#watb

Jaskier mends Geralt's clothing and buys him replacements and they just...don't discuss it. Geralt doesn't do anything as nice for him but he also keeps him fed and alive out on the path which...it counts, okay? It counts.

It counts, especially when Jaskier's being hauled back into camp, Geralt's arm tight around his waist as he supports the bulk of his weight.

"Don't close your eyes, Jask," Geralt rasps as he lowers him to the ground, back pressed to Roach's saddle where it rests on the ground to help keep him more upright, "just don't close your eyes, I'll be, fuck, just a minute."

He's...bleeding pretty decently from a slice just above his breastbone. Any deeper and they'd be having a very different conversation. Right now it's shallow it just...hurts.

"Geralt," he starts when Geralt shuffles off to dump his potion back upside down, "Geralt, please--"

He's back in less than a minute, alcohol and a needle and thread in hand. Jaskier gulps.

He's patched Geralt up plenty of times but he's...he's only sat for a needle once, back at the very beginning when he'd just started following Geralt and he'd torn the soft tissue between thumb and forefinger. It had been...unpleasant.

This is going to be worse.

"Here," he says, handing Jaskier the alcohol, and he takes a deep pull before handing it back. It's not enough, he knows. Still, when Geralt removes his ruined doublet and chemise and asks him if he's ready, he nods.

He faints by the third stitch. It's...better that way.

-----

He comes to feeling stiff and achy, and when he goes to lift his left arm, the stitches pull and he freezes.

Oh that's going to be a bitch.

"Geralt?" he asks roughly, pressing himself up to a sitting position with his good arm, "Geralt?"

Geralt's at his side in a moment, easing him backward.

"Rest, Jaskier, you're fine. We're okay, just rest."

-----

It hurts like a bitch, but he gets over it, mostly. He mourns for his ruined doublet and chemise, but it's mostly for the sake of being dramatic--he can buy a new doublet when he's back in Oxenfurt this winter, twice as nice. And the wound is awful but it will make the most lovely scar to serenade lovers with the tale.

Geralt does not find that last point near as funny as he should, considering.

It's nearly healed, the stitches have come out (Geralt did it, carefully, and Jaskier had almost fainted again but it had been...fine...) and he's digging through his pack, rubbing uselessly at the itching, healing scar tissue when he comes across a familiar doublet that makes him pause.

It's...it's the doublet he'd been wearing when he'd gotten the injury, the one with the gash.

The one he's pretty sure he threw out.

He's alone in the inn room they've rented, Geralt downstairs interviewing some local about the contract he's working tomorrow. He sucks in a deep breath and pulls the doublet out of his pack.

The gash is large and the stitching is awkward and cramped, but there's been an effort to fix it. It's even the right color thread which is just...

The chemise is below the doublet, equally poorly mended. Despite himself, Jaskier feels tears well up in his eyes.

Behind him, the door creaks, heavy boots entering the room.

"Jask?"

He wants to say...something. He wants to but his throat has closed and he's afraid opening his mouth will only let out a sob and he's not...he's not sad it's just--

Geralt settles on his knees beside him, pulling Jaskier around slowly, but he stops when he sees the clothes.

"Oh." He looks...he looks uncomfortable, "sorry, I...I know it's a shit job and I had to wait to get the right thread and I..."

"Geralt," he finally chokes out, pitching forward to wrap his arms around his middle, bury his face against his chest. Tentatively, Geralt returns the embrace, palm smoothing up and down Jaskier's back as he fights back sobbing like a child.

"I'm--" he's about to apologize and Jaskier doesn't want him to get the wrong impression.

"Love, you didn't have to. Thank you."

"It's a shit job," Geralt repeats, sounding lost. Jaskier chokes on a laugh.

"You fixed it for me, though, darling. That's what matters."

"I just...you always..." he seems to be out of words though, and he just hmms softly.

"I know, darling. I appreciate it, I do." He's smiling just a little watery still when he pulls back, but he's...fuck he's so touched.

"Hm," Geralt repeats, then, "so it's okay?"

"It's more than okay," he says, smiling.

-----

The next morning Jaskier wears the repaired doublet and chemise. It truly is an awful job and he'll have to see what he can do about it later, but it's worth it for the way Geralt's eyes catch and hold, the tentative, tiny smile that tips up the corners of his mouth.

He enters the tavern just as tonight’s entertainment is ushered off-stage to some back private room, and thus only catches a glimpse of a coat far too ugly to house the man he knows. But Valdo trusts his gut; he doesn’t order a drink, instead brushing past the barkeep with grandiose excuses of bardic solidarity. The door to the back room swings open slowly onto a narrow staircase, and when Valdo ascends it he finds an equally narrow room awaiting at the top.

There, standing amidst— are they his band? They must be his band, although their dirty attire and sallow faces separates them greatly from anyone Jaskier would have played with at Cintra or Oxenfurt— a small group of cloaked, wide-eyed strangers, is his equal, his rival, and though admit it he will never, his muse. Jaskier’s mousy hair hangs long around his chin, and his coat is really, truly dreadful. Even more upsetting than his garb is the dismay he wears on his brow and frown, and the fervour in his voice when he stammers, “Valdo— what the fuck are you— you can’t be seen here!”

Valdo’s gaze sweeps over the local chaff. If these are the best musicians that this backwater town has to offer, he doesn’t think he’s got much to worry about. He scoffs, raising his palm to the other bard and keeping his tone as peremptory as he can. “Calm down, Pankratz. I rented a suite close by; no one will pay us any attention there.”

Jaskier twists to exchange some complex look with one of his compatriots; the man’s hood casts most of his face in shadow, but the whites of his eyes shine as he nods. Still flustered, Jaskier turns to Valdo and he nods too, albeit much less certainly. Although Valdo cannot say he understands the need for such dramatics, he respects them anyway, making sure the door slams shut between them on his way back down the stairs.

He doesn’t bother glancing behind him the entire journey to his suite, only pausing at one corner before hurrying into the crowded town square. Valdo half-expects his tail to abandon him in the rabble, but when he makes it to his inn and nods to the innkeep, he sees her nod to someone behind him as well. 

