Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone knows that Witchers hole up somewhere safe during winter. Monsters hibernate, and it seems that Witchers do too. They aren’t the only ones to do so, either. The entire Continent slows down to a crawl during the coldest months; no one sane travels and folks are more likely to spend their evenings in their warm homes rather than spend their precious few coins in taverns or brothels. 

This isn’t Jaskier's first winter as a whore at Montero, of course. He knows how it goes. Most girls have a home to share, and those of them who don’t stay on the first floor of the Montero as it’s easier to keep consistently warm. Jaskier… had a home, once upon a time. In Lettenhove. But that was so long ago, and he thought he’d succeeded in putting it firmly behind him. 

Yet, as the snow piles up high in the streets, he feels… homesick. Like there’s something — or someone — missing. Like he isn’t where he should be, and he longs. It isn’t a very good season; he struggles to muster up the proper energy to perform with his lute in front of crowds, and everyone is sick of hearing his lovesick ballads. So he plays dancing music that doesn’t require singing. 

When the snow finally begins to melt properly, he immediately moves back to his bedroom on the third floor. It’s colder and there’s a fine layer of dust over everything, but gods. He closes his eyes and leans against the door, and inhales deeply. It hits him all at once.

He doesn’t miss Lettenhove, he misses his… Witchers. 

Jaskier’s eyes snap open. “Fuck.” 

It’s ridiculous. Sure, he’s given them a little bit of his heart. Sure, they’d promised to come back after winter. But he’s never been this lovesick before. He’s never pined after a former client! So what makes these Witchers so different? Jaskier chews on his lips and crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t like this — getting attached. A whore’s affections are fleeting, insubstantial. Yet here he is. 

Longing. 

He scrubs a hand over his face and decides to put it out of his mind. Distance should not make the heart grow fonder. 

“Out of sight, out of mind!” he declares to the empty, cold room. 

It’s not instantaneous, of course, so Jaskier decides that cleaning and airing out his room will help settle this unseemly thing in his chest. It has to. He can’t… he can’t pine after two men who surely haven’t thought about him more than in passing over the last season. He shakes himself and spends the remainder of the week cleaning his room. 

It doesn’t normally take so long, but he wants everything to be exactly as he likes it. It’s a comforting thought. He airs the rugs after cleaning them thoroughly, mops and waxes his floor so there are no risks of splinters, and even washes the walls with a product that makes him sneeze. By the end of the week, the room is cleaner than it has ever been. 

It’s a good thing too, because the following day — when there’s hardly any snow left in Novigrad — a Witcher visits Montero. And he asks for Jaskier by name. 

“It ain’t one of the previous Witchers,” Madam Jizebella warns him as Jaskier nearly runs towards the reception. “Nice fella, though.” 

Could it be one of Aiden’s or Lambert’s friends? Do Witchers have friends? 

“Did he say how he knows me?” he asks instead. 

The madam shrugs and opens the door leading to the reception. “Nope.” 

Jaskier hums and turns his attention towards the Witcher waiting there. He’s tall, only a few inches shorter than Jaskier, and built in a similar way as Lambert. His skin is dark brown, his head is shaved, but there’s a very dashing moustache above his mouth with curled tips. His eyes are yellow and bloodshot, but otherwise he’s godsdamned handsome. Is being gorgeous a Witcher requirement?!

“Hello, my dear! I’m Jaskier!” He throws a wink and bows theatrically, one arm fully extended and the other crossed over his chest. “My sweet madam was just telling me you’d requested me specifically, darling?” 

The Witcher cracks a smile and shakes his head, clearly amused. “I have, and decided to see this place for myself. Would you be available for a night, Jaskier?” 

Jaskier tilts his head. This Witcher is… different. His body is turned towards Jaskier, but there are no other tells that indicate he’s actually interested in fucking Jaskier. If this were anyone else, a non-Witcher, Jaskier would doubt the man was interested in other men at all. But he won’t judge a book by its cover — he never does, in any case. 

“One night then, Master Witcher?” Madam Jizebella takes out her ledger and glances at Jaskier. When he nods once, she quotes the Witcher the same price he’s had her quote all other Witchers. 

