Chapter Text
” My girls don’t serve your kind,” Famora’s voice rang out. Jaskier snorted to himself. If there was one thing certain, it’s that Famora would serve any kind. She didn’t turn anyone out. She’d let a troll have its way with any of them - provided said troll had the coin. No, it was a ruse – the potential client was obviously some sort of non-human, and she saw a chance at fattening her purse further.
Jaskier couldn’t make out the reply, only a deep rumble. He was almost tempted to peek out past the burgundy velvet curtain but thought better of it. He didn’t really care who or what the customer was. They were all the same when it came down to it, all wanted some variation of the same thing. They wanted to feel wanted and desired. They wanted somewhere warm and wet to stuff their cock, and they wanted someone to think them cleverer and better than any other man who’d wet their cock there before. They didn’t care who’d be giving that, as long as it was someone decently attractive in the dim candlelight of the brothel.
“Double it,” Famora said sometime later, which was followed by an annoyed grumble. The sound of a heavy purse hitting wood, however, suggested the client had come prepared.
“Why, welcome to this fine establishment!” Famora sounded pleased, the customer must’ve paid handsomely, Jaskier thought. “What do you seek? Blondes? Brunettes? Want ‘em slim or a little plump? Maybe you prefer boys? We have a few in our services, though I’m unsure who’s available at this moment. We also have a few elven girls, if that’s to your liking-” The sales pitch was interrupted, when the client spoke the first words Jaskier could discern in that same grumbling tone.
“Anyone who’s willing,” he said. Jaskier froze mid-movement, the thick salve almost sliding from his fingers, before he caught it, and continued rubbing it into his sore backside. He’d just finished up with one of their regulars, a Nilfgardian officer, with a particularly nasty desire to play a little… rough. Jaskier hated the man, but taking him, meant a few days off to recover. And Jaskier would do nearly anything for that.
As he continued spreading the salve down the back of his thighs with careful fingers, he listened to Famora making her way around, having one hushed discussion after the other. Jaskier hissed softly, the tender skin of his inner thigh burning under his ministrations. It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it, he thought to himself, repeating it over and over again, like a mantra, willing it to be true.
“No way, I’m not doing that, I don’t care what you pay me!” Rana’s voice was barely audible, despite there only being a heavy curtain between them. Jaskier stiffened once more. Rana had always had a more… delicate disposition; Her saying no wasn’t that much of a surprise, when it seemed everyone else had refused their services before her. But Rana wasn’t picky, she only ever refused a client out of fear. Famora sighed heavily, now moving his way. Jaskier clenched his eyes shut. Please let it be worth it, please let it be worth it, plea-
“Julian, you’re up,” Jaskier whipped his head up, opening his eyes again. Famora stood in front of him, looking at him with a hard gaze. For a moment, he just stared straight back, completely dumbfounded.
“B-but I just finished up with…” He gestured down his body, bruises already blooming along with dozens of angry, red marks. She sighed, a flicker of something passing through her eyes, as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Look, I know it’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“But- Please, can’t Ema or- or Lili do it?” Jaskier felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes, “you promised I-“
“Enough!” Famora interrupted him, voice sharp and cold, “Ema and Lili are both with other clients. Now, I’m not asking you Julian, I’m telling you. You have 5 minutes to get ready or I swear to the gods you’ll regret it!” Her piercing eyes left no discussion, and Jaskier had known before he’d even said a word, that this would be how it ended. After all, his body wasn’t his own. A single tear trickled down his cheek.
“Yes Madame,” he sniffled, holding her gaze, trying to keep his head held high. For a moment they just stared at each other, then her face softened.
“Just…” She sighed, and gestured to her lips, “clean yourself up, and cover it with some powder.” He touched his lower lip, startled by the glistening blood left on his fingertips. He hadn’t even noticed it. Famora turned away, and just before she left, already holding the curtain to the side, she looked over her shoulder and whispered, “your neck as well.”
