Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Breathe, Jaskier.

The outside of the building is nondescript—plain, even. It’s so unassuming, in fact, that he’s wondering if Yen gave him the wrong address. But no, that’s just his anxiety talking, because one, it’s Yen, and two, she comes here all the time.

Literally.

He snorts to himself, shaking his head. It’s hard to believe this is even happening—a few too many drinks after work was all it took for him to spill to his closest coworker, now confidant, every dirty little detail he’s been denying himself for years. The desires he’s been so afraid to acknowledge, let alone voice, for so long... years agonizing over what it meant, what it said about him, these things he wanted. How many times had he guiltily watched or read BDSM-related porn, wondering if there was something twisted in him, wondering if it was wrong? And somehow fifteen minutes with an equally tipsy, yet incredibly comforting Yennefer had turned it all on its head. The validation was dizzying—not only her assurance that it was perfectly normal and natural, but that she “played” too. There’d been no teasing smiles or shocked looks, just encouragement and reassurance, over and over, until she’d finally recommended the club she and her partner, Triss, frequented: Kaer Morhen.

She’d even offered to meet him here, hold his hand and show him around, help him understand his boundaries and dip a toe in the waters. She’s inside right now, no doubt waiting impatiently for him to pull himself together and just walk through the damn door. Her voice in his head is starting to drown out the memory of his parents’, ancient echoes of their endless lectures on perverted sin and eternal torment.

Hell, I could go for torment, I’d just prefer the non-fire and brimstone kind.

He runs his fingers over the folded paper in his pocket, seeking its security; Yen had sent him plenty of resources, informational references about the scene and all that it entailed. She’d encouraged him to research extensively and compile his list: preferences, soft limits, hard limits, safewords. Following her advice, he’d gone in with a more open mind, maybe even a better understanding of himself. His need to be dominated, the thrumming desire that filled him at the thought of submitting to the will and touch of a strong male body—it’s all accepted, something he can embrace without the choking guilt he’s been suffering under for so long. Even after coming out years ago, this acceptance... it’s exhilarating. It feels like he’s finally unlocked a piece of himself, and he’s ready to free it.

Jaskier pats the paper once more before retracting his hand, panic retreating under reason. He has his limits. He has his safeword. He has Yen, inside, waiting for him. He knows what he wants, and even if he does nothing more than look around tonight, he feels like this is one of the biggest steps he’s ever taken, just for himself.

Breathe, Jaskier.

He steps through the door, and the sudden shift in atmosphere is mind-boggling.

It’s darker, quieter, a somehow softer version than the world outside. Deep hues of red and black dominate the space, and every surface is either temptingly plush or harshly smooth, highlighting the stark contrast between the soft curves and cutting lines even more. He only fumbles his wallet a tiny bit when paying the guest cover and showing his ID—thankfully just a formality. He’s clearly of age, even if people like to say he looks far younger than his twenty-six years.

The low, mesmerizing beat of the music pulls his feet forward into the space, and Jaskier’s eyes go wide, breath catching at what he sees. It’s people, real, live people milling about in all manner of dress, from more conservative outfits to pieces he’d only seen in his deepest dives into the specialized fetish lingerie section of the Internet. PVC, leather, not as much as he expected, but maybe still more than he thought, and... toys. Plenty of toys. Toys that make his cheeks heat, flushing like a shy Southern belle and ready to hide behind the nearest fan.

He runs a nervous hand down his dark button-down and slacks, feeling awkwardly overdressed amongst all the skin. Is that his pulse, or has the music just sped up to a tachycardic beat? He’s not sure.

“Jaskier! There you are. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Yennefer greets him, manicured fingers curling over his shoulders as she presses a kiss to each of his cheeks. Behind her is a redheaded beauty she introduces as Triss, her fiancée and longtime sub. Triss, thank goodness, is just as welcoming, and gives him an encouraging smile when Yen directs them to the nearest empty booth. The women are both dressed casually and similarly, unlike many of the couples in the club, though their dynamic is easily read in their body language—if he hadn’t already known Yen was the Domme and Triss the submissive, he’d be able to tell, even as green as he is.

“So, what do you think?” Yen queries, arm sweeping out to gesture to the club at large.

“It’s really... something,” Jaskier allows, chuckling nervously. Triss rests her hand on his atop the table.

“It can be very overwhelming at first.”

Appreciating the sympathy, he nods in return.

“Yeah, I—I don’t know what I expected? It’s somehow different, but... more?” He gives them a sheepish look. “I’ll admit I’m feeling a little lost.”

“Completely understandable. Let’s get you a drink, and we can talk about it, maybe answer some of your questions if you have them.” Yen waves over a server, and he lets her take charge, eyes continuing to wander over the space.

There’s a massive stage dominating the center of the main room, several kinds of fixtures and constructions scattered across it that he sort of recognizes, but can’t recall all the names for. His eyes widen when he realizes there are actually people up there—a man, strapped facedown on a bench of some kind, in what amounts to assless leather underwear, and a woman behind him, cutting an impressive figure in a skintight catsuit. What Jaskier can’t help but focus on is the flogger in her hands, too many tails to count and currently being run over the shivering man’s exposed back and thighs. At the first strike, Jaskier jolts along with the sub on the stage, his breath catching in his throat.

Yen follows his gaze when the waiter leaves, smirking.

“Interested?”

A hot blush burns its way across his face, and he gives her a minute shake of the head.

“No, I don’t think—well...” He couldn’t imagine it now. No, he’d be too intimidated by the roomful of eyes on him. But maybe, maybe if he was with someone, someone he trusted... the blush heats again, this time not from embarrassment. “Not yet, at least.”

She nods, always understanding.

“Of course. You don’t meet many newbies who’d have the guts to get up there on the first try. Especially considering how privacy can be so useful in communication.”

The waiter returns, distributing their drinks with practiced efficiency, then disappears. Yen swirls the colorful liquid in her glass thoughtfully.

“So, did you do your research? Any questions so far?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, his eyes still scanning the room, taking everything in. On the bright side, his heart has calmed a bit—he’s getting accustomed, maybe even comfortable.

“Yeah, and thanks again for the links you sent me. I think they really helped.” He chews his lower lip, his nervous gaze meeting that steady violet pair. No wonder she makes a good Domme—the woman radiates confidence. “I’m wondering—there’s not as much—I mean, out in the open...” his voice trails off, but she nods, filling in the blanks for herself.

“Most keep it to the playrooms. You saw some of the signs when you came in, yes?”

He bobs his head. He’d seen them, then had to consciously keep his jaw closed. Never in his life did he think he’d see a “No fingering at the bar” sign, but there’s a first time for everything, apparently.

“Right, so even though this is a safe space, mostly free to explore to your heart’s content, there are obviously some rules to follow. The hardcore stuff tends not to be next to the dance floor—licensing and regulations, you know.”

“Some are just here for a night out, maybe not even looking to play, and that’s perfectly fine, too,” Triss adds. Jaskier takes a pull of his drink, brow furrowing when fruit bursts across his tongue, but no burning chase of alcohol. Yen gestures to his glass.

“As you might have guessed, they don’t serve alcohol, either. Not every club has strict sobriety rules, but the owners here are adamant that patrons stick to SSC.”

“Safe, sane, and consensual, right?” Jaskier supplies, and she smiles.

“Very good, yes. Sobriety is key for consent, so no drugs, alcohol, or any mind-altering substances are allowed on the premises.”

Jaskier’s shoulders relax, and he sinks a bit further into his seat. The information itself is comforting, and he’s relieved to have someone so knowledgeable to help him find his way. He’ll need to send Yen a gift basket next week as a thank you, maybe an edible arrangement...?

“Future note: if you ever see a place advertised and it doesn’t explicitly mention SSC, avoid it—it’s not legitimate, definitely not safe.” Yen shares a look with Triss, sighing. “With the rising popularity of the scene, some folks are trying to cash in, jumping in without the right information. Thankfully, the owner here knows his stuff.”

Jaskier spots a man strolling through the club, casually surveying the happenings, an armband clearly labeled “DM” encircling his bicep. He jerks a chin toward the man.

“He’s a Dungeon Monitor, right? I remember reading about them.” Meant to keep the patrons safe, keep things from ever getting out of hand. In some clubs, they’ll play, too.

“Yes, that’s correct. Hold on just a sec—Eskel!” Yen calls out, waving to catch the man’s attention. He comes over to their table with a friendly smile, and Jaskier feels instantly at ease. It’s like the guy exudes comfort, his kindness clear in the curiously amber eyes below shaggy dark hair.

“Yennefer, Triss, good to see you,” he greets, before turning his attention to the unfamiliar face. “And you are?”

“Jaskier,” he introduces himself, extending a hand, which Eskel takes.

“Jaskier is brand new to the scene,” Yen explains, and Eskel’s smile doesn’t waver.

“Ah, I see. Welcome, then! I sincerely hope you enjoy your time at Kaer Morhen. If you need anything, you can always find me, and I’ll be happy to help.”

Well, Jaskier certainly feels safer, if anything—the DM armband is wrapped around a truly sizable arm, Eskel’s musculature so pronounced that it would be intimidating, had it not been attached to the politeness before him. His simple black vest and leather trousers do nothing to hide the fact that the rest of him is equally as built, built enough that it speeds up Jaskier’s heart again, in a new way. Eskel doesn’t fail to notice. He smirks.

“To clarify, I really do mean anything.”

The younger man goes beet red, earning a chuckle from the DM before he’s called away from their table. When Jaskier looks back at Yennefer, her lips twist.

“I expected you’d get some interest right off the bat. None of the men here can resist a pretty face.” Her fingers flick in the direction to which Eskel disappeared. “You could do worse, you know. He’s got great reviews, and he’s a total sweetheart.”

“Excellent coordination, too,” Triss adds. Jaskier’s ears pink when he considers how she might know that little factoid. 

Nope, now is not the time to be imagining your friends scening, Jask, not appropriate—

“Remember, you can always say no to a proposition. You being here isn’t automatic consent,” Yen reminds him, sipping at her glass. “Some people are ignorant of that fact, hence why Eskel has a job.”

“What do I do if he’s not available?” Jaskier asks, suddenly worried. Sure, he may be a fully-grown man, but he could still very well end up in a dangerous situation he’d need help out of. Yen clicks her tongue, thinking.

“There are other DMs, you just have to look for the armband. And there’s always Geralt.”

Jaskier follows her violet gaze to the bar occupying the corner of the main room, where a lone man is preparing and handing off drinks and chatting with patrons—well, chatting in the loosest sense of the word. He doesn’t seem to be thrilled about it, keeping each exchange to just a few words. Jaskier doesn’t mind, because he can’t even find words to perfectly describe the man he’s looking at right now: tall, muscled, chiseled. None seem to really do him justice. His mouth goes pitifully dry at the shock of pale hair that sweeps enticingly over broad shoulders, framing what is likely the most gorgeous face he’s ever seen with his own two eyes. He feels like maybe this is what witnessing a miracle feels like—he can’t breathe, and honestly he couldn’t care less about oxygen, because he just wants to look.

“He mans the bar most nights, and he’s just as alert as Eskel when it comes to guest safety,” Yen continues, initially ignoring Jaskier’s obvious interest. When he drools instead of responding, she waves a manicured hand in front of his face. “Jaskier, darling, I know he’s hot, but listen—and I’m not trying to hurt your feelings—it’s doubtful at best. Geralt’s been all business the past few years; no playing, no scenes, just management. It’s sad, but true.”

Jaskier doesn’t hide his disappointment well.

“Oh.”

He thinks he hears Triss say something about it being a “shame,” and remarking on their compatibility, but he just can’t seem to drag his attention away from the white-haired god behind the bar. Just looking at the guy has him twitching in his pants. His mind swirls with a riot of imagined scenarios, the things he wishes Geralt would do to him, what magic Geralt must be hiding beneath his crisp white shirt and, God help him, the black suspenders straining against the veritable wall of muscle that is his chest.

Amber eyes flick up to meet his, and Jaskier’s heart stops, before resuming rapid-fire, nearly beating out of his chest as a brand-new flush covers him, feeling like it’s spreading all the way to his damn toes. Holy shit.

Geralt remains impassive, and that’s a solid sucker punch to the metaphorical gut—so much for Jaskier’s ego.

“Why—why doesn’t he play anymore?” Jaskier manages, finally tearing his eyes away from the new star of all of his fantasies. Yen grimaces.

“I don’t know all of the details, but there was an incident with his sub—she got hurt, then blamed him for it. He hasn’t trusted anyone since.”

Jask bites his lip to hold in whatever banal platitude is trained to come out, his heart breaking for the white-haired man.

“There’s a good lesson there for you, though,” Yen continues. “Despite outward appearances, the sub has all the power, not the Dom. What happens in a scene only happens because you allow it.”

He nods intently, mind still distracted with thoughts of the beautiful bartender. He’d allow Geralt to do whatever he wanted to him, no question.

Too bad it’s not gonna happen.

Jaskier tips the rest of his drink into his mouth, wishing for the first time there was alcohol to accompany the fruity flavors. This is ridiculous—there’s no way he can be genuinely disappointed at the unavailability of a man he hasn’t even spoken to. No, no, he just needs to pull himself together... Yen said he’d have options. Why not take advantage of that? This is his time to learn, to explore, to figure out what he likes for himself. He cannot, absolutely cannot get hung up on one man.

One breathtaking, mouthwatering man.

Ugh, come on, Jaskier.

There are new players on the main stage, and the dance floor is starting to fill with moving bodies. He’s drawn to it, the beat of the music pulling him in, and it’s easier than he thought it would be to bid farewell to Yen and Triss and make his way into the crowd. Music is like a first language to Jaskier—hell, it used to be his entire life, before reality set in. Now, he helps other people bring music into the world, relegating his own to late-night open mics and shoddily lit YouTube videos.

Still, he hasn’t lost his appreciation for it, for the ability to let the beat and the melody flow through him, moving his body of their own accord. It’s fluid, hypnotic, and before he knows it he’s sandwiched between two beautiful women wearing less material than his entire outfit combined. Plump lips brush against the shell of his ear, a proposition murmured hopefully, and he shakes his head, shimmying his hips in apology.

“Sorry, love. You’ve not got the right equipment, I’m afraid.”

A light giggle in response, and she only moves away a small bit, unoffended by his lack of interest. The music carries on, thumping through his veins, and Jaskier can feel the sweat building at his brow, slipping quickly between his shoulder blades, his body relishing the exertion, innocent as it may be for an environment like this.

He doesn’t know how long he’s out there, and he loses track of how many bodies he touches, how many touch him—when he looks back to his former table, Yen and Triss have moved on. He’s surprised by how okay he is with that; he’d expected to feel lost, floundering, and instead he’s just exhilarating in the music, in the breath that heaves in and out of his lungs.

He is rather parched, though.

Only one place to go to satisfy that particular craving, if none else.

Jaskier tamps down his instinctive nerves, sidling his way out of the sea of undulating bodies and heading for the bar. It’s late enough that most of the patrons have found entertainment—participatory or otherwise—to occupy them for the evening, so it’s deserted when he slides into a seat.

His heart thumps wildly as he stares at the broad back of Geralt the beautiful bartending demigod, rendering him speechless. He might be drooling a bit again, too.

“What do you want?” The gruff voice pulls him from his reverie, and Jaskier fights the shiver that skitters down his spine when he hears it. Fuck, of course he has a voice like that, straight out of a goddamned romance novel—

“I’m sorry, what?” Jaskier manages, his own lilting voice cracking unattractively around the syllables. Seriously? He’s a musician, this is just pathetic—

“What. Do. You. Want?” The bartender repeats, slowly and with loads more contempt than Jaskier’s blushing face can deal with.

You. Preferably naked. Fucking me so hard I forget my own name—

“W-Water, please,” he manages, suddenly grateful for the dim lighting that hides his furious blush.

“Still or sparkling?” The man grunts back, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, scraping a shaking hand through his damp fringe, no doubt pushing it back into hideous spikes above his hairline. He really needs to pull himself together.

“Ah, still... thanks.”

He’s just a man, Jaskier. A man who is not interested in railing you beyond comprehension. Get a grip.

Geralt places a glass bottle before him, and Jaskier has to force himself not to stare at the way the man’s long fingers flex around the container. Fucking hell.

“How much?” he asks, reaching for his wallet.

“Yennefer’s tab. Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt finally meets his eyes then, and Jaskier has to hold in an audible gasp at the gorgeous golden gaze that holds his, pinning him in place. What is air, anyway? He doesn’t need to breathe, he just needs Geralt to keep looking at him, through him—

The bartender turns away, breaking the spell and leaving Jaskier a trembling mess in his seat. Seriously, what is the matter with him? He’s never turned into the human equivalent of a puddle with any other man; why is it physically impossible to maintain any semblance of dignity in front of this white-haired walking wet dream? What happened to his usual confidence?

Jaskier focuses on the bottle in front of him, fiddling with the twist-off cap just to have something to do while he sorts out the tempest of thoughts in his mind. What he needs is to get his head back in the game and quit pining so pathetically over the very clearly uninterested man before him. Right. He needs a distraction.

As if on cue, a presence appears at his side, the man’s hand sliding along the back of Jaskier’s chair in a pseudo-embrace that brings his lips close to his ear.

“I couldn’t help but notice you dancing out there, shaking that tight ass like you were begging to have it spanked,” he croons, and Jaskier feels the tips of his ears burn hot.

“Erm, thank you?”

He leans closer, breath humid against his skin. Jaskier’s fingers slip through the condensation coating the bottle that’s gripped tightly in his hands.

“So, what do you say? Want to let me mark you up, baby? I promise not to be gentle.”

Corny, yes, but it’s pretty much what he's been wanting to hear, and based on his quick assessment of the guy, he’s certainly attractive enough to warrant a second look. Still, what comes out instead is this:

“Ah... thank you for the offer, but no thanks.”

The stranger’s lips curve downward, but he backs off, shrugging.

“Alright, then.”

Well, that didn’t go according to plan. Jaskier thinks he feels Geralt’s eyes on him; instead of meeting them, he stares at his hands, frowning. Why did he just say no?

He’s still sitting there twenty-ish minutes later, moderately drier and working on his second water when he’s approached again, this time by a woman in stilettos with heels so narrow they make him anxious for her ankles. A manicured fingernail drags down his neck and across his collarbone, teasing at the collar of his shirt.

“Hello, sweetheart. You available for a bit of fun?”

