properly, he’s coming, painting the air with that familiar musky scent that Geralt knows so fucking well. Jaskier moans, going limp in Coën’s arms as he keeps on fucking him with those long, gentle strokes, and then Lambert gets to his feet, takes Jaskier’s face in his hands and kisses him, come dripping from both their lips.
Eskel groans. “I think that might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Geralt doesn’t disagree.
Lambert breaks the kiss, smears his fingers across Jaskier’s lips, pushing as much come as he can into his mouth. “Swallow,” he says, tight, intent, and when Jaskier obeys he grips his throat, squeezes tight. “When Coën’s done, I’m going to fuck you next,” he says. “And it won’t be soft and gentle like this. It’ll be rough. You like the sound of that, little bird?”
Jaskier makes a faint, strangled noise in the back of his throat, eyelids fluttering. He’s borderline overwhelmed, Geralt can tell, and for a second he tenses, ready to tell Coën to stop, ready to tell Lambert to help him down – but then he pauses, breathes in the thick scent of sex and need in the air, and sits back. Jaskier can take more. Fuck, he wants more – and it twists in Geralt’s heart that he knows that, knows it without even thinking, twists even deeper that Jaskier trusts him to know.
Jaskier trusts him, after everything.
Coën lets out a low growl, eyes closed, burying his face in Jaskier’s neck, hips stuttering one last time before he comes a second time. Jaskier mewls, head tipping back, and Coën abruptly bites out, “Lambert, take him.”
Lambert takes Jaskier’s weight as Coën takes a staggering step back, releasing a thick slick of come down Jaskier’s thighs, dripping to the stone floor – but there’s no respite, no let up, because Lambert glances back at Geralt and Eskel, a borderline feral look in his eyes. “Give us a hand?” he asks, Jaskier sagging limp against his shoulder.
“What do you have in mind?” Eskel asks, standing slowly, cock already half-hard.
“Take his leg,” Lambert says, and Eskel does, holding Jaskier’s raised knee high against his chest. “Geralt, grab his other leg.” – and Jaskier lets out a long, low moan as he understands. Lambert pauses, studies Jaskier’s glazed expression. “He alright?”
“He’s fine,” Geralt says, gripping Jaskier’s other thigh and lifting him up, both feet well off the floor, legs spread. “Get his arms around our shoulders.” Lambert does so, lifting Jaskier’s lax arms and draping them around Geralt and Eskel’s shoulders – and Jaskier is pinned in place, hanging in the air, incapable of moving even if he wanted to. His legs are spread, slowly hardening cock bobbing in the air, arse spread wide as come slowly drips out of him – and, fuck, Geralt has seen Jaskier in a lot of messy, filthy positions before, but he’s never seen him quite like this.
Jaskier’s head lolls sideways onto Geralt’s shoulder, and he murmurs his name, so quiet even a Witcher would struggle to hear.
Lambert pauses, his hands resting lightly on Jaskier’s strained hips. “You sure he’s okay, Geralt?” he asks, a little dubious.
Geralt noses against Jaskier’s cheek, presses a soft kiss to his slack, messy lips. “I’m sure,” he says. “He wants this.”
Lambert growls. “Fucking hell,” he grunts, then tightens his grip on Jaskier’s hips and slides into him. He pauses a moment to adjust, then does as he promised and fucks Jaskier hard, jerking his body in Geralt and Eskel’s arms, fingers dug so hard into his hips his nails break the skin. The metallic tang of Jaskier’s blood mixes with the stench of arousal and come, and Geralt hears Eskel groan, feels Lambert fuck even harder.
“Oh, gods,” Jaskier moans, thick with sex.
Lambert makes an animal noise in the back of his throat. “Fuck, little bird,” he grunts. “I’m so glad you decided to get us to shut you up. And I’m so fucking glad Geralt let us share you.”
Geralt smiles, presses his nose into Jaskier’s sweaty hair, smells his want and his ecstasy and his trust.
Fingernails dig deeper in Jaskier’s hips, spilling a little more sharp, bitter blood, and then Lambert’s coming, barking out little gasps as he does so, head resting against the back of Jaskier’s bare shoulder.
Jaskier lets out a breath, barely audible.
“Let’s get him down, Eskel,” Geralt says, and between them they lower Jaskier to the floor. Geralt pulls Jaskier into his arms, smoothes back his hair, kisses his cheek. “Jaskier,” he says quietly.
“I’m good,” Jaskier slurs, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder. “Very good.”
Geralt glances up, assessing. Lambert and Coën are both done, seemingly, sprawled out on the benches of the small hall, but Eskel’s still kneeling next to them, cock hard, just waiting. “Can you take another?” Geralt asks, thumb brushing across Jaskier’s cheek.
Jaskier makes a strangled noise. “Yeah,” he pants. “Please. I want to come again. Want you to touch me.”