This Witcher has a similar reaction to Lambert; clearly, he’d expected Jaskier’s fee to be higher. But he doesn’t say anything, and hands over the requested coins. Normally, Jaskier would chat him up, get to know which kinks or particularities his client desires before they go to his room. But he’s had good luck with Lambert and Aiden, so he doesn’t see why this should be any different. 

“Would you like a drink before we head upstairs?” Jaskier asks coyly, sliding from behind the reception desk to slide his arm around the Witcher’s. 

The Witcher chuckles and shakes his head. “I fear it would not be proper for us to discuss our terms while inebriated.” 

“Very well, anything you wish my dear.” A single drink of wine would certainly not inebriate him, but he respects the Witcher’s preference for total sobriety. Jaskier pecks his cheek and leads him to the third floor. 

He’s not nervous, not really. But he’s curious. He can’t get a read on this man’s desires. He’s got a very deep facade, and holds himself straight without much of personality shining through. Jaskier’s experience with Witchers doesn’t help him at all, here. 

When he hands the Witcher the room key, he pockets it without a word after locking the door of Jaskier’s room. He looks around and begins to remove his swords and various belts. It’s early enough in spring for him to be wearing warm furs, so he shrugs those off too and places everything neatly on Jaskier’s desk. 

“So,” he begins, finally focusing his yellow gaze on Jaskier. “I heard about you from Lambert. We wintered together,” he adds when Jaskier opens his mouth to ask about that statement. 

“Oh!” Jaskier tilts his head and studies his client. “Do you want something like what Lambert asked for, then?” 

The man chuckles and shakes his head. “No, not exactly.” His expression turns sheepish, and he rubs the back of his head. It’s adorable. “I, ah, well,” he clears his throat, “I don’t typically lay with men, you see.” 

Jaskier blinks. So… his original assessment was accurate. “You’re not attracted to men?” 

“Not really. Well…” The Witcher looks away, seemingly embarrassed. “I enjoy the act of buggery but it’s difficult to find a lady who wishes to do that to a Witcher,” he says, all in one breath. 

“We have plenty of ladies here who—” 

“No, I know,” the Witcher interrupts, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “But they all… they smell like fear. Lambert said you never once smelt like fear. And that’s… that’s important. More important than whatever’s in your pants.” 

If Witchers could blush, this one would surely be bright red. 

But Jaskier nods slowly. It’s not a typical request, but he thinks he understands what this Witcher needs and desires. “Would it help if I had some pretty dresses for you to look at?” he ventures, crossing the room to one of the wardrobes. “I have short skirts, long and flowy dresses, corsets, stockings—” 

“Sweet hell,” the Witcher sighs, and within the blink of an eye he’s right next to Jaskier. “You would… you really would do this?” 

“Why not?” Jaskier shrugs. “I’m a fairly hairy man, I’m afraid, but with a dress, it would be easier to pretend.” 

“Yes, yes,” the Witcher whispers, reverent and awed. “I forgot… I’m Coën.” He holds his hand for Jaskier. 

Jaskier looks at his hand briefly before shaking it, bemused. They’re about to fuck and they’re shaking hands? Adorable. 

“So, my darling Coën, what else does your heart desire?” he trills, searching his closet for something to change into. 

“Everything you said,” Coën admits, bashful once more. “Soft fabrics. Ah…” He clears his throat again. He must be quite nervous, and Jaskier has to wonder what sort of treatment this Witcher received at other brothels, for him to sound so insecure about a whore fulfilling his desires. “I’d like to do it once awake, and once while I’m asleep.” 

Jaskier pauses. “Asleep?” 

“Yes. Is that… is that allowed?” 

“Of course,” Jaskier purrs, pitching his voice a little higher. This seems to do the trick, because Coën’s pupils dilate slightly. “You want to be loose and ready for me?” 

“Yes,” Coën rasps, his still-gloved hands fluttering around Jaskier as though he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch. “Yes, please.” 

“Anything I should avoid, darling?” Jaskier looks through his drawers for stockings.

“Hmm.” Coën takes a moment to think. “I would… I would like to use feminine pronouns with you, during the scene. No hands on my throat, no degrading names please.” He scratches his head. “I prefer to be overly prepped.” 

