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Jaskier
Jaskier’s family has a long, long, long, colorful history of infamy and fear, wealth and power. They flaunt it to all and sundry, determined to prove they are far greater than any of their rivals. That no one could hope to hold a candle to the breadth of their lands and treasures.
Never mind that their way of life is considered gauche by most, and the entire reason a majority of the Continent wants nothing to do with them. His family will hear none of it, certain that the naysayers and doubters are simply envious of their success and reputation. It’s sickening, and exhausting, and Jaskier grew tired of it.
He set off on his own over a century ago, ignoring the mocking comments of his siblings, and the blatant disapproval of his parents.
They are all of the mind that this is the way things have always been done, and therefore, are how things should be done. Jaskier refuses on principle. He knows they consider him a failure, but he hardly sees how their opinions matter when they have such poor taste. Honestly, laying waste to entire towns for a chance at gold and jewels, and then squabbling over it like children, is just plain embarrassing.
Jaskier has his heart set on something much better. He’s determined to find something perfect. Something he knows down to his bones, and deep in his soul, that he was meant to find. It’s his destiny, no matter how much the idea made his family laugh.
They won’t be laughing when he has the most glorious hoard on the Continent.
With that goal in mind, he travels far and wide, searching for signs of a potential hoard, and for promising places to build his lair. His hoard will be special, and it deserves to have the best protection possible. Somewhere with a view, perhaps, in case whatever he hoards is living.
He eventually finds an uninhabited mountain, overlooking a valley. It’s so picturesque it almost seems magical in nature – dotted with hidden waterfalls, and a riot of flowers of all colors. There are no mortal settlements nearby, and the handful of monsters lurking amongst its caves and trees flee as quickly as their legs and wings can carry them the moment Jaskier lets out a claiming roar.
Jaskier spends many years, and quite a lot of magic, creating a home worthy of himself and his hoard.
The tunnels and rooms vary wildly in size and style, all of them pleasing and complementary, giving as many options as possible for the nebulous future. He even carves stairs leading down to the natural hot springs near the center of the mountain, so that anything and anyone within his lair can reach them with relative ease. Some instinct drives Jaskier to fill most of the rooms with soft things – blankets, pillows, and even beds. He also ensures there is a functional kitchen, and a large dining hall.
He convinces himself that it’s mostly for personal use. Unlike his family, he has a great love for his human form, and enjoys experiencing all of the little pleasures that mortals have come up with.
Why eat a sheep whole when he could have a lovely mutton pie instead? Or one of those delicious tarts?
He also likes entertaining company, whether it be with food and conversation, or the more literal entertainment of a musical performance.
He snuck away from his parents’ lair when he was very small, and stumbled upon a musical troupe, and from then on, he has been enamored with music. He has had more than enough time to master most instruments, but finds he still prefers the lute. His siblings always turned up their noses at the idea of playing for coin when he could just take it, but he likes the challenge, and the accolades that come along with a good show are much better than screams of pain and terror, in his personal opinion.
At last, his work is done, and he wanders through his lair in his human form, pleased at the results. But the satisfaction doesn’t last long. It’s now time for a much more overwhelming task. In order to fill his lair, he must figure out what he’s going to hoard, and that means leaving.
He seals his lair with magic to ward off any challengers, and to keep vermin both mundane and monstrous out of his new home. Once he’s certain nothing can get inside without his permission, he takes wing, letting instinct guide him in a vague direction until he eventually lands in a clearing. He shifts into his human form, swings his lute into his arms, and strides toward the road, determined to finally prove his family wrong.
Despite his optimism, finding something worth hoarding is proving more difficult than he expected. He’s been traveling under his favorite guise of a bard for a decade, with no sign of the treasure he craves. It’s a mere blink of an eye in the life of a dragon, but it has seemed agonizingly long now that his lair is complete, its vast emptiness begging to be filled. It irks Jaskier, chafing at his instincts until he thinks it might drive him mad.
Still, he perseveres, and thank the stars he does.
It’s a day like any other, Jaskier following a small river through the woods while plucking at his lute, when he hears a struggle ahead. There’s a screech that Jaskier is sure came from a monster, though he can’t be sure which kind since most monsters avoid him. Then there’s a loud, pained cry that is decidedly not monstrous, and Jaskier finds himself sprinting forward without thought.
He comes across several broken trees, and catches sight of what looks like the bastard child of a crab, a spider, and an orchid of all things. It rears back, and spits something that hisses when it makes contact with the surrounding plants, narrowly missing a man that dodges out of the way just in time.
Jaskier stares in awe as the man stays on his feet, and paces carefully outside the reach of the monster’s venom. He has scars raking across his face that prove his strength, and amber eyes more beautiful than any gems. He holds a sword in his right hand that flashes silver, and shimmers with some sort of oil. His left hand he twists into a strange shape, then thrusts it forward. A gout of flame bursts from his fingers, causing the monster to rock up onto its back legs. There’s a lurch of want in Jaskier’s belly, and he swallows hard, completely mesmerized, instincts howling.
He’s perfect.
The monster chitters angrily, and clearly doesn’t realize the fire was a distraction. The man, who Jaskier realizes must be one of the Witchers that his parents always warned him and his siblings to avoid, dives forward, graceful as any dancer. He rolls, bringing his sword up into an arc to pierce the monster’s now exposed abdomen. The thing lets out a horrific shriek, thrashing, but the Witcher avoids its flailing limbs, thrusting his sword into a gap in the monster’s armor. The monster gives one last great shudder before it falls to the ground, dead.
The Witcher pulls his sword free, swaying slightly, then collapses to his knees. Jaskier rushes over, dropping to his own knees in front of the Witcher, and giving what he hopes is a comforting smile.
“Don’t worry. I have you. You’re going to be fine.”
He starts to shift as the Witcher passes out, then carefully gathers him, and the pack-laden horse he smells nearby, and sets his sights toward home.
*
Eskel
Eskel thought the arachas hunt would be relatively simple, but his time on the Path has been rough this year. Contracts have been few and far between, and the ones he’s managed to get haven’t paid much. He’s been forced to survive on rations, and anything he can catch, camping almost exclusively since he can’t risk spending his precious few coins on an inn. He’s tired, and hungry, and it lets the arachas get in a few lucky hits.
He can feel the venom coursing through his blood, and isn’t sure whether he’ll be able to make it somewhere safe to heal. He already feels light-headed, and in his delirium, he sees a beautiful man, with glowing blue eyes, and splashes of spreading white scales framing his face. His mouth is moving, like he’s trying to speak, but Eskel’s sight is already going hazy at the edges, and he can’t focus enough to figure out what he’s saying.
The venom must be very potent.
Darkness takes him, and when he wakes, he is startled to find himself on a soft bed, wrapped in even softer blankets. He shifts, and there’s no pain from any of his injuries. Not even an ache. He looks around, and jerks when he meets those same glowing blue eyes from his hallucination.
“You’re real,” he rasps.
The man’s eyes widen a bit, before he smiles, and it’s radiant. Eskel also notices the man’s teeth look a little too sharp, and the imprints of scales are still visible around his face, though they are less prominent now.
“I am, and so are you,” the man, no, the dragon, replies in a wistful tone.