As soon as she was gone, he stumbled backwards, clumsily falling into his bed, while holding a hand over his mouth. Trying to be quiet in his panic. He didn’t know if he succeeded, his ears ringing, his heartbeat running loud and rampant, drowning out everything else. It wasn’t so much fear of the man, so much as the pain to come. Unless the client shared the sadistic inclinations of the officer before him, Jaskier didn’t fear him, only the cost of the man’s pleasure on his already overworked body.
“Snap out of it,” he whispered to himself on a shaky exhale, “get it together, snap out of it.” And with one last deep breath, he got up, making his way to the vanity table. His reflection was a mess. The lower left side of his mouth and chin were bloody and bruised, his eyes were bloodshot, his brown hair knotted and all over the place. The fucker had even choked him long enough, that little red spots had broken out on the skin around his eyes. Not to mention the big purple patches covering most of his neck. No amount of powder is going to cover that, he thought, and couldn’t help the hollow, breathy laugh that left him.
He made quick work of washing away the blood and combing through his dark hair with a lightly scented orange blossom oil. Covering the bruises and making himself look slightly presentable was near impossible, but he did what he could. In the end he’d mostly succeeded in hiding the most obvious marks, lined his eyes, and covered his neck with a wide golden choker, which had a matching set of bracelets that conveniently covered the rope burns on his wrists as well. His body was wrapped in a sheer, shimmering, dark purple fabric, that hugged his form gently.
With one last deep breath, Jaskier left the safety of his space and stepped into the main hall. Before he even had the chance to look around, Famora called out from the foot of the stairs.
“Ah, there you are,” she strode towards him, whilst looking him over, “you’ve done well Julian.” Once in front of him, she took his face in her hands and looked closer. “Really well…” She muttered approvingly, before sighing once again. “Look, Julian, after this, if he leaves satisfied, you’ll get the rest of the week off, and we’ll get a healer down here tomorrow to have a look at you.” She offered with about as much care as Jaskier thought her capable of - which wasn’t much.
“Really?” he asked, unable to hide the hopeful tone in his voice. She smiled and pinched his cheek.
“Yes, really. And if you’re really good, I’ll see if I can talk to Irene down at the bathhouse,” she said, adding, “she owes me a favor, and I think you’ve earned it.” Jaskier couldn’t help the small smile sneaking its way onto his face. He really could use some pampering, if only for an hour or two. “Thank you Famora,” he said softly, genuinely grateful.
“Hush now, he’s waiting for you up in the Lodge, I think they’re filling a bath for him,” she answered, shooing him towards the stairs. Well at least he’ll be clean, he mused, walking up the stairs. He couldn’t help wondering what would greet him once he reached the room furthest down the hall. Rana had been scared and Famora was clearly on edge. What on earth could possibly shake the personnel of an entire brothel? Jaskier couldn’t imagine what being could cause such a ruckus. After all, the worst of the worst had just left the place half an hour ago, more than satisfied with the service Jaskier had provided.
When he finally reached the door, he almost forgot to knock, too caught up in his thoughts. He caught himself, though, just as he was about to turn the doorknob. He raised his hand, but was stopped by a muffled voice calling out from the other side, “come in.”
Could he really have heard him through the door? Startled as he was, Jaskier turned the knob, and pushed through, doing what he did best: He put on a show. Playing the part of a sultry, admiring lover.
Or at least, that had been his intention. Only, when he saw the man, lazing in the steaming tub, he was struck with how ordinary he looked. Yeah, okay, maybe ordinary wasn’t the right word, but there was certainly nothing monstrous or frightening about the man. Before him sat a human, definitely one who’d seen battle, judging by his muscular form and the scars visible above the waterline, but a human man. He had shoulder length white hair, but despite the deep grooves between his furrowed brows, he didn’t look old. Strange. He looked tired and worn, however, and dirty. His shoulders were raised and tense, his eyes closed in a way, that made Jaskier think the man was there out of need, rather than want.
“You coming in?” The man asked in a deep, gravelly voice, opening his eyes and staring straight at Jaskier.
Ah, he thought, there’s the reason.