“Thank you, sweetest. I can roll with feminine pronouns, that’s not an issue at all.” Jaskier smiles coyly and winks. “And now, darling, what is your safeword?” 

Coën blinks and shakes his head. “Peppermint.”

“Very good,” Jaskier says, the praise visibly sending a shiver through the Witcher. “Why don’t you bathe, and I’ll get myself ready for you, dearest?” 

With a grunt, Coën nods and begins stripping efficiently. There’s still a certain grace to it, he is a Witcher after all, but it’s not meant to be an arousing sort of stripping. Jaskier returns to his self-appointed task. He selects a beautiful blue dress, a corset in matching tones, and white opaque stockings. It’s not the first time he crossdresses for a client, but it is the first time he plays at pretending to be a girl. 

While the Witcher folds his clothes, all proper-like, Jaskier runs the bath. He hasn’t offered to wash Coën, and given the man’s proclivities, he doesn’t think Coën would enjoy that. He still tosses a handful of salts and offers Coën a choice of bathing oils, though. The Witcher smiles, bashful, and selects a lightly rose-fragranced oil. 

“Go on, take all the time you need,” Jaskier says as he ushers Coën to the bath. “I’ll get ready for you in the meantime, sweet thing.” 

Coën chuckles and sinks into the tub, sighing deeply. “Sweet mercy, this feels fantastic.” 

“You Witchers deserve only the best.” Jaskier steps behind the rarely-used folding screen and undresses. 

The dress he chose has a high collar, which means his chest hair won’t be on full display. The corset, once laced, is snug and draws enticing lines from his silhouette. Thanks to his winter padding and musculature, the corset makes his pecs a little more round, more tit-like, and under a dress it’ll truly be indecent. Jaskier does love dressing up like this, to feel the soft fabric up his legs, and feel the snugness of the corset when he inhales deeply. He even slips on a pair of lacy knickers, even if Coën is unlikely to see them. It helps him go into character. 

Once he’s ready, he slips out from behind the folding screen and sits primly on the bed. He hears the water draining from the tub, and he waits for Coën to finish drying himself. His cock is already growing interested in what’s coming, and when the Witcher steps into his field of view in all his naked glory — Jaskier can only let out a small whimper of raw need. 

Witchers are disproportionately gorgeous compared to the rest of… literally everyone. 

Coën is broader than Jaskier, and his skin looks sinfully soft despite the scars covering his chest and arms. There’s a decent pelt of hair on his chest and a thick trail down his belly and to his cock. And his cock, sweet gods, it’s perfect. Jaskier licks his lips and bats his lashes at the Witcher, aware that Coën can smell his arousal. His nostrils flare and his pupils fully dilate when he takes in Jaskier’s attire. 

“Beautiful,” Coën murmurs. He joins Jaskier to the bed, and sprawls languidly on his back. There isn’t a single ounce of shame in this man, and Jaskier senses his heart flutter a little. “What should I call you tonight, my lady?” 

“Dandelion,” Jaskier murmurs, pitching his voice as high as it can comfortably go. “My, you are a work of art.” 

Coën grins smugly and flexes, showing off his bulging biceps and rippling abdominals. Jaskier licks his lips, leaning his head down so he can look at Coën from under his lashes. The Witcher can either read minds or he’s just as eager as Jaskier, because he turns on his stomach and hitches a leg up. His yellow eyes are still fixed on Jaskier, though. 

“Mmm, look at you.” Jaskier crawls towards his Witcher, eyes focused on his arse. “So ready for me to take a little bite of.” 

“All for you, sweet Dandelion,” Coën says with a groan, arching his hips back just so. “Gods, sweet mercy, aren’t you a pretty thing?” 

Jaskier blushes and giggles, hiding behind a hand. “Oh, Master Witcher, you’re such a charmer.” 

Coën chuckles and wiggles his hips. Not one to refuse such an overt offering, Jaskier makes his way between the Witcher’s thighs. He spreads his cheeks, exposing the tantalising furl of his hole. 

“I would love to have your tongue inside me, my lady,” says Coën, “I might just nap until dawn.” 

“I promise I’ll take care of you, Master Witcher.” 