Eskel frowns, baffled. “You didn’t think Witchers were real?”
The dragon laughs, and the sound floats through the air like music notes, seeming to fill the room. “Of course, I know Witchers are real. I just never imagined you were what I’ve been searching for all this time.”
“What you were searching for?” Eskel asks carefully. He glances around the room, noting that while everything inside of it is high quality, and comfortable, it doesn’t have the gilding or flagrant displays of wealth he would expect from a dragon’s lair. His eyes fall on the dragon again, who now looks nervous.
The dragon opens his mouth, seems to reconsider what he was going to say, and closes it again. It takes a few moments before he finally says, “for my hoard.”
Even though Eskel was expecting it, his eyebrows still rise, and he’s certain his face has twisted into a strange expression.
The dragon makes a despairing noise, and rushes to keep speaking. “I’m not going to make you stay. I want you to, because I always knew I would find something perfect if I looked long enough, and stars you are so very perfect. Beautiful, and strong, and graceful, and so much better than worthless pieces of metal. And that fire you summoned was glorious, and I just want to make you happy. I can get you anything you need. Anything at all. Just tell me. I can go and get it right now!”
“I see,” Eskel says dumbly. He swallows, and tries to fall back on practicality for his own sanity. “Food and water?”
The dragon’s face brightens. “I have a kitchen, and a fully stocked pantry and larder. I like human food, so I learned to cook ages ago. I should be able to make most things you can think of. And I can learn other recipes!”
He looks so proud. It’s worrisomely endearing.
“That’s handy,” Eskel admits. “Most of my brothers never bothered to figure out how to cook, so camping with them can be perilous for my health.”
“Your brothers? You mean the other members of your school? Do you think they’d like it here?” The dragon asks eagerly.
“I did mean the other members of the Wolf school, yes.” Eskel hesitates for a moment before answering the other question. “They might. This room is much nicer than the ones in our keep, but I’d need to see your entire lair to be sure. And they’d have to make up their own minds.”
“Oh, naturally!” The dragon agrees easily. “But you think there’s a chance?”
And gods, he seems so hopeful.
“There’s always a chance,” Eskel says with a smile.
“That’s good to hear,” the dragon sighs, then he flushes, and his scales seem to shimmer. “Though I can’t imagine they could all be as magnificent as you.”
There’s a faint smell of arousal on the air, and Eskel feels his body respond with interest. He’s never slept with a dragon before, and is sorely tempted, though it’s probably a good idea to hold off until he’s more certain of his situation.
“You’ve never seen Geralt,” Eskel says instead of flirting. “He’s like a painting.”
“Is he really? I can’t wait to meet him, then,” the dragon says shyly, that alluring flush spreading even further.
Eskel is seriously considering throwing caution to the wind, and throwing himself at the dragon in turn, when he is struck by a sudden horrifying thought.
“My horse,” he gasps.
Oh gods, how long has Scorpion been left alone in those woods? He’s a Witcher’s horse, so he’s not defenseless, but even he can’t survive for long on his own when weighed down by his saddle, and all of Eskel’s equipment.
The dragon clicks his tongue, reaching out to stroke Eskel’s cheek, like he’s trying to soothe him. His touch is tentative at first, until Eskel leans into it. The dragon’s hand is unnaturally warm, and it feels nice.
“Your horse is here. He seems perfectly happy to me. He has his own room and everything,” the dragon assures him.
“You carried him, too?” Eskel asks. He knows a dragon is physically capable of it, but it shows an amount of consideration that Eskel isn’t used to outside of his fellow Witchers. Though, if the dragon wants Eskel to be part of his hoard, it makes a bit more sense.
“I do have more than one hand,” the dragon jokes. Then he bites his lip, cupping Eskel’s cheek. “And I didn’t want you to be sad.”
And, well, Eskel has slept with inhuman creatures for much worse reasons than kindness. And this dragon is somehow even more attractive than the succubus.
“Thank you,” Eskel breathes, and leans forward to kiss him.
The dragon makes an odd sound, a squeak that dips into a purr, like surprise smoothing out into pleasure.
“Oh,” the dragon sighs, eyes widening, and scales spreading quickly down his neck, like he’s struggling to hold his shape.
“I do prefer to know the names of my bedmates, and for them to know mine,” Eskel teases gently. “Mine’s Eskel. What’s yours?”
“Jaskier,” he whispers, before catching Eskel’s mouth in a hungry kiss filled with a searing hot tongue, and a tantalizing scrape of teeth that has Eskel dizzyingly hard in moments.
Eskel’s not sure what he’s going to decide, but as Jaskier strips them both, and proceeds to ride him into oblivion, he thinks he could definitely be convinced to stay.
*
Geralt
Geralt has gotten used to unexpected things happening to him on the Path. It goes beyond his training, and beyond pessimism. He has simply accepted it as fact that, for whatever reason, he is one of Destiny’s favorite targets for her fickle moods, and he has found that assuming his day is going to go sideways at the start softens the blow a bit when it actually does.
Admittedly, it’s been a while since anything truly noteworthy has happened, which means he’s even more wary of something going wrong than usual. He still isn’t expecting a great shadow to fall over him as he rides down an abandoned stretch of road, or for it to be a dragon, of all things, when he glances up.
It’s an adult by its size, but still a relatively young one based on the luster of its white scales. It glides casually above him, circling lazily like a bird of prey, making it clear that it sees Geralt, but has no intentions to attack. Then it drifts downward, landing far enough away that the rush of wind caused by its wings barely ruffles his hair, or Roach’s mane. Geralt can’t make out too many details of its human form, aside from the fact that it’s facing him, and clearly waiting.
Strange, but not necessarily unwelcome.
Geralt has been hoping to hear from Borch Three Jackdaws again. He still can’t get used to thinking of him as Villentretenmerth, proper name or not. At least the gold dragon likes being called Borch just as well. Geralt wonders as he draws closer to the stranger if he has news of Borch’s daughter. If they’re doing well. If Téa and Véa are still accompanying him everywhere to act as his weapons. If their protection now extends to guarding the newest addition to Borch’s family.
All thoughts of Borch are driven from Geralt’s head when the breeze finally carries the stranger’s scent to him. There’s the expected edge of flame and charred stone, accompanied by something alluringly sweet. But what brings Geralt up short, pulling more abruptly on Roach’s reins than he intends, much to her loud displeasure, is the achingly familiar scent entwined with the stranger’s.
Eskel.
Geralt slides from Roach’s saddle, and approaches the stranger warily. There’s no blood or pain laced through his scent, so it’s unlikely that the stranger hurt Eskel. In fact, it seems more likely the two of them fucked. A lot, if his nose is to be believed. And his nose has had decades of winters to become an expert in what Eskel’s seed and satisfaction smell like. Eskel does have a habit of shamelessly collecting unusual bedmates. Honestly, Geralt is just surprised it took Eskel this long to fuck a dragon. He’s sure the meeting with Borch would have gone very differently had Eskel been present.
Geralt regards the stranger with new interest. Even he has to admit that he’s very pretty, in a sort of unattainable, ethereal way. He can see why Eskel couldn’t resist.