He’s less skittish this time in replying.

“Sorry, you’re lovely, but no thank you.”

She sighs before moving on.

“Mm, pity.”

Jaskier’s attention returns to his hands, and the doubts he foisted off so confidently before start to creep back in, pinching the corners of his mouth. Maybe it’s too soon to try this. Maybe some other day, perhaps in the distant future, when he won’t feel like he’s let himself down—

“First timer?” A familiar gruff voice asks almost reluctantly, drawing his attention upward into mesmerizing golden eyes.

“Am I that obvious?” Excellent. A full sentence, no stuttering. Progress.

Geralt shrugs.

“Could be worse.”

Jaskier’s lips twist.

“I suppose so. I’m sure you get plenty of the wide-eyed ingenues way in over their heads because they read a certain book that we shall not name,” he jokes, and Geralt grimaces.

“I hate that fucking book.”

“You and anyone else averse to toxicity and abuse, mate,” Jaskier returns, sipping his water delicately. He watches as Geralt deftly assembles a rather monstrous fruity concoction, adding it to a mostly full tray to be picked up and delivered to some lucky customer with no fear of hyperglycemia. "I'm Jaskier, by the way."

Geralt simply grunts his own name in response, starting on a new drink, this one somehow a vibrant blue.

“Where’d you learn how to make all these?” Jaskier prods, pointing a curious finger at Geralt’s handiwork.

“Took a course, got certified, removed the alcohol,” the taciturn man answers, his eyes not leaving his work despite the younger man’s desperate need to see them again.

“Ah, right. You’ve worked here a long time, then?”

The golden gaze flicks up to his, and for a second, Jaskier swears he sees a combination of confusion and amusement. It disappears when he blinks, leaving him to doubt if it was ever there at all.

“Since we opened.”

“Huh, no kidding? Good for you.”

Geralt sets the blue drink down in front of Jaskier, who lifts a single skeptical brow.

“What’s this?”

“Try it. It’s better than bottled water.”

Jaskier is pretty sure that’s as much enthusiasm as Geralt is physically capable of demonstrating.

With only the slightest hesitation (because he generally avoids drinks that come in primary colors), he lifts the tumbler to his lips. Cornflower blue eyes go comically wide as myriad flavors explode across his tongue, carried by a pleasant fizz that goes down smooth.

“Well fuck me Geralt, that’s delicious!” He blurts with a grin, and he swears he sees a minute smirk in response.

“Glad you like it.”

The music thumps lowly in the background, and Jaskier takes another swig of his drink.

“You were right, by the way. I’m new... to the scene. Brand new. Never been to a place like this before.”

If not for the minuscule quirk of a grey brow, he would think Geralt indifferent.

“Hmm. Thoughts?”

Jaskier scratches the back of his neck, considering.

“I think... I like it. A lot, actually. It’s different, but I’m more comfortable here than I’ve ever been at a mainstream nightclub. Somehow you lot balance sexual freedom and safe boundaries—it’s impressive.”

Still not a full smile, but a much more obvious upward curve from the man behind the bar. Jaskier resists the urge to glow with pride.

“Thanks. Good to hear.”

A couple steps up to the bar a few seats down from Jaskier, and Geralt moves away to help them, leaving him dangerously alone with his thoughts.

Great, look what you’ve done now. You’ve gone and developed a crush.

No, no, he’s smarter than this. He knows better than to want the unattainable.

So why do I keep saying no to perfectly good alternatives?

“Jaskier! How’re ya now? Seen anything you like?” Eskel greets with an unsubtle wink, his callused hand landing on Jaskier’s shoulder and jostling him a bit. Jaskier’s internal battle to keep his eyes off Geralt as he answers is hard-fought.

“Um, unfortunately… well, not to say they weren’t attractive, but I—“ he sighs, giving up. “No, not really.” He downs the rest of his drink, suddenly sullen.

“Shame, I figured folks’d be clamoring to pop your cherry.”

Jaskier chokes, nearly spitting his drink all over the bar top.

“Eskel! I am not a virgin!”

A hand appears before him, brandishing a napkin, and great, Geralt’s back, let it be known that Jaskier’s death via humiliation was fucking thorough—

“Eskel, didn’t we discuss not calling newcomers ‘virgins?’ They don’t like it very much,” the white-haired man says wryly, tossing him a chrome cylinder of some kind from behind the bar. Reusable water bottle, maybe? Eskel barks out a laugh.

“Oh yeah, forgot about that. Sorry kid, you’re just too fun to tease. Anyone ever tell you that you blush really easily?”

Said blush burns hot across his cheekbones, and he grimaces.

“No, but now I’ll be self-conscious about it for the remainder of my life, thank you,” he snarks back, earning a chuckle from the larger man.

“Should’ve known you had some brat in you, cheeky little bastard—“

Geralt clears his throat, drawing Eskel’s attention away from where Jaskier is puffing up in righteous indignation.

“How’s it been tonight? Any trouble?”

The DM shrugs.

“Not too bad. Escorted a drunk chap out—apparently he snuck in a flask, so I’ll have to have a chat with our man at the door about that.” He unscrews the lid to his water bottle, taking a generous pull before setting it down. “Yen wanted me to tell you she likes the new hands-free dispensers, by the way. Said they make cleanup loads easier.”

“Noted. I’ll put in an order for some more.”

As riveting as the shop-talk is, Jaskier can’t help but let his eyes wander, and of course with Geralt so close, they focus on the muscled length of his absurdly mouthwatering body. Fuck, Jaskier might be drooling yet again. Really, how does he look like that? He must spend hours upon hours in the gym, no? How many squats does it take to get leather pants to stretch just so over thighs that could surely crush his skull—

“-askier?”

He blinks back to awareness.

“Sorry, what?”

Eskel snickers, and Geralt studiously ignores him.

“Do you want another drink?”

Face flaming at being caught, he shakes his head.

“Ah, no, no thanks. I think I’m gonna go, actually—work tomorrow, and all. It was lovely meeting you both, er, say goodbye to Yennefer for me if you see her, alright?” He pats Eskel on the forearm, safest spot he can reach, hesitates once before viciously quelling the idea of touching Geralt, then makes his escape. Amazingly, he doesn’t even blink at the spanking happening on the main stage—how could he, when his mind is full of golden eyes and silver hair?

Shit. You’re fucked, Jaskier. And not in the fun way.

Chapter Text

Yen gave him a proper interrogation the next morning at work, and Jaskier didn’t have the slightest chance of keeping his crush a secret from her. Why did he even bother trying? The woman was like a witch, or something. Even now, she’s grilling him via FaceTime, fucking twelve hours later.

“What deep, masochistic part of your brain heard ‘no scenes’ and thought, ‘this will be the man I fixate on for the indeterminate future’?” she sighs, and Jaskier rolls his eyes, smoothing his fingers through his hair. His pomade is actually cooperating tonight, so that’s good news.

“I don’t know, Yen. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get over it. I’ll steer clear of the bar when I go back tonight, how about that?” he promises, but the little voice in the back of his head is currently tutting at him in disappointment. Making promises he can’t keep. When did Jaskier become such a fool?

“If you’re sure about getting a membership, I already vouched for you, so that should be a breeze,” she redirects, graciously relenting.

“Thanks. That cover charge would’ve drained my poor bank account.”

“Of course. Did you get the shirt I left on your desk?”

He runs the material through now-clean fingers, admiring the liquid feel of the silk.

“You know how I feel about expensive gifts, Yen.”

“You love them,” she insists, her tone leaving no room for argument. He sighs, tugging the material over his head and fiddling with the ties. The silk is a rich royal blue that manages to be vibrant without harsh brightness, cut into an almost medieval style, the deep vee of the neckline held in place by delicate ties that crisscross his pale, hirsute chest. He used to be self-conscious of the abundance of hair on his body, specifically his chest, but now—he scratches at it thoughtfully—it’s simply another part of him to love. Not to mention some of his past lovers have really appreciated it.

I wonder if a certain beautiful brute would like it—

Fuck, has he learned nothing? Jaskier shoots a withering glare down to his crotch.

Quit it.

“Alright, fine, yes, I love your gifts. It helps when they’re gorgeous, as well,” he allows, examining his reflection in the full-length mirror in the corner of his room. “Um, Yen, this is a deep neckline—“

“Yes, it’s perfect,” she purrs, grinning up at him from his laptop screen. “If you’re so insistent on getting fucked, I figure this will boost your odds.”

It extends past his sternum, and the only thing about the shirt feigning any sort of decency are the laces pretending to be helpful in holding it closed, but really leaving little to the imagination. Jaskier takes a deep breath, and his nipples threaten to join the party.

She has a point.

He fishes out a pair of dark jeans from his wardrobe, biting his lip as he does it. Does he dare add them to the ensemble? His new squat regimen has made them dangerously tight around his ass, and the way they cling to his legs borders on inappropriate… but then he remembers where he’s going, and his eyes swim with visions of tall, pale, and golden, imagining large hands bunching in the fabric, and his decision is made.

He yanks them on, hopping a bit to get them over the swell of his buttocks. Shit, who knew progress could be so rewarding?

“What else are you wearing? Let me see,” Yen demands, and he moves into view. She surveys him briefly before giving an approving look. “Very nice. If I still did twinks I’d be all over you, darling.”

His face reddens in response.

“Excuse me! I am not a twink,” he insists, just barely remembering not to muss his painstakingly styled hair.

“Uh huh, sure,” she scoffs, and earns herself another eye-roll.

“Just because I’m a bit, er, lither than some other men does not mean I’m a twink. If anything, I’m an otter,” he clarifies, and Yen makes a doubtful noise.

“Darling, that baby face of yours speaks for itself. I mean, you just look so innocent,” she explains, making his flush deeper. “On the bright side, that’ll be helpful if you’re looking for a man who wants to ruin you.”

His cock twitches in his trousers, knowing exactly who it is he wants to ruin him, and he runs a hand over his red face.

Stop it, you pillock. The last thing you need is to give the Uber driver an eyeful of boner.

“Alright, that’ll be enough of that. I’m heading off—will you be around tonight?”

She shakes her head.

“No, we’ve got dinner with Triss’s parents. You’re on your own for this one.” She gives him a serious look. “If you need anything, just call. I’m happy you’re taking this step by yourself, but I am always here for you, got it?”

He nods obediently, smirking.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s Yen’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Cheeky shit. I’ve got to go. Have fun!” She encourages, her smile filled with leery expectations that make him chuckle to himself. How did he manage to end up in a friendship with the scariest woman on the Continent?

This time, the woman working the door knows him, and he’s directed to a quiet side room to fill out membership paperwork, handing over his ID and payment information to be copied for his account. There’s a low buzz of excitement under his skin as he completes each form, giving his signature on the final line an unnecessary but oh-so-satisfying flourish. This is it. He’s officially a bona fide member of Kaer Morhen.

The employee helping him finally passes him a card, and he runs an appreciative thumb over the embossed surface. Heavy, matte black, and interrupted only by elegant golden script that reads “Member Access” on the front, with an unobtrusive barcode on the back.

“This card gives you regular entry permissions, as well as access to any Members Only areas in the club. It also works for locker rentals. You’re allowed a monthly running tab at the bar, just be sure to present your card. Use of your card means you recognize and accept the terms of use and rules of the club, including but not limited to all regulations regarding consent, prohibition of alcohol, and prohibition of mind- or behavior-altering substances. Any questions?”

The spiel is recited smoothly, and Jaskier bobs his head along with each word, ending it all with a firm shake. He’d read the paperwork carefully while filling it out, grateful for how thorough the process actually was. It makes him feel safer with being vulnerable here.

She gives him a polite smile.

“Good. If any queries do arise, please contact us via phone or email, both of which will be included in your welcome email. Otherwise, you’re good to go. Did you receive a tour from your sponsor, or do you still need one?”

He shakes his head, confirming the latter. It’s probably better to get a tour from a stranger than Yen anyway… Jaskier’s not quite up to witnessing debauchery alongside his friend yet.

Then again, considering all the porn she’s been recommending him lately, their boundaries are essentially nonexistent now.

“Okay, follow me.”

She leads him back out into the entrance foyer, through the main area of the club (of which he informs her he’s already familiar), and to a door at the back corner opposite Geralt’s bar.

Shit, and I was doing so well not thinking about him. Or his thighs.

Mm… thighs.

She gestures for Jaskier to press his card to the keypad beside the door, and is pleased to note the light flashing green before the door slides open. Together, they step into a stairwell, the thumping of the music muffled behind the door when it closes behind them.

“Elevator is just there. Do you mind taking the stairs? We try to reduce elevator traffic should patrons need it when coming down from the rooms.”

“Sure, I’m always up for cardio,” he jokes, trying not to wince when all he gets is another polite smile. Eh, tough crowd.

She takes the lead again, this time opening the door with a simple hands-free motion sensor, which she explains with a simple, “Safety precautions.” In the newly presented hallway, Jaskier’s face flames.

Windows line each side of the hallway, depicting various scenes playing out within individual rooms. The one closest to the door features an intense edging session that makes his throat go dry, especially when he sees a couple standing at the window, watching with interest.

“First floor are the ‘public’ playrooms. Each room can be reserved for play, which can be viewed by members and guests outside the scene. Some rooms have windows, others one-way mirrors. Open play is at the end of the hall, divided by interest and supervised by a DM. Room play is restricted to the assigned time slot to allow for proper sanitization between sessions.”

Jaskier follows her to the end of the hall, intrigued at the way the space expands into free play. The area was bigger than he expected, and he finds himself trying to map the floor plan in his head rather than gawk at the folks playing. He’s never been much of a voyeur, if he’s being honest. A redheaded DM about Eskel’s size monitors the activity, casually strolling between players, and Jaskier’s eyes widen yet again.

Are all the employees here built like brick shithouses?

Back in the stairwell, his tour guide points upward.

“Next level up are the private play rooms. They can be reserved for longer periods of time and are soundproof, but fitted with emergency call systems just in case a DM or medic is needed.”

Jaskier’s brows shoot to his hairline.

“You have a medic on staff?”

“All of our staff are certified in first aid and basic life support, and we keep an EMT on call during busy nights. We also have caretakers on site to provide adequate comfort or aftercare if necessary,” she confirms. Jaskier lets out an appreciative hum.

“Let’s go back downstairs, and I’ll show you the locker room and rental area.” Ever the obedient tourist, Jaskier follows her back down and to a new room, closer to the entrance, also bearing a card reader.

“Why’s this place locked?” he enquires.

“Regular rentals are exclusive to members. Non-members can pay for access per visit—it helps with cleanliness.” She directs him through the locker room, to another adjoining room that reminds him of a crime procedural TV program-style evidence room, complete with a very serious uniformed gentleman manning the desk. “Here you can rent out house gear, another member-exclusive perk. All gear is thoroughly sanitized before and after use, and as you may have noticed in your application, a clean bill of health dated within the past three months is required to rent. That, of course, can be uploaded directly to your account through our online portal.”

“Ah yeah, save the trees and all,” Jaskier mutters distractedly, eyes catching on some wicked-looking instruments behind the stern man.

“We take great measures to ensure our members’ and patrons’ privacy and safety. And yes, we do try to be as eco-friendly as possible,” she allows, and hey, he earned a bit of a smirk this time! Sweet relief. “With that, we’ve concluded your tour. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am,” he returns, and she tilts her head at him, eyeing him critically. “Thank you, by the way. You’ve been very helpful.”

“My pleasure. I’ll leave you to it.”

She departs immediately, and Jaskier tries not to flinch too obviously when Mr. Very Intense Toymaster clears his throat, scrambling out to the main room.

Heh, Toymaster. Jaskier, you comedic genius.

The pounding music is familiar, soothing, and despite his best efforts, Jaskier’s feet carry him away from the dance floor and directly to the bar.

Fuck me, you’re hopeless.

He plops carelessly into a seat at the bar, wincing at the tight pull of his jeans over his crotch. They may look great standing, but that waistband is doing questionable things to his internal organs in this position. Thankfully, it doesn’t take too long for a familiar silver-haired stallion to approach him, much to Jaskier’s delight.

“You’re back.”

Initiating unprompted conversation on his own? Someone’s in a good mood.

“Yep,” he answers too cheerily, popping the “p” and grimacing instantly after. What is it about this man that makes him act like such a dork? “Figured more exploration was in order.”

If he’s not mistaken, that was a clear twitch of Geralt’s lips, maybe even upward. Jaskier’s tempted to think it’s progress.

“Discovered anything interesting?” The larger man asks noncommittally, focusing away from Jaskier and on the glass in his hand, into which he’s pouring yet another brightly-colored concoction. This time it’s purple.

“Yeah, I’m pretty certain now I’m not into the doggy stuff.”

Geralt stills, and the clearly brilliant part of Jaskier’s brain that’s currently choosing his words motors on.

“Wait, no, that’s not what it’s called, is it? Hmm—puppy play! That’s it. Think I confused it with doggy-style, you know, which I’m all for if I’m being honest—“

You’re just vomiting words now, you proper moron.

Geralt sets the glass down, shoulders lifting in a deep breath. Ah, he’s annoyed. Jaskier knows he sometimes has that effect on people. He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, and more than ever he wishes he had something alcoholic in front of him.

“Anyway, sorry, bit of a tangent—could I get a drink, please?” It’s not booze, but maybe the sugar coma will put him out of his misery.

He gets a blank amber stare in response.

The silence lasts at least ten seconds before Geralt sighs, closing his eyes.

“What do you want?”

“Er—I dunno, surprise me? Make one of your little colorful potions please, I really like those,” he rambles again, and it’s almost worth it when he gets another lip twitch. Lovely reward, that.

Geralt turns away to gather ingredients, and Jaskier gets a wonderful view of his leather-clad ass again, truly a drool-worthy sight and more than enough to distract him from literally anything short of a nuclear blast.

Of course, the silence must be filled, and who better to do it than Jaskier himself?

“Canine-related epiphanies aside, I really was quite impressed with the place. Yen talked it up, but I’m not sure even she did it justice.”

He grunts in response, which Jaskier somehow interprets as encouragement.

“Everything is so clean and well-organized—not that I didn’t expect it to be, but still—“

“You expected a dungeon?” Geralt suggests, prompting a considering noise.

“I suppose? I don’t know. I mean, by no means am I against manacles, but I really appreciate how safe I feel. According to Yen, an unclaimed sub on the loose can get into some real trouble in the wrong place.”