The Witcher does close his eyes, but Jaskier knows he won’t be sleeping until later. But that’s alright, it’s part of their play. Without further ado, he lowers himself comfortably and swipes his tongue a few times over the tight entrance. He groans at the realisation that Coën likely hasn’t taken a cock up his arse in months, if not longer — which means he’s tight as all hell. 

In the low light of his room, Coën’s skin is a dark brown, like wet earth after heavy rain. His flesh is firm yet supple, and there’s a curious scar across his arse cheek that has Jaskier tonguing it eagerly. It’s sensitive, if Coën’s reaction is anything to go by. He sucks at it, making the raised skin darken further into a hickey. Satisfied, he returns to his primary focus: licking Coën open. 

Jaskier has rimmed clients until they sobbed and pleaded for him to let them come. He’s done it until they did come from it alone. But Coën… 

Coën lies there, unmoving except for the deep breaths he continues to take, as though he isn’t affected at all. As though this is routine for him, a light prelude to what’s to come. And sure, it is — but Jaskier knows how good he is with his tongue, godsdamnit. He renews his vigour and squeezes Coën’s cheeks firmly, pushing his tongue as far as it will go. 

And then he hears it. 

It’s so quiet, a human would not have heard it. But Jaskier hears it, and his heart soars through his chest. 

Coën is whimpering. In-between the wet slurps and Jaskier’s own heavy breathing, there’s a very quiet keening that goes straight to his cock. It leaves him dizzy. 

“You taste so fine, my sweet Coën,” he purrs in that same high-pitched voice, his tongue only slightly wooden from his enthusiastic rimming. “Want to make you purr for me.” 

“Dandelion, my lady,” Coën breathes out, and he spreads his legs much further apart. 

From this new angle, Jaskier sees how tight Coën’s balls are. Good. That annoying bit of anxiety at not performing adequately smoothes over. If Coën hadn’t been enjoying himself, he would have told Jaskier.

“Yes, Master Witcher?” he whispers against Coën’s arse, knowing the Witcher will hear him perfectly well. 

Indeed, he groans and gives into the impulse of grinding his cock against the sheets. “Your fingers, so pretty and dainty, I wish for them to explore my depths, my lady.” 

“Of course, darling, anything you wish.” 

Jaskier has the oil nearby, but he begins by coating one finger with saliva first. It sinks easily into Coën’s hole, and he watches as it disappears one torturous inch at a time. Before he pulls it out, he returns to lick and drool all over the tight ring of muscle, and pushes his tongue alongside his finger. He remembers, suddenly, how agile Aiden’s tongue had been, and he shivers. Gods, what he would do to have such a tongue to please his clients with. 

Once his finger and tongue thrust in and out with ease and in tandem, Jaskier wets his second finger and resumes the same process. Slow insertion, more licking and sucking, then pushing his tongue alongside his fingers. He can clearly hear Coën now, the Witcher unable to hold back the soft moans of pleasure. It spurs him on, and soon he’s comfortably fucking two fingers and his tongue inside Coën’s arse. 

“Gonna slick you up now,” he declares once Coën is loose and wet. 

“I long to be drenched in your wetness, Lady Dandelion,” Coën pants, “please.” 

Jaskier giggles and kisses Coën’s flushed skin as he liberally oils his fingers and drips a good amount right on Coën’s hole. This oil is a little sweet and floral, perfect for his clients who prefer the illusion of femininity. And it tastes quite nice too. 

His two fingers slide in comfortably, and his third inches in at a crawling pace. He does the same as earlier, tongueing Coën’s hole as he works him open. It goes a little faster this time, the Witcher clearly very relaxed despite his state of arousal. Each time Jaskier’s fingers brush against his prostate, his hips jerk the tiniest amount. The control it must take to remain so lax, so pliant without automatically thrusting towards the source of his pleasure… 

Jaskier can’t wait to fuck him. 

Once three fingers slide in without any resistance, Jaskier scissors them. Every movement is slow and lazy, as though he were doing this without a second thought. Coën moans with every brush against his prostate, and his hole is so deliciously stretched now. Jaskier dabs some more oil on his hand, and begins inserting a fourth finger.

It’s not necessary — he’s well endowed, but not like this, that it would require his partners to be stretched with four fingers. It will feel loose and sloppy around his prick, and he can’t wait for it. 