He opens his mouth to offer a greeting, but his teeth clack together in shock when the stranger sighs like a lovesick maiden, and says, “oh, Eskel was right. You’re beautiful. One half of a matched set – the moon to his sun. You must look incredible together.”
People don’t just say things like that. And definitely not to Witchers.
Geralt is used to Eskel telling him he’s beautiful. He has ever since they were scared kids sharing a bed in Kaer Morhen, tangled together in the dark, clinging to each other hard enough to add to the bruises left over from training. And Geralt always whispered endearments back. But that’s something they do in private. Behind closed doors where the walls will muffle their voices, or in the middle of nowhere where no one else can hear them.
To have it said so bluntly, so sincerely, in broad daylight, in the middle of the road, by a stranger of all people, has Geralt’s head reeling.
Geralt tries to reply, but all that comes out is a strangled noise.
“Ah, he did warn me to be careful about going overboard when we first met. My apologies,” the stranger says, though he doesn’t sound or smell sorry at all. In fact, he looks smug. Like Geralt’s reaction is exactly what he was hoping for. And that’s strange all on its own.
“Who are you? Where’s Eskel?” Geralt finally manages to bite out, still off-kilter from the compliments.
The stranger seems to take his irritability in stride, showing no ill will, or anger. Instead, his eyes go wide, and he claps a hand to his forehead.
“Where are my manners?” The stranger exclaims, then bows with an expert flourish. “I’m Jaskier, and Eskel’s back at home in my lair. We were both hoping you would join us there, and listen to my proposal. He said to tell you, and I quote, ‘don’t go overthinking a good thing, Wolf. The offer’s not going to bite you, and neither will he. Not unless you ask nicely.’ End quote. So, what do you say?”
That is, without doubt, a message from Eskel. And it also has none of the double-speak they use if they’re in distress and need to be subtle about asking for help or rescue.
Which means… well, it means Geralt really has only one choice.
“Alright. I’ll come,” Geralt says. “How are we getting there?”
Jaskier flashes a wicked grin, and shifts back into his dragon form, holding up his two front claws. Roach snorts in disapproval, and Geralt winces.
He soon discovers that he hates flying even more than he hates portals, and Roach wholeheartedly agrees, refusing to go anywhere near Jaskier even after they’ve landed safely at what Geralt has to admit is an awe-inspiring lair. When Geralt catches the upset look on Jaskier’s face, he finds himself reassuring the dragon that time and apples will be enough to win her back over.
It’s how he learns that Jaskier is even prettier when he smiles, and Geralt can’t help but smile back.
That’s how Eskel finds them, and he looks so pleased that it takes Geralt’s breath, even before Eskel kisses the air out of him.
He also learns hours later, that while he has always been more willing to hear Eskel out after being thoroughly fucked, he is even more agreeable when Eskel has fucked him into a very loud, very enthusiastic dragon until they’ve all come multiple times. Geralt admittedly loses count after a while. In his defense, he isn’t used to having a bedmate who can keep up with Witcher stamina, let alone surpass it.
It’s why Eskel’s always claimed to prefer non-human partners, and Geralt is definitely starting to see the appeal.
Even if it wasn’t for the amazing sex, or the incredible lair itself, Geralt can tell that Eskel likes it here. That he likes Jaskier. And if Eskel’s happy, then Geralt’s happy.
That makes the decision remarkably easy.
*
Lambert
Lambert blasts another few wolves with a frantic Aard, sprinting through the trees, the eerie call of the fucking leshen piercing the air behind him. If he survives this, he is going to string that cunt of an Alderman up by his godsdamned ankles. Just a pack of wolves his ass.
The bastard had to have known it was more than that, or he’s blind as a damn bat. The wolves have glowing eyes for fuck’s sake, and are at least three times the size of their normal cousins.
Another wolf darts out of the brush to his left, lunging toward him, mouth open wide, ready to latch onto Lambert. He can’t let that happen. If he so much as stumbles, the rest of the pack will be on him, and then he’ll be easy prey for the leshen. The leshen he definitely isn’t prepared to face, especially with how old this forest is.
His only chance is to get out of the leshen’s territory, except the wolves are driving him away from the town, and Lambert has no idea what’s in this direction. He’ll just have to take any opening he can find, and hope that the gods decide to be more merciful than usual.
Lambert isn’t going to hold his fucking breath.
He sends the new wolf flying with another Aard, relieved when it collides with one of its packmates, meaning he has two less wolves on his tail, instead of one. Though he’s sure it won’t take them long to recover. He can’t focus long enough to do more than stun them, which is a war of attrition they are sure to win if he doesn’t think of something.
Suddenly, there’s a break in the trees, and Lambert puts on a final burst of speed. He can hear a waterfall, and he sees a drop-off directly in front of him. He’d much rather get a good look at where he’s jumping before committing, but it’s not like he has a choice.
Beggars can’t be fucking choosers.
Lambert dives off of the cliff, grinning when he hears the wolves all scrabbling at the ground to stop themselves before they can go tumbling over the edge. There’s an angry bellow that must be the leshen, but the asshole tree can’t get to him now. He almost starts to laugh, until he catches sight of the base of the waterfall.
It’s littered with jagged rocks.
Somewhere, the gods are toasting his misfortune, he fucking knows it.
He curses, and twists, throwing out a hand and preparing to cast Aard and Quen in quick succession, in the hopes that it will break his momentum, and make his injuries simply agonizing, rather than deadly.
Before he can gather the Chaos he needs, his focus is broken by a bright, blinding flash, like the sun is reflecting off of a gigantic mirror. Lambert hisses, and closes his eyes, then yelps when something snatches him from the air. Something large, and scaled.
Fuck. This. Hunt.
The bottom drops out of his stomach as whatever has him swoops and dips through the air, like it’s avoiding obstacles. Lambert opens his eyes carefully, squinting to avoid getting potentially blinded again, uncertain of the angle of the sunlight with so much motion. He catches nauseating glimpses of the trees rushing by, and what look like vines lashing at him, and by extension, whatever’s carrying him.
Lambert stares critically at the claw he’s currently clutched in, taking in the pure white scales, and the wicked curve and size of its talons. There’s only one flying draconid that fits.
He’s been grabbed by a fucking dragon.
Suddenly, the dragon dips again, but this time it keeps meandering downward, slowing down, until it’s hovering directly above a clear stretch of rock, the forest left well behind them. The second they’re close enough to the ground that the fall won’t hurt him, Lambert begins kicking, and stabbing with one of his holdout daggers with as much strength as he can muster. He might not be able to get away, but he’s not going to give up without a fight.
He owes it to his brothers and Aiden to at least try to survive this.
The dragon abruptly opens its claw, and Lambert barely reacts quickly enough to land on his feet. He spins to face his attacker, dagger tucked away, and silver sword already drawn, free hand ready to cast Quen.
He nearly drops his fucking sword when the dragon laughs, the sound shaking the ground around them, and says, “your brothers did say you’d be bitey.”
“Fucking what?” Lambert asks, bewildered.
“I promise to explain, but I must insist you stop trying to stab me. Even if you do have the people skills of a cockatrice, like Geralt claims, I have to draw a line somewhere,” the dragon replies, voice somehow prim despite how loud it is.
Well, there’s no doubt the dragon has met Geralt, and while he doesn’t always get along with his prodigy of a brother, he also knows Geralt would never send someone after him that meant him harm.