“Yennefer has a twisted sense of humor,” he replies cryptically, sliding a fizzing green drink in place before the younger man. Jaskier takes an eager sip, eyebrows shooting upward.

“Dammit, Geralt, you’ve done it again. This is delectable.” He smacks his lips together, thinking out loud. “I can taste apples, very nice, but what is that other flavor?”

Geralt’s lips purse just enough to make Jaskier wish they were touching him somewhere, anywhere.

The thirst is too real. At this point it’s just permanent fucking dehydration.

“Ginger.”

“Is it really? Huh. Never would’ve thought of that.”

“You want to open a tab?” The muscled masterpiece asks, and Jaskier nods, patting at his pockets.

“Right, yeah... ah, here it is!” He hands his membership card to Geralt, whose face flicks from sudden surprise to careful blankness in a matter of seconds.

“You’re a member now?”

“Yeah, Yen recommended me.”

“Hmm.” He scans the card and passes it back into Jaskier’s waiting fingers. What a communicator this man is.

“I figured why not, you know? I really like it here, and maybe, I dunno, maybe I’ll find a Dom, or maybe I’ll just pester you into raising my blood sugar every night,” Jaskier jabbers, fingertips tapping nervously against his glass.

Prefer if he raised my blood pressure instead, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“If that’s your plan, then maybe I’ll sneak vegetables into your drinks so you can’t hold me responsible when those jeans don’t fit anymore,” Geralt grumbles back, and Jaskier can only manage a scandalized look in response. He’s fairly certain the bartender’s joking, about seventy-two percent certain in fact, but Geralt’s just done the emotional equivalent of poking a bear.

“Excuse me sir, are you implying I won’t be able to maintain my figure despite your little alchemical concoctions?” He stands up in a huff, running his hands along his sides from shoulder to hip. “I’ll have you know, I have an excellent metabolism.” Geralt doesn’t need to know what an effort putting on these trousers took.

The white-haired giant’s only response is to lift a skeptical eyebrow, eyes briefly flickering down the path of Jaskier’s hands, which have settled on his hips with an air of decided petulance.

“I’ve no doubt you think so.”

It’s said so dryly, Jaskier is sure he means the comment to sting, and that it does. The younger man barely refrains from gasping in offense, and opens his mouth to retort something equally as rude, before a hand trailing down his arm distracts him.

He turns to see a pleasingly handsome man, taller than himself, who gently pries Jaskier’s hand off his hip, lifting it to his lips to ghost a kiss across his knuckles and sending a blush burning over his cheekbones. Well-built, effortlessly wind-blown blond hair, warm brown eyes—

He looks a bit like a golden retriever.

Jaskier banishes the thought from his head, instead giving the stranger a winning smile.

“You’re captivating,” the strange man breathes, his answering smile almost shy. “Care for a dance?”

Jaskier shoots a glare at Geralt.

See, someone thinks I’m fit, you brute.

The stranger pauses, gaze flicking between the two men.

“Unless you’re already spoken for?” He adds uncertainly, and Jaskier gives a firm shake of the head.

“Oh no, love, he doesn’t want me. I’m not good enough, you see,” he sniffs, and the Puppy Man draws him close.

“I cannot believe that for a moment, not about a stunning creature such as yourself.”

The Labradoodle is a smooth talker, even if he does sound a bit like a Scrabble board come to life.

“Well if that’s the case, then I’d love a dance,” he croons back, giving the stranger another bright smile.

Suddenly excited, Fido yanks him toward the dance floor none too gently, leaving Jaskier’s head spinning when he pulls him close, slotting their hips together in a filthy grind that deepens the blush on his face.

Christ, he might as well be humping my leg.

Air Bud drops his face to the crook of Jaskier’s neck, and it might be attractive... if he weren’t sniffing so damn loudly.

“You smell amazing, sweetheart.”

Several minutes of this and the insistent pressure on his dick have Jaskier pulling back, still trying to smile encouragingly at the man, but at least getting himself some space to breathe.

He’s good-looking, strong—maybe not Dom material but perhaps good for a little release? It’s been ages...

“What’s your name, handsome?” He tries, earning a crinkle-eyed smile in return.

“Max.”

Of fucking course it is. 

No, Jask, get out of your head and just go for it.

“Max, how do you feel about kissing?”

His grin widens, hands tightening on the smaller man’s waist and reeling him back in. Yep, and that’s a hard cock against his hip. Max is very apparently interested. Is he… drooling? No, no, trick of the light, has to be—

Jaskier leans back in, eyelids falling to half-mast, and curves a hand behind the other man’s neck, directing soft lips to meet his own.

Somehow, the first thing he gets is tongue.

He tries for another angle, but Max’s tongue is still there, prodding away at the seam of his lips until he gives in, then slurping in without preamble or finesse. Jaskier can only ride it out for a few more moments before he pulls away again, schooling his features from disgust to something more neutral.

“Right, erm, that was lovely. I think—I could use some water. Thank you for the dance,” he chokes out, trying not to be too hasty in retreat and hurt the man’s feelings.

They always look so sad when they’re upset, tail tucked between their legs—

The bar is the safe zone, and Max lets him go without a fuss, instead waving happily and moving back into the crowd to find someone else to rut against. A water appears on the bar before him.

“Thought you weren’t into pet play.”

“Oh, fuck off, Geralt.”

He crosses his arms atop the bar, dropping his face to rest on them in defeat. Jaskier thinks Geralt will leave him alone to wallow in self-pity now, but surprisingly, the bartender leans closer.

“He wouldn’t have worked for you, anyway. Don’t beat yourself up.”

That has Jaskier lifting his head in curiosity.

“Oh? And how do you know we wouldn’t have worked?” He challenges the larger man. Geralt smirks.

“He doesn’t know how to properly handle a brat. You’d have taken control too easily and gotten bored.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops, face flaming, as it so often seems to around Geralt.

“Excuse me, I am not a brat.”

That skeptical brow quirks yet again.

“No?” He jerks a chin at the water in the younger man’s hand. “Why don’t you drink that entire glass for me then, if you’re such a good boy?”

Jaskier’s heartbeat ratchets up when the words good boy leave Geralt’s mouth, that gravelly voice of his far too dangerous for the former’s sanity.

That is just not fair.

Jaskier’s lip sticks out, petulance returned.

“You, sir, have made it clear you have no interest in domming me, so you can take your commands and shove them right up—“

Geralt’s lips twitch, and Jaskier realizes what he’s done.

He played you like a fucking fiddle, you idiot.

“Not a brat, huh?”

Jaskier sputters in response, his blush glowing brighter when rough fingers suddenly grasp his chin, preventing any escape when Geralt leans even closer, those piercing eyes stripping him to his core.

“Your submission should be well-earned by someone who deserves it. Don’t forget that.”

It’s only when Geralt pulls away that Jaskier remembers how to breathe, and immediately screws his open look of awe down into a frown. Smug bastard, thinking he has any say over his behavior, thinking he knows Jaskier from just a couple short conversations?

Hmph, I’ll show him just what I think of his assumptions.

Jaskier grabs his glass with maybe more force than necessary, tilting his head back and draining it in just a few gulps, his challenging glare fixed on Geralt so he can revel in the glory of his triumph.

He doesn’t expect the knowing grin on the pale-haired man’s face when he collects the empty glass, and the confusion on his face is easy to read.

“See? That is how you tame a brat.”

Cue the umpteenth jaw drop of the night and a fresh wave of heat across Jaskier’s face. 

Motherfucker.

Geralt moves away to help another patron before he can manage so much as an angry huff in response.

A chuckle from behind has Jaskier spinning around to meet the amused eyes of Eskel the DM.

“He’s an arsehole, isn’t he?” He asks, tone almost affectionate.

“Clearly,” Jaskier returns, fighting to keep the pout off his lips. “Manipulative bastard.”

“He’s not wrong, though,” Eskel adds. “Take it from me, or anyone who knows him well—Geralt was an amazing Dom. He knows his shit.” He slides into the seat beside Jaskier, lips twisting. “Which is why he can pull shit like that.”

Jaskier frowns.

“I don’t care if he’s the greatest Dom to have ever wielded a whip—fucking with me when we both know he isn’t interested is just rude.”

Surprise flashes across Eskel’s face.

“Er, not to sound like a presumptive dick, but don’t you think you hanging around the bar so much could be a bit of a play for his attention? You wouldn’t be the first to try it,” he says gently, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’ll be frank. He’s absurdly great to look at—I’ve got eyes, I know this. But when this is all a bit much—“ he pauses to gesture to the general vicinity of the dungeon, “—it’s nice to come over and chat with him. Even when all I get are grunts for a while.”

“So you don’t want to sub for him? You just want to what—be his friend?” Eskel looks near-disbelieving.

Jaskier shrugs.

“I don’t have to be told twice that he’s not interested in playing with me—that much is obvious. But I don’t see why being his friend would be off the table? Yen clearly loves him, and I love her, so he must be a good person, and I like being around good people.” His long-winded sentence finally trails off with a sigh. “I didn’t realize I looked like some desperate idiot trying to seduce him against his will. I wouldn’t push like that.” He rakes an anxious hand through his hair, destroying his earlier work in the process.

Eskel still looks confused.

“Hold on, has Geralt been... chatty? With you?”

Jaskier chuckles.

“When I drag it out of him, sometimes. He’s not nearly as scary as he thinks he is.”

Eskel lets out a deep-bellied laugh at that, clapping the smaller man on the shoulder.

“You’ve got to admit it, Jaskier—your brat energy is off the charts.”

Jaskier sighs, head falling back to stare at the dark ceiling in exasperation.

“Maybe out here, but... I did some research, and I have a feeling that my snark won’t translate to a scene. I’m not sure it’s what I want, you know?”

Eskel crosses his arms thoughtfully.

“You have a point there, but I’d caution you not to be too in your own head, if that makes sense?” He pauses, gauging Jaskier’s understanding, before continuing with a satisfied nod. “You won’t be able to turn off your personality completely, and your Dom probably won’t want you to, but you can embrace other facets of yourself in submission while not losing who you are. And that genuine, trusting submission is the key to the ultimate high, for both you and your Dom.”

Jaskier’s lips purse.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Ultimate trust is a lot more intimidating than playing a part. But maybe it could be even better?

Eskel tilts his head, once again reading Jaskier easily.

“Have you scened before?”

The younger man shakes his head.

“Have you had sex before?”

Jaskier sputters.

“What? How old do you think I am?”

Eskel grins.

“It’s just a question. And don’t blame me, you’ve got a young face.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I moisturize. And yes, I’ve had sex before.”

“Gender preference?”

It’s easier to respond with each question Eskel throws at him.

“Men.”

“Alright.” Eskel stands. “I want to try something, if you’re up for it. No sex, but a very light scene, so you can get a feel for submission on your terms.”

He extends a hand to Jaskier, who stares at it a moment.

Am I really considering this? 

... 

Yep.

Eskel is good-looking and clearly cares about his growth and wellbeing as a sub—what better way to pop his kink cherry?

He cringes to himself.

That sounded way less creepy when Eskel said it.

He takes the DM’s hand, allowing himself to be led away from the bar. Eskel winds through bodies, keeping a firm but gentle hold on Jaskier as he heads for the staircase to the playrooms.

They bypass the public floor, heading up to the private play rooms, and Jaskier follows Eskel near to the end of the door-lined hallway. The only discernible sounds Jaskier’s ears pick up are his own breath and soft music from invisible speakers.

“I’m sure you’ve already been told that these rooms must be reserved for private play,” Eskel begins, nodding to closed doors as they pass them. “It’s important you know that each and every playroom in Kaer Morhen has security cameras for the protection of the players.”

“Security cameras?”

He shrugs.

“Despite the warnings and waivers, some people don’t play safely, or something goes wrong and someone may seek legal action. The cameras ensure that DMs can monitor play remotely, and provide evidence should an accusation be made.” Jaskier notes that the corners of his mouth pinch briefly after that last sentence, like Eskel’s dealt with such accusations himself.

“Anyway,” the larger man continues, “There are a few rooms up here with access restricted to DMs and caretaking staff—either for scening or providing aftercare should it be needed.”

Jaskier’s head bobs in understanding.

“Got it. So say I have an intense scene and my Dom can’t provide aftercare...”

“Exactly what the caretakers are for. Another safety measure. Can’t have folks dropping without proper care, you know?”

Eskel stops them at a door, lifting his arm to a different kind of sensor to open it. It’s then that Jaskier notices the fancy smartwatch adorning the man’s wrist.

“Snazzy. Do all the staff have those?”

Eskel nods.

“Most do. Harder to lose, and they open every door in the building. They’re especially helpful if we have to intervene in unsafe play,” he explains, tapping the glowing watch face. “This thing doesn’t come off my arm unless I’m at home, and then it’s in a locked safe that only I can open.”

“Shit, you lot really aren’t messing about,” Jaskier blurts, making the DM chuckle.

“The owner is quite serious about our patrons’ safety. But that really makes it a great place to play, don’t you think?”

He leads Jaskier into the room, gesturing to the open floor in the center. The lighting is low, and the space relatively clear aside from a few pieces of matching leather furniture and one intimidating bench that he assumes is for spanking. It’s simultaneously comforting and intimidating, and Jaskier is sure the atmosphere swings either way per the Dom’s purpose.

“Alright, negotiation. Hard and soft limits?” He prompts, and Jaskier rattles off the list he’s memorized by heart. Eskel nods. “Good. Like I said before, I’m not planning on a physically sexual element to this play, but I may touch you. Is that alright with you?”

Jaskier nods, humming approval.

“Good. I would like to have you kneel, and restrain your wrists. Then we’ll do some talking, see how you feel. During the scene, you may address me by name, however I prefer ‘sir.’ We’ll use the stoplight system to keep things simple. Sound alright?”

Jaskier nods again.

“I need verbal confirmation, Jaskier.”

“Yes... sir.” The honorific rolls off Jaskier’s tongue with surprising ease, and Eskel smiles.

“Excellent. Let’s begin.”

He retrieves a thick foam pad and places it in the center of the floor, then steps away again, this time coming back with a pair of simple leather cuffs, wide and supple-looking.

“What do you think? In front, or behind your back?” He asks, lifting an eyebrow at Jaskier, clearly awaiting a response.

Holy shit, we’re really doing this.

The younger man gulps.

“Ah... behind my back, sir.”

Eskel’s brow lifts higher, smile widening.

“As you wish. Remove your shirt—we wouldn’t want to put a wrinkle in that silk.”

Jaskier finds himself automatically obeying, the awkwardness fading as he lets go, little by little, of the vice-grip on his sense of control. He can do this. Eskel is trustworthy, respectful... he’s perfectly capable of making decisions for Jaskier.

I want him to.

Jaskier pulls the material over his head, about to toss it to the side when Eskel tuts, his demeanor smoothly shifting toward authoritative.

“Fold it. We must take care of our things, Jaskier.”

There’s just the slightest hint of disapproval in his tone, and it makes Jaskier want to be better, to earn his trust as he’s earned Jaskier’s. He carefully folds the shirt over on itself, then hurries to place it where Eskel gestures, a low side table clearly intended for that exact purpose.

“Stand in front of the pillow, hands behind your back.” How is it that Eskel manages to carry irrefutable authority without sounding demanding? Maybe it’s the calm in his voice, how not a single word wavers. He’s confident in his ability to direct Jaskier, and the younger man is finding it easier and easier to follow each command precisely.

Eskel steps behind him, disappearing from view, and Jaskier feels first one, then a second cuff buckle around his wrists. His instinct was right—the leather is soft, buttery against his skin, and he feels himself sinking into the grounding sensation of being bound. His head drops forward into the feeling, taking slow, deep breaths.

“Very good.” The praise washes over Jaskier’s skin in a wave, prickling in the best way. The feeling is followed by a feather-light touch, fingertips dragging along the line of his shoulders that leave goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re on your best behavior right now, but I still say you’re a brat,” Eskel muses, and Jaskier can hear the smile in his voice. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Jaskier answers shakily, fingers flexing as he tests his bindings. He knows there’s a safety release, but the cuffs hold him firm. A hand wraps itself around his elbow gently.

“Kneel on the pillow.”

The younger man obeys, dropping slowly to his knees, grateful for the cushion between his joints and the floor. Maybe, with time, he could go without it—with the right Dom. Feel the unrelenting cold of the floor, but relish in it for his Dom, for his pleasure...

“Comfortable?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier nods, mind coming back to the present.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.”

Eskel continues circling him, each measured footstep nearly silent.

“You’re going to talk for me, Jaskier. And be truthful.”

The smaller man gulps, but nods all the same.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me why you’re here.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow.

“Sir?”

“Why are you here?”

“To... to be a submissive, sir.”

Isn’t it obvious?

“And why do you want that?”

Why do I want it?

Jaskier’s asked himself that hundreds of times, and he knows the answer, but it’s still difficult to say out loud.

“I... want to let go.”

“Elaborate.” Eskel’s voice is sharp, and Jaskier tenses in response, embracing the vulnerability and forcing the words out.

“My control. I want to let go of my control, to put it in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing better than I fucking do.” He whispers the final sentence. “I want him to take care of me.”

Years of fending for himself, wishing he had a sibling to share the burden of his parents’ attention, then subsequent ire and wrath after it was found he didn’t live up to their expectations, has made it so that he just wants to fucking let go of it all. In his mind’s eye Jaskier can see it, can feel strong hands pinning him down, restraining him, taking him apart and putting him back together again, taking over for him. Someone finally giving him what he so desperately needs.

A hand gentles its way through Jaskier’s hair, petting and quieting him. He can’t help but lean a bit into the touch, seeking the comfort after giving over his vulnerability.

“Color?”

Jaskier swallows. He’s checking in.

“Green, sir.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Jaskier.” He pauses, his hand stilling with him. “Tell me, what would you want from your Dom? What is your heart’s desire?”

The younger man’s breath catches. No, no that’s, that’s too much, isn’t it? Too personal to bear—

“You can trust me, Jaskier. I’ve got you,” Eskel reminds him, and he lets out a shaky breath.

I can do this.

“I... I like strong men. Men who are bigger than me,” he starts, chest heaving as he fights the instinct to keep his secrets. He can trust Eskel. “I want him to be able to overpower me, to wrap his hands around my wrists and pin me down beneath him. I want to feel small.”

He gulps, blinking. Every word comes easier than the previous one.