Geralt nods, shifts Jaskier so he’s on his hands and knees on the cold stone floor. “Eskel,” he says, and Eskel takes the hint, shifts, takes up his position behind Jaskier and presses his cock back into Jaskier’s arse. Jaskier whimpers, collapsing a little so his forehead is pressed to the cool stone, and Eskel fucks him with slow, firm thrusts, avoiding the broken skin at his hips, sliding his hands up and down his sweaty back. Geralt pauses for a second, assessing, then takes Jaskier’s cock in his hand, finally hard again, and starts to stroke him off in exactly the way he knows he likes.
At the table, Coën huffs a laugh. “Gods, Geralt,” he says. “Your bard is getting fucked for the fourth time and you haven’t even taken your damn clothes off.”
Geralt shrugs, twists his wrist around the head of Jaskier’s cock, and listens with a surge of affection as Jaskier’s moan turns broken and needy. “Don’t need to when you’re all doing the hard work,” he says, voice husky. “How close are you, Eskel?”
Eskel’s forehead is furrowed, his lips pinched. “Close,” he says, huffing our a breath through his nostrils. “Fuck.
Geralt nods. “So is he,” he says. “I’m going to make him come. When he does, he won’t be able to take much more – so you’ll have to come fast, or not in him. Got it?”
Eskel just nods, and fucks faster.
Geralt focuses on Jaskier, on the glazed look in his lidded eyes, on the slackness of his lips and the bruises starting to blossom around his throat. “Not much longer,” he says softly, pushing the head of Jaskier’s cock through his loose fist. “Just come for me one more time, and you can rest.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier groans.
“I’ve got you,” Geralt says, and squeezes a little tighter. “I’ve got you.”
Jaskier makes an unintelligible noise and comes a second time, spilling weakly across Geralt’s fist.
Eskel thrusts a few more times, hard, breaking, and comes. He bends forward, his forehead pressing into Jaskier’s back, but Jaskier’s so fucked out by now, so overstimulated, so ruined that even that soft touch is too much. He whines, shies away, and Geralt pushes Eskel away firmly, holding Jaskier carefully as he pretty much collapses.
“What does he need?” Lambert asks.
“Water,” Geralt answers. “Food. And a blanket.”
Coën gets up, pulls on his trousers. “I’ll grab a blanket from my room,” he says, then smirks. “I don’t want it back.” He leaves, and Lambert brings Geralt a cup of water and the plate of dried fruit. Geralt brings Jaskier back to consciousness gently, carefully, stroking his fingers through his hair as he persuades him to drink, to eat, to breathe. Coën comes back with a blanket and helps Geralt wrap it around Jaskier’s lax body, helps him heft him into his arms. “You got him?” Coën asks.
“I’ve got him,” Geralt answers, feeling Jaskier shift against him, burrow deeper into his neck. “I’ll get him to bed.” He pauses, glances at the floor. “You should probably clean up in here before Vesemir gets up.”
Lambert snorts. “He’ll be able to smell it anyway,” he says. “He’s going to be mad. Not really how he thinks we should be using the small hall.”
Eskel stretches out, cracking his back. “Then he’s missing out,” he drawls. “Thanks, Geralt. And thanks, bard.”
Jaskier makes an incoherent noise, and Coën laughs. “Maybe get him cleaned up and get him to bed,” he says.
Geralt hums, and goes.
In their room, Geralt lays Jaskier out on their bed and cleans him up as much as he can. He’ll sort a bath out tomorrow morning, let Jaskier soak for as long as it takes for him to be able to walk without wincing, but for now he does his best with a damp cloth and a basin of water. Jaskier is a mess of come, his arse stretched and sore, his skin marred with the scars of Lambert’s fingernails, and he hums absently into the pillows as Geralt works, cleaning him up, smearing antiseptic salve across the cuts on his hips. He’s dozing by the time Geralt sets the bowl aside, halfway to snoring, and Geralt smiles softly, strips off his clothes and gets into bed with him, skin to skin.
Jaskier stirs at the contact, blinking hazily. “You haven’t come,” he says, slurred with exhaustion.
Geralt noses into his hair. “I know.”
Jaskier clumsily presses him hips back against Geralt’s softening cock. “You can fuck me,” he says, lax and absent. “I can take it.”
Geralt huffs a laugh. “We both know you can’t,” he says, and stills Jaskier’s hips with a hand. “I’m okay. I’m good.”
Jaskier hums, eyes sliding shut. “Love you.”
“I love you,” Geralt answers, slotting their bodies together, so more intimate than sex could ever be. “Go to sleep. You need it.”
Jaskier sighs. “Trust you,” he says, softer. “Really do.”
Geralt pulls him closer, breathes him in. “I believe you,” he says, and for the first time, he means it. “Thank you.”
Jaskier lazily slaps a hand against his thigh. “About time you got with the program,” he says, wriggles a little closer, and sighs. He’s asleep in moments, slack and lax and relaxed, and Geralt holds him close, holds him safe, holds him and knows that, no matter what, he’ll never let him go again.
Geralt sleeps, in the end, and doesn’t dream.