“That prissy bastard! At least I actually talk to people,” Lambert seethes, his fear forgotten in the face of annoyance. Then, suddenly, his nose catches up with the rest of his senses, and his eyes go wide. “Hang on, what the fuck?!”
The explanation he gets in questionable at best, and un-fucking-believable at worst. But Lambert’s got nothing better to do at the moment than to let Jaskier carry him back to his lair. If nothing else, it will let him give both of his brothers hell for fucking a dragon, of all things.
After a few days, Lambert has to begrudgingly admit that the lair is nicer than he expected. Especially once Jaskier shows him the hot springs. He sinks further down into the water, sighing with satisfaction as the heat relaxes his muscles. He hears a splash, and lazily opens his eyes to find Jaskier watching him from the other side of his pool with obvious appreciation.
Lambert may not be good with people, but he’s also not stupid. He knows lust when he smells it. And after sharing the Path with Aiden, he’s gotten much better at responding on the rare occasions that it’s aimed at him.
“See something you like?” He asks with a leer.
Instead of balking, Jaskier’s smile turns sultry. “I do. And I was wondering if you’d like to find out how much hotter my mouth is than the water.”
Oh shit.
As Lambert shudders in the water, one hand clamped over his own mouth, the other pressed to the back of Jaskier’s bobbing head, he thinks the only thing that could make this better is if Aiden was here, too.
*
Aiden
Aiden dodges and weaves between two of Jad’s lackeys, lashing out with one of the knives Lambert gave him for his birthday. It finds its mark, opening a bright red line across the nearest man’s neck, but Aiden has no time to appreciate his death gurgles. Pain lances up his leg where the other man landed a hit while Aiden took out his companion.
Aiden pivots, burying the same knife in the other man’s eye, jerking it free, and diving out of the way as a crossbow bolt whisks past him.
He turns the dive into a roll, bounding back to his feet as quickly as he can so he doesn’t give any of the men circling him a chance to pin him down. He glances around, and realizes with a sinking feeling that unless he gets extremely lucky, he’s not going to make it out of this alive. There are just too many of them, and even if he holds off everyone else, it’s only a matter of time before one of Jad’s bolts finds its mark.
Not that he intends to just lie down and die.
If nothing else, he has a few bombs hidden away in his belt that will ensure no one makes it out of this clearing. Even Quen is unlikely to save him from the blast. His Lambchop does good work, and these are meant for the sorts of contracts that call for salting and burning everything in the vicinity.
It’s a last resort, and one he’d rather not use, but needs must.
He manages to take out two more men, while avoiding several shots from Jad’s crossbow, though the most recent one came dangerously close to his good leg. Even more frightening than that, he can feel his limbs growing heavy, his reactions slowing as exhaustion starts to set in. Even when fueled by rage, Aiden can only fight for so long, and Jad knows it, damn him.
Aiden holds out for a little longer, but the men that are left are smart enough to coordinate their attacks, all swinging their blades at Aiden at once. He is forced to drop one of his knives in favor of using Quen to block the blows raining down on him. He watches, heart pounding, as his shield gets thinner and thinner.
Signs were never his strong suit, and his Quen can’t take much more before it shatters. He sees Jad raising his crossbow from the corner of his eye, no doubt waiting for the split second when Aiden is left vulnerable.
Now or never.
Aiden reaches for one of the bombs, preparing to light it with Igni, and offering up an apology to Lambert, wherever he is. This is definitely not how he meant for Aiden to use these.
Then, just as his Quen breaks, an ear-shattering roar echoes around them. They all flinch, and it sends Jad’s bolt wild, grazing Aiden’s cheek instead of striking his eye, as Aiden assumes he intended.
A dragon comes crashing into the clearing, and the shock of it buys Aiden enough time to send knives flying into the throats of two more of his attackers. He prays to any god that will listen that the dragon doesn’t focus on him, that maybe he’ll have a chance to escape after all.
Unfortunately, one of Jad’s men takes exception to the deaths of his comrades, and swings his sword at Aiden, the dragon apparently forgotten. Aiden braces himself, then stares wide-eyed as the man is sent flying by a flick of the dragon’s tail. He makes contact with a tree, hard enough that Aiden can actually hear the crack of his bones before he collapses to the ground.
The dragon roars again, and Aiden watches in amazement as it rampages through the clearing, doling out death with every swing of its tail, and swipe of its claws. Somehow, through all of the chaos, Aiden remains unharmed, until he is standing at the center of a loose circle of bodies.
Jad is the last to fall, and if Aiden isn’t mistaken, the dragon seems to take a surprising amount of satisfaction in stomping on his body over and over again, until it is barely recognizable. The dragon huffs, a concentrated plume of flame setting the body alight, and in the light of the flickering fire, the dragon shimmers, and shifts, until there is a man standing in its place.
He is gorgeous, despite the way his mouth is twisted with obvious distaste as he glances at Jad’s burning remains.
“Serves you right,” the dragon sniffs, then turns a bright smile on Aiden. “You must be Aiden! This isn’t how I imagined us meeting, but I am terribly glad I got here in time. Lambert says hello.”
His Lambchop is moving up in the world if he’s making friends with dragons. Aiden is so proud. He is also so unspeakably relieved that his legs start to give out, though the dragon hurries over to steady him.
“How do you feel about coming home with me? I’m sure Lambert will want to dote on you, as do I, if you’re amenable.” The dragon’s hopeful smile, and the prospect of seeing Lambert are too good to resist. As is the promising scent lingering on the dragon’s skin.
Very promising.
After they get through Lambert’s frankly impressive vitriolic tirade about Jad, and how upset he is that he wasn’t there to tear the bastard to pieces himself, they are able to move on to a bout of expected clinginess. Aiden carefully doesn’t mention that it lasts longer than usual, simply allowing his Lambchop to hold him close, and alternate between checking the cut on his face, and the wound on his leg.
Once that passes, Aiden finally gets to witness firsthand the luxuries that Lambert has been enjoying. The luxuries he absolutely deserves, and has secretly always wanted, even if he’d never admit it.
But Aiden knows his Lambchop well, and after so many years on the Path together, can tell what he wants without needing to ask. So, a few nights later, when his leg is healed, and the shock of a near-death experience has lost its edge, Aiden invites Jaskier into their room.
Lambert is always so lovely when he’s stuffed full – a cock in his ass, and another in his throat, muffling the way he howls at the overwhelming feeling of it. Aiden leans forward to share a kiss with Jaskier, listening to his Lambchop fall apart, and swears to himself that he’ll make sure his lover continues to get all of the things he deserves, whatever it takes.
And, maybe, if he’s lucky, he can convince some of his more level-headed brothers to join them.
*
Gaetan
Gaetan snarls at the mob of bandits, all of his pain channeled into a rage that burns so brightly it nearly overcomes all sense, but not quite. And that not quite is what saves his life.
Rather than stay and fight against impossible odds, he wrests his mind free from the madness long enough to throw a Samum bomb. It won’t blind all of them, but it should buy him enough time to get away. Even wounded, he can move faster than humans, as long as he doesn’t give himself time to feel the pain.
That, at least, is something the madness is good for.