“You’re a witcher,” he said, regretting it immediately when the witcher’s expression turned sour. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, the words had just tumbled out in his surprise.
“You can leave,” the witcher spoke through gritted teeth, looking down into the water. That wasn’t going to happen, so instead of saying something that could possibly worsen the situation, Jaskier just closed the door behind him. For a moment he just stood there, considering how to move on from there. The witcher took a deep breath, and once again looked up, this time cocking his head slightly to the side.
“You’re not scared,” he said, more a statement rather than a question.
“No,” Jaskier replied softy, finally moving towards the little assortment of soap and oils behind the tub. He’d never met a witcher before, that was true, only ever heard of them, but he honestly never understood the fear. And the man in front of him didn’t live up to the fearsome descriptions he’d heard from others. He was just a man. He was probably capable of a great many fearsome things, but he was still just a man, seeking company in a brothel, like so many men before him.
“Any preferences with the scent-wise?” He asked quietly, looking over his shoulder at the witcher. An expression Jaskier couldn’t read in the dim light, flitted across his face.
“D’you have any without?” He asked. Jaskier shook his head.
“Sorry,” he breathed, looking over the different bars of soap, “how about chamomile?” It was the one with the most subtle scent of the bunch.
“S’fine,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again. Jaskier grabbed a rag and slowly made his way to the witcher in the tub. He was rather attractive, if Jaskier was being honest, in the broody and mysterious sort of way. Yet, he had a gentle, almost soft, air about him.
He wet the rag, the heat of the water against his burned wrists making him grimace, and worked up a lather. Then he gently touched it to the pale skin of his chest, reaching in from the side. The witcher tensed up at the touch, and so did Jaskier, fearing he’d done something wrong. But then, a few moments later, the man relaxed somewhat again. Deciding against commenting, Jaskier got to work, letting nimble fingers wash away the dirt and grime that seemed almost embedded in the scarred skin. He took care to be especially gentle around a gruesome-looking scar on his neck, that seemed both rather new, and sensitive. Jaskier wondered what kind of monster could’ve done damage like that, and how on earth one, even a witcher, could’ve survived it.
When it came time to wash the witcher’s face, he hesitated, his stretched-out hand floating in the air with a slight tremble. Without even looking at him, the witcher nodded, a wordless permission to keep going. So he did.
“So…” Jaskier started, weighing his words carefully, unsure how to approach this man, who didn’t seem to enjoy talking, nor seemed especially thrilled about Jaskier’s touch, “what can I do for you darling?” Jaskier realized he didn’t even know the man’s name. Oh well, he thought, it doesn’t really matter.
The witcher looked at him, raised one brow, as if to say: What do you think? Then closed his eyes again.
“Fair enough,” Jaskier chuckled. A faint little thing, but genuine, nonetheless.
The rest of the bath went by in comfortable silence, but Jaskier picked up on a few things. Every sudden movement or even remotely loud sound had the witcher on edge. Jaskier had hit the back of his hand against the wooden tub, the golden metal around his wrist clanging at the contact. The witcher had caught his wrist in less than a second with freakishly fast reflexes. Jaskier made sure to make careful, deliberate movements after that. Not out of fear, but because absolutely everything seemed jarring to the other man. Another thing he’d found out, and found endearingly amusing, was that while Jaskier’s touch on his face and body was merely tolerated, touching the witcher’s hair was another deal entirely.
His fingers had only just sunk into the pearly strands, when the witcher had melted into his touch with a contended groan. Jaskier hadn’t said anything, but he’d perhaps lingered a bit, even after he was done working in the soap. With a gentle touch to his back, Jaskier urged the man dunk his head under the water, signaling the end of the bath.
Jaskier found himself thinking that he could’ve gone on forever, pampered the rugged man endlessly, just to see that frown soften the way it had moments before. But the witcher hadn’t paid for a bath. He’d paid for a whore. The bath had probably been nice, considering the man had looked like he hadn’t seen a bath in weeks, but his unfaltering erection, spoke the truth of the nights purpose.