Disguising his smile as best he can, Valdo leads Jaskier through the winding hallways to his rented room. It reminds him a bit of a classic tale they would have both studied at Oxenfurt. Only in this story, when the door to his room swings shut behind them both and he turns to finally see Jaskier, neither of them are struck down by the gods or turned instantly to salt. Jaskier stares, his gaze as arrestingly bright as always, and Valdo swallows his smile so aggressively that he’s sure he looks quite sour.

Then in the same instant, they both ignite:

“Why in the bloody fucking fuck are you here?” 

“Really, Jaskier, I know that your voice isn’t what it used to be, but there’s no point in retiring— why am I here? Why the fuck are you here—”

“Retiring! I’m sorry, perhaps you were too late and missed my sold-out show—”

“A sold-out show in a backwater hovel, my, how will I ever overcome my jealousy—”

“I haven’t heard of any of your shows selling out in over a; well, no, make that ever—”

“Some of us are less concerned with finances and more interested in honing our craft—”

“Oh, I bet you and your fucking craft have spent some nice long winters together, just honing it up—”

“At least I find my inspiration without having to step around piles of horse shit all year long,” Valdo sneers back. “Tell me, darling, how is the muse?”

He fully expects Jaskier to bite back, and when no rejoinder comes, a new and unwelcome shudder runs up Valdo’s spine. The other bard looks as though Valdo has slapped him, his usually brilliant eyes lowered to reflect nothing. Duller than Valdo has ever heard him, Jaskier mutters, “What the fuck do you want, Valdo?”

“I want my greatest rival back,” Valdo answers without thinking. Last time he was brutally, unreservedly honest, it had thrown Jaskier for a loop. He expects the same quick turn this time, and for Jaskier to embrace their regular dynamic. When Jaskier doesn’t even glance up, the pit in his stomach only grows. “I… well… You haven’t been to many conferences or competitions as of late!”

Heaving a gentle but tremendous sigh, Jaskier still doesn’t meet his gaze. “There are more important things in the world than music.”

“No,” Valdo dismisses without hesitation. “Music is the great uniter. Something that people who differ on everything and anything else can have in common. A song may not be able to change your mind, but it can infiltrate your heart, and the heart could change your mind.”

When he finishes the quote, Jaskier is finally watching him. But in his expression is a funny sort of bemusement that makes Valdo’s heart race slightly faster; panic, no doubt. “You read my thesis.”

“Had to keep myself entertained somehow,” Valdo mutters, instead of the sore, ugly truth: that he read it as soon as it was published, and his intent had been to decry it to all who would listen. But instead, he had found it frustratingly genius.

“Valéry, I don’t know what you want from me,” pleads Jaskier.

“Well...” A plethora of ideas come to mind, but only one of them is stupid enough to maybe actually work. Truth be told, he hadn’t given the rumours of Jaskier’s residency in this town enough credence to really think this plan through. But where logic fails, perhaps nostalgia will suffice. He soldiers on: “I’ve torn a hole in one of my very favourite articles of clothing. Perhaps you could mend it for me.”

Jaskier stares, unimpressed. This part went smoother last time. “You know, there are plenty of fine tailors.”

“Of course,” Valdo lifts his chin proudly, bracing himself. “But I find myself hesitant to trust just anyone with this sensitive matter.”

With that, he removes his trousers, which are free of any runs or loose seams or frayed threads. Then Valdo takes a heavy inhale before stripping out of his smallclothes, pulling them down his thighs and around his knees. There is a small hole of fabric missing at the crotch, worn away after years of use. But otherwise his smalls are clean, if slightly sweaty from the journey to fetch Jaskier.

He drops them to the floor, and scoops them up with one hand. Jaskier stares, quite shamelessly, at what Valdo’s garments were previously adorning. Valdo doesn’t move to cover himself, but he does clear his throat expectantly, breaking the silence between them. “That is, unless you have more urgent plans. I’m sure that witcher keeps you on a busy schedule.”

“No,” Jaskier chokes out, finally glancing away from Valdo’s prick and crossing the room in only a few steps to yank the drawers out of his grasp. “No, that’s fine, this— this is fine. You have a needle?”

He indicates that Jaskier should check the small bag on the nightstand, and he quickly finds and retrieves the meagre sewing supplies that Valdo has yet to even open. Jaskier struggles to thread the needle and Valdo bites back a hundred entendres; he’s in too vulnerable a position to tease. Instead he retreats to the corner of the room and sinks into a chair next to his discarded trousers. 

Sitting like this, with a distance between them and his legs bared, allows Valdo to recollect the last time they saw one another. He thinks of it and presses his lips together, his mouth remembering how Jaskier’s had felt. Across the room, without glancing up at all, Jaskier chews his lower lip— it makes him look decades younger, somehow.

Valdo’s breath catches in his throat. Jaskier looks up, instantly catching his gaze across the room. Mildly, he offers, “I can get you something else to cover up.”

Valdo shrugs. “If you’d like.”

Neither of them move to do so. Valdo reaches down but cowers at the last moment, resting his palms atop his thighs. Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he says nothing, only twisting his lip gently between his teeth as he returns to his needlework.

Because he’s in the most vulnerable position of his life, or because he’s never allowed himself anything good, or because he knows better than to think this can end well, or because he thinks they’re at their best when they’re at their ugliest, Valdo speaks without thinking; “So. Tell me, Julian. Where is that witcher of yours, anyway?”

The change is instant, and horrific. Jaskier’s voice drops to an awful bitter and clipped tone. “No clue.”

“Ah.” Valdo, appropriately chastened, frowns. “You were so happy last I saw you.”

Jaskier’s frown only hardens. “I was a fool.”

“A fool in love,” guesses Valdo.

“But a fool regardless,” Jaskier snaps back. “Do you care what pattern I stitch into this?”

“Dealer’s choice.” That makes the bard finally glance his way, and then glance very obviously down at his prick, still clamped tightly between his thighs. Jaskier nods sharply before turning back to his needlework. 