By the time the bomb goes off, he has disappeared into the trees, the cries of pain and anger lending speed to his steps, and putting a feral smile on his face. When he has put enough distance between himself and the bandits he takes a few moments to wrap his bleeding side. Even the Continent’s worst trackers can follow him if there’s a trail of blood right to his hiding place.
He grunts at the pain, then downs a Swallow and his last Kiss back to back, grimacing at the foul taste. It would almost be better to bleed out. He hates taking potions.
Now certain he will survive long enough to get to the cave he saw earlier, and that he can hide his trail passably well, he picks up his pace into an easy lope, the madness smoldering at the edges of his mind. He knows from experience it won’t take much to fan it to a blaze again. He also knows he can’t wreak vengeance on anyone if he collapses the moment he draws a blade.
Much as he hates waiting, he has no choice for the time being.
Once he reaches the cave, he settles in as best he can, positioning himself so that he will know the moment anything or anyone passes too close to his hiding place. He’s still too on edge to meditate, restless energy burning in him, the madness trying to reignite.
What he wants to do is drive his blades into every last one of the bandits over and over again until their blood has no place to go but out. Wants them to pay for hurting him. For trying to take advantage of the fact that he was already slowed from a hunt. For stealing the trophies he earned.
Gaetan scowls, and kneels, hands twitching at his sides. He closes his eyes, trying to even out his breathing and bring his body back under control. He needs to meditate, whether he wants to or not.
His mind has just begun to drift when a strange smell is carried to him on the breeze. Flowers, and fire, and… Witchers? Gaetan wrinkles his nose, trying to parse the different scents. One of them is vaguely familiar. If only he could focus a little more, maybe –
His eyes suddenly widen, the realization hitting him just as someone appears at the cave entrance, their arms stretched wide, and hands held open to show they have no weapons.
“Why the fuck do you smell like my brother?” Gaetan snaps, eyeing the stranger up and down suspiciously.
Aiden’s never been shy about sex, but Gaetan was under the impression that he was too busy bedding his Wolf to bother with other partners. He’s certainly never mentioned anyone else to Gaetan, and the two of them have always been close. Well, close by the Cat definition of the word.
“That would likely be due to living together for months, as well as the copious amounts of sex,” the stranger says lightly. “I assure you, he gave his very enthusiastic consent for all of it.”
Gaetan notices that he hasn’t made any attempt to get closer, remaining just outside of the cave, allowing Gaetan to keep his space. It curbs the madness-tinged instincts that demand he draw a blade. At least for now.
“Why should I believe you?” Gaetan demands. There are plenty of spells and curses that could have affected Aiden’s judgement, and he’s not going to just take some stranger at his word. Especially when Aiden isn’t the only Witcher he’s been around.
Who would willingly spend time with multiple Witchers without ulterior motives?
“Aiden showed me some hand-signs. As long as you promise not to throw any knives at me, I’m happy to pass the message along.” The stranger waits expectantly. Gaetan shifts, preparing himself in case things go sideways, then nods.
The stranger beams, then his hands flicker through several Cat signs. Trust. Safe. Happy. Join. Then a fifth that has Gaetan gaping in disbelief.
“Dragon? You’re a fucking dragon?!” Gaetan squawks.
“Indeed I am,” the godsdamned dragon says, like they’re discussing the weather. “And despite the amount of fucking I enjoy, I do prefer to be called Jaskier, if it’s all the same to you.”
Geatan stares, then snorts, and mutters, “can see why my brother likes you.” Jaskier laughs, and Gaetan’s lips twitch into a grin. “So, are we getting out of here, then?”
“If you like,” Jaskier says, then pauses, giving Gaetan a pointed look. “Although, if whoever did this to you is still about, I wouldn’t be opposed to a detour.”
“Oh?” Gaetan asks, the madness rising at the mere suggestion. “You mean that?”
Jaskier’s answering smile is nearly as wild as Gaetan’s own. “I do.”
Soon after, Gaetan watches from astride Jaskier’s back as the bandit’s stronghold goes up in flames, and he cackles with glee as the men that hurt him are reduced to ash, and the madness at last falls silent.
The lair, when they get there, is a much more impressive sight than Gaetan expected. He slides slowly from Jaskier’s back, directly into his brother’s waiting arms after Gaetan gives him a terse nod of permission. Between Aiden’s careful tending, a few potions from Aiden’s Wolf that taste better than any Gaetan’s ever had, and a full meal, he feels good as new.
More than that, the adrenaline left over from the brush with death, and the satisfaction of the madness being sated, have him craving something a bit more carnal.
He glances at Jaskier and bluntly asks, “want to fuck?”
“Only if you want to,” Jaskier answers.
Gaetan immediately grabs Jaskier by the arm, and drags him toward the bedroom he’s been given, ignoring Aiden’s whistle, and his Wolf’s snickering. When they reach his room, he immediately pushes Jaskier into the cushy chair by the fire, shifting it so it faces the bed.
“Watch,” Gaetan demands, reclining against the pillows, and opening his pants just far enough so he can free his cock. He starts stroking it, relishing the way Jaskier’s eyes are fixed on him. “You can’t touch me, but you can touch yourself,” he says.
Turns out Jaskier is good at following rules.
As they both shake through their orgasms, Gaetan finds himself wishing Letho were here so Jaskier could watch them fuck. After all, riling his Viper is his favorite pastime.
*
Letho
Letho has been having a remarkably good year on the Path. The contracts have been plentiful, the pay reasonable, if not always generous, and every injury he has suffered has been minor. He’s even had enough coin to add to his kit, in addition to repairing what he already has. It’s the sort of good fortune that doesn’t often find Witchers, and rarely, if ever, is granted to Vipers in particular. He has tried to enjoy it, but the longer the streak of luck lasts, the more paranoid Letho becomes.
Every simple hunt, and full coin purse, is starting to feel like a blade hovering above his neck, ready to fall at a moment’s notice to turn the day to absolute shit.
The feeling is only exacerbated by the fact that he hasn’t run into Gaetan all year. His Cat can be flighty, and often doesn’t want others in his space. Letho has gotten used to being the exception, something frighteningly soft and warm growing in his chest every time Gaetan appears at his camp unannounced. He misses the feisty fucker. Misses his verbal jabs, his mercurial moods, his yowling when they fuck, and damn all the gods, he misses the way he cuddles. That is something he can’t bring himself to look at too closely, especially when his Cat is nowhere to be found.
The imaginary blade grows sharper, and Letho finds himself twitching at every harmless sound he hears while striding down the road. It’s ridiculous. He knows it is. But he can’t force his muscles to relax, or his mind to stop racing with what ifs. He can’t walk the Path like this. Something has to give, or he’s going to get himself killed.
He needs to track Gaetan down.
Mind made up, he spends the next couple of hours trying to decide where to start. He knows all of the Cat’s hidey holes, and his preferred routes. The season, and the knowledge that there’s been neither hide nor hair of the Cat on Letho’s own route helps narrow down the possibilities. He is deciding between three towns when he freezes mid-stride.
The woods around him have fallen suspiciously silent. There’s no birdsong. No insects. Not even the rustle of leaves.