“Now, dear witcher,” Jaskier took his hand in a gentle grasp, “come with me, let me take care of you.”
He spoke softly in the quiet room. The man gazed at him again, with a look Jaskier couldn’t quite discern. Maybe curiosity.
“Geralt,” he finally said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jaskier felt a pull, deep down low, suddenly a little breathless. What on earth?
“Geralt?” He breathed.
“Hmm,” the witcher, Geralt, confirmed, before stepping out of the wooden tub in a swift, controlled movement. Jaskier froze.
Melitele help me.
While Geralt’s impressive physique had been obvious, even while mostly underwater, Jaskier hadn’t expected this. The man had a mouthwatering body, that spoke of utter strength and power - nothing at all like the men who usually found themselves in Jaskier’s company. A subtle thrum of arousal started pooling lazily in his groin, a feat even more remarkable than the view in front of him. He winced however, when his gaze fell on the witcher’s cock, the girthy meat standing proud and tall, out of the guise of the soapy water. Shit. With the state he found himself in after his lovely client earlier that evening, Jaskier had no doubt, this would be painful as fuck. Shitshitshit.
He took a deep breath, focused on his surprising arousal, and plastered on a sultry smile. Suck it up buttercup, he thought to himself, the voice in his head a mockery of his grandmother, the nickname one she’d used when she was still alive.
“Name’s Julian,” he winked, “but you, Geralt, you can call me Jaskier.”
Without waiting for a reaction, Jaskier turned towards the bed, tugging Geralt after him. He just had to get through the rest of this evening, then he’d get a break. Famora’d even promised to get him a healer. The witcher just had to leave this room satisfied. He could do that. Jaskier could make that happen.
He tugged Geralt past himself, and with playful shove to the witcher’s chest, pushed the larger man back onto the bed.
“Get comfortable Geralt,” he purred, looking down at the other man through half lidded eyes. Slowly, oh so slowly, Jaskier lowered himself onto the bed after him, crawling between the witcher’s open legs in deliberate, fluid motions, not breaking eye contact. He let his fingers trail up the other man’s calves, then thighs, feathery light, not missing the miniscule shiver that ran through the man under him. He couldn’t help the teasing, wide smile, he sent Geralt’s way.
The stretch pulled at his torn inner lip, and the metallic taste of blood grazed the tip of his tongue. Geralt’s nostrils flared wide as he took a deep breath. Jaskier licked his lips, quickly swiping away the evidence, then reached out for the thick, heavy prick a few inches from his face. Before he had the chance, though, a strong hand clasped around his wrist firmly.
“You’re bleeding,” Geralt stated, still not looking away. Jaskier chuckled nervously.
“I just cut my lip, it’s nothi-” He didn’t get to finish his sentence, however, the witcher having reached out with his other hand, and now gently tugged down his lower lip between his thumb and his index finger. His brows furrowed, and he released the abused lip, only to wipe carefully at the skin underneath, with that same calloused thumb, no doubt revealing the previously concealed bruise. Ice cold fear flooded Jaskier’s veins, leaving him completely paralyzed. Next thing he knew, Geralt was sitting up, legs crossed, in front of him, now cradling his face with both hands, looking intensely at his eyes up close. Jaskier gulped.
And then, with the lightest touch, almost a caress, Geralt slid one hand back, past Jaskier’s ears, down the back of his neck, and carefully opened the clasp of his choker. Jaskier closed his eyes, the only sound in the room his shuddering exhale, as Geralt removed the metal band.
He was terrified. Absolutely terrified of what was going to happen. What if the witcher grew angry with him? He didn’t seem the type, Jaskier had actually felt quite at ease in his company, but truthfully, he didn’t know the man. If he decided to take his frustration over being dealt damaged goods out on Jaskier, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
He whimpered when he felt a calloused hand on his neck, the rough thumb gently nudging his face one way, then the other. Jaskier just let it happen.