“I want him to take control of me, to press into me, to take anything he wants from me. I want to be shattered—“

He cuts himself off with a shiver, gooseflesh pebbling across his skin.

“Very good, Jaskier, very good,” Eskel praises, his hand resuming its petting through dark hair.

His next words come out wholly unbidden.

“I want him, sir. I want him.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen with the admission, and he prays Eskel doesn’t know what he means, who he means.

Fuck, I might as well have shouted his fucking name.

“Shh, it’s alright. That’s enough, Jaskier, you did very well.”

The Dom kneels down beside him, running comforting hands over his arms as he releases the cuffs, supporting Jaskier when he leans into his body and murmuring words of encouragement.

“Eskel.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” the younger man says sincerely, and he hums.

“Of course, Jaskier.” He leans in close, lips beside his ear. “If it helps, I think he’d say yes. He’d be an idiot not to.”

A searing blush burns across Jaskier’s face, and he sits back, scraping a hand through his sweaty hair. He breathes deeply, each inhalation drawing his pulse back down to normal.

“Well, what do you think?” Eskel asks, watching him closely. Jaskier knows he’s looking for signs of dropping.

“It was good, truly. I was surprised by how intense it felt, given the simplicity,” he answers, rubbing a hand across his jaw. The Dom gives him an encouraging nod.

“I find that sometimes you can get a lot out of scenes that are simpler—technically, they aren’t high stakes, but vulnerability doesn’t just have to be physical. Quite a bit of the scene is mental, as you found out.” He gestures to the younger man’s wrists, where Jaskier is running thoughtful fingers over barely pinkened skin. “Arms alright?”

“Yes, just… thinking.”

“Want to share? It might help to talk through it.”

Jaskier rolls to sit on his ass, ankles crossed over themselves. Eskel mirrors him. After a long pause, the younger man speaks.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Well, what did you like? Was there anything you didn’t like?”

Okay, simple. What did I like?

“Um... I liked it when you touched me,” he begins. “It was comforting.”

Eskel nods in response.

“Good. Many Doms use touch to ground a sub during a scene. I’m glad it worked that way for you.”

“Is that common? Doms reading their sub like that?” Jaskier asks.

Eskel shrugs.

“It’s helpful. The more you pay attention to your sub, the more likely you are to understand what they’re feeling, and direct the scene in a way that you’ll both be comfortable with. I knew I was pushing your limits with the blind honesty, so I had to watch you, comforting you when you looked like you needed it.”

“That makes sense.” And it did help, too. Especially when he felt unsure.

“Anything else you liked?”

A blush spreads across the younger man’s cheeks, but when he speaks, it’s without shame.

“Being restrained felt good. Being vulnerable with you, too.”

The Dom smiles.

“I’m happy you enjoyed yourself, Jaskier.”

He reaches back, snagging Jaskier’s folded shirt and handing it to him. Once Jask has it back on, he can’t help but wind his arms around Eskel’s neck, hugging him tightly.

“Thank you, Eskel. You’re a total sweetheart, you know.”

The Dom pats him gently where his hands rest on Jaskier’s shoulder blades.

“You’re very welcome. Now, let’s get you some water.”

Geralt can’t get the man out of his head. Fuck, he should’ve known Yennefer would do this, because she’s never truly been able to mind her own fucking business.

After everything that happened with Renfri, he knew getting out of the scene was the right thing to do. Scening is all about trust, and she annihilated his—he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to build that with another sub. Granted, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to.

And Jaskier, fuck... It’s like Yennefer climbed into his brain and gift-wrapped temptation for him. The moment he sat down at the bar, Geralt knew he needed to keep his distance, or he’d cave way too easily to that precious smile, those long fingers, fuck, those cornflower blue eyes that practically fucking twinkled with interest when they roved over him. Then he opened his mouth, and that should’ve been it, because Geralt isn’t even a little talkative, and the guy is a fucking chatterbox, but somehow he makes it charming. It should be annoying, and Geralt should’ve told him off from the start, or at least discouraged the interactions. He’s tried being rude, rebuffing flirtations, chasing the younger man away with his notorious glare and even worse attitude, anything he can think of to prevent himself from giving in to the temptation Jaskier presents.

Instead, he keeps making Jaskier drinks, and watching him light up, and feeling secretly pleased when he likes one of Geralt’s creations. The ultimate indulgence was teasing the man, tricking him to make a point of his bratty behavior and maybe satisfy some of the rampant Dom-my cravings Geralt’s been suffering from. Of course, it only made them worse, seeing the indignation and the pouting when the younger man realized he’d been hoodwinked.

He knows the kid has potential, real potential to be a fucking fantastic sub, and he has to kick himself every time he imagines Jaskier as his. Geralt’s already in too deep, that much was made clear when he nearly cracked a glass tonight while watching that canine man-child pawing all over him. Grabbing and grinding and lacking any and all grace when he should’ve known with a single look that Jaskier would respond to a light touch, to subtlety, that he should be handled like a delicate instrument, played artfully to bring out the most beautiful reactions. He deserved better than dog-boy.

I could give him better. I could wind him up to near-breaking, balance him on that tightrope...

Geralt shakes the thought from his head, brushing back a few escaped tendrils of silver hair that keep falling in his face. He can’t afford to do this to himself, to covet the man who deserves better than a broken Dom. But Jaskier seems to think himself Geralt’s friend now, so that’s what he’ll have to resign himself to. Even as he’s currently pathetically researching and crafting new mocktail recipes to try out on the kid, now that he’ll be around more often. 

Fuck, he should probably consider renaming his most recent concoction; answering questions about it can only end in embarrassment. Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose—this is quickly spinning out of his control, and he hates it.

No matter what, Jaskier getting a membership is an exercise in masochism for the Dom, and it seems Yennefer is determined to really test his resolve. If he didn’t love the pushy hag so much, he’d cut her off.

The buzz of his phone distracts him, calling his attention to a text from Eskel: “Can you review the footage from my session tonight? Think there might be an issue with the camera in my playroom.”

He growls to himself. Fucking manipulative friends he’s got, every single one of them. Geralt knows what Eskel is doing, because Geralt’s the one who served Jaskier his water when he and Eskel returned to the bar, the former flushed and happy, looking completely relaxed for the first time since he walked through Kaer Morhen's doors. But his hands are tied, because he really can’t ignore it if it’s a real issue, even if ninety-nine percent of his brain is telling him it’s a bullshit excuse to torture Geralt with footage of Jaskier subbing.

He clicks away from his growing Pinterest board for mocktail recipes and logs into their security system, keying in the temporary passcode that flashes on his watch. Eskel’s room only logged one session tonight, and Geralt’s heart pounds faster when he opens the video.

He doesn’t care what he has to do—dock his pay, put Nair in his shampoo, whatever—he’ll be getting revenge on his brother for this.

The footage starts the moment Eskel unlocks the door, per protocol, Jaskier following him in with wide eyes that scan the entire room. Geralt hardly listens to their scene negotiation, eyes glued to the way Jaskier’s body moves under the liquid silk of his shirt. The damned garment should be illegal, the way it emphasizes the entrancing blue in the man’s eyes and the broad, lean cut of his shoulders. Heat burns in his ears and below his belt when Jaskier peels the shirt off, exposing a hirsute chest that Geralt imagines running his hands over, tugging at the curls to make the sub gasp. Everything about him is long and lean and Geralt wants.

His breath catches when Eskel fastens the cuffs, unable to tear his eyes from the tense line of Jaskier’s back, muscles bunched so temptingly, beautifully. He looks fucking perfect when he kneels, so perfect that Geralt’s knuckles go white with how hard he’s clenching the armrests of his desk chair to keep his hands off himself.

Holy fucking shit.

After a minute, Geralt’s brain finally reboots, and he listens to what the men are actually saying—well, what Eskel is saying. Jaskier’s voice is breathy and warm and Geralt would do anything to have that in his ear, hear it say his name while the man is beneath him. Eskel is a fucking bastard for this, for making Geralt listen to each of Jaskier’s admissions when all he wants to do is personally fulfill every one of the kid’s desires. He could shatter Jaskier just like he wants, he could—

Geralt’s heart practically stops when Jaskier says he wants “him,” because his gut and wishful thinking are telling him that he’s talking about Geralt. Fuck, how he wishes he could be in Eskel’s place, running his fingers through Jaskier’s dark locks, supporting the weight of his lax body with his own. He doesn’t know what Eskel says next to the younger man, too low for the audio to pick up, but he closes out the window anyway, breathing deeply and feeling like he’s just opened a door he’ll never be able to shut.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Jaskier doesn’t go back to Kaer Morhen until the next weekend, and Yen keeps him away from the bar by giving him her own version of the dungeon tour, complete with viewing no less than three scenes in the public play area. By the time they’re done, he’s got sweat running down his back and several new phrases to Google.

“So how often do you two do wax play? Seems like a lot of work,” he muses aloud, leaning back into the cushions of their booth. Yen and Triss exchange grins.

“Depends. Sometimes the most fun part is taking it off when it sets,” the latter woman sighs, then eyes the chest hair peeking out of his shirt with a wince. “You might want to take some precautions if you ever try it.”

“Yeah, chest hair is a bitch. When I was learning how to do it, I practiced on Geralt and—“ Yen’s sentence cuts off abruptly with a look his direction, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. I can handle rejection,” he assures her, sipping on the last of the fruity drink she ordered for him while he was in the restroom. “Plus, I told you, I tried scening with Eskel and it was good. I don’t need to obsess over a man who doesn’t want me—"

“Refills,” a familiar gruff voice interrupts, and all of Jaskier’s assertions seem to abandon him at once when he looks up and meets golden eyes.

Shit, that’s a beautiful man.

“Geralt,” Yennefer greets, manicured hand resting welcomingly on his arm while the toe of her stiletto stabs into Jaskier’s shin.

I can see him, witch, stop kicking me.

“Hi Geralt! These look divine,” Triss interjects, reaching to pass out the glasses he’s brought. “New drink recipe?”

Jaskier takes the proffered glass, focusing his attention on the paper straw instead of the man in front of him. Geralt is about ten times more intimidating without the bar between them, and Jaskier can feel the weight of his gaze on him, heavy and intoxicating on his skin.

Would love to feel some other parts of him, too.

“Yes, thought I’d try something different,” the mountain of a man answers, and Jaskier ignores the fluttering low in his gut. He takes a sip of the golden drink, closing his eyes to savor the sparkling combination of lemon and peach that coats his tongue. Goddammit, the man has a gift.

“Interesting. You’re usually so stubborn,” Yen replies pointedly. “Perhaps you’re open to changing your mind about other things?”

And there’s that stupid sliver of hope in Jaskier, the one he just can’t seem to smother all the way no matter how hard he tries.

Geralt sighs.

“Don’t start, Yennefer.”

“I’m just saying—“

“And I’m just saying mind your own business,” he warns, gaze suddenly sharp enough to make even Jaskier sit up straighter. The man could easily command a regiment.

And now Jaskier is imagining him in uniform.

Ugh, I’m a fucking goner.

The scowl on Yen’s face is nothing short of soul-crushing, and Jaskier looks between the two Doms nervously.

“Are they always like this?” He mumbles to Triss, who giggles.

“They were even worse when they were roommates.”

“Roommates?”

That gains Geralt’s and Yen’s attention.

“It was ages ago,” the silver-haired god dismisses, and Yen hisses,

“Not that long ago.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, and a teasing glint appears in his eyes.

“Please, Yen, we all know your dermatologist does great work. You can admit that you’ve known me for—“

“Geralt, I will not hesitate to procure digital memories for the viewing of the table,” Yen retorts, eyes narrowed and brandishing her phone like a weapon. “Maybe some from your college days? You had quite the devotion to tequila and table-dancing.”

Jaskier’s walking wet dream raises his hands in surrender, chuckling in a way that ties the younger man’s insides in knots.

I would pay money to see that smile every day.

“Alright, no need to resort to threats. We’re all friends here.”

Yen gives him a smug smile.

“Thought so.” She tosses a wink at Jaskier. “He just doesn’t like people seeing his old mullet.”

“Yennefer,” Geralt grumbles, and she cackles at his misery, as the devious woman is often so apt to do. Jaskier at least feels better that he’s not her only victim.

And honestly, Geralt probably fucking rocked that mullet. The man is sex on legs. He could shave the top of his head like Friar Tuck and Jaskier would probably still tingle downstairs at the sight of him.

There is neither an ounce of shame nor dignity to be found in my body.

“Oh Yen baby, don’t torture the man. How’s he supposed to stay all big and scary if people know about his college hijinks?” Triss asks sweetly, breaking the tension.

Jaskier snorts, and three pairs of eyes snap to him, sending hot color high up on his cheeks.

“What? I just think it’s funny how everyone thinks he’s so scary,” he defends, dropping his voice on the last two words with a chuckle.

That was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the right thing, depending on how you look at it, because in an instant the man in question is looming over Jaskier, one hand on the table, one on the back of his seat, caging him in. Jaskier’s heartbeat ratchets up impossibly fast, lips parting as the larger man leans into his personal space, amber eyes impossible to read.

“Is that so?”

Jaskier gulps, stuttering for words as all the blood in his brain abandons it for his dick.

“I—“

“A lesser man would be tempted to teach you a lesson about respect,” Geralt continues darkly, making the younger man’s mouth go dry.

Then he remembers the water incident, and he decides to retaliate.

“A better man would follow through on his threats,” he returns, meeting that amber gaze with a petulant blue one. Something shifts in Geralt’s expression, and for a moment Jaskier thinks he might drag him over his knee right there.

Please do it. Fucking do it, big guy.

Then Geralt backs off, schooling his expression back to a disinterested neutral that makes Jaskier’s stomach sink. So much for tempting brat energy. If he was really so tempting, Geralt wouldn’t be tossing him aside with easy disregard.

Must be a fucking masochist to keep getting rejected like this. And, once again, not in the bloody fun way.

The elusive emperor of Jaskier’s fantasyland turns his attention back to the women, ignoring him in a way that makes the younger man want to sink through the floor.

Insignificance. That’s what it is. I’m not even worth the trouble to him.

“Can I count on you two for next week’s showcase?” Geralt asks Yen, and it’s fine, Jaskier is invisible, whatever.

“Of course. Can’t miss an opportunity to indulge Triss’s exhibition kink,” she answers, devilish smirk firmly in place. The redhead in question has a matching grin in place.

“I’m ashamed of nothing. By the way, thanks for that flogger recommendation, Geralt. It was amazing,” she gushes.

Jaskier’s eyes widen, then close as soon as his idiot imagination puts a flogger in Geralt’s hand and himself on his knees at the man’s feet, panting and begging for mercy that won't come.

I need to fucking get a hold of myself.

“You’re welcome. It’s an excellent brand,” he replies, gruff as ever.

“Maybe we’ll bring it next weekend,” Yen muses, tapping a manicured nail against her chin thoughtfully. “I already promised Triss the paddle though, so perhaps we’ll make some rearrangements.”

“I don’t mind a little flexibility,” Triss returns with a cheeky wink.

Jaskier gets a wary feeling down his spine right before Yen turns her disarming violet gaze on him.

Is this how field mice feel right before they get snatched up in a falcon's talons?

“Maybe our lovely Jaskier could participate? You could do something light, and I bet Eskel is free—“

“Eskel’s booked,” Geralt snaps. “And novices are dangerous to put on stage.”

If possible, Jaskier slumps further into his seat, doing his absolute damnedest to disappear. He’d rather be anywhere but here right now, his fingertips digging into his thighs to try and distract himself from such a callous dismissal.

“Oh come on Geralt, everyone loves fresh meat. And look at him, I bet they’d love to see that pale skin all pink—“

“I said no.” The gruffness has transformed into a deeper snarl, and Yen rolls her eyes.

“You’re no fun.”

Jaskier can see this escalating, and he wants nothing more than to stop it from happening. Especially because it seems he’s at the center of it.

“Yen, really, it’s fine.”

She lifts a critical eyebrow at him.

“I don’t think you should be barred from joining just because this cranky knobhead—“

“Yennefer, seriously, he’s not stopping me from doing anything I want to do,” he interrupts, holding up placating hands.

What’s the point? He won’t be the one domming me.

Her crossed arms indicate her irritation, and Jaskier knows she can see the nerves in his eyes. He has a healthy fear of the woman, and she knows he’ll snap like a twig under the slightest pressure.

“I don’t understand why you two insist on being so utterly boring,” she pouts, and Jaskier resists the urge to scoff, as if they weren’t just discussing paddles and floggers and exhibitions in the middle of a BDSM club.

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to continue bearing that cross,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier snickers, quieting when those keen amber eyes flick to him. He directs his gaze back down to the table, willing Geralt to look somewhere else, anywhere else. “I’ve got to get back to the bar.”

With that, he’s gone, and despite the relief of the burning amber gaze’s departure, he’s back under the scrutiny of his favorite purple-eyed monster.

“You were saying? Something about not obsessing...?”

“Yen, please,” Jaskier mumbles, cheeks blazing with humiliation. At this point, he knows in his core that Geralt must resent him being here, making things awkward in front of Yen and Triss. He is the interloper Geralt obviously dislikes, ruining things right and left, and a sickening combination of guilt and embarrassment turns his stomach. 

Yen must see the change in demeanor, because she drops the teasing tone immediately.

“Jaskier, are you alright? What’s wrong?”

He downs the last of his drink, sliding out of the booth.

“I’m just tired. Think I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll see you both later.”

“Jask—“

But he doesn’t stop to listen to what she has to say, just shoves his hands in his pockets and hastens for the exit, head down to hide his bereft expression. The burning heat in his face has traveled to his eyes, and if he’s going to cry, he’d rather do it in the comfort of his own fucking home.

“You’re a fucking arsehole,” Yen greets him, and thankfully enough of the patrons have headed home for the evening that he doesn’t have to worry about someone overhearing.

“Is that so?” He returns, not really interested in hearing where she’s going with this. He’d rather focus on closing out the register and escaping to his own apartment to wallow in solitude.

“You shouldn’t toy with him if you’re not going to dom him,” she continues, and he sighs, giving her his full attention.

“By that logic, you should be leaving him the fuck alone, too.”

Violet eyes narrow, and her frown deepens.

“I was trying to get you to see past your own stubbornness,” she growls. “He’s perfect for you, and you know it.”