Letho swears he can hear the whoosh of the blade as it falls, and then he is staring at his feet as they lift from the ground, the landscape falling away from him as he is born into the air in a large claw. His mind is clamoring with tactics, and plans of attack, most of which will do absolutely nothing against a damned dragon. He has no idea why the thing would even be interested in taking a Witcher as prey, but figuring out its motives isn’t going to help him survive.
He’s up too high to risk breaking free. His only chance is to force the dragon to land, but to do that, he has to wound it enough that it has to abandon its flight, without being flung to his death. He’ll have to make his own handhold, and to do that, he has to drive one of his swords deep enough that it won’t slip free under Letho’s weight. He eyes the scales along the claw, searching for a break or weak point that he can exploit, and finds none.
He curses, shifting and twisting in the dragon’s claw, but no matter how he positions himself, the dragon holds tight, and he can’t get the right angle. There’s no way in the hells he can get enough leverage for a proper strike. Which means he’ll have to wait until the dragon lands on its own to attempt an escape, and pray the thing doesn’t grow bored and drop him in the meantime.
Just as he has come to terms with what could very well be his imminent death, he hears a familiar cackling from somewhere above him. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard in nearly a year, and he cranes his neck up to find the source, certain he must be hallucinating.
There, peeking over the dragon’s side, is Gaetan, wearing a smug, madness-tinged smirk.
That little shit. Letho is going to fucking kill him.
That intention only lasts until they’ve safely landed at what Letho assumes is the dragon’s lair. The dragon places him gently on the ground, and the second Gaetan has leapt from its back, Letho backs him up against the nearest wall.
“I’m going to gut you, you insufferable shit,” Letho snarls, then crushes their mouths together in a biting kiss.
Gaetan gives as good as he gets, and Letho can taste the faint tang of blood where Gaetan has nicked his lip with one of his teeth. He tears their mouths apart, and grips Gaetan by the back of the neck when he tries to kiss him again.
“Get back here,” Gaetan hisses.
Letho ignores him. “You have a room?” he asks.
“Yes. Want to see it?” Gaetan taunts, and Letho has had enough.
“Show me,” he growls.
Gaetan smirks, then his eyes dart over Letho’s shoulder, settling on something behind him. To Letho’s surprise, Gaetan holds out a hand, like he’s reaching for something.
“Want me to come with you, lovely?” Asks a voice that sends goosebumps cascading down Letho’s arms.
He turns his head to see a young man watching the two of them hungrily. The dragon. He forgot about the fucking dragon.
“Yes,” Gaetan says. He looks at Letho when the Viper makes a surprised, questioning noise. “Yes,” he repeats pointedly. “Jaskier’s invited.”
Well, that speaks volumes to whether Letho can trust the dragon. Not just an acquaintance roped into an ill-advised prank, then. Interesting.
“Fine,” Letho grunts, trying to pretend he isn’t just as aroused as his nose tells him Gaetan and Jaskier are.
Jaskier leads the way through the nicest place Letho’s ever been, which is saying something when he made a name for himself sneaking into manors and palaces to murder their occupants. At last, they come to a door that Jaskier nudges open, revealing a room that smells like Gaetan, laced with the faint wisps of Jaskier and what Letho thinks he recognizes as one of the brothers Gaetan actually likes.
Letho wastes no more time, stripping them both, and tossing Gaetan onto the bed face-down. He climbs up after him, holding the back of Gaetan’s neck as he preps him, then plows him mercilessly into the mattress, exactly the way his Cat likes. All the while, he feels Jaskier’s eyes burning into them, watching from a chair by the fire as Gaetan yowls, and Letho follows him into pleasure with a grunt.
He collapses on top of Gaetan, grinning when he hears the Cat’s satisfied sigh at the feeling of Letho’s weight bearing him down. There’s an echoing sigh from the direction of the chair that makes Letho’s cock twitch.
Huh. Maybe this day hasn’t gone to complete shit after all.
He could get used to this.
*
Coën
Coën breathes heavily, bracing himself as the archgriffin turns in the air above him, the sinking sun limning it in fire as it prepares for another pass.
Thus far, he has managed to avoid its acid, but he has paid dearly for it. The archgriffin has already taken advantage of Coën’s desperate dodging. During its last attack, it caught Coën’s left arm with a talon. Coën was briefly lifted from the ground before he was able to wrench himself free. The wound is deep, and even after frantically downing a vial of Kiss, he has lost too much blood.
His arm is useless, unable to even cast a Sign.
He grits his teeth against the lightheadedness blurring his vision, forcing himself to focus as the archgriffin swoops down again. He will only have one chance at this. He steps aside at the last moment, putting all of his strength into one last strike.
Thank all of the gods, his aim is true.
The archgriffin crashes into the ground, its head rolling a few feet further, coming to a stop in a grisly puddle of blood, acid, and feathers.
Coën drives his sword into the ground, clutching the hilt, and leaning heavily against it. He is uncertain how well he can clean and wrap his wound one-handed, and he cannot risk meditation until he has at least prevented the chance of infection. He shall simply have to resort to the only option left to him.
The bottle of White Gull Lambert gave him last winter is still wrapped safely at the bottom of his pack. Coën was intending to save it for a special occasion, but needs must. He does not think he can remain conscious long enough for anything more.
He stumbles in the direction of his pack, and then the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end when he hears a furious screech.
A mate. The archgriffin had a mate.
Coën spins, barely staying on his feet with the sudden motion, and stares up at the second, larger archgriffin diving straight for him. He should have suspected this. The first was unusually aggressive and territorial. But it’s so early in the season for a mating that he never considered the possibility.
It seems it is the mistake that will cost him his life.
Coën takes a deep, centering breath, letting himself hover at the borders of meditation to quiet his mind as he prepares to meet his death with honor. He has not the strength to kill it, but he will do all that he can to wound it grievously enough that it will harm no others.
How fitting that his time here shall set with the sun itself.
There is a sudden rush of air as he raises his sword, too much by far to be caused by the archgriffin’s wings. Coën watches, heart in his throat, as the archgriffin twists to face whatever new foe is bearing down upon it.
It does not even have a chance.
Coën stares in awed disbelief as a dragon bolts through the air, quick as lightning, and just as deadly. It catches the archgriffin in its maw, then snaps it closed with a sense of finality. The crunch echoes around them, and when it releases its hold the archgriffin plummets to the ground, and does not move again.
The dragon is resplendent, its scales shining in the light of the setting sun, reflecting it back in a riot of beautiful colors. It is divine.
Coën kneels with some difficulty, bowing his head in respect as the dragon lands. He hears what sounds like a pleased huff, then there is a breath of magic, and a gust of wind, and a gentle hand is tilting Coën’s head up to meet captivating blue eyes.
“No call for that. Not when you need tending. Will you let me help you?” He asks, as if he has not already saved Coën’s very life.
“You have already done more than enough, and I am honored by it,” Coën says solemnly.
The dragon laughs, the sound luring Coën forward, until he catches himself, and flushes at his own impropriety.
“Lambert told me you were too honorable for your own good. Though I must confess, I find it quite fetching. I’m Jaskier, and several of your fellows await you in my lair.” Jaskier looks deep into his eyes, and smiles. “Now, will you allow me to see to that wound, and carry you to safety, Coën?”