It was only when those same gentle hands removed first one, then the other bracelet, that Jaskier dared open his eyes again. He was looking down. Both his hands were held, palm faced up, with thumbs brushing carefully over the tender, damaged skin. Finally, he peeked up through his lashes at the man in front of him, immediately regretting it. Geralt’s face was twisted in a furious scowl, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s wrists.
“I-I’m sorry,” Jaskier stammered, desperate to placate the enraged witcher, “don’t worry, though, I may not be much to look at, but I promise I can make you feel good,” he reassured, turning around his hands to caress the strong forearms.
“What?” Geralt croaked hoarsely, looking rattled. Jaskier nodded, climbing into his lap, “yeah,” he breathed, now sitting astride the witcher’s thick, muscular thighs, “just relax, and I’ll ride that cock like you’ve never dreamt it.”
“No.” Geralt growled, moving his hands to Jaskier’s hips in an attempt at keeping him still.
“No?” Jaskier stilled his movements, steadying himself on Geralt’s broad shoulders. Geralt shook his head.
“Look at you,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Jaskier gulped. And then he gulped again. A desperate attempt at keeping the panic at bay, while coming up with a solution.
“L-look,” he took a deep breath, “let’s just pretend you never saw,” he proposed, “I’ll keep my clothes on, and I’ll put the jewelry back on, and everything will be fine.” He let one hand slide through Geralt’s beautiful hair. “I don’t need my clothes off to do good for you. Just close your eyes darling, it’s alright,” he coaxed.
“Jaskier,” Geralt started, his name on his tongue, halting Jaskier once again. “I’m not fucking you,” he continued, tone definitive. Strong hands moved to remove the purple cloth Jaskier was wrapped in, a single pin on his shoulder, the only thing keeping it all together. It didn’t take long for the sheer fabric to fall softly around them, revealing Jaskier’s body in all its horrifying facets. Despite his occupation, he’d never felt so naked and exposed. Shame curled tight and ugly in his belly, rendering him unable to look at Geralt.
“I’m not fucking touching you, when you’re like this,” he finished, letting his fingers slide down Jaskier’s body, carefully feeling over the welts, the burns, the bruises, that littered his body.
See, usually, you’d have to look closely, to see the scars once faded. Jaskier’s body healed gracefully. Usually, only Famora and the other girls, or perhaps maybe a healer, got to see the truth of what a visit from the officer entailed. He’d never actually been in a position where another client had seen the immediate aftermath. He always got time off.
He simply didn’t know what to expect, so when Geralt quietly lifted him back onto the bed, Jaskier let him, sitting perfectly still while the witcher left his field of vision. Like a fawn left by its mother, he sat in the middle of the bed, unmoving, barely even breathing, waiting for the predator to leave - or to strike.
Somewhere behind him, to his left, the witcher rummaged around in what sounded like a bag, but Jaskier couldn’t be sure without looking. There was rustling, like clothes being tucked away, or on, maybe. And the muffled clinking of glass hitting glass. The wait felt like an eternity to Jaskier, though it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes.
Geralt’s hand on his shoulder broke the spell.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he begged airily, voice quivering. The hand on his shoulder tightened in response. On instinct, Jaskier hunched his shoulders, flinching away from the hand with clenched eyes.
Nothing happened.
“I’m not gunna hurt you,” he replied, and in front of him, Jaskier felt the bed sink under the weight of the other man, as he rejoined Jaskier on the bed. “Just…” Geralt sighed, “look at me Jaskier.”
Jaskier didn’t dare defy the man, not for a second.
Geralt was looking at him intently, brows furrowed in something like concern.
What..?
In his hands were strips of linen and a little ceramic jar filled with a white, glistening ointment of some sort. He’d put on his smallclothes as well. Jaskier was confused.
“Give me your hand,” Geralt ordered softly, setting aside what he’d been holding. Only hesitating for a moment, out of sheer bewilderment, Jaskier cautiously stretched out his hand to the witcher.
“It’s been cleaned?” Geralt asked. Jaskier nodded. And then, without another word, the witcher got to work. Skillful fingers smeared the oily substance from the jar on the burns on his wrist, applying a thick coating, before carefully wrapping it with the linen strips. When he was done, he gestured to Jaskier’s other hand and repeated the process. Jaskier didn’t know what to say.