“My lady,” Coën rasps, flipping on his back when Jaskier pulls his fingers out. “Come here, my beautiful Dandelion.” 

Jaskier shivers and crawls up Coën’s body, his dress lightly catching on Coën’s body hair. His large hands flutter over Jaskier’s dress, tracing the soft fabric here and outlining Jaskier’s cinched waist there. His cat-eyes fall to Jaskier’s tits, plush-looking thanks to his corset and the light padding of the dress. Lightning-quick, Coën reaches for a nipple and teases it lightly, seemingly enthralled with the way it hardens under his touch. 

“Dandelion,” he sighs, husky and hungry. “Terribly naughty of you to be without proper underclothes.” 

“Oh, I’m not without!” Jaskier giggles and wiggles on his knees. With deliberate slowness, he lifts the skirt of his dress until Coën can see his lacy knickers. 

“Fuck.” Coën’s eyes flicker closed a few times and spreads his legs wider for him. “Please take me as you are, my lady. So sweet a scent you carry on your nethers, a nectar I wish to commit to memory evermore.” 

“My sweet, darling Witcher,” Jaskier moans, shivering at the words. 

In a fluid motion, Jaskier slips his cock out of his knickers and rubs the head against Coën’s slick hole. Coën gasps and arches his back, his body clearly eager for Jaskier cock to slide home. Jaskier licks his lips and aligns himself, heart racing in his chest. As he’d predicted, his cock slides in smoothly in one single glide. They both moan, and Coën groans when Jaskier bottoms out. 

“So loose and ready for me.” Jaskier rubs his hands over Coën’s thighs, enjoying the way his muscles tense ever so briefly. He hitches one leg over his shoulder, sits back on his knees, and drives his hips back and forth at a languishing pace. 

Coën pants and lets himself be taken, his own hands busy gripping Jaskier’s dress. One of his hands moves to Jaskier’s chest, groping one of his tits and squeezing hard enough to borderline hurt. But the good sort of hurt. Jaskier groans in turn, wishing to thrust hard and fast as he wants. But he doesn’t. 

He knows how women with fake cocks fuck, so he imitates that instead. 

He gyrates his hips, grinds down against Coën’s arse. It’s languid, intense, and Coën leaks freely on his own belly. The pearly white precome is like a beacon against his dark skin, so Jaskier indulges and dips a finger in the mess.

“Mmm,” he hums as he sucks his finger clean. “Delicious.” 

He rolls his hips and Coën rolls his eyes, and they continue like that for long minutes. It goes on and on, enough for Jaskier to build a good sweat, for his own body to long for its denied peak. Coën’s skin shines like a polished stone, muscles flexing with every one of Jaskier’s gentle drives inside him. 

“My lady, beautiful Dandelion,” Coën pants, voice gone hoarse, “please allow me to climb atop this— mm, this delectable cliff of bliss.” 

“Of course, my sweet one.” Jaskier drops a hand around Coën’s cock, and holds it in a light grip. He runs his thumb over the head, spreading the wetness until his hand is slick with it. 

“Oh yes, just like that, my lady!” Coën gasps and arches his back, his cock throbbing in Jaskier’s hand. 

Hardly a moment later, his cock hardens further and erupts with long ropes of spend. It lands all over his chest, and his walls tighten around Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier only grinds his hips in a slow and circular motion, milking out every last drop of spend from Coën. 

“Gods, beautiful.” Jaskier brings his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean, earning himself a growling groan from Coën. Jaskier himself feels close to climax, but the slowly-built kind that he can dance on the edge of for hours. 

When Coën’s cock softens, Jaskier gently pulls out and fetches a wet cloth to wipe his belly clean. The Witcher’s eyes are drooping and his body is lax with satiation. Jaskier smiles and rearranges them until Coën is using his chest as a pillow, and has one leg thrown over Jaskier. The Witcher hums contentedly, rubbing his body on the soft fabric of his dress. One of his hands hikes up Jaskier’s dress to place a hand right on his hip, thumb tracing the curve of his corset. 

“Sleep well, my sweet Witcher,” Jaskier murmurs.