His fingertips move deftly over the softly worn fabric as Valdo’s fingertips dig into the meaty muscle of his legs. Between them, his cock twitches, desperate for attention. It might be the strangest thing they’ve done together yet. Perhaps the strangeness is what finally prompts Jaskier to speak again.

“He told me he no longer wanted me in his life,” admits the poet, his gaze flicking down to Valdo’s cock even as his heart drifts to another man. It says a great deal about Valdo that his arousal does not falter, and that in fact this jealousy, combined with the attention, makes his erection even harder. 

But Valdo is nothing if not a gentleman, even to his greatest rival. Voice unmistakably thick, he tells Jaskier firmly, “Then he was the fool.”

Jaskier laughs; there is no humour behind it. “No, he… he might have spoken brashly, but it was a necessary wake up call for us both. He was grieving, and I was…” He swallows, shaking his head. “I followed him around for decades. I was worse than his horse, I was…”

Valdo tuts. “You can’t blame a poet for being hopelessly romantic.”

“Not much of a poet anymore,” mutters Jaskier.

“Well, that much is true,” Valdo agrees, steadying his hands on his bare thighs and crossing his ankles primly. Juxtaposed with his hard prick, still throbbing between his legs, his prudence must seem amusing. “I’ve heard your recent compositions, and I must say, I would much rather listen to a dog bark at a crow than even one verse of Burn, Butcher, Burn.”

The reference to the classic that they had both so enjoyed in school brings a pleased, clever grin to Jaskier’s lips. He sets Valdo’s smallclothes down on the bed and then rises to his feet, steadying his hands at his hips and staring Valdo down. “Valdo,” he begins, teasing but nervous, in a way he usually isn’t.

Mocking his tone, Valdo echoes, “Jaskier.”

“You found me here.”

“A stroke of good luck.”

“For both of us.” Jaskier takes a step towards him. Valdo is reminded abruptly of chess. He is also reminded abruptly of his lack of dress; he shifts in his seat, knees spreading then closing again. “Valdo, are you going to have some big melodramatic overreaction if I tell you I’ve missed you?”

“Yes,” hisses Valdo. “Absolutely. Don’t you dare.”

Jaskier ignores him, humming, “What was it you asked me for last time? So pitiful, and yet it had a beautiful, memorable ring to it.”

Valdo puts on his best Gwent face and pretends not to remember, parroting back Jaskier’s words cruelly; “No clue.” His traitorous cock dribbles between his thighs, and he shoves his knees together.

“I don’t think you would have come here with the same strange request if you didn’t remember,” Jaskier’s grin turns downright dangerous. “You begged me to be mean. I don’t think I was quite capable of it back then, but. Good news! I’m much meaner now.”

Damn the bard. This is the very thing Valdo had wanted, and the very last way he’d wanted it. He shakes his head, spitting harshly, “You may look the part, but I know you, Julian. Inside, you’re still that bleeding heart poet, aren’t you? It’s unmistakable, even when you’re dressed like a pirate and a lush. It’s in your eyes, and that little twist of your soft pouty lips. You can’t even pretend to be cruel to a man who you once called your greatest rival! You just don’t have it in you.”

The pout Valdo mentioned comes out in full force now; Jaskier is practically smouldering. “I ought to accidentally forget to take the needle out of your drawers.”

Valdo hisses, “That isn’t exactly the prick up my ass I had in mind,” and Jaskier takes the bait, lunging forward. His soft lips capture Valdo’s harshly, and both of them exhale— Jaskier, with the relief of someone who really needs a good release.

Valdo, with the agony of someone who has dreamt of this for decades.

Jaskier is not as gentle as he had always imagined; perhaps his ‘Path’ has wrung that from him, despite all his soft qualities that never seem to fade. But he is passionate, taking what he needs from Valdo and giving him the world in return. They don’t make love but Valdo never expected them to, and when Jaskier moans his name— his real name— into his shoulder, it’s nearly enough to curb the yearning.

Yennefer glances around them. Jaskier knows what she’s looking at: the gorse-covered mountainside, the heaps of loose stones, the scraggly rock face and twiggy, barren-looking trees. Even the sky is grey; not that exciting, turbulent grey that comes before a storm but a vast, off-white emptiness, promising nothing more exciting than a breeze.

She looks back down at him. “Quite.” She’s clearly battling with the desire to probe further and the urge to leave him where he lies. “You aren’t with—”

“No.” He cuts her off before she can say his name.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he finally sits up with a groan, feeling his back twinge. “—he told me to fuck off.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Did he, now?”

“Well,” he sniffs, “No, what he actually told me was that I was the cause for every shitty thing that’s ever happened to him, and that if life could give him one blessing it would be to take me from his hands. So...” He shrugs. “There we are. And here I am, from his hands at last.”

Yennefer’s eyebrows raise even higher. “He truly is a bastard, isn’t he?”

Jaskier struggles to his feet. His automatic instinct is to disagree with her, but he can’t find anything to disagree with.

“Utter bastard.”

They stand in silence for a moment, the wind buffeting at them. Finally, Yennefer speaks again.

“Care to join me for a drink?”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye. Her expression is carefully blank.

“Sure,” he says, “let me just flag down a passing barmaid and we can sit on that little rock over there to enjoy a bottle of Est Est. I hear the service here is marvellous.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I’ll make a portal,” she says. “There’s a good inn in Barefield. Good wine.”

“Anything’s better than mountains and rainwater.”

“I'm inclined to agree."

He pauses, fingers twisting together. He doesn't want to say it, but he must. “Thanks, Yen.”

She doesn’t look at him as she opens a portal in front of them, the wind twisting into a swirling circle.

“I’d rather not drink alone,” she says. “Don’t read into it. And don’t call me Yen.”

He grins behind her back. “Whatever you say, Yennefer.”

~

Jaskier wakes with a pounding head, his mouth a mix of tannins and cotton. There’s something warm and soft—very soft—draped across his chest. He's suddenly assailed with the smell of lilac and gooseberries.

Oh, right.

Jaskier makes it a point of pride to remember everyone he’s fucked, and to not fuck anyone at all when he’s so drunk that he knows he won’t. Despite that, he’s still filled with the floating, post-sex haziness that he usually is when waking in a bed with a beautiful woman.