“Who did this to you?” Geralt asked, tone not giving away anything. He’d just finished wrapping the other wrist. The silence stretched in the space between them, as Jaskier considered his next words. In the wait, Geralt fished a small, tinted glass bottle, out of a leather satchel to his right. He gestured to Jaskier’s neck in a questioning manner, “for the bruises,” he explained in a low grumble. Jaskier nodded and tilted his head back to make room, still weighing his words. A moment later, the soft creak of the cork popping sounded in the air.
“It was no one,” he finally replied with a sigh, “just a client,” he added, shivering under Geralt’s touch.
“A client did this?” Geralt halted, “you got paid for this?” He growled incredulously, looking at Jaskier with disbelieving eyes. Jaskier just laughed a hollow little laugh.
“No, darling, Famora got paid for this,” he explained with a humorless smile. Geralt clenched his jaw, but returned to his task of rubbing some sort of oil into the bruise on his neck.
“Who the fuck’s Famora?” He snarled, looking away. Jaskier had a feeling the witcher tried not to scare him. Warmth bloomed in his chest. It had been many years since anyone had shown him a kindness like that. Like any of this. Jaskier couldn’t fathom what the witcher got out of this whole ordeal.
“The lovely lady you spoke to down front,” Jaskier replied dryly, “the owner of this fine establishment,” he peered at Geralt, then added, “and me.”
Geralt’s face snapped back, a mix of shock and fury twisting his features. “And you?”
Jaskier couldn’t help the laugh falling from his lips. It was tragically genuine too.
“Oh Geralt, my sweet, sweet witcher, you have heard of slaves before, haven’t you?” Jaskier taunted sweetly, perhaps a smidge condescending. Geralt huffed. Jaskier had barely noticed how the man had moved on, continuing the treatment of the bruises down his upper body.
“’Course,” he grumbled a little while later, throwing Jaskier an annoyed look, “‘s just not typical in these parts.”
Jaskier shrugged, “I suppose not,” he mumbled.
Silence fell after that, though it didn’t bother Jaskier. Or Geralt, he suspected. The witcher worked in calm efficiency, at some point pulling out a third container, which held a fragrant cream. Jaskier sniffed the jar. Lavender and… chamomile. It was nice.
Geralt had asked him to lay on his stomach a few minutes earlier, when the grumbling man spoke again.
“I can still smell him on you, y’ know?” He sneered suddenly. What? Jaskier propped himself up on his elbows and twisted his upper body to look back at Geralt quizzically.
“Smell him? Geralt, I swear I bathed, there’s no way- ”
“’s a witcher thing,” Geralt interrupted him, waving his hand in the general direction of his nose, as if that explained anything. Geralt just shrugged and pushed him back into the mattress with a gentle, yet firm, hand. Jaskier hissed a few moments later, when Geralt passed over a particularly sore stripe of skin, no doubt left behind by that fucking cane the sadistic prick so enjoyed wielding. Geralt mumbled a soft apology.
“Not your fault,” Jaskier scoffed, half muffled by the soft pillow.
Geralt halted his ministrations just above Jaskier’s crevice, hands resting in a silent question. Jaskier tsked.
“I’m a whore Geralt, you literally paid for my body, no part of me is private,” he reminded the witcher, exasperated and a little charmed by the shy inaction.
“You’re still a person,” Geralt rebuffed sharply, still not moving. Jaskier sighed in unhurried nonchalance, hiding the little smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Go ahead witcher,” he said, before adding cheekily, “slather me up!”
Geralt just grunted in response.
Despite his insistence, Jaskier felt heat rise to his cheeks, when the witcher spread his other cheeks. Again, he was almost overwhelmed by how vulnerable he suddenly felt. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why - spreading cheeks was after all a part of his job description. But it was something about the way the witcher held him, as if he was fragile, as if it mattered how he felt, as if he was worth handling with care. His stream of thought was interrupted by a deep growl. It made the hairs stand on the back of his neck. Geralt sounded angry. He sounded dangerous.