Coën sighs again, his body relaxing further, and Jaskier softly hums a random melody. His pets the Witcher’s head, wondering if he’ll get this one to purr, but Coën is asleep before the now-familiar rumbling can begin. Is purring a thing all Witchers do, or specific Schools only? With his free hand, Jaskier fingers the silver medallion around Coën’s neck. It’s not a Wolf or Cat medallion, but he doesn’t know enough about other Witcher Schools to make an educated guess about what this one might be. Instead, he idly traces the grooves and etches in the medallion, memorising it despite himself. 

The hours pass by and Coën falls into a deeper sleep. Jaskier’s cock softens after a little while, but he doesn’t allow himself to doze off too. It’s easy to sink into his own thoughts and meditate, let his body hold and pet the man in his arms. He’s done this countless times and will continue to do so until he wishes it no more.

His connection with Coën isn’t the same as it had been with Lambert or Aiden. Not only did they not kiss, but their encounter so far has felt a lot more transactional. With his first two Witchers, he felt… precious. Wanted, desired. With Coën — well, he feels like a whore. But a trusted whore, one that someone like Coën can trust with their deepest desires, without fear of judgement. Coën trusts him to do everything they negotiated, trusts him to take care of him. It’s not the same kind of care as Lambert and Aiden — but Jaskier finds that he doesn’t mind at all. 

Coën will still be leaving his bed with a little piece of his heart. 

At some point, perhaps a few hours before dawn, Jaskier shakes himself back into full awareness. Coën is still deeply asleep, cute little snores filling the silence of his room. Quietly, he drops one hand inside his knickers to take himself in hand. With eyes closed, it’s easy to arouse himself to full hardness, and he spends a few moments luxuriating in the sweet memories of opening up Coën. Satisfied with his renewed erection, Jaskier finds Coën’s hole and traces the rim lightly with his finger before dipping inside. 

The Witcher is still loose and wet from the oil, but Jaskier decides to coat himself in more oil just to be safe. Coën had wanted it sloppy and loose, and so Jaskier shall provide. 

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but he manages to wriggle further under the Witcher’s bulk and align himself with his arse. It helps that Jaskier is the taller one. He shifts his hips, digging back into the mattress, and angles his slick cock with Coën’s hole. Jaskier inhales deeply to steady his heart — even if he has Coën’s explicit consent, it still feels very illicit to be fucking him while he’s asleep — and slowly pushes inside. It’s as hot and loose as it was earlier. He groans, biting his lip to keep the louder noises behind his teeth. 

“Gods,” he mutters, eyes glued to the ceiling. He knows every line, knot in the wooden planks there. He’s studied them whenever clients preferred a warm body rather than a responsive one. The sight grounds him, so Jaskier exhales shakily and sheathes himself fully inside Coën. 

It’s divine. 

There’s something potent about fucking an unconscious Witcher, of having free access to do whatever he wants to their body. Coën is still naked and Jaskier is still dressed as Lady Dandelion, and he can’t help imagining what it must look like from the outside. He wraps both arms around Coën and plants his stockinged feet on the mattress for better purchase. 

The first thrust is so good. He drives his hips upwards in a slow but deep rhythm, hitting Coën’s prostate every time if the puddle of precome between their bellies is anything to go by. He tightens his grip only slightly, careful not to make it feel like he’s trapping the Witcher, and fucks him with a steady cadence. The only sounds in the bedroom now are Coën’s soft snores occasionally intercepted by sleepy moans, Jaskier’s heavy breathing, and the sound of his cock sliding into Coën’s arse. It’s an obscene symphony, and it threatens Jaskier’s self-control and restraint for his own pleasure. He wants to make it long and good for Coën, so he closes his eyes and focuses on the sensations alone.

It doesn’t exactly help, but it does drive away the tantalising images egging him closer to orgasm. 

When his orgasm does begin to crest, he can’t tell how long it’s been. Ten minutes, half an hour, two hours — it all blurs together. Coën’s hole has required more oil once already, and now Jaskier’s guts are clenching with the strain of holding back. He’s covered in sweat, and his body is rapidly tiring from fucking an unconscious Witcher atop him. 