He rolls over and the pain in his head flares. Gods. It had been an enjoyable evening—thoroughly enjoyable—but he’s paying for it now. Yennefer had been right: the wine was good.

As he moves, his bedmate stirs, twisting around to peer at him.

“You’re still here," Yennefer says. Jaskier can't tell if she's genuinely shocked or simply annoyed that he's imposing on her time.

He pushes himself up on his elbows. “Good morning to you, too.”

Yennefer's hair is tousled around her head, her makeup blurred. Her lips are red, the colour smeared a little around her mouth. It’s odd seeing Yennefer like this—relaxed and sleepy and no doubt just as hungover as he is. A wall hasn’t been lowered, but he feels as if he can see through it a little; a door opened just a crack.

“How’s your head?” He asks.

“Fine.”

Jaskier’s been a bard long enough to spot a lie when he hears one. He pulls himself from the bed and pads across the room wearing just his smalls, grabbing the jug of water that sits beside the basin on the vanity table. He pours himself a cup of water, drinks, then pours another for Yennefer, who sits up and takes it without a word of thanks; not that he’s really expecting one.

He sits at the stool in front of the vanity and peers critically into the mirror. His eyes are darkly lined with kohl, his eyelids a shimmering blue. He remembers that very clearly; he’d complimented Yennefer’s distinctive makeup, and she’d insisted on putting it on his eyes, too. He’s even wearing her lipstick; although it's now smudged around his mouth in a wide red stain despite how expertly she had applied it.

Aside from the smeared lipstick, it’s not a bad look; although the eyes may be a little dramatic for anything other than a performance or banquet.

He hears Yennefer rise from the bed, and speaks without turning around.

“Do you have anything to get this off?” He says.

“Soap.”

He rolls his eyes, then grabs a scrap of cloth and begins to wipe at the makeup, watching himself in the mirror. Yennefer appears in the glass behind him, and he twists around on the little wooden stool.

“Is that my shirt?”

She looks down at herself, red lips pursed. She’s wearing nothing but Jaskier’s chemise, but on her it’s long enough to almost be a dress. A short dress, but not entirely indecent. She shrugs, and the hem rises, displaying even more smooth thigh, then continues to move around the room as she gathers her things. Jaskier watches her, nibbling on the inside of his lip. He remembers the many and various things they got up to last night, fuelled by wine and anger and heartbreak. No; they did not fuck. Not quite. Yet…

She stops pacing the room and turns to look at him with a sigh. “Maybe next time, bard.”

He blinks at her, and then realises his pounding head is fizzling with a familiar pressure. “Don’t read my mind.” He says. And then he catches up. “Hold on, next time?”

She doesn’t respond, merely returning to gathering her things. Jaskier sighs; from what Geralt has said, this seems typical.

“Where are you off to next?” He asks, after he deems enough time has passed.

“Somewhere without any witchers.”

He laughs. “Now that’s an idea. Best idea you’ve had all day. Well…” he pauses, wiping the cloth across the smudged lipstick. “... second best idea. I don’t suppose you could—”

There’s a sudden whooshing noise from behind him, the air in the room growing close and tingly, and he spins around to see a swirling portal on the opposite wall.

“Now hold on—”

Yennefer grins at him, still wearing his chemise, as well as—

“Are those my breeches?”

She shrugs, violet eyes sparkling. “See you around, bard.”

“Wait a fucking minute!”

And with a wave—a fucking wave—she steps through the portal and vanishes in clap of air that makes Jaskier’s ears pop. He stands in the empty room, wearing only his cotton smalls and expertly applied makeup.

Fuck.

He runs his hands through his hair and slouches over to the bed with the vague plan to hide beneath the covers until his hangover has abated enough for him to properly deal with this.

There, lying on the rumpled covers, is the grey furred dress that Yennefer had worn during the dragon hunt. Jaskier can’t help but smirk as he shakes his head, grabbing the garment. He wonders if this is Yennefer's idea of a joke.

It’s a surprisingly good fit, if a little short, and he suspects there may be a touch of magic sewn into the seams. Nothing designed for Yennefer’s slender shoulders should fit him so well.

He ties the belt and takes a look in the mirror again. He does a little twirl.

It really isn’t all that bad. Quite the opposite, in fact. The front doesn't quite close across his chest, showing off a deep vee of skin and hair. The furred collar suits him. Without much else to do, he pulls on his boots, grabs his things, and leaves the room.

Ignoring the curious gaze of the landlord as he exits the inn, he wanders out onto the wide dirt road. The sun has still yet to properly rise, so the town is still cast in shadows. The air smells fresh and new.

His gaze traveled over the still form, wondering if his new cellmate was asleep, until he met two irises of molten gold. The pupils were slit, and as his eyes got used to the darkness, Jaskier glimpsed strands of silver hair splayed over a stained pillow and the bulge of a heavily tattooed bicep peeking from the ugly prison uniform’s sleeve.

A chill traveled down Jaskier’s spine when he recognised the features unique to Witchers and an alarm in the back of his brain yelled “predator! Danger!”. Absurdly, he was reminded of a documentary he’d watched about wolves and how they asserted dominance through their eyes. Despite every bone in his body screaming for him to give up and show his belly, Jaskier refused to submit to the first person who thought they could intimidate him. No matter that he’d been thrown into the cell of what looked to be the most dangerous person in Posada County prison, Jaskier wouldn’t face his death with his eyes on the ground and his tail tucked between his legs.

He plastered a smile on his face and breathed through his nose, wishing his voice not to quiver as he introduced himself. “Hi, Mr. White Wolf, sir. Hum, my name is Jaskier, pleased to meet you.” He didn’t quite muster the courage to step forward for a handshake, and instead settled for an awkward wave.

No answer came from the man, though his eyes followed Jaskier like a hawk as he moved to the free cot, giving a wide berth to the other, and started pulling the sheets he’d been given at his arrival over the thin mattress. The hair at the nape of his neck rose as he turned his back on his cellmate, but he refused to look over his shoulder until his bed was made and he sat on the edge gingerly.