“I can’t trust anyone to be perfect for me, Yen. That’s why I don’t scene anymore,” he reminds her, none too gently.

“He could be! That’s why I introduced him to this place—well, part of it, anyway.” She shakes her head. “Jaskier’s sensitive, Geralt, and he likes you. Enough that I could see when the shit you pulled tonight really hurt him.”

Guilt twists in Geralt’s chest, and the memory has him flashing back to another, to the hurt look in Renfri’s eyes... the look that had turned on its head so quickly, it left him dizzy. He can’t risk that again. Especially not with Jaskier.

“I’m sure he’ll recover. He’s not short on interested Doms," he dismisses, remembering Eskel’s video session bitterly.

He still hasn’t gotten his revenge for that.

“Which wouldn’t be a problem, except that he’s not interested in them,” she counters.

“Seemed to do just fine with Eskel.”

Yen huffs, glaring at him.

“Why won’t you at least give him a chance? What if he’s exactly what you need to get back in the game?”

He reels on her.

“I’m not using Jaskier like that. Not ever.”

He's not a rehab for fucked-up Doms. He's too good for that.

She lifts a thoughtful eyebrow, looking annoyingly victorious.

“So you do care. At least a little.”

Geralt barely refrains from baring his teeth at her.

“Yennefer. Mind your own business. I won’t ask again.”

She knows that tone. And she knows it means he’s resolved.

Yennefer shakes her head at him, her glare full of brutal disappointment, before sweeping away without a goodbye.

Yen is the last patron to leave, and as Geralt closes everything down, he sighs. This wouldn’t be so hard if he wasn’t actually interested. But Jaskier... he has this energy to him, like there’s a surprising amount of wisdom behind those playful baby blues. It makes him magnetic, makes Geralt’s inner Dom want to grab on, pull him apart, and put him back together, then do it all over again. He can only imagine what those delicate features look like twisted up into blissful agony, then melting relief, and it has his fist clenching to stop himself from taking the fantasy further.

He can’t open this door again, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how much the idea of another Dom taking Jaskier’s submission prickles his nerves. No matter how much he wants to hear that little lark sing for him, just for him.

“Hey, I need to talk to you.”

Geralt looks up at him, clearly surprised to see Jaskier here. It’s just after opening, early in the evening before most patrons arrive, a time Jaskier chose on purpose.

He needs to get everything out on the table. Er, bar top.

Whatever.

“What do you want, Jaskier?” Geralt asks calmly, too calmly. Fuck, how can he act like he doesn’t care, like Jaskier’s feelings mean nothing? It's had him dwelling on every interaction for days, and it doesn't make sense, doesn't line up with what he knows about the man. Why does it have to be Jaskier he's so fucking callous with?

“Yen is my friend, and you’re hers, and I—I think we need to communicate what’s going on here.” He rakes a hand through his messy hair, jostling the hood covering it. He’s not dressed for a night out; instead, he’s covered head-to-toe in sweats that feel like they’re hanging off him in the least flattering way. But fuck it, he didn’t come here to socialize.

I’m here to figure out what the fuck his problem is.

“What do you think is going on here?” Geralt retorts, frowning as he stocks the bar. As far as revealing his true feelings about Jaskier, it doesn’t bode well, but he soldiers on.

“I don’t know, Geralt. Did I do something to offend you?” He sighs. He didn’t come here to throw accusations—he’s trying to clear the air, dammit. “It’s just, the way you behave toward me—“

“I treat you no differently from any other customer,” he interrupts, wiping down a glass and refusing to meet Jaskier’s eyes.

“I—It’s just that, I thought, maybe—“

“What? That we’re friends? Just because of Yen?” The bartender challenges, and Jaskier balks.

“Well I, I suppose that yes, that could be—“

“Do you think I haven’t noticed? How you show up here, sitting at the bar, bending over backwards trying to get my attention?” Geralt asks, sounding almost bored. “I know Yen told you I don’t scene anymore, but every time you’re here, you insist upon coming over here to bother me. What about that makes you think I’d want your friendship?”

“Jesus, Geralt—"

“You’re not the first person to try and worm their way into my life,” Geralt continues. “What makes you think you’re so special that you’d actually succeed where all the others failed?”

A long silence stretches between them, Jaskier’s pulse thundering in his ears as the humiliation drowns his confidence once again.

Apparently I’m not fucking special if you despise me so much.

“You know what?” The younger man asks, throat thick with building tears. He wants Geralt to hurt, to feel even a fraction of the indignity he's inflicted on Jaskier. “I don’t know what Yen sees in you. All I see is a bitter, old bastard of a man with walls built so fucking high that it’s only the mile-long stick up your arse that lets you see over the top.”

Geralt's glare is vicious.

“Says the man so desperate to be liked that he persistently throws himself at me despite every indication that I’m not interested,” he bites back, hands braced on the bar before him, golden eyes like fire that sear his pride.

He’s not wrong.

Why did I think this would work?

What, did I think I could make him like me? What the fuck was I hoping for?

The tears choking him prevent any kind of retort, and Jaskier hates this, he hates that this is what he’s reduced himself to.

This is what vulnerability gets you.

"Fuck you, Geralt,” his wavering voice barely manages, and then he turns on his heel, feeling like a coward and a fool and unable to stomach the older man’s cutting hostility for another moment.

Chapter Text

When Jaskier’s self-pity peters out, anger replaces it. He’s been through this before, relationships that brought out his self-doubt and wore at his confidence. He won’t be reduced to emotional rubble by yet another man who doesn’t see his value, no matter how tight said man’s leather pants are. He's fucking better than that.

Fuck those stupid, sexy pants and the man who wears them.

Still, his pride stings, so he avoids Yen’s entreaties to come back to the club during the week, citing whatever excuse he can come up with: work, laundry, sick relative, indigestion... the list goes on. It’s not that he isn’t grateful for her help, but he’s not in a good headspace to see Geralt. This stupid crush won’t go away despite the man’s fucking abysmal behavior, and everything hurts, and he’d rather sit at home binge-watching shitty dramas on Netflix and eating cookie dough than face the man’s scorn.

On Friday, after days of this, he feels gross and unkempt and finally pulls himself together to shower and purge his kitchen of all the garbage he ate throughout the week. Progress. He still feels like hammered shit, but it’s progress.

Saturday brings a new challenge—Yen is expecting him at the club tonight, no excuses allowed, because he already promised to watch her and Triss’s exhibition in the showcase and there’s no backing out now. So... what to do?

He figures he has two choices: one, go to the club and pretend like everything is normal and he’s not angry and hurt and resentful around Geralt, or two, dress to the fucking nines, avoid the bartender completely, and find a hot guy to fuck some endorphins into his system.

Option two is looking pretty good.

He has the perfect outfit, too—he bought it on whim a while ago, and he’s been wanting to try it out, but he’s been too chicken thus far. So why not tonight? What the fuck has he got to lose, anyway, with his pride sufficiently pulverized by that judgmental cretin behind the bar?

He slips it on, carefully fastening it, and instantly feels a little better. Jask doesn't need that insufferable jerk, not when he's wearing something like this. There's a graceful elegance to it, and apart from that, it makes him look fit as fuck. The lace is feather-light, good quality so it’s not itchy, and the black contrasts beautifully with his pale skin—Yen actually helped him pick out the bodysuit, pointing out that the high-neck halter showed off the lean muscularity of his shoulders and arms, and the lace was just thin enough to make his nipples visible but not apparent, what she called “sultry as opposed to slutty.”

Because, quoting her, “you can always work your way up to slutty, love.”

He covers his legs in ripped black jeans that are almost more skin than denim, then dons his favorite pair of custom Docs—classic black with an intricate embroidered buttercup design on the sides. They cost him pretty penny on Etsy, but what better way to represent his namesake than something both badass and beautiful? His pièce de résistance is tousled hair and a ring of black kohl around his eyes that give their blue depths an ethereal pop, with a subtle swipe of tinted lip gloss to make his lips look fuller, poutier. He’s been called a brat so many times, he might as well look the part, no?

When he looks in the mirror, he likes what he sees, but nerves still knot in his gut.

A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.

He scans the contents of his fridge, hoping for a beer, maybe a spritzer, and spots a gift he received from a coworker on his birthday. Little circular pre-mixed drinks that look like tennis balls: BuzzBalls. Heh, cute. They should do the trick.

He pops the top on one, downing it in a couple gulps, surprised that he likes the sour taste. Before he can think better of it, he chugs another, then orders himself an Uber to the club.

Showtime.

Kaer Morhen is way more crowded than usual—the showcase must be a big draw—and his membership card gets him past the overwhelmingly-busy security at the entrance with ease.

Lucky, because the alcohol is taking effect, and if the bouncer had been paying attention, they’d have noticed his smile is a little too wide, his cheeks a bit too rosy, and his eyes glazed with more than just enthusiasm for the show.

He doesn’t see Yen or Triss anywhere, but the lights are low, the bass is thumping in his chest, and the alcohol is loosening his limbs, drawing him out to the dance floor. Jask closes his eyes and gives himself over to the music, the one thing that’s never abandoned him in his life, never hurt him, and he pays no mind to the hands that grasp at him, the crotches that grind against him, or the lips that press into his exposed skin. He just lets the music take him wherever it wants—so long as it’s not near the goddamned bar.

Finally, when he’s out of breath and there’s a light sheen of sweat covering his skin, the lights drop and the emcee’s voice booms out over the crowd through the speakers.

“Welcome, all of you lovely, kinky folks, to the night you’ve been waiting for: the 6th Annual Kaer Morhen Showcase!”

A cheer sweeps through the attendees, and Jaskier snorts to himself.

How enthusiastic for a crowd of sober folks. Must be fucking nice.

“Tonight I, Lambert, your favorite DM, will be your beloved host as we explore everything our gorgeous volunteers have to offer us. To kick things off, we have Simu and Lizzie, who’ll demonstrate for you the marvels of candle and flame!”

Another cheer erupts from the people around him, and Jaskier wishes the music would rise again so he could let it consume him, so he could forget every insecurity and unfulfilled wish and just dance. He weaves through the gathered crowd, irritated, heading for the outskirts of the room where the sea of bodies isn’t so thick and stifling.

He’s maneuvering past a booth when a manicured hand reaches out and grasps his arm, making him jerk back.

“Hey love, watch your fuckin’ claws—"

“Jaskier, we’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Yen interrupts, reeling him in and forcing him into the booth beside her. “What on earth have you been doing?” She rubs a finger along the curve of his neck, and it comes away fuchsia—must be a lipstick smudge.

Weird, he doesn’t remember how he got that.

“Dancing, babes, what else? Well, at least until they turned it off for Mr. and Mrs. Wax Play,” he grumbles, rubbing absently at the mark until his hand comes away clean. “Are you going to finish that? I’m absolutely parched.”

Triss slides a glass of water his way, a frown marring her lovely face. Yen looks blisteringly furious.

“Are you fucking drunk?”

“Nope,” he answers, popping the p with a loopy grin. “Just tipsy.”

“I can’t believe this. You’re not this bloody stupid.” She turns to Triss. “We're on soon. Is there anyone who can watch him while we’re up there? Maybe Eskel—"

“If we tell Eskel, he has to kick him out,” the redhead replies. “I’m not comfortable with sending him home alone—are you?”

Yen’s lip curls.

“Fuck. We can cancel with Lambert, give our spot to someone else—"

“Ladies, beautiful, wonderful doves—well, maybe Triss is a dove, Yen babe you’re more of a raven, I think, not an insult, just an observation, of course—don’t you worry about me! I’m doing swell, having a blast! Don’t ruin your night for a sad sack like me,” he chuckles without humor, waving off their concern. Yennefer shakes her head.

“Jaskier, you were stupid enough to come here wasted, but we’re not stupid enough to let you do something reckless.” Her surprisingly strong hand curls around his arm again, hauling him with her. “Come on, both of you, we need to find Lambert.”

Jaskier ambles along with them, whistling a nonsensical tune to the beat of a whip cracking onstage, until they come upon a giant redhead of a man in the typical DM uniform—including the usual thick bands of muscle and characteristic smirk. That smirk becomes a lascivious grin when he catches sight of the trio.

“Yennefer, it’s unlike you to change things up last minute—it’s fine though, we can work with a third.” His eyes skim over Jaskier, smile never faltering. “Especially when they look like him.”

“We’re not adding him,” Yen explains, exasperation loosening her grip on the inebriated musician.

“You’re on next. Don’t tell me you’re bailing on me,” the emcee returns, smile replaced by a frown.

“Listen, I know it’s late notice—“

Jaskier slips from her grasp and into the crowd, disappearing in a swell of bodies with just a hint of Yen’s cursing voice reaching him when she realizes he’s gone. He doesn’t want to ruin their show; he just wants to have a little fun. He's tired of feeling like shit, feeling unwanted, and this is his opportunity to forget those feelings and just enjoy himself for once.

Lambert’s voice carries over the crowd, announcing a short break before the next performance, and Jaskier hides in the wave of people heading for the bar, figuring he’ll squeeze in at a high-top and avoid his female pursuers until they give up and leave him the fuck alone. He’s annoyed; after all, Yen made him come tonight, so why can’t she give him a fucking break?

She gets to have fun, so why can’t I?

After a few minutes, he deems it safe to leave his hiding spot, and weighs his options. He’s about to wander up to the public play area to see if anyone’s up for grabs when a body sidles close into his, the man leaning into his space and eyeing him curiously.

“Hello, there. You’re a lovely one, aren’t you?”

Jask barely refrains from scoffing directly in his face.

“Obviously, darling.”

Ask a stupid question, get a snippy answer. Simple maths, mate.

The stranger smiles, looking every bit the predator he seems to think he is. Jaskier squints at him—he’s not exactly good-looking, but at least wiry, and well-built enough that he might have enough stamina for more than one go. Solid maybe.

Standards aren’t high right now.

“Well, lovely little flower, you’ve got some thorns, haven’t you?” There’s beer on his breath when he speaks, but Jaskier’s sure that he smells pretty alcohol-soaked himself, so can’t really fault him for that, can he?

You should, dumbass.

That internal voice of reason is such a bitch sometimes.

Why couldn’t it have intervened when he was humiliating himself in front of the literal man of him dreams/wanker of all wankers?

“My partner and I have a playroom reserved upstairs... care to join us, gorgeous?” His fingers curl around the back of Jaskier’s neck, pulling him along even before his halfhearted shrug in response. Jask wasn’t really looking for a threesome tonight, but whatever, he’ll settle for anything at this point.

Anything that allows me to stop thinking for a few minutes.

The stranger guides him to the stairwell, one hand trailing down his exposed spine, cupping his ass through his jeans.

“Getting a bit handsy there, mate,” he comments, swatting the man off. “Grabbing my arse and you haven’t even told me your name.”

“You can just call me Master for tonight, little flower.” He at least seems to register Jaskier’s growing reluctance, moving his hand to capture his wrist in a disconcertingly secure grip instead.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, and Master Egomaniac drags him along, nearly at the first-floor landing.

“No judgment, but I don’t really do the slave kink thing. Rather call you by your name.”

“Mm, don’t make me beat that attitude out of you, boy.”

There’s a tone change we don’t like.

Alarm bells go off in Jaskier’s head, and as he reaches the landing just steps behind Master Dickhead, he realizes that this is truly a bad idea. 

I want to leave.

“Don’t worry that pretty head, pet. I think you’ll look lovely all nice and red.”

Jask stops abruptly, jerked forward a step before Master Bellend comes to a halt.

“You know, on second thought, I think I’ll be rejoining the party downstairs—"

“Don’t be scared, little flower. We won’t hurt you... much.” His hand readjusts more tightly around Jaskier’s wrist, no doubt feeling his rapidly increasing pulse.

“Really, I think—"

“No need to think. I’ll think for you. Now, come along,” Master Arsehole orders. Jaskier’s head swims with confusion.

Why isn’t he listening?

“Wait, no, I don’t want—“

“What—?”

“Let me go, fuck, red, red—"

He yanks at the man’s hold on him, stumbling off-balance as his panic increases.

“What are you—hey!”

The shitty Dom’s eyes widen at Jaskier’s sudden struggling, likely surprised by his show of strength.

“Get the fuck off me—"

With his free hand, he throws a haymaker punch at the man’s stupid fucking face.

But rather than take the blow, Master Fuckwit releases him, shoving him away, and it takes Jaskier’s drink-addled brain a split second too long to register that he’s staggered back into empty air.

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t remember much about falling, only that despite being mere moments, it felt like hours. Impact after impact on his body, a particularly brutal blow to one of his knees, and a single haggard breath are all he recalls before landing hard at the base of the stairwell.

By some miracle, his shoulder takes the hit that should’ve knocked him unconscious, but the pain still blurs his vision. Agony radiates in a deep ache all over his body, and Jaskier can’t focus enough to catalogue his injuries—all he can bring himself to do is groan, blinking up into the dim stillness of the stairwell.

Hasty footsteps echo down to him, that shitstain of a Dom shouting for help and making his head throb.

I will rip this motherfucker’s tongue out with my bare hands if he doesn’t shut up—

“Hey, what the fuck man, are you okay?” All the false bravado from before is gone, replaced by panic, and thankfully Jaskier’s eyes are one of the few things that don’t hurt, so he rolls them.

“Unghhh…”

“Hold still, maybe I can—" His hand reaches out, and Jaskier tries to flinch away, not making it more than a few inches.

No, don’t fucking touch me, don’t—

“Stop moving, you—oi, what the fuck?”

Jaskier looks up, blinking blearily, to see Master Pisshole’s hand caught in an unbreakable grasp, and a very, very angry Geralt standing above him.

“You will not touch him,” he snarls, squeezing hard enough that the man before him grimaces in discomfort.

Jask has never heard Geralt use this tone before—commanding, authoritative. If he wasn’t the human equivalent of roadkill right now, confusion and fear tanking his adrenaline, he’d be intrigued.

“Membership card. Now.”

The shitty Dom hands it over without a fight, and Geralt glances at it quickly before pocketing it.

“There’s a very strict policy regarding consent in this club. As a member, you know that scening with an intoxicated individual is prohibited under that policy.” He states coldly, releasing Master’s wrist with a look of disgust. “Eskel, escort him out. His membership has been revoked.”

The offender looks ready to protest, but then the DM steps forward, and he shrinks at the sight of the two intimidating men side-by-side. When they’re gone, those amber eyes fixate on Jaskier, who can’t seem to stop shivering, tears gathering in his eyes.