“Aye,” Coën whispers, struggling to understand his good fortune. Perhaps this is all a dream.
If so, it is a good dream, and he will cling to it as long as he is able.
Coën swims in and out of consciousness, until he blinks his eyes open only to realize he is now being carried by Jaskier in his human form down a hallway. The display of strength is more enticing than it should be.
He catches sight of Lambert leaning in a doorway, tense with worry, until Jaskier murmurs, “he’s fine, darling, just tired.” Lambert immediately relaxes, and when he meets Coën’s eyes, his friend smirks and winks.
Coën is still stuck on the endearment that Lambert seems used to. He inhales, intending to catch his friend’s scent to ensure he is actually alright, when he is bombarded by the riot of smells surrounding Jaskier that he was in too much pain to notice before. Most are scents he knows.
Eskel. And Geralt. And Lambert. And the spicy smell that lingers on Lambert any time they meet on the Path, or in the winter. Aiden. It must be Aiden.
He is still coming to terms with that discovery when he is laid out on a bed that is heavenly soft. He realizes that he is no longer in his armor, which means he must have been lost in thought indeed, and his eyes have also slipped closed again. He opens them, searching for Jaskier, intent on apologizing.
His wits flee him when he finds Jaskier sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, watching him with a fond smile, and the faint, alluring smell of interest.
“I owe you a great debt,” Coën rasps. Jaskier shakes his head, and doesn’t respond until he has coaxed Coën to drink some water.
“You owe me nothing. I was happy to help,” Jaskier argues gently, brushing a strand of hair out of Coën’s face. His hand is deliciously warm.
“So you say, and yet, a debt remains. What would you have of me?” Coën hopes he knows what he wants, because he finds he wants it as well. Desperately.
Jaskier’s eyes flash, and he tilts his head, a smile spreading across his face. “I would take care of you, in any way you desire. Is that something you would allow?”
“Aye, if that is what you wish.” Coën does not think he has ever meant something as much as he means those words.
He finds that the warmth of Jaskier’s hand is even more glorious trailing down his body, and stroking his cock in a maddeningly slow glide. Amongst his pleas for more, he swears to Jaskier that he will repay him with pleasure in kind as soon as he is recovered.
He is a man of his word, and even after countless times of wringing pleasure from Jaskier, he decides it is not enough. After all, Jaskier saved his life.
There is no knowing how long it will take to repay that debt, and Coën intends to enjoy every moment.
*
Vesemir
Vesemir loves his pups.
It soothes something in him to have them all gathered together in the keep over the winter, where they are safe from the world, however briefly. He enjoys their company, even though he is convinced his gray hair has nothing to do with his age, and everything to do with the grief they all put him through. The constant spats, and pranks, and fucking in ill-advised places, has driven him to actually drink some of Lambert’s White Gull. Worse than that are their tales from the Path. There are so few of them left, and he doesn’t appreciate how often his pups get themselves into more trouble than even the Path should offer. Geralt in particular.
If Vesemir hears that Geralt has landed himself into yet another once in a millennia event, he is going to confine him to the keep for his own good.
All of that said, he wouldn’t trade their time together for anything. Perhaps he’s grown sentimental in his dotage, as Guxart often accuses him, but he has also learned over the years to appreciate what he has while he still can. There are few enough things to celebrate in the lives of Witchers that he will take every opportunity to do so.
Which is why he often passes the months his pups are gone by breaking every rule he insists they follow while here. Guxart has certainly never complained.
The Cat Grandmaster is currently pinned against one of the library bookshelves, one leg thrown over Vesemir’s shoulder, the other up on tiptoes. The old Cat has lost none of his flexibility over the years, and they both thoroughly enjoy testing his limits.
Speaking of limits, Vesemir can feel Guxart beginning to shake. The telltale sign that he’s close. Vesemir growls, hands clenching against Guxart’s side and thigh. He thrusts a few more times, hard enough to rattle the shelf, and knock a few books to the floor. He would threaten to skin his pups if they were so careless with them, but he has never been able to resist Guxart, and he has too few indulgences to deny himself this one.
That last burst of motion does the trick, as Vesemir knew it would, and Guxart groans as he comes, painting Vesemir’s chest as the Wolf fills him up.
They stay like that for a few long moments, sharing a languid kiss until Vesemir feels Guxart’s leg twitch against his shoulder. He pulls back, letting his lover settle onto his own feet.
“Mmm, made me all sore, Wolf,” Guxart says with a grin, stretching languidly, before halfheartedly swiping between his legs with his own abandoned shirt.
“Didn’t hear you complaining, Cat,” Vesemir retorts.
Guxart mimes shock, clutching at his chest. “I would never.”
Vesemir rolls his eyes, following after the Cat as he makes his way out of the library toward the kitchen, shamelessly naked. Vesemir glances at his own pile of discarded clothing consideringly, but there’s no one here but Guxart to see him. Why bother?
He regrets that decision when Guxart suddenly stops dead is his tracks at the edge of the great hall, falling into that predatory stillness all Witchers learn. The Cat’s eyes are fixed ahead, toward one of the tables. Vesemir slips carefully into the room alongside him, only to stare.
There’s a young man seated at one of the tables, fidgeting anxiously with several letters in his hands, and pointedly not looking at either of them. There’s a hint of magic hovering around him, though Vesemir is certain he isn’t a mage.
Vesemir lets out a heavy sigh. He just knows his pups have something to do with this. A deep inhale confirms it, as well as the reason for the magic.
A dragon. Of course.
“What have my pups done now?” Vesemir asks, deciding to simply ignore his own nakedness, as well as Guxart’s. He’s not going to waste time getting dressed for the dragon’s sake. This is Vesemir’s keep, after all.
“I believe these will explain everything,” the dragon says weakly. He slides the letters down the table so they’re within easy reach.
Vesemir hears Guxart snicker at the dragon’s apparent discomfort.
He shakes his head, and opens the first of the three letters. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and it must show in his scent, because Guxart crowds in next to him to read over his shoulder. The Cat makes an odd sound, like he’s fighting laughter, and Vesemir quickly checks the next two letters, which say much the same.
Guxart finally loses his composure, bursting into laughter. “You can’t give me shit about my kittens anymore, Ves!” The Cat gasps, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he shakes with uncontrollable mirth. “Your pups have joined a harem!”
“Hoard,” Vesemir corrects tiredly.
“What’s the difference when they’re fucking the dragon?” Guxart goads, dancing out of the way when Vesemir attempts to shove him.
“I wouldn’t be too quick to point fingers,” the dragon, Jaskier, according to the letters, pipes up.
“Why’s that?” Guxart asks.
“Well, Aiden and Gaetan are part of my hoard as well. Though, admittedly, Aiden prefers Lambert be involved, and Gaetan typically limits his fucking to his Viper,” Jaskier explains.
Guxart’s laughter cuts off abruptly, eyes wide. Vesemir and Guxart both knew about Lambert and Aiden already, despite the younger Witchers’ attempts to hide it. Gaetan, though… that’s new information.
“Viper?” Guxart blurts.
“Yes,” Jaskier confirms. “Letho.”
“Letho of Gulet?!” Guxart chokes out. When Jaskier nods, he slumps against the table, and puts his face in his hands.