“I’d ask for your name, but I have a hunch you won’t tell me,” he spoke up again, keeping his tone light. “That’s alright, White Wolf suits you pretty well. Is that your natural hair colour? I imagine prison is not the best place to keep up a regular haircare routine, but I must say it’s absolutely flawless.”

If there was a way for a look to spell “murder”, Jaskier was pretty sure his burly cellmate had mastered it. A bead of sweat tickled his temple, but he ignored it. “So, are there any rules here? I’ve had roommates before, and let me tell you, things did not go well until we set personal boundaries. I just want to make sure we start on the right foot, you know?”

“No talking,” came his answer in a gravelly voice, and Jaskier gulped audibly at the danger simmering under those words. Instead of hiding under his creaky bed like every of his self-preservation instincts was screaming at him to do, he smiled even wider and kept his eyes locked with the White Wolf’s.

“Well, compromise is key in every relationship. I’ll let you go back to your little nap in peace if you promise not to kill me in my sleep.”

“I could just kill you now and go back to my nap after.”

Jaskier held back the pitiful whimper that tried to claw its way up his throat. “I prefer my option.”

The man huffed and shifted on his bed. Jaskier’s muscles tensed, ready to spring into the sprint of his life if the Witcher attacked him, but his cellmate only turned his back on him, facing the bare wall of their cell in a clear dismissal.

All the air left Jaskier’s lungs in a rush and he flopped back on his own cot, boneless with relief.

There were a lot of things Jaskier was dreading about his time in jail, but he’d come out of his first confrontation with the White Wolf unscathed. He could do this.

*

Walking between the full tables of the refectory with his head held high and his tray of greasy food was harder than standing at his own trial waiting for the judge’s decision. It reminded Jaskier of high school, of the anxiety of eating alone and the paranoia of having every pair of eyes in the room locked on him.

Only this time it wasn’t paranoia.

Whispers and leers accompanied his walk down the central row, and he would have loved for it to be judgemental teenagers gossiping about his clothing choices rather than convicted criminals watching for a weakness, planning how and when they would descend on him to give him his first taste of prison violence.

Jaskier knew what he looked like, here in that prison hall, wearing a too-large prison uniform and scanning the room for a spot to sit: a fucking prey for all the deranged, frustrated men in there looking for fresh blood. If he was lucky, he’d get a few beatings and then they’d leave him alone when he’d stop fighting, or when another defenseless thing would catch their attention.

It wasn’t luck that had landed him in prison in the first place.

He needed to be smart, to plan ahead, to play with his strengths. He couldn’t hold his own in a fight, that at least he knew. He couldn’t very well serenade the entire prison into being nice with him either, though that would have been helpful. That left him with his two other assets: a great ass and the power to talk people into liking him out of sheer determination.

As his eyes fell onto a lonely figure at the far-end table, a plan took form in his mind.

Strutting with more confidence than he possessed, Jaskier slid his tray over the table, empty except for the White Wolf. In the bright light of the refectory’s neons, Jaskier could see just how big the Witcher really was, the muscles of his broad shoulders rippling with every movement, the fabric of his uniform’s sleeves taut over his arms thick as tree trunks. Tattoos followed the line of his throat down to his chest where they disappeared under his grey undershirt, reappearing on his forearms and dancing on the back of his large hands. His silver hair was untied, hiding his face on one side as he tucked in his food with single-minded focus.

At the clatter of Jaskier’s tray, he raised his eyes, boring into Jaskier’s just as intensely as he had in their cell that morning, revealing thick, defined eyebrows and a sharp jaw that had Jaskier’s mouth watering more than any of the food on his plate.

Swallowing back a curse at the realisation that his — very scary, very dangerous — cellmate was so godsdamned attractive, Jaskier sat beside the man with a cheeky smile. “I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

His only answer was a long suffering groan as the White Wolf hung his head between his shoulders.

“Such an enthusiastic welcome! I knew right away we were going to become the best of friends,” Jaskier punctuated his sentence with a good-natured bump to the man’s shoulder, heart beating loudly enough to drown the confused whispers around them.

The White Wolf shot him a seething look, and Jaskier was sure he’s crossed the limit then, that was it, he was going to be thrown at the wall and it would be the end of Julian Alfred Pankratz, disgraced heir of the Lettenhove family… but the Witcher gave a quick look at the surrounding tables, the men no doubt staring at them trying to understand what exactly was going on between the White Wolf and his new young, pretty cellmate, before turning back to his meal with a dismissive grunt.

Jaskier resisted closing his eyes in relief and tucked in his own food, whispering a “thank you” as he raised the fork to his mouth. The White Wolf didn’t give any indication that he’d heard, but he didn’t shake Jaskier from where he was basically plastered to his side either.

They ate in silence, Jaskier subtly gauging the reactions to his little act as he drank his water. Most of the inmates had returned to their own meals and conversations, but some of them were still eyeing him with nasty glints, one toothless dwarf even grinning at him as he performed a very descriptive gesture with his hands. Cheeks flaming, Jaskier lowered his gaze to his tray again, and noticed Geralt had risen from his bench, plate cleared of the soggy vegetables and grey cardboard pretending to be meat that had consisted in their lunch.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asked, rushing to finish his portion as he stood up to follow.

“Library,” the White Wolf rumbled, surprising Jaskier. He hadn’t expected an answer, fully ready to be Geralt’s shadow for the foreseeable future — or at least until the man would tire of him —. “You can come if you don’t talk.”

“Oh, dear White Wolf, I think we both know that’s highly unlikely,” Jaskier grinned, hope spreading in his chest.

*

Despite what his mother and most of his teachers used to say, Jaskier did know how to stay silent. That afternoon, he put that skill into practice, eager to show his cellmate and new protector that he could be good company.

After an hour or so of thumbing the pages of a book on music therapy while across the table the White Wolf was focused on a thick novel written in a very small font, Jaskier found his eyes drifting closed against his will, the greasy, tasteless food they’d had for lunch weighing down on his stomach, making him drowsy.

He dozed for a bit, lulled by the quiet of the library and the presence of a big, scary man reading by his side.