“Geralt…”

Geralt drops to his knees beside Jaskier, and the injured man can’t help but think he looks like a fallen angel, pale hair dangling down toward him and golden eyes gleaming as they rake over him.

He shifts, trying to sit up, but a whimper escapes him when his injuries throb in protest.

“I... I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he sniffs, curling a hand in the older man’s shirt. “Please, I’m so sorry.”

Geralt’s chest aches when all the younger man manages to do is pull himself up by the shaky grip on his shirt, tears escaping his eyes.

Fuck.

The gaping holes in his jeans make it easy to see that one is an ugly shade of red, rapidly swelling and stretching the confines of the few strings left connecting either side of his pant leg. The sight has his fist clenching, wishing he could put it through that pathetic excuse for a Dom’s face. He already nearly broke the man’s wrist for daring to touch Jaskier after what he did—if he sees him again, it’s open fucking season.

“Jaskier, you shouldn’t move. Wait for Eskel to get the EMT.”

“Mm, hurts,” he groans, burying his face into Geralt’s chest. As much as he wishes he could gather the kid into his arms and protect him, he’s worried about internal injuries, and the last thing they need is a jostled spinal injury.

“Geralt…” he’s back to whimpering, and the sound has the older man’s heart in his throat, constricting painfully.

A slight commotion at the entry to the stairwell can’t pull his eyes away from Jaskier, and it’s only when he hears a familiar voice that he finally looks up to meet his daughter’s gaze.

Ciri is all business, dropping her medical kit beside her and deftly withdrawing various instruments.

“What happened?” She asks, cursory glances showing her no blood or critical injuries.

“Fell down the first flight of stairs,” Geralt answers, trying to gently detach Jaskier’s fingers from his shirt so Ciri can connect the monitor.

“Did he lose consciousness?”

“I don’t think so. I came in just as he was pushed.” Shame rolls through him when his mind replays the scene—Jaskier falling as if in slow motion, and Geralt frozen in place, feet rooted to the ground by the paralyzing fear that shot through him until that idiot tried to touch him. Then, he’d snapped.

Ciri wields a small flashlight, shining it into squinting, bloodshot eyes.

“Sir, can you tell me your name?”

Jaskier groans, turning his face away from the light with a distressed sound.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he recites, and Geralt’s relieved to see lucidity returning to his eyes. “Jaskier, if you know me better than my parents. So basically everyone.”

Geralt huffs. At least he’s functional enough to still be annoying.

“Jaskier, can you tell me what day it is?” Ciri continues.

“So far, possibly the worst Saturday of my life.”

Ciri ignores the sarcasm, instead focusing on each of Jaskier’s limbs and asking clarifying questions. Nothing broken, as far as she can tell, just a bad bruise to the right knee, and several others scattered around the rest of his battered body. She tests reflexes and pain responses despite Jaskier’s insistence that he didn’t hit his head or neck in the fall, only satisfied when he forces his way into a more stable sitting position.

“I should take you in for evaluation,” she begins, and he protests immediately.

“No, no, I’m fine. Just a little banged up. I don’t want to spend the night on a gurney in a hospital hallway,” he insists, making Geralt clench his teeth. If Ciri says he needs evaluation and imaging in a hospital, then—

“Alright, then I’m going to need you to sign this form stating that you refused treatment against medical advice,” she returns, holding out a stylus and brandishing her tablet for him.

“Jaskier, no, you’re going to the damn hospital—"

“Dad,” Ciri cuts him off sharply. “You aren’t his proxy, and he’s made his decision. Leave it.”

She doesn’t know who Jaskier is to him. She doesn’t know that he couldn’t care less about being fucking sued or whatever, so long as he has confirmation that Jaskier’s really okay.

The man in question gives him a confused look.

“Dad?”

“Not now,” Geralt growls at him. 

Ciri reaches into her medical bag, pulling out an emergency ice pack and cracking it before handing it to Jaskier.

“You’re going to want to ice that knee, but otherwise you should be fine. If you experience any symptoms like dizziness, nausea, loss of feeling in any limbs, or a headache that doesn’t go away, go to the hospital immediately. Understand?”

He nods obediently, and she looks satisfied.

“Okay. I’m going back to my station. Call me if you need me.” She directs the last sentence at Geralt, then collects all her equipment and heads back out into the club.

When she’s gone and it’s just the two of them left there, he turns his attention back to Jaskier. His eyes must be blazing, because the younger man shrinks under his stony gaze.

“Geralt, I—“

“Quiet, Jaskier,” Geralt says gruffly, crouching to scoop him up, careful of his injuries. He isn’t small by any means, but Geralt works out enough that he can maneuver him with ease. Jaskier leans into him, arms circling Geralt’s neck with a pained wince and breaking his heart just a little.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Geralt hugs him closer, instinct telling him to comfort. “For causing you trouble.”

“Don’t,” the older man warns, shaking his head. “Just let me help you.”

He punches the button for the elevator, and it’s painfully quiet inside. All he can think about is how much of a bastard he was to the kid the last time he saw him, lashing out because he was too afraid to let him in. The guilt roils around in his stomach, and he can’t stop thinking about how that could’ve been the last interaction he ever had with Jaskier. If he’d fallen differently, if that fucker had gotten him up another flight before pushing him—he could be gone, and his last memory of Geralt would’ve been him behaving like an absolute fucking monster when all Jaskier ever did was be kind to him.

The elevator stops with a soft ding at the second floor, and he strides purposefully for the last door down the long hallway, Jaskier safe in his arms.

That’s right, he’s safe now. I’ve got him.

“You look mad,” Jaskier observes.

“I’m not mad.”

He’s furious, but he doesn’t want to take it out on the kid, not when he’s just been through something traumatic. Once Geralt gets him to his office, he deposits Jaskier on the couch and kneels down before him. He doesn’t miss the hitch in the younger man’s breath, but elects to ignore it, instead taking the ice pack from him and pressing it to his swollen knee, hushing him gently when he hisses at the pain.

“Hold this. I’m going to secure it.”

Jaskier obeys without argument for once, and Geralt snags the med kit from behind his desk, pulling out a neatly rolled bandage. He winds it around Jaskier’s knee and the ice pack, checking in to make sure it isn’t too tight, then fastens it with a couple of hooks. The work is simple, and easy enough to focus on while his anger slowly abates, distracting him from the extremely close proximity to the man who’s been haunting his every waking moment (and a few very interesting dreams) since he walked into his club.

After everything is in place, he stands and lifts the increasingly sober musician, then settles back on the couch with Jaskier’s quivering body curled in his lap. Must be an adrenaline crash, he reasons. Holding him will help—with the added benefit of soothing Geralt’s rattled nerves.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jaskier’s body at the bottom of those stairs, and the emotions that lance through him make it impossible to breathe, so holding him, having him here and unbroken and alive… yeah, it helps.

“I—I tried to stop. I said no, but he wouldn’t let go, and I panicked—“

“Shh, it’s alright,” Geralt murmurs, fingertips massaging light circles into the tense muscles of his uninjured shoulder. Every touch he permits himself is somehow simultaneously fucking torture and inexplicably grounding, and Jaskier’s voice in his ear is not helping him decide which.

“He wouldn’t let me leave—“

“He never should’ve tried to play with you in the first place,” the white-haired man asserts. “Not when you’re as obviously drunk as you were.”

Jaskier’s head drops to his shoulder, breath warm on his neck.

“I fucked up, Geralt, I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me—“

“I don’t hate you, Jaskier.”

I could never hate you.

He quiets as Geralt’s fingers gentle through his hair, scratching lightly over his scalp. The slightest of happy sounds makes a rare blush burn across Geralt’s face, and for now he’s glad the younger man isn’t looking at him. There’s an innate comfort to this new closeness between them, like the floodgates have opened now that they’ve crossed the line into each other’s space.

“You know better than to come here drunk,” he admonishes, feeling the kid tense in his grasp.

“I’m sorry... I was, I was upset,” he confesses, voice tightening. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.” Geralt wraps an arm around him, stroking his side to keep him calm. His anger has all but dissipated, helped along by having Jaskier in his arms, safe and warm. “What had you so upset that it drove you to that?”

He has a pretty clear idea, but he can’t know if it’s him for sure. For all he knows, the younger man just had a shitty week at work, and it’s not his fault. He prays he’s not the catalyst that set all this in motion, that led to the kid being hurt, but his hopes aren’t high. They're pretty much underground, actually.

The young man in his lap hiccups.

“Erm... nothing.”

“Really.”

“Uh huh.”

“How about you try telling me the truth, instead?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath.

“I... I didn’t want to see you.”

That’s a slap to the face, a confirmation of his fault, and Geralt wants to retreat from the painful guilt swirling in his chest, but he holds fast. Jaskier needs care right now, and he won’t leave him alone until he can get a substitute.

“I see. Give me a moment—I’ll call for Yen.”

“No, no!” There’s panic in his voice, and Geralt relaxes, albeit minutely. “It’s just—I always want to see you. I want it so much that... that I didn’t. Because it hurts,” he admits, voice wobbling a bit before the rest spills out in a rush. “And I thought you hated me and that I annoyed you and it was humiliating standing there wanting you and knowing I was a fucking fool for it.”

Geralt pales, speechless. He knew Jaskier was attracted to him—he’s not an idiot, most people find him attractive, and Jaskier is anything but a subtle flirt—but he didn’t realize the depth of his feelings. The guilt surges up higher, into his throat, and makes him choke on his apology.

“Jaskier—"

“I know you don’t scene anymore, I know, but then you—with the water, and with Yen and Triss—" he shakes his head, redirecting. “I knew better than to get my hopes up, but I did anyway, and that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

Geralt leans in close, the fingers on his free hand catching Jaskier’s chin and forcing him to look at him.

“You are annoying,” he states, and Jaskier winces. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

Those enchanting blue eyes go gorgeously hopeful for a moment, before he clears his throat and tries to squirm away. The larger man’s hold tightens to prevent escape.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry. I hurt you, and I did it deliberately, and I’m so sorry.”

He stills.

“You are?”

Geralt nods.

“Why did you do it, then?” His tone is accusatory, but nothing less than Geralt deserves.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. It’s time to strip his heart bare and put it in the younger man’s hands, trust him not to crush it. It’s terrifying, but when Geralt looks at those delicate, musical fingers, instinct tells him they’ll be as gentle as he needs.

“Because you are special, Jaskier. Because you did succeed where all the others failed, and it scared the shit out of me. Because I always want to see you, too.”

Jaskier’s eyes go impossibly wide.

“So… you do like me?”

Geralt huffs out a short laugh, tipping forward to press his forehead to the musician’s.

“Yes, Jaskier. That’s putting it lightly,” he confesses.

The younger man’s nose touches his with a tiny sound of satisfaction.

“Is that why you were doing all that? Because you liked me and didn’t know what to do about it?”

Geralt pulls back to meet an amused blue gaze.

“Doing what?”

Jaskier waves a hand over his general being.

“You know, with the eyes, and clenching your jaw, and your voice, fuck, that voice...” he shivers a bit, and the larger man has to calm himself down before his cock stiffens with Jaskier’s weight in his lap. The kid would definitely be able to feel it, and there’d be no explaining that away.

“I didn’t know I was,” he admits.

“Really? Most hot people know when they’re being hot.”

He snorts, his forehead dropping to the younger man’s temple.

“Whatever I was doing, it was only for you.”

Jaskier sucks in a deep breath.

“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”

Geralt sighs.

“Jaskier… I don’t do casual scening anymore. If I were to dom you, it would have to be in a true partnership.” He frowns. “Part of why I held back from you was that I didn’t want to limit you.”

The younger man purses his lips.

“That sounds like you made the decision for me and without asking me first, Geralt.”

Silver hair slips over his shoulder when he tilts his head to regard the other man.

“... You’re right. I apologize.”

Jaskier gives him an expectant look.

“Not to be too obvious here, darling, but... this is the time to ask.”

Something in Geralt burns, rolling through him slowly and settling, and looking into those fucking mesmerizing eyes, his decision is made.

“I don’t play anymore because my last sub got injured during a scene and tried to sue me for it,” he explains, and Jaskier goes still, listening closely. “She broke my trust. Do you understand?”

The younger man nods solemnly.

“Jaskier—the things I want to do to you...” He blushes so prettily, and Geralt’s hungry eyes follow the movement of his Adam’s apple when he gulps. There’s no turning back now. “Whether I wanted you was never in question.”

He fucking whimpers in response, and Geralt’s pulse kicks up a few notches.

“If we do this, it’ll be work,” the Dom warns. “There will be conditions.”

The ever-growing look of hope on the kid’s face is bulldozing Geralt’s resolve, and he can feel himself giving in.

Like I always knew I would.

“What kind of conditions?” Jaskier murmurs, drawing the older man’s attention to his mouth. Fuck, Geralt can’t wait to lick his moans out from between those plush lips.

“Exclusivity, for one,” he rumbles, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. “You’ll be mine. No playing with anyone else without my permission.” Knowing the possessive streak he’s developing for the sub, that’s permission he won’t give. He’s never been one for sharing, but he’ll give Jaskier so much pleasure that he won’t even need to consider looking elsewhere.

“I’m okay with that,” he agrees. The older man’s heart soars.

“Every one of your orgasms will be mine,” Geralt grates out next, watching as the color brightens in Jaskier’s cheeks. “No coming without my say-so. No jerking off without my consent. Your pleasure will be mine to control.”

Jaskier swallows again, and Geralt doesn’t even have to look down to know the kid’s hardening in his pants.

“Yes,” comes out a strangled whine, and Geralt anticipates the moment he’ll draw that sound from him again, preferably pinned up against something, helpless and begging.

Fuck, he can feel his cock filling.

“You’ll obey me, do as you’re told. Disobedience and misbehavior will be punished.” Tonight’s behavior, for instance, will probably earn him a sore ass later.

“Okay.” Those cornflower blue eyes are wide as saucers, but the way he licks his lips dissolves any misgivings Geralt may have of Jaskier’s opinion on the idea.

“Be good, and I’ll bring you pleasure like you’ve never known. I’ll wring every last orgasm out of you, until you think you can’t take it, and then I’ll take more. Will you be a good boy for me, Jaskier?”

The younger man wiggles in his lap, and Geralt has to fight back a groan when his ass grinds into his cock.

“Yes, yes, I will, I promise,” he breathes, head bobbing enthusiastically, and Geralt can’t resist anymore. 

The hand on Jaskier’s jaw curves around the back of his neck, and Geralt brings those lips to his, finally tasting him. They’re even softer than he expected, addictively so, and he catches one between his teeth and tugs gently. A broken, satisfied sound escapes the man in his lap, and Jaskier squirms closer, fingers clenching in Geralt’s shirt like he’s hanging on for dear life. He kisses well, experience and fervor blending beautifully into the delicious pressure, and Geralt can feel the desperation in his lips, the hunger, the need. When he pulls back, he has to hush Jaskier’s whine of protest, dropping another kiss on the corner of the mouth he wants nothing more than to ravage, to conquer.

He’s not fucking him tonight. Jaskier is still drunk and injured, and Geralt has control. He’ll wait. He’ll make it worth the wait. They still need to officially negotiate, not just whispered promises while one of them is cognitively compromised.

“Quiet, baby. You need to be sober before we go any further, understand?” The pet name slips out, but if the way the younger man is looking at him is any indication, he doesn’t mind one bit.

Jaskier nods, and Geralt lifts an eyebrow.

“Verbal confirmation, Jaskier,” he reminds, voice low.

“Yes, sir.”

Fuck, now that is sweet torture. He rubs a thumb across the sub’s—his sub’s—plump lower lip, smirking. That mouth is going to look gorgeous stretched around his cock.

“Good boy. Now, how does your knee feel?”

“Better, a little bit numb.”

Geralt gently shifts him off his lap so he can access his leg.

“Alright, I’ll take this off now, and you’re going to take it home with you. I want you to take ibuprofen for the pain and ice on a twenty-minute cycle to manage the swelling.”

He unwraps the ice pack, and supports Jaskier’s legs as he tests its flexion and extension, looking a lot less pained than before. Good.

The smaller man stands, and Geralt follows suit, the primal part of him loving the way he seems to tower over Jaskier, even though his sub is of comparable height, maybe just a couple inches shorter. Jaskier likes it too, if the way he steps closer to his new Dom, eyes wide, color high on his cheeks, is any indication. He rests his hands on Geralt’s chest, and the silver-haired man returns the favor, fingers pressing into his hips.

“What are you up to, baby?”

Jaskier seems to preen at the pet name, lips curving into a sweet smile and successfully tempting Geralt into leaning down and taking them again, his thumbs rubbing circles over the symmetrical juts of the kid’s hipbones. Jaskier reciprocates with enthusiasm, humming happily, until Geralt pulls away.

Every touch is easier, and addictive, and finally having his hands on Jaskier feels natural, right.

“When you want something, you need to ask for it.” He nuzzles behind Jaskier’s ear, enjoying the full-body shudder that wracks his sub. Oh, he’s going to have so much fun with all this sensitivity. The man is a Dom’s fucking dream come to life. 

Golden eyes glance down, and he’s reminded of the taunting excuse for clothing the younger man has draped himself in, exquisite torture to test his control. 

“Did I mention I really like what you’re wearing tonight?”

“Yeah?” Jaskier responds breathily, swaying into his chest with a hopeful smile.

“Yes. Very sexy.” Indulging himself, he runs a hand down the man’s chest, brushing a nipple through the lace and relishing Jaskier’s moan. He isn’t exaggerating, either—the ensemble had caught his eye the moment Geralt spotted him that night, and it took everything in him not to drag the kid to the bar and bend him over it in front of everyone. “We’ll have to get you some more like this.”

“I’d like that,” he replies into Geralt’s skin. “I’ll need more if you tear this one off me.” Jaskier’s lips drag up his neck, hips flexing into Geralt’s and prompting the Dom to gently push him back, putting space between them.

“Jaskier,” he warns. “Not when you’re drunk.”

The younger man pouts, hooking a finger in the waistband of Geralt’s trousers.

“But you’re hard... And I’ve had the best dreams about sucking you.”

Geralt smirks, shaking his head to dispel the myriad images his mind is conjuring of Jaskier doing exactly that.

“I’ll remember that for later, brat. For now, we need to get you home.”