Before Jaskier could say anything, Geralt removed one hand, reaching for one of the creams no doubt, and then returned with a dollop of said cream, spreading it over the torn, cracked skin in swift, deliberate swipes of his thumb. Jaskier gritted his teeth but made no sound. Fuck that hurt. It was over in a few seconds.
“’m done,” Geralt muttered in a gruff voice. Jaskier hummed in response, not trusting his voice right then. He could both feel and hear the witcher putting away his things and getting off the bed, then packing the small satchel into his bag on the floor. Geralt stopped moving, and for several seconds, none of them said a word.
“Geralt, can you do one last thing for me?” Jaskier asked, turning onto his back, propped on his elbows. He caught the other man’s gaze across the room. Geralt nodded.
“Can you let me help you?” He pleaded softly, “I know you’re still… tense,” he added with a crooked smirk.
“No,” the other man refused, shaking his head, “I told you, I’m not-”
“Hush for moment dear,” Jaskier interrupted him, “I’d really hate for you to leave as frustrated, if not more so, as you were when you came. Especially since you’ve been so kind to me.” He waved his hand dismissively, when Geralt looked as if he was about to refuse again, earning himself an annoyed glare. “I’ll just use my hands,” he continued, raising both hands to show their undamaged state, “see, they’re fine. And I promise – rather skillful,” he winked at the witcher at that last remark.
Geralt groaned, staring at Jaskier despairingly, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Jaskier…” He pleaded, voice rough, lips tight.
“Look, if you don’t want to, that’s more than fine,” he assured the witcher. After all he didn’t want to force himself on the man. “Just know you’d be doing me a favor, leaving this room more relaxed,” he went on. Geralt breathed deeply but said nothing. He just looked at Jaskier, eyes searching. It was almost funny, had the situation been different, to watch the internal struggle happening a few feet from him. Then Geralt’s eyes wandered, his body still unmoving, fists still clenched. They wandered over Jaskier’s face, down his chest, moving further south, taking in his lithe silhouette, the smoldering amber roaring to life. Jaskier shivered, the feeling a stark contrast to the heat bubbling to his skin, no doubt leaving him flushed.
“And well…” He said, voice trembling, turning Geralt’s attention back to his face, “I want to.”
For the second - third? - time this evening, Geralt’s nostrils flared, in what Jaskier could only assume, was a way of scenting the air, scenting him? He watched with wide eyes, as the witcher’s resolve crumbled, fists finally unclenching, eyes turning dark and hungry with an almost indistinguishable nod. Jaskier sucked in a shallow breath, biting his bruised lip, as the magnificent hunk of a man moved towards him in all his predatory graces.
A small, ancient voice in the back of his head, told him he should be scared, told him he should run, lest he end up prey. Jaskier chuckled darkly, earning a raised brow from Geralt, who stood by the edge of the bed, untying the laces of his smallclothes with deft fingers. A second later, he tugged the fabric down, revealing the just as magnificent cock that had been politely tucked away. Jaskier couldn’t believe the man had intended to leave, leave a brothel, with an aching prick like that, clear fluid already leaking from the flushed tip. Jaskier licked his lips. Damn his survival instincts, Jaskier wanted to be prey.
“Only hands,” Geralt reminded him with a deep voice, drawing his gaze to the witcher’s mouth. Sweet Melitele. Jaskier wanted to kiss those lips. He nodded, wordlessly guiding the witcher back onto the bed, urging him to rest his back against the headboard, before settling between his leg once again. Unceremoniously he took ahold of the thick cock, not wanting to prolong the man’s torment any longer.
Geralt groaned, hips bucking ever so slightly at the simple touch. Jaskier smiled mischievously, firmed his grip and started stroking in steady, fluid motions. Geralt breathed heavily and Jaskier couldn’t help but let his other hand wander over this pale, scarred landscape laid out in front of him. He wanted to touch every inch of skin, every groove and all the ridges that spoke of many a battle. He wanted to kiss every scar, and he wanted Geralt to tell him every story connected to them. But like all other things Jaskier wanted, it wouldn’t happen – his desires nothing but silly daydreams, not reserved for the likes of him.