An hour later he woke with a start, a crick in his neck and drool drying at the corner of his lips. Bleary and confused, he looked around, cursing himself for falling asleep where anyone could have seen him and taken him by surprise. His eyes fell on his cellmate, who was still sitting on the same chair, having made visible progress through his book, his eternal frown marked deep between his brows.

Jaskier tried not to show his surprise at seeing him still here when the man looked up from his book and hummed, rising from his chair and rasping, “Hurry up. I want to go back to the cell before supper,” with an expectant look.

A stone dropped in Jaskier’s stomach at the words. He had been surprised that the White Wolf accepted so readily to let Jaskier follow him like a duckling, and then that he had waited for him to finish his improvised nap instead of leaving him there, at the mercy of any ill-intentioned inmate, but Jaskier had overlooked the obvious explanation: the Witcher wanted something from him. Nothing was free in this world, Jaskier had learned that the hard way, and this was even truer in prison.

There were few things Jaskier could give the White Wolf in return for his troubles.

He had his idea on what it would be.

It wasn’t too bad, he guessed. He’d known he would have to do unpleasant things for his own survival there. He would rather give use of his body to a man willing — and able — to protect him from others, and the Witcher was far from ugly, once one saw past the strangeness of his eyes and the murderous glares. In another context, Jaskier would have happily spent the night in his bed.

With a steadying breath, he nodded and trailed behind the White Wolf back to their cell, trying to keep at bay the mental images of what was going to happen to him. Given how the guards had mocked Jaskier’s chances that morning, it probably wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Throat tight, he stood awkwardly in the narrow space between their cots as his cellmate went to sit on his, opening the drawer of his bedside table and rummaging through it. Jaskier sent a prayer to any god listening that he had lube and condoms, though he doubted any of that was allowed on the prison grounds.

What the White Wolf dug out of his personal possessions instead was a bundle of paper and a roughly sharpened pencil, as well as a crumpled magazine about… horses?

The man reclined against the wall, punching his flat, uncomfortable pillow into a makeshift backrest, and didn’t spare a glance for Jaskier before hunching over his own lap and scribbling on the paper.

At a loss of what to do, Jaskier cleared his throat once, then a second time before the Witcher finally acknowledged him, looking up with an exasperated sigh.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing a letter to my daughter.”

Mouth gaping as he tried to put those words into something that made sense, Jaskier could only answer with a weak, “Oh.”

“Hm.” The White Wolf lowered his gaze to his letter again.

“But…” Jaskier added before his brain could reboot itself entirely. “… aren’t you going to fuck me?”

Without even stopping his writing, the White Wolf rumbled, “No.”

“… Oh.” Jaskier plopped down on his bed, as if his strings had been cut off, the receding fear and adrenaline leaving him exhausted. He tipped on his side, regretting it when his head hit the hard mattress painfully.

“What are you writing to her?” He asked after an indefinite amount of time spent trying to wrap his head around the intimidating White Wolf writing to his daughter. And not wanting to fuck him.

“I’m telling her about the new rat in my cell.”

Jaskier sprang back upward with a squeak. “We have a rat?”

His golden eyes twinkling in a mesmerising way, the White Wolf looked at Jaskier and deadpanned, “Yeah. A big, hairy, noisy one.”

Deflating, Jaskier scrunched his face. “Oh ha ha. Lucky me, to have a cellmate with such a sense of humour.”

The man made a noncommittal noise as he kept scribbling on the shitty paper, unbothered. It took Jaskier a great deal of strength not to speak up again, but after a few minutes he couldn’t contain his curiosity anymore. “What’s her name?”

The most incredible thing happened then. His expression softening, the White Wolf looked up and, though he wasn’t smiling, Jaskier couldn’t not notice the affection and love held in these golden eyes.

“Ciri. She’s fourteen. I adopted her three years ago.”

Just like that, Jaskier was given his first peek at the man behind the White Wolf.

His cellmate talked about his adoptive daughter without much prompting, tenderness clear in every word as he related her fencing lessons and the time she punched a kid in the face for trying to see under the skirt of one of her friends.

Reconciling this loving dad with the scary brute everyone seemed to see when looking at his cellmate was hard. The nerves that had been knotting his stomach before they’d come back to their cell had vanished completely by the time Geralt — as he introduced himself eventually — pulled out of his pocket the picture of a blonde-haired girl with green eyes as intense as her dad’s smiling at the camera as she petted a grumpy looking bay horse. Asking about the animal provoked Geralt into another enthusiastic monologue Jaskier was only too happy to listen to, his anxiety pushed back to the darkest corners of his mind by shiny warm golden eyes.

Their conversation lasted until supper and they made their way to the refectory together, Geralt assuming his bleak and intimidating White Wolf attitude once again. As they sat down to eat, Jaskier glimpsed the delicate swallow tattooed on the side of Geralt’s neck, which his cellmate had explained represented his daughter. Jaskier smiled secretly as he thought that, if anyone else in this prison knew Geralt like he did, they probably wouldn’t be much scared anymore.

*

The sun had barely risen when Jaskier startled awake to the loud clang of the heavy cell door opening the next morning. Blinking his eyes in the harsh light of the neons, he squinted at Geralt, who was already up, getting dressed.

“W’re you going?” Jaskier slurred, voice rough from sleep.

“The gym. You can stay here, I’ll come pick you up for the shower.”

The offer was tempting; Jaskier contemplated staying in bed a little longer, but he needed to make sure everyone knew he was under the White Wolf’s protection. That meant staying with Geralt until he was sure no one would try and get to him.

With a groan and a worrying popping noise coming from his spine, Jaskier rose from his cot and waved at Geralt when the man looked at him with a slightly amused expression. “I’ll come, it’ll be good for me. Lift some weights, do, huh, squats… and stuff.”

His plan of sitting on the sides and watching Geralt work out went to hell as soon as they stepped into the gym and Geralt roped him into a stretching routine that had Jaskier sore and red-faced after the first sequence. Thankfully, Geralt left him alone after that, offering Jaskier to help him spot his weight lifting and keep track of his reps. Jaskier took his role very seriously, hovering as close to Geralt as possible without hindering his movements, keeping an eye on the rest of the room.