The hands on Jaskier’s hips turn him around, and Geralt directs him out of his office, picking up his keys along the way. They take the elevator down on account of Jaskier’s knee, but when they’re back in the main part of the club, Geralt surprises him by aiming him toward the private booths. He catches a flash of red hair beside brunette and tenses, but it’s too late.

No escaping now, Jaskier. Time to pay the piper.

“Good, you found him,” Yen greets with a scowl, arm around Triss. She pierces Jaskier with that terrifying violet gaze. “You had us worried sick, you little arse. Missed our show, too.”

Geralt leans in from behind him.

“What do you say, Jaskier?”

He can see the flush blooming and spreading across the kid’s skin, and he gulps.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes narrow.

“I’ve never seen you so irresponsible. I should put you over my knee.”

Geralt’s hand winds around Jaskier’s waist to the flat plane of his stomach, pressing him back possessively against the larger man’s chest.

“That won’t be necessary, Yennefer. I’ve got it handled.”

Yen’s eyes go wide in realization, then a feral grin spreads across her lips.

“Is that so?”

“Don’t gloat,” Geralt warns. “You got what you wanted. Leave it at that.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, whatever.” She turns her attention back to Jaskier, sighing. “I’m glad you’re alright. You’re in good hands, now.”

Triss giggles.

“Well, not if he gets himself in trouble.”

Yen makes a considering noise.

“True... Geralt’s even more of a disciplinarian than I am.”

The Dom in question hums disapprovingly.

“Don’t scare him off just yet. I haven’t even gotten started,” he teases, hand traveling upward from Jaskier’s stomach to curve around his jaw, turning the kid’s face to his so he can get another eyeful of cornflower blue and kiss-swollen lips. He smirks when the contact makes Jaskier’s breath catch, the smaller man’s eyes glued to Geralt’s mouth.

“Clearly you’ll both be enjoying yourselves,” Yennefer huffs. “I rest my case.”

Jaskier doesn’t even seem to hear her, keeping his face turned to Geralt’s, and the Dom is secretly pleased at the devotion he’s already getting from his sub.

“How about you say goodnight to our friends, and I’ll take you home to sleep this off?” He suggests, and Jaskier swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

He releases the younger man, ruffling his hair and stepping back.

“I need to go let Eskel and Lambert know I’ll be stepping out for a bit. Stay here.”

He slumps into the seat across from the women, feeling breathless and incredibly warm, despite the amount of skin that’s currently exposed. Geralt’s touch tingles on his skin, a reminder of the control he’d submitted to, and he could fucking giggle with how good it feels. It’s certainly better than thinking about all the other sore spots from his little tumble.

He’s not sure if Yennefer knows about that, since she hasn’t said anything, but he’s not going to be bringing it up anytime soon, not while she’s in screaming distance.

“So...” Yen begins, and his lips purse in anticipation of a thorough reprimand. “You finally convinced him.”

He shrugs.

“More like he convinced himself.”

She smiles, and it’s not as evil as before, meanwhile Triss looks ecstatic beside her.

“Good. He needed to stop punishing himself for something that wasn’t his fault. Training you will be beneficial for you both.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow.

“Wait... you planned this, didn’t you? Discouraging me from pursuing him was what, a ruse?”

Suddenly her wholesome smile has too much teeth.

“I knew you’d be a good fit, and I’m obviously right based on the way you fucking melt when he touches you.” She looks way too smug for his liking. “And I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t want you to come on too strong while I was still working on him.”

Jaskier drops his face to his hands.

“This is so embarrassing. You played me.”

“Stop being so dramatic. I successfully set up two friends who otherwise would have been miserable alone. You’re welcome.”

He’s appalled at her complete lack of remorse, and yet also utterly unsurprised by it. It’s just like Yennefer to pull off a top-tier manipulation like this one. If he wasn’t the subject of it, he might’ve even applauded her.

“Have I mentioned recently how much you terrify me?”

She smirks.

“No, but I appreciate the reminder.”

Then, in an unprecedented moment of softness, Yennefer’s expression shifts into vulnerable affection.

“I’m glad you both have this chance at happiness, Jask. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

His jaw drops, mouth hanging agape, emotions overwhelming him at the sweet sincerity of her admission. He’s mustering something equally mushy in return when strong fingers card through his hair, stopping him in his tracks and making a dopey grin spread across his face. Geralt’s so tactile, it’s perfect. It makes him feel wanted, desired... He aims that grin up at his new Dom.

“Hi.”

“Done complaining?” Geralt asks, and Yen snickers, back to her usual razor’s edge between friendly and evil.

“Not even a little bit, but he’s your problem now,” she answers for him, and Jaskier sends an affronted huff her way.

“That he is. A responsibility I’ll gladly shoulder,” his silver-haired hulktastic dreamboat replies, and Jaskier leans into his touch.

And what impressive shoulders they are.

Perfect for holding onto while I ride—

“If you ladies will excuse us—Come, Jaskier.”

He obeys without hesitation, pointedly ignoring Yennefer’s snicker of “I’m sure he will.”

As soon as he’s within reach, Geralt’s hand curves around the nape of his neck, guiding him toward the exit.

“Anything you need to get from the lockers?”

“No, sir, I’m all yours,” he chirps, watching closely enough to see the shadow of a smile cross the larger man’s lips.

Oddly enough, they take a sharp right turn outside of Kaer Morhen’s doors, and then Geralt is steering him through a locked gate and down into what appears to be a private garage next door.

“Um... where are we?”

The Dom’s thumb rubs soothingly across the back of his neck.

“Getting my car. I told you, I’m driving you home.”

“But Geralt, it’s far, and the club—you could just put me in an Uber, I wouldn’t mind,” he assures him, the guilt of being burdensome itching across his skin.

He doesn’t get a chance to protest further, because Geralt steps in front of him, crowding him backwards into the frame of the nearest car and caging him in with muscled arms. Jaskier can fucking taste the anticipation on his tongue. When Geralt leans down, inches from his lips, all he wants to do is crane his neck forward and chase the addicting contact, ignite whatever it is in this man that wants someone like Jaskier.

“Let me make something clear,” he rumbles, and the deep, scratchy timbre of his voice curls the younger man’s toes. He can’t look away from the piercing amber, pinned down like cornered prey.

It’s so fucking hot.

“You’re mine now, Jaskier. I take care of what’s mine, personally.” He clasps Jaskier’s chin between thumb and forefinger, and the smaller man wishes he could suck those fingers into his mouth.

I’d open up for anything he wants to give me.

“That means that there won’t be any Uber rides with strangers—not when you’re with me. It’s as much my responsibility to protect you as it is to ruin you.”

And now my cock is hard again. Fuck.

“Okay,” Jaskier answers, tongue swiping across his lower lip, close to the tip of his thumb.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, sir.”

Geralt smiles, and it’s all teeth and predator and Jaskier wishes he’d bite him.

“Good boy.”

The praise twists hot and delicious in his gut, leaving him aching for more. Geralt must see it in his eyes, the need, and warm lips press to his, coaxing a desperate whine out before retreating. It’s not enough, but Jaskier can be patient, he can be good and follow the rules and get his fucking reward.

Emphasis on the fucking.

Chapter Text

The car ride is quiet, Jaskier looking curiously around at the lush interior while Geralt focuses on the road.

How does a bartender afford something this nice? His monthly payment must be a nightmare.

Soft music carries from the speakers, but there’s no awkwardness to the silence between them, much to Jaskier’s relief. He was afraid that once they left the club, the spell would be broken, and Geralt would change his mind and decide he didn’t want him anymore.

The logical part of his mind knows that particular fear is irrational, and that despite the dickish behavior the Dom subjected him to before, that’s not the kind of man he is. Their talk in the office made that clear.

Thinking about the office, and subsequently their first kiss, has Jaskier’s palms sweating. Fuck, it was so good. Geralt kissed him with a controlled aggression that was nothing short of intoxicating, inviting Jaskier’s surrender rather than demanding it. It left him more than happy to give it.

He glances at Geralt out of the corner of his eye, wishing he could just turn and stare at him, take him in completely, because now he can. He can look his fill and the silver-haired man may even gift him with one of those coveted smiles. Too bad it’s dark in the car, with only the soft glow of the dashboard and passing street lamps to illuminate the handsome planes of his Dom’s face. Every time light passes over it, Jaskier thinks about that face before his, the way Geralt’s forehead had pressed against his own during the confession that still has his head spinning.

He rubs his hands on his thighs, willing himself to calm down.

He said not tonight, and I can be good.

I want to be good for him.

His demigod Dom’s eyes flick his way, and with a slight smirk Geralt lifts his hand from the gearshift and captures Jaskier's in a warm grip. The younger man blushes hotly, the small act of affection sending his heartbeat into the next gear as Geralt's fingers intertwine with his own, his thumb making slow passes up and down that send shivers down the sub's spine.

As he watches, jaw slack, Geralt lifts their joined hands to his lips, brushing a kiss across Jaskier's knuckles that makes him stifle a groan.

Fuck, how is everything he does so fucking hot?

He doesn't release the younger man's hand when he's finished, instead holding it to his chest with a satisfied sigh that makes Jaskier wish desperately that he wasn't drunk right now.

I wonder what his thoughts are on road head.

“Just throwing this out there, darling—what if you call the club when we get to my place and tell them you’re not coming back, I chug a coffee, and then we do some blissfully naked things together?” He blurts, and Geralt barks out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t distract me from the road, Jaskier.”

“That’s not a no.”

The Dom’s lips twitch.

“If you’re testing my resolve, you’re not going to win. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be.” He shoots Jaskier a wink that has him squirming in his seat.

“But Geralt—“

“No.” The look he gives the sub next brooks no argument. “I made my decision, brat. Keep pushing and there will be consequences.”

Oh what I would give for some consequences, big guy.

The navigation system in Geralt’s car signals when they reach Jaskier’s place, and Jask is surprised when he shifts it into park, unbuckling along with him. He must notice the look of shock, because he gives the sub another one of those rare smiles.

“What, did you think I was just going to drop you off and leave?”

Apparently not, but I’m not complaining, hot stuff.

Geralt slides out of the vehicle, moving so quickly that Jaskier’s just barely got his hand on the door handle when it swings open. The Dom leans in, hand braced on the roof of the car, looking thoughtful.

“Do you have any Epsom salts here? A bath might do you some good,” he comments, and Jaskier shakes his head.

“Er, no? Is that a normal thing to have?”

Geralt chuckles.

“It’s helpful for sore muscles. Hold on, I might have some in the back.”

Jaskier steps out of the car as Geralt pops the trunk, rooting around and finally coming up with a medium-sized box in his hand. He can’t help but lift an eyebrow at the man.

“Why do you just happen to have that?”

Geralt shrugs as he shuts the trunk.

“I work out a lot.”

Aha! So there is a secret to the godlike physique.

And may I say, hallelujah.

While he’s imagining being bench-pressed by a very sweaty Geralt, the man in question catches Jaskier’s hand in his free one, tugging him close.

“Quit fantasizing when I’m standing right in front of you.”

“Excuse me, I wasn’t—"

Geralt’s lips twist in amusement.

“Really? Is that why your eyes were unfocused and you kept licking your lips like a cat that got the cream?”

Jaskier’s face reddens.

“Well thank you, Geralt, that’s fucking embarrassing,” he retorts, making the Dom release a deep laugh that sends blood rushing south in the best way.

Fuck, he’s got a great laugh, too? Is any part of this man not wildly attractive?

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s you, so I like it. Unless you aren’t thinking about me?” He asks, eyes going dark, and Jaskier scoffs.

“Of course it’s about you, don’t be ridiculous.”

Geralt leans in close, breath warm on Jaskier’s ear.

“Good.”

He nips at the tender flesh of his earlobe, and the younger man shudders, fingers twisting in the much-abused and very wrinkled material of Geralt’s shirt.

“You’re a menace.”

The Dom chuckles.

“Takes one to know one, baby. Why don’t you invite me in and I’ll draw you a bath?”

The promise of naked time puts a spring in Jaskier’s step, and he all but drags Geralt to his front door, fumbling with the keys for a second before jerking him over the threshold.

Thank the heavens I cleaned yesterday.

He tries not to be self-conscious of the space, but that’s nearly impossible when Geralt casts his eyes around, taking stock of all of Jaskier’s knick-knacks, mismatched furniture, and general organized chaos. He leans over the kitchen table, eyeing the slew of sheet music and scribbled lyrics that Jask has left there, and the younger man swallows nervously.

“That’s uh, that’s my music. Sorry you had to see that, it's a mess,” he moves forward to clear it off, but Geralt halts him with an arm around his shoulders, smiling softly.

“Yen said you played, but I didn’t know you were a songwriter. May I?” He picks up a sheet, humming the melody to himself, and Jaskier nearly melts on the spot.

The man can fucking read music.

I am going to worship his cock.

“This is really good,” the Dom compliments, carefully placing the sheet back down where he got it. “I’d love it if you played for me sometime. Maybe we could book you at the club, if you’re up for it? You’d get paid, of course.”

“Fuck me like you mean it and I’ll do it for free,” Jaskier mutters, before all the blood leaves his face.

Did not mean to say that aloud, fucking hell.

Geralt bestows upon him another of those deep, bass-filled laughs that make him want to climb into the man’s ribcage and never leave. His other arm joins the first, and he pulls the smaller man into a tight hug that raises his blood pressure oh, fifty points or so.

“Now Jaskier, that wouldn’t be fair. Not when I’ll be milking you for every orgasm your body can handle.”

The musician groans into his Dom’s broad chest.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? I can turn the Keurig on right now love, and we’ll go ’til bloody fucking dawn.”

The sexiest giant on the planet chuckles again, releasing Jaskier and turning him around, away from temptation.

“No, brat. Now, show me the bathroom so I can get that bath started, then you go and take some pain relievers, or getting up in the morning is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

I’ll do a fucking dance routine in the morning if you’ll just take your pants off.

With a pout, Jaskier directs Geralt to his bathroom as instructed. There’s just the one in his flat, but it came with an excellent tub, and he’ll admit to having spent many a night in here, ambient music playing softly while he soaked in the hot water, his favorite oils soothing him with every breath.

He’s curious to see what exactly Geralt’s doing with those salts of his, but he remembers his orders and reluctantly heads for the kitchen to get a glass of water. Simple enough, and when he returns, the Dom is bent over, checking the water temperature, and isn’t that just the best view Jaskier’s ever been treated to in his entire life?

If I knew who made those leather pants, I’d kiss them on the mouth. Fucking blessed by the gods, those are.

Geralt must sense his appreciative gaze, because he stands, turning to chastise the younger man. Jaskier beats him to the punch.

“Don’t mind me, just admiring a damn fine piece of… artwork,” he teases, lips twitching into a smirk.

“You’re supposed to be taking pain meds,” Geralt reminds him, arms crossing over that heaven-sent chest. The sub lifts his glass, proof that he’d obeyed.

“And I certainly will, but it’s just my luck that I keep my ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet, and upon entering, my attention was a tad, mmm, redirected.”

He gives the Dom a winning smile, earning himself a chuckle and eye-roll.

“Little fiend,” the larger man mutters, then drops a hand to rest on the juncture of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, his thumb tracing lightly over the swell of his Adam’s apple. The touch makes him shiver, goosebumps rippling across his skin, and Geralt grins at the reaction. “Once you’ve taken it, soak for a while to help with the soreness. Start the icing cycle for your knee after you get out, and don’t fall asleep with the ice pack on, got it?”

Jaskier bobs his head obediently.

“Sure, but aren’t you staying to help me?”

Geralt purses his lips.

“I don’t think even my willpower is strong enough to resist you, naked and slick… so no, I’m not.”

Jaskier swallows, that familiar hot blush blooming in his cheeks at the Dom’s raspy words.

Is he really that affected by me?

“Do you have any plans for tomorrow?” Geralt continues, and the younger man shakes his head no. “Good. Come by Kaer Morhen in the morning, and we can talk more in depth about our agreement and hammer out details. Bring a copy of your list for me so we can review it.”

Jaskier’s throat feels so dry, his fingers flexing around the glass.

Holy shit, this is actually happening.

“Okay. I, um, will I meet you outside, or…?”

“No, I’ll come out to get you. Do you have your phone on you?”

He hands it over automatically, watching as Geralt taps his number in and saves it, then calls his own cell to save Jaskier’s contact.

“Just let me know when you arrive and I’ll let you in,” he assures the younger man, thumb still repeating that enticing path on a loop up and down the sensitive column of his throat.

“Yeah… okay,” Jaskier breathes, making the Dom grin.

“Perfect.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, and Geralt lifts an eyebrow, glancing down with a bemused smirk.

“Jaskier.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re blocking the exit.”

Sure enough, there’s not enough space for him to get by in the tiny bathroom, and in a brief moment of insanity, Jask considers leveraging that to his advantage and keeping Geralt trapped there until he doesn’t want to leave.

“I can already tell you that whatever mischief you’re cooking up right now is a bad idea,” he warns teasingly, and the sub pouts.

“You’re no fun, you know.”

“Oh, I’m plenty of fun, baby,” he returns, the hand on Jaskier’s neck squeezing infinitesimally and sending his pulse into fucking orbit. “You just have to play by my rules.”

Jask lets out a barely suppressed groan that has Geralt chuckling again, and moves back, releasing the wall of muscle from containment. He follows the Dom to his front door, and before stepping over the threshold, Geralt turns to him one last time. Strong fingers thread through his hair again, and then he’s being pulled forward and warm lips press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, little lark.”

He watches the manifestation of his fantasies all the way to his car, relishing when Geralt gives him a small wave before climbing in and driving away.

Wow.

I’m so horny I could cry.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is absolutely wracked with nerves the next morning when his rideshare drops him off at Kaer Morhen.

What if he changed his mind overnight?

Through his headache, he remembers just how much of a horny ass he made of himself last night. Ugh, he’d made Geralt rebuff him so many times, what if he thinks Jaskier is a selfish asshole who doesn’t understand the basic concept of consent? Why does booze have to make him so stupid?

What if he doesn’t want to do this anymore?

A small part of him feels like it’s trembling inside, and he wishes more than anything that its specific fear doesn’t come to pass.

What if things go back to the way they were before?

He’s horribly sore, with about a dozen bruises forming blotchy shadows all over his body, and he’s nursing a bit of a headache as well, but he’s pretty sure Geralt’s bath trick worked, because by the color of the bruising, he should be aching way more than he is. His knee is no longer swollen an angry red, thank goodness, but it’s still tender, so he’s got trousers on to cover the damage.