He dug his nails into the unblemished skin just above the groin, while at the same time changing the rhythm of his stroke with an upwards twist.
“Fuck,” Geralt hissed, jerking forcefully into his hand, cock twitching. On the next upwards stroke, Jaskier swiped a thumb over the slick head, drawing out another muttered curse from the witcher.
In the end it didn’t take long. A spasming muscle in the witcher’s thigh, warned Jaskier of the man’s impending climax. Just before his rapture, Jaskier reached two fingers behind the firm balls, massaging the taut muscle in time with his other hand. Geralt’s entire body tensed as he came, white, hot streaks bursting onto his abdomen, a litany of growled profanities leaving through his clenched shut teeth. Jaskier worked him through it, stopping only when the man slumped back into the mattress.
He made quick work of cleaning them up, washing his hands in the little basin next to the bed. A hand clasped around his elbow, pulling Jaskier back into the bed. Strong arms embraced him in a loose hold, tugging him into Geralt’s side.
“Wha-?” he spluttered.
“Shh,” Geralt hushed him, closing his eyes. It took a moment for Jaskier to relax, but once he did, Geralt let out a satisfied hum.
He didn’t know how long they’d lain there, his eyes drooping by the time Geralt broke the silence.
“Come with me,” he said, “I could help you find a new place to start over,” he offered. Jaskier felt tears prickling behind his eyes, moved by the sweet sentiment. He blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.
“I can’t,” Jaskier sighed wistfully, “I’m bound to this place. I can’t leave the premises,” he clarified.
“Curse?” Geralt asked.
“Yeah,” Jaskier snorted darkly, “a rather nasty one.”
“What happens if you leave?” Geralt probed.
“It’s uhm…” Jaskier gulped, trying to will away the memories attempting to surface. “It’s excruciating,” he finally whispered, “relentless.” Geralt tensed beneath him. Jaskier cleared his throat, “I can physically leave – There’s no spontaneous combustion, or invisible barriers or anything like that,” he explained. “But I would much rather die than-than…” He took a deep calming breath. “I’d rather die than go through that.”
Again, he added mentally, not daring to speak all of it out loud. In the beginning, before Jaskier had truly accepted his new place in the world, Famora had used the curse to punish him. To teach him how to behave, she’d said. Well, it hadn’t taken many lessons for Jaskier to become an obedient little dog, he thought venomously.
“How’d it happen?” Geralt asked. Jaskier craned his neck to catch his eyes, propping his chin on the muscled chest.
“Don’t know how,” he murmured, “but I can tell you why.”
“Hm?”
“My dearest Papa,” Jaskier switched to the aristocratic modulation he’d been brought up with, not missing Geralt’s raised brow, “the Earl of Lettenhove, had racked up quite the gambling debt, his vice horseracing, of course. And when the collector came knocking for the third time, he was done asking nicely,” Jaskier explained. Geralt huffed.
“So, what? He just handed you over?” He asked incredulously.
“Pretty much,” Jaskier nodded, the tiny movement restricted. He shrugged, “it is what it is.”
For the longest time, neither of them said anything, both lost in thought it seemed. At some point, though, Geralt moved to get up.
“I have to…” He gestured awkwardly towards the door. Jaskier cleared his throat.
“Of course,” he croaked, cringing at the pathetic waver of his voice. He peeled himself off Geralt’s side and pulled the sheets around his naked body. He watched on as Geralt pulled his clothes on and tied up his beautiful hair. The witcher spent a couple of minutes organizing his bag, before finally strapping on his two swords, and throwing the bag over his shoulder.
“I…” Geralt started, feet shuffling restlessly. Eventually he looked at Jaskier, brows drawn together in a frown. Jaskier smiled, a bittersweet little thing.
“Goodbye darling,” he spoke softly.
“Goodbye,” Geralt said.
And then he left.