Looking away from Geralt became harder as his workout went on, though, the muscles of his glorious shoulders rippling, sweat running down his chest, droplets catching on the patch of dark grey hair there. Jaskier caught himself licking his lips more than once, and he had to focus on the gym floor’s unidentifiable stains to keep his very interested dick in check.

When Geralt finished his thorough and intense workout, they headed to the showers together, Jaskier sighing gratefully when he discovered that each shower unit was separated by a small partition. He wasn’t totally certain he could have survived showering next to Geralt’s very naked, very mouth-watering body. Not looking at him as they disrobed side by side before they each stepped into their respective shower stalls already proved a challenge.

Jaskier closed his eyes in relief as the tepid water washed over him. He would have happily wanked to shed the remnants of arousal and frustration along with the sweat, but he wasn’t that comfortable, knowing Geralt and a half dozen other inmates were in the same steam-filled room.

Instead he pressed the soap dispenser, grimacing at the smell — this was going to be a disaster on his skin for sure — and scrubbing it into his scalp.

He was almost finished with his ablutions, still massaging a stubborn knot in his shoulder, when a shadow fell over him and his gut clenched in fear. His first instinct was to freeze, which was the wrong thing to do, apparently, as the man behind him took it as an invitation to grab his ass forcefully.

“So no one has destroyed this sweet pussy yet, huh? Maybe the White Wolf needs help with it, if he’s still standing on his legs!”

Crude laughs and hollers echoed behind him and Jaskier whirled around to push at the man to get his dirty hands off of him, but before he could do more than glimpse at his aggressor’s face — and Jaskier would have bet there was troll blood somewhere in his family line — an arm shot from the stall beside his, grabbing the man’s thick neck and slamming him against the opposite wall.

Standing in all his dripping, naked glory, Geralt was snarling so close to the man’s face Jaskier thought he would simply bite it off. He might have had, if Jaskier hadn’t noticed the guard making his way towards them with a hand on his baton. Acting on instinct, Jaskier inserted himself between Geralt and the whimpering asshole — Jaskier was pretty sure he’d pissed himself in the scuffle — putting his hands on Geralt’s chest and pushing gently.

“Come on, it’s not worth it,” he whispered, trying to make eye contact, but Geralt wouldn’t stop growling, sharp teeth bared. Jaskier didn’t think twice before adding, “please, Daddy.”

That jolted Geralt right out of his fury, his golden eyes meeting Jaskier’s with a startled expression.

“I’ll rub your back, I’ll make it good, please,” Jaskier put a whine in his voice, pleading with his eyes for Geralt to understand, to go along with this harebrained plan.

Geralt’s expression went from confused to understanding and slipped back into his mask of impassibility just as the guard pushed past the cluster of naked men watching avidly, eager for a fight. Letting go of Troll Face’s throat, Geralt turned back without a word and stepped into his shower, dismissing the entire incident.

There was a minute during which Jaskier feared the guard wouldn’t let it go so easily, but the man looked at Geralt’s back with an hesitant expression before shrugging and ushering the small crowd away. Jaskier breathed out, heart hammering in his chest.

“What are you waiting for then, bird?” Geralt rumbled, pulling Jaskier’s attention to his broad back, shoulders almost touching each parting wall of his shower stall.

Jaskier’s jaw did not drop to the floor at the pet name, but it was a close thing, and he had to shake himself before stepping closer to the man, hovering around his back hesitantly. Geralt did not give him any indication, standing under the shower head facing the wall, unmoving.

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier scooted closer to push at the soap dispenser and started washing Geralt’s back, his hands gliding over the tattooed expanse of skin.

The room was eerily quiet, though Jaskier knew they weren’t alone in there. He scanned the surrounding occupied stalls, as well as the row of sinks where men were brushing their teeth or shaving.

All of them had their eyes on Geralt and Jaskier, calculating, observing, and a chill ran down Jaskier’s spine. They were being evaluated, and if their act wasn’t good enough, he knew there would be grim consequences for him.

Thinking quickly, Jaskier slid between Geralt’s right side and the partition wall, fitting himself at Geralt’s front, where he was protected by the man’s bulk, mostly hidden from sight. He verified that they were still being observed before sliding his hands over Geralt’s chest, rubbing suds of soap in the coarse hair.

“Don’t push your luck, kid,” Geralt growled in a low voice, only for Jaskier’s ears.

Jaskier offered him a shaky smile, and whatever Geralt saw in his eyes made him relent, raising an arm to prop himself on the wall over Jaskier’s shoulder. Rubbing every available patch of skin, Jaskier indulged himself with a light squeeze to Geralt’s bulging biceps, earning himself a raised eyebrow, to which he answered with a cheeky smile.

A few men were turning back to their activities with disgruntled looks, but a couple were still trying to burn holes through Geralt’s back, and Jaskier upped his game by leaning closer to Geralt, their chests almost touching, and whispering in his ear. “Thank you for playing along, Geralt. I appreciate it, I really do.”

Geralt hummed, his brow furrowed tightly as he kept looking at the tiled wall. Cursing against the noble idiot’s stubbornness, Jaskier slid a hand down Geralt’s toned stomach, following the trail of dark hair under his navel as he leaned forward once again. “I could thank you, you know. Properly.”

A strong hand gripped his wrist as his fingers brushed the base of a half-hard cock and Jaskier shuddered, both at the strength of Geralt’s grasp and the feel of the velvet-smooth skin.

“Don’t start something you have no intention of finishing,” Geralt said between gritted teeth, his expression thunderous as his eyes finally found Jaskier’s. Just yesterday morning, Jaskier would have thought he was going to get himself killed with that look. Now, he could see the uncertainty fleeting in the gold irises.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Jaskier breathed, hoping his honesty showed through his words. He extended his fingers to graze through the hair at the base of Geralt’s cock, and the man took a deep inhale before letting Jaskier’s wrist go.