It’s Vesemir’s turn to laugh. “You have no right to give me hell about my pups anymore, Gux. Not when one of yours is fucking the Kingslayer.”
Guxart groans and refuses to look at either of them.
“So… I realize this is all a lot, but the Wolves really are quite anxious to hear your decision,” Jaskier prompts gently.
Vesemir frowns, and looks around him. This has been the only home that has ever mattered to him for centuries, but it is falling apart. And what truly makes it home is the presence of his pups. So, if they have decided their school would be better served elsewhere, somewhere they have managed to find happiness, who is he to deny them?
“There are things we’ll have to bring with us,” Vesemir says thoughtfully.
His response earns an ecstatic smile from Jaskier, and a knowing grin from Guxart. Let him be smug. Vesemir knows he’s just as eager to see his kittens.
There is quite a commotion when they arrive – a mixture of excitement that Vesemir has accepted the offer, and horror when his pups and Guxart’s kittens realize why they’ve arrived together.
Lambert looks between the two of them with obvious distress that only grows when he glances at Jaskier. “Please tell me you’ll only be fucking each other.”
A fraught silence falls upon everyone gathered, all eyes on Vesemir and Guxart, though Vesemir notices that Letho is fighting a grin.
Guxart is the one that breaks the stalemate. “We’re too old for orgies,” he says dryly. “Besides, if we decided we wanted to fuck a dragon again, we’d just send an invitation to Villentretenmerth. He was plenty enthusiastic last time.”
Geralt goes pale, and makes a strangled noise. A chorus of groans and curses breaks out around them.
Vesemir looks over the younger Witchers, noting how healthy they all look, how happy, despite their current discomfort, and his doubts fall away.
Kaer Morhen will always hold a place in his heart, but this is home now. As long as Jaskier will have them.
*
Jaskier
Over the next decade, Jaskier continues to collect more and more Witchers for his hoard. Some, like Kolgrim, he snatches from the jaws of death and disaster. Others, like Ivo and Junod, he is able to speak with before absconding with them. Regardless of how they meet, every living Witcher eventually calls Jaskier’s lair home, though it does take some of them longer than others to warm to the idea. By the time the most far-flung of the Manticores has settled in, even the least observant members of the Continent have begun to take notice.
It doesn’t take long after that for people to begin sending their requests for aid directly to what they have taken to calling “The Witcher Stronghold”.
It’s an interesting moniker, to say the least.
As Jaskier understands it, the humans believe the Witchers have been secretly working together for years to create a new fortress for all of the schools, and have enlisted a dragon to help them guard it.
He is more amused than anything by the misunderstanding. Then he finds out that it encourages people to pay his Witchers fairly, and treat them with more respect, lest the rage of a dragon be called down upon them. After that, he begins writing songs to encourage the rumors, leaning into the myth to make sure that his Witchers can have the respect they are due.
He wonders how people would react if they realized the very dragon whose wrath they fear is the selfsame bard flitting amongst them, strumming his lute. He imagines their expressions would be quite entertaining.
After years of this, for the first time in his life, Jaskier feels settled, his purpose fulfilled in a way that nothing else could hope to match. He has his home, he has his hoard, and better than that, his Witchers are happy to be his. All of the myriad signs of their presence that are scattered throughout the rooms of his lair are treasures all their own, proof that they have chosen to make their lives here, and to share them with Jaskier.
The scents of happiness and contentment fill the very air like the world’s most intoxicating perfume, often mixed with the unmistakable musk of sex and satisfaction. It is better than any drug a mage or alchemist could contrive.
Jaskier hasn’t spent a single night alone since Eskel woke all those years ago. He has found that Witchers are enthusiastic bedmates, and all of them seem to crave warmth and touch like plants crave sunlight.
And Jaskier is thrilled to provide both.
He spoils them as much as they will allow, coaxing contentment and pleasure from them until they are boneless. He can still remember the first time Aiden convinced him to fuck Lambert while partially shifted. Lambert took him beautifully, and the way he wailed like he was dying had the rest of his Witchers sprinting through the lair to check on him.
Once they realized what had happened, Jaskier practically had a line of Witchers following him around (led by a very enthusiastic Eskel) waiting for their turn.
Of course, not all of his Witchers are interested in fucking. Vesemir and Guxart are still perfectly happy with each other, as are Cedric and Axel, and a handful of others that have preferred partners, or simply don’t want sex at all. Then there are those like Gaetan, who enjoy sex, but only on their own very specific terms. With them, Jaskier is simply pleased that he is trusted enough to be involved at all.
He does his best to give them all what they need. Even when that means watching them leave to walk the Path.
He never intended his lair to be a cage, but it’s still difficult to let his Witchers go. And it makes him terribly tetchy when any of them are gone for too long. He has been known to fetch them himself when his worry outweighs his patience. Thankfully, his Witchers have all been more grateful than annoyed by the quick trip home.
It helps that there are so many of them now that the lair is never empty. Though, sometimes, his instincts will not abide them leaving. When that happens, and they receive a request for aid with monsters or monstrous men, Jaskier snarls when his Witchers discuss who will go, and stomps to the nearest entrance himself. He throws himself off of the mountain, shifting as he plummets, arrowing toward whichever settlement offered the contract.
His Witchers have learned that it’s best to let him get the possessiveness out of his system by burning their prey to ash, rather than arguing. He’s always in a much better mood afterward.
Then, there are the times that he wants to gather up his hoard into one place to admire it. Somewhere he can see and smell them all, and know without doubt that they are safe, and here, and his.
That instinct is one he tries not to indulge too often. His Witchers are already giving him so much by choosing to live here, and he doesn’t wish to smother them so much that they have to leave the lair for some independence.
But, no matter how he fights it, he will inevitably find himself corralling his Witchers deeper into the mountain. Tempting them to spend time in the hot springs with him, or asking for help with something in the great cavernous room at its center. As the urge gets stronger, he starts to lose control of his shifting, his scales creeping across his skin, his nails and teeth growing sharper, his dragon shape only ever a breath and a flicker of will away.
He is currently staring at his arms, which are entirely covered in white scales, trying to decide how much longer he can put this off before he admits defeat to his Witchers, when someone clears their throat. Jaskier turns to find Eskel leaning in the doorway, smiling at him.
“Come on, then. Everyone’s waiting for you,” Eskel says, moving forward, and taking Jaskier gently by the elbow.
Jaskier is confused at first, following along behind Eskel as he leads him down, down, down, into the mountain, until they emerge in the great cavern. It’s already filled with his Witchers – lounging on blankets, and pillows, surrounded by books, and cards, and other ways to pass the time. There are even several tables covered with food and drink.
There’s a large gap in the exact center of the room, and as Jaskier stares, marveling at how well his Witchers know him, Letho yells, “get in here already, you big lizard! Gaetan’s cold!”
The Cat in question makes a disgruntled noise of agreement, already half buried under blankets. There’s a chorus of laughter from the other Witchers, and Jaskier laughs with them as he shifts, herding Eskel toward Geralt on his way to his own spot.
After some shuffling, Jaskier curls up, surrounded by his darling Witchers, smug with the knowledge that his family could never dream of having a hoard as marvelous as his.