Just as he’s about to snap and let himself climax, Coën lets out a wretched whine that sunders through Jaskier’s willpower. He doesn’t know if Coën is awake or not, but he doesn’t bloody well care right now. Jaskier moans and fucks deep and hard into Coën’s arse, his orgasm ripping through him like a thunderstorm. Every nerve is electrified and he pours a torrent of spend in the Witcher, the sum of hours of edging. His entire body trembles from the force of it all, until he’s nearly sobbing from oversensitivity. 

“M’lady, sweet Dandelion,” Coën slurs, voice rough with sleep. “Please, please…” 

“I have you, my darling.” Jaskier moves a hand between them to find Coën hard as steel and soaking with precome. “Look at you, so ready for me. You gonna come for me, my dearest Witcher?” His voice is still pitched high, and he’s breathless from the exertion of the past however-long since he’s been fucking Coën.

“Yes, yes!” Coën moans again, and gyrates his hips to thrust into Jaskier’s fist. He hardly lasts more than a dozen thrusts, his body tensing like a bowstring before going loose again with a sigh. “Fuck, Dandelion. My precious girl.” 

Jaskier giggles. His brain is rapidly shutting down, but he has to take care of both Coën and himself. Carefully, he pushes Coën aside and whispers sweet nothings when the Witcher grumbles about him leaving. Jaskier has already been in this corset for hours and it wouldn’t be safe to remain much longer. He rapidly strips and sets his soiled dress and panties aside to wash, and unlaces his corset with practised ease. He decides to keep the stockings, and slips on a night shirt that reaches his upper thighs. After he’s gently cleaned between Coën’s thighs and his sloppy hole, Jaskier slips back into bed and pulls the fur blanket over them. 

Coën sighs, opening one tired eye to study Jaskier.

“Thank you, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier swears his heart swells thrice its size in his chest. He beams at the Witcher and nudges a waterskin at him. Coën drinks heavily from it and sighs again, dropping his head back on a pillow. Both eyes are now open, and the pupils are thin slits so he can see clearly in the dark. 

“Lambert told me you were trustworthy. I’m glad I listened to him.” Coën smiles, then, a small and utterly precious thing. 

Jaskier’s eyes burn with unshed tears. Bloody Witchers. Even if this encounter wasn’t what he’d expected, there is yet another spot carved in his heart and now labelled Coën. 

“You’ll always have a place in my bed, my dearest Coën.” He pulls the Witcher into a proper snuggle, and Coën comes easily. “Thank you for trusting me to treat you as you properly deserve.” 

Coën huffs, but says nothing. Jaskier can guess what’s going through his mind. His conversation with Aiden is still fresh in his memory, and he knows how the world at large treats Witchers. But he doesn’t bring it up; no use souring this pleasant bit of aftercare. Instead, Jaskier hums a mindless tune as he pets Coën’s head, scritching behind his ears and at the base of his skull. Coën rumbles with contentment, but doesn’t purr. Maybe it’s not an every-Witcher thing, after all.

“I meant to ask,” Jaskier says after long minutes of comfortable silence. “Which School are you from?” 

“I am from the School of the Griffin. Our stronghold was destroyed a long time ago. I believe I may be the last of the Griffin Witchers alive,” he adds in a solemn voice. 

“I’m sorry, darling.” Jaskier squeezes him briefly and drops a light kiss on his head.

Coën hums and Jaskier feels him smile. “It’s alright, little flower. I winter with the Wolf Witchers, and perhaps now… I can have a little home away from home here, from time to time.” 

“Always, my sweet griffin, always.” 

The words are barely out of Jaskier’s mouth when the anticipated wave of exhaustion finally washes over him. His limbs suddenly feel too heavy to move, and his tongue can’t quite form words anymore. Coën chuckles, probably sensing it with his fancy Witcher senses, and moves Jaskier around until he’s the one being spooned and held. Coën rubs his nose on the back of Jaskier’s neck, inhales deeply, and the tension bleeds out of him too. 

He doesn’t know how long they sleep, but Jaskier doesn’t care. His Witcher is still there when he wakes up, and they share a simple meal before Jaskier smooches his cheeks and watches him go. The longing in his chest hasn’t entirely dissipated, but it’s been tamed. He can be patient for his lovely Witchers to visit him again as spring blooms across the Continent.