Jaskier’s fist wrapped around the rapidly plumping prick, giving it a testing tug, delighting in the feel of Geralt’s considerable weight in his hand. His fingers met little bumps on the underside of the shaft, three rows of them up to the head, where a ring pierced through the skin. Jaskier’s breath came out in a shudder as his own cock jumped and his free hand came up to rest on Geralt’s shoulder, giving himself some stability. The bastard had the best dick Jaskier had ever seen, and Jaskier needed it in his mouth like yesterday.

His knees hit the hard tile floor with a wet squelch, and when he heard a growl above him, Jaskier looked up between his lashes, trying his best to look innocent. There were whispers somewhere behind Geralt, and Jaskier didn’t pay them any attention, though he did speak louder than necessary when he said, “You take such good care of me, Daddy. Let me take care of you now.”

Swears rose from the stalls around them, and Jaskier smirked as he leaned to lick a stripe up the underside of his cellmate’s gorgeous pierced shaft, his eyes locked with Geralt’s intense, hungry gaze.

Geralt groaned loudly as Jaskier’s tongue played with the little metal studs, swirling around them with the tip, before closing his mouth over the head with a filthy moan, eyelashes fluttering shut.

Savouring the bitter taste of precome and the press of metal over his tongue, Jaskier revelled in the comforting familiarity of the act. Up until now, prison had been strange and stressful but this, this he knew how to do. Jaskier was born to suck cock and he couldn’t wait to show Geralt the extent of his skills.

Releasing the head with an obscene ‘pop’, he nosed his way lower, mouthing over the shaft messily, tongue mapping the veins, licking over Geralt’s heavy sack and ending the tease with a wet kiss over the pink fat head. Jaskier smiled as a splurt of precome followed in its wake, feeling smug.

A deep growl was his only warning before a hand threaded through his hair and pulled hard, forcing him to bare his throat, tears welling in his eyes.

Geralt was looking down at him with a snarl and Jaskier faltered for a moment. Oh, he still very much wanted to suck the living daylights out of the White Wolf — and hopefully get off as well — but the heat and hunger in Geralt’s gaze had him wondering if he hadn’t bit off more than he could chew.

“Stop playing games, little bird.” Geralt’s voice was slightly louder than his usual rumbling tone, and disappointment and fondness warred in Jaskier’s chest as he realised Geralt was playing a role just as much as he was.

To himself, he could admit he would have liked for them to be on their own in the shower, no one to fool with their little ruse, only him, Geralt, and the electric tension between them.

He wouldn’t have minded calling Geralt Daddy then, too.

He didn’t have time to wallow in his fantasies though, as Geralt took his own cock with his free hand and slid the tip over Jaskier’s parted lips, smearing precome that Jaskier caught with an eager dart of his tongue.

Jaskier let his jaw fall open as Geralt fed him his cock, heavy and hot on Jaskier’s tongue. His moan was muffled by the girth of it and his eyes fluttered shut as he palmed his own prick. He could have come from just this, Geralt’s shallow thrusts teasing at the entrance of his throat, and only a thin wall on each side to separate them from the other people in the room who were probably getting off at the thought of Jaskier’s mouth being used.

And he would have come just from this, if Geralt’s bare foot hadn’t nudged his arm away from his aching, needy cock, the fist in Jaskier’s hair tightening its grip painfully.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?”

Tears streamed down Jaskier’s face as he whined, the stretch of his mouth and the pull on his scalp and the fire in his guts overwhelming him. But he shook his head as well as he could given his position, eager to take whatever Geralt would give him.

“Cocksleeves don’t get to pleasure themselves, do they?”

Jaskier’s answer came out as a grunt, arousal flaring hot in his belly, skin tingling all over at Geralt’s deep voice whispering dirty things that made Jaskier reconsider his lists of kinks.

“So be a good little cocksleeve and don’t. Fucking. Touch. Yourself.” Geralt punctuated each word with a thrust, deeper and deeper, until he breached Jaskier’s throat on the last, causing him to choke and flail in surprise. Jaskier’s hands rose up to rest on Geralt’s thick thighs to ground himself.

With deep, relentless thrusts, Geralt used his mouth, the rows of piercings rolling over Jaskier’s tongue, making him go cross-eyed as he imagined Geralt taking his ass instead, with the same steady, maddening rhythm, his piercings at the perfect angle to pound Jaskier’s prostate.

Fuck, Jaskier wouldn’t last five minutes. Even less if he was allowed to touch his own cock.

Jaskier let himself be pushed and pulled, gagging and choking liberally, a good amount of spit and precome sliding down his chin, washed away by the water still raining down on them. It was a rough treatment, but every time Jaskier squeezed his thigh, Geralt left him some time to breathe, though he never stopped thrusting shallowly.

Don’t show them how kind you are, Jaskier thought. Let them think I’m your whore. That you made me your toy. It’s the only thing they understand.

As Geralt’s thrust became erratic, his breath loud and heavy in the narrow stall, Jaskier forced his eyes open, looking up. The gaze he met was filled with guilt and self-loathing, and Jaskier’s heart clenched at the sight.

He couldn’t very well comfort his friend here, in the full view of all the people they were trying to fool with this show, but he rubbed his thumbs in soothing circles over Geralt’s thighs, trying to convey every thing he couldn’t say. I’m okay. You’re not hurting me.

I want this.

Smiling wasn’t easy with a cock stretching one’s mouth, but Jaskier gave it a shot anyway, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he hummed contentedly. That tipped Geralt over the edge, his cock pulsing on Jaskier’s tongue, coming down his throat. Jaskier whined needily, eager to taste, and Geralt pulled out just enough that the last stripes of come hit Jaskier’s lips and cheek. Hi’s tongue swiped out for a taste before it was all washed away by the water and he sat back on his heels, dizzy and out of breath.

Geralt was watching him with wide eyes, hair plastered to his forehead and a pretty blush spread across his pale cheeks as he whispered, low enough not to be overheard over the sound of rushing water. “You okay?”

Not willing to let the other inmates hear his answer, Jaskier squeezed the hard muscle of Geralt’s thighs in reassurance.

Back in their cell, he would tell Geralt just how okay he was. That Geralt had nothing to worry about, and maybe even that Jaskier wouldn’t mind a reenactment of what had just transpired, only in private this time, and possibly with him being allowed to get off.