He sends a quick text to Geralt to inform him of his arrival, anxiety sitting heavy in his stomach, especially when read receipts confirm he’s seen it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Jaskier,” that deep timbre rolls over his name, settling his nerves, and when the younger man gets a good look at him, his jaw nearly hits the floor.

For the first time since they met, Geralt isn’t in uniform, and while Jaskier wants to mourn the absence of the leather pants, he quickly forgets the idea because grey sweatpants.

Do not get hard right now, don’t embarrass me.

The Dom is clad in a soft-looking navy blue jumper that clings to his torso in all the best ways, and in addition to the grey sweatpants, his usually half-up silver hair is pulled entirely back in a loose bun that makes Jaskier’s mouth go dry.

I wonder what it’s like being the gods’ favorite?

He’s blessed with that ridiculously pretty smile again, and Geralt waves him forward.

“Come on in. We can chat by the bar.”

The club looks vastly different in the daytime, completely quiet and surprisingly open, the only sound coming from their combined footsteps as he follows Geralt to his usual domain. He feels a bit overdressed in his own coat and button-up, but he’s too distracted by Geralt’s ass to really notice.

I’ve never been jealous of cotton before.

First time for everything, I suppose.

“I didn’t know you wore anything other than leather,” he blurts intelligently, making the Dom bark out a laugh.

“Only at the club. Fits the theme.”

“Geralt darling, I say this with the utmost sincerity—no matter what, you are the aesthetic.”

That’s right, keep up full sentences. Stop thinking about the sweatpants.

“I don’t know if I agree.” Golden eyes traverse a long, leisurely path up and down Jaskier’s body, and his ever-present blush returns with a vengeance. “I’m looking at a solid competitor right now.”

“Well, flattery will get you everywhere,” Jaskier retorts, taking his customary seat at the bar while Geralt winds around it.

“Before we start, would you like anything to drink?” The silver-haired wonder asks, gesturing widely, and the younger man bites his lip.

“Umm… whatever that yellow drink you made the other night was, please.”

There’s a long pause, and Jaskier catches Geralt’s gaze glued to his mouth, jaw slightly slack as he stares.

He can’t help but feel the smallest bit triumphant.

No more hiding your feelings from me, big guy.

Jask clears his throat pointedly, and Geralt jerks into action, ignoring the snicker from the sub before him.

“Right, got it.”

He sets about making the drink, and the younger man watches curiously as deft fingers measure, pour, and mix, Geralt’s practiced hands never faltering in his task.

“You said this was a new recipe, right?”

The bartender grunts his affirmative, eyes on the drink as he sets the finished product before him. Jaskier takes a long sip, eyes closing to the delight of the lemon and peach traveling across his tongue.

“Mm, delicious,” he compliments. “I think this one might be my favorite. What’s it called?”

Geralt stills, and then a sheepish hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck. And lo and behold, the slightest pink blush burns high on sculpted cheekbones, inflaming the younger man’s curiosity.

“Er, there are still several options I’m weighing…"

“Well what’s your favorite? Surely you had one in mind when you were creating it?” He presses, intrigued more than ever by this reaction.

Geralt sighs, amber eyes lifting to meet cornflower blue.

“It’s called the Buttercup.”

And now it’s Jaskier’s turn to flush scarlet, and he swears it reaches the roots of his hair.

“You… named a drink after me?”

Geralt’s suddenly shy smile is nearly his undoing.

“Yes, I—I was inspired.”

Sir, I will take a flying leap over this bar if you dare look any more adorable.

“Oh. Well.” Coherent thought is impossible. It’s just static up there. “Thank you.”

The older man picks up a reusable water bottle much like the one he’d tossed Eskel on Jaskier’s first night here, taking a generous swig.

“You know… I should’ve figured out how I felt about you a lot sooner, and for that I apologize,” he says sincerely, and reminds Jaskier of what he needs to do.

Clearing the air can go one of two ways.

“Geralt, before we talk about the partnership, I—I need to know something.”

There’s concern in the Dom’s eyes, but he gives an encouraging nod.

“When I finally sobered up last night, it occurred to me maybe you decided to do this because you felt guilty,” he begins, fingers twisting nervously together on the bar top. “I worried you were doing this because you felt obligated to make it up to me. And as ecstatic as I am that you say you want to do this, I have to know—If you’re with me, I want to make sure that you’re with me because you want to be, not because you feel like you have to be. Does that make sense?”

The other man considers for a moment, and his expression when he nods is solemn.

“It does. And that concern is entirely rational.” He reaches forward, catching one of Jaskier’s hands in his own. “I promise you, I want this. I’ve wanted this from the first moment you sat down at this bar,” he admits. “But I let my fear overwhelm my better judgment, and because of that, I behaved reprehensibly. And while you never deserved that—and I will spend the entirety of our partnership making it up to you—please know that the reason I’m doing this is because I know at my core that you’re meant to be mine.”

It’s literally the most words he’s ever said to Jaskier, and his golden eyes hold nothing but sincere clarity, allowing Jaskier to finally release the breath he’s been holding.

Thank the fucking gods.

Communication, what a thing.

“Okay,” he replies, feeling light as a fucking feather. “That’s—That’s good to hear.”

Geralt’s smile is wonderfully reassuring.

“I’m glad. Have any other questions before we start?”

Well, there is one, but am I brave enough to ask it?

The Dom’s keen eyes miss nothing, and he gives Jaskier’s hand an encouraging squeeze.

“I can see you do. Out with it, Jask.”

The younger man swallows, the nerves turning his throat into the damn Sahara, but pushes on. This is important to him, dammit.

“Erm, I know that not all play partners have romantic relationships, like Triss and Yen do, so I don’t want you to worry that your answer will change my mind about being your sub, because it won’t, I’m rather set on that if we’re being perfectly honest, so no worries there, that won’t change—"

“Jaskier,” Geralt gently interrupts his rambling. “Just ask me.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” The younger man blurts, and it seems like ages before Geralt gifts him a smile so wide, it crinkles the corners of golden eyes.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Jaskier slumps back in his seat, sighing in relief, and when he sits back up to a chuckling bartending demigod, he downs the rest of his drink.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks, still grinning, and Jask nods with closed eyes.

“Yep, yep, but would you mind pinching me? I’m a bit worried that this is a dream.”

He shakes his head, releasing the younger man’s hand.

“Not a dream. Now, if you’re ready, we can get down to business.”

I know exactly what kind of business I’d like to get down to—

“Jaskier, focus,” Geralt reminds, and he sits up straighter, shaking the lascivious thoughts from his head. Right, negotiation.

He hands the Dom a fresh copy of his list, and he’s ready to watch anxiously as the man peruses it, but instead he’s presented with his own piece of paper.

“My list. Limits, preferences, safewords,” Geralt explains. “Feel free to read over it and familiarize yourself, and let me know if you have any questions.”

He drops his gaze to the neatly-printed font, taking in all the new information. Surprisingly, Geralt’s list is fairly similar to his: a long column for preference (the green list), a few in the maybe list (yellow), a handful in the way of hard limits (red). They agree on several non-starters: knife play, blood play, scat and urine are all a hard no. No sleep, food, or water deprivation, either.

Geralt is in favor of impact play, which is also on Jaskier’s green list, and he also highlighted edging, which sends the sub’s heartbeat skittering. Hair-pulling, blindfolding, gagging, bondage… all on the table. Apparently Geralt’s got experience with shibari, which has Jaskier squirming in place, and the Dom glances up at him with a wry smile.

“See something you like?”

“Hush, Geralt, I’m trying to read.”

“Mm, and you’re doing so well at it.”

“I see you’ve gotten to the praise kink section,” Jaskier observes, instinctively responding to the other man’s mischief. Geralt chuckles.

“You know, you forgot to put brat on here.”

He wants to argue, but even he can see that the evidence is starting to stack against him.

“I’ll amend it later.”

The Dom lifts a grey brow at him, smirking, and Jask turns his attention back to the list before him, ignoring his antics.

Who’d have known the burly bartender would have such a playful side?

As he continues his study, he’s distracted again when Geralt’s hand slides across the bar top to clasp his, a callused thumb brushing back and forth across his knuckles. He’s not even looking at Jaskier, his focus still on the paper in his other hand. The younger man’s heart swells in his chest.

“Geralt, you know—you’re remarkably tactile.”

An amber gaze meets his.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, absolutely not,” he insists. “Just surprising, I suppose.”

The silver-haired man considers a moment, his hand never stilling.

“I like touching you. Haven’t gotten to do it enough. Now that I can... I don’t want to stop.”

Oh, you darling man.

Jask leans over the bar to press a smiling kiss to Geralt’s lips, dropping the list to cup his stubbled jaw.

When he pulls back, the heat in the Dom’s eyes brings his blush back full-force.

“What was that for?” He asks teasingly, and Jaskier stumbles over his words.

“I like you. Shut up.”

Eloquent as always, you proper idiot.

Geralt’s hand tightens on his, eyes gleaming.

“You’re making it very difficult to prioritize this.”

“Well, I apologize. It’s hard being this tempting, you know.”

The Dom snorts.

“I do just fine resisting you.”

Jaskier frowns. That’s another apology he owes him.

“I’m sorry, by the way. For the way I acted last night.”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow, so he explains.

“You said no. A lot. I made you keep saying no, trying to convince you, and it was incredibly shitty of me.”

The Dom nods.

“Thank you for your apology. I’m glad you realized your mistake, even if you were drunk at the time.”

Jaskier stares at their joined hands with guilty eyes, and Geralt continues.

“I feel like I need to remind you—never be afraid to tell me no, too, Jask. The reason we’re doing this is to enjoy ourselves, and if you have any misgivings, I want you to tell me so I can make sure that I’m taking care of you properly.”

The younger man takes a deep breath, nodding.

“If you’d like, I can send you some resources. About consent, about submission… whatever you need. I want you to always remember that you have the power here, and the only way I can take control is if you choose to give it to me. Understand?”

Jaskier nods again.

“Yeah. I think… I trust you to guide me. And I’d like to see those resources you offered.”

I still have a lot to learn, that much is clear.

He’s relieved to see that Geralt’s smile is encouraging, and not judging.

“Okay. Good. Then let’s move on. Do you have any questions?” He gestures to the page in front of him with a nod of his head.

“Um, just a couple,” Jaskier replies.

“Go ahead.”

“Condom use?”

Geralt shrugs.

“With regular testing and exclusivity, I feel comfortable going with whatever my sub prefers. What would you like?”

Jaskier swallows.

In more ways than one.

“No condoms. I… I want you to fill me. In every way,” he confesses, blushing a deep crimson.

Geralt’s eyes blaze in response, his expression remaining carefully neutral.

“Okay. No condoms.” He notes that on his copy of Jaskier’s list, then turns his attention back upward. “And that reminds me—bodily fluids. We have our hard limits set already, but let’s detail what we’re fine with exchanging, and what methods of exchange are acceptable.”

Jaskier shudders out a breath.

“You mean like…?“

“Sweat, saliva, cum, tears,” Geralt lists. Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up, blush still scorching hot on his skin.

Does that mean I’m going to come so hard I’ll cry?

Fucking hell, fear and arousal is a new combination for me… I like it.

“Those are all fine.” His brows furrow. “What do you mean by ‘methods of exchange?’”

Amber eyes roam hungrily over him.

“Modes of delivery,” Geralt explains, voice rumbling low. “On your hands, your chest, stomach, face, cock—" His smoldering gaze flicks to each body part as he lists them. “Or inside you. Mouth, arse—"

“All of it,” the younger man squeaks, his nod vigorous. “That all sounds, ahem, very good to me.”

Fucking paint me with your cum, you beautiful beast—

There’s a primal quality to Geralt’s answering smirk that makes his stomach flip.

“Excellent. What else would you like to ask?”

Jask purses his lips, dispelling his dirty daydream to refocus on the task at hand.

“If we want to try something, and it’s not on the list… what happens?”

“We’ll talk about it,” Geralt answers. “This partnership relies heavily on communication, and negotiations are always ongoing. If either of us wants to experiment with something new, or something on the ‘maybe’ list—" he taps the paper for emphasis, “—we’ll discuss it at length before bringing it into a scene. Sound good?”

“That sounds really good,” Jaskier says with a nod, his smile growing along with his confidence. Geralt’s extensive knowledge in this is very reassuring, and it’s helping calm his nerves.

“Any other questions?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Before he can react, the Dom flips over his sheet to hide the text.

“Alright. If you hear me say ‘Quen,’ what does that mean?” He quizzes.

“It’s your safeword,” Jaskier returns. “When you say it, play stops, we talk, and we either fix the issue and proceed or stop completely and start aftercare,” he recites, remembering the information Yen coached him through before all this started. “But you’re also comfortable with the stoplight system. What’s mine?”

“Lettenhove,” Geralt answers easily.

“Ah yes, my childhood hometown that I avoid like the plague.” Even just hearing the word puts a bad taste in his mouth.

The older man raises his eyebrows in question, so he explains.

“Very narrow-minded. Every time I go home, I see old people in the grocers who know my parents and tell me it’s ‘not too late to turn back from my deviant ways and settle down with a nice girl.’” He shivers. “Fucking nightmare, that place.”

Geralt looks sympathetic.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

Jaskier shrugs.

“After seven years, I’m rather used to it, but thank you.” He trails his fingertips across Geralt’s palm. “Can we move on?”

“Of course,” the Dom replies, clearly sensing that the subject is closed. “Do you remember my opinion on temperature play?”

The younger man thinks a moment.

“Green list.”

“What about body modification?”

He shakes his head. “That was red list.”

“Leaving marks? Hickies, welts, bruises?”

Jaskier shivers, the thought of carrying Geralt’s marks singing down his spine.

“Green list.”

“Good. And what happens if I say I want to try a type of impact play that we don’t have listed here?”

Jaskier squints. That’s hard to imagine, considering how they’ve got everything from bare hands to single-tailed whips written down, but he knows the right answer.

“We’ll talk about it and see if I want to try it too.” His brows furrow. “What happens if I don’t want to try it?”

“Then I drop it,” Geralt answers simply. “I won’t push, and we’ll only revisit it if you want to bring it up again.”

“Even if you really want to try it?”

Geralt shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter, if you aren’t into it. Besides—" he glances down at the lists between them, smirking darkly, “—I think I’ve got more than enough ways to play with you right here.”

Jaskier flushes.

And now I’m imagining all of them. Fuck me.

“Is there anything else you need clarified?”

The younger man shakes his head.

“Nothing that I can think of, but I’ll ask if I come up with something.”

Geralt smiles.

“Perfect. If you don’t have any further questions, then we can review the conditions of our agreement.”

“Are we signing some sort of contract?” The younger man queries, prompting the other to shake his head.

“No, I don’t think we need to, but we can always reassess later.” He clears his throat. “Do you still agree with the condition of exclusivity?”

Jaskier thinks a moment.

“Yes, so long as it works both ways.”

The Dom smirks.

“It does. And trust me, you’re the only one I want, brat.”

He doesn’t hold back his satisfied nod.

“Good. And the next one—" he cuts off abruptly, his blush now creeping down his neck.

“Mm, my favorite.” Geralt licks his fucking lips, eyeing the crimson staining his skin. “Jaskier, do you still agree to grant me control over when, where, and how you orgasm?”

Can I get in trouble if I come in my pants from the way he’s looking at me?

Jaskier gulps.

“Fuck… yeah.”

The Dom’s eyes glint.

“Excellent. And finally—obedience. Do you agree to submit to my authority and accept the consequences without argument should you disobey?”

Jaskier shivers, imagining Geralt wielding any number of implements for spicy punishments.

“Yes, totally, absolutely yes, big guy.”

The older man straightens, schooling his grin down to a neutral smile.

“Perfect. Follow me.”

He rounds the bar, extending a hand to Jask, who takes it without question.

He follows the Dom’s broad back to the elevator, spine tingling when Geralt presses the button for the second floor.

That's where the playrooms are. Blessed fucking day.

“Geralt, darling, not that I’m not all for whatever delights you have planned, but I do have one concern.”

A grey brow rises in response as they step out into the hallway.

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s just that—I broke the club rules. I came here drunk, and I deeply regret it, but I don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss for not suspending my membership…” His voice trails off, and he chews his lower lip, nerves going a bit haywire.

To his surprise, Geralt directs him to the same office from the previous night, not a playroom, and the younger man gives him a confused look.

“Don’t misunderstand, Jaskier—you’ll be punished. But I don’t have to suspend your membership to do that,” he replies cryptically. “And considering how I’m the boss, the only one in trouble here is you.”

Wait.

What?

“Huh?” he asks, ever the master of elegant speech. Golden eyes spark with amusement.

“Did you really think I was just a bartender here? I’m surprised Yen didn’t tell you.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops as realization finally dawns on him.

“Are you telling me that you’re the owner everyone kept talking about?”

“Well, I don’t broadcast it, but it’s not exactly a secret,” Geralt chuckles, leaning back against his desk, beefy arms crossed over his chest.

I want him to snap me in half.

“So when it comes to me, you can just—?”

“Make an exception? Yes. But like I said, it’s not a full exemption.” He approaches the younger man, voice going low. “I’m just going to punish you personally.”

Jaskier’s pulse skyrockets, breath coming shakily at the sudden heated proximity.

“I’m okay with that.”

Geralt’s brows draw together, mouth curving down into a frown.

“You’re not going to like it, Jaskier. It’s a punishment for a reason.”

“But I thought… it’s not a spicy punishment?” he asks, and the Dom smiles.

“Tell me, brat, if you like being spanked, what good does it do me to reward bad behavior with a spanking?”

Jaskier frowns.

“Are you going to hurt me in a way I don’t like?”

Geralt shakes his head vehemently.

“No. Corporal punishment isn’t my style. I only want you to associate pleasure with my touch.” He runs a single finger down Jaskier’s jaw, making the smaller man practically vibrate in place.

“Well then, what are you going to do to me?”

The glint in his amber eyes is no longer teasing.

“It’s more… what am I not going to do?”

What in the bloody hell does that mean?

Geralt stands taller, authority radiating off the posture.

“Take off your shirt for me, Jaskier.”

After the smallest moment’s hesitation, he obeys, shrugging off his coat and shirt and handing them over to the waiting Dom, who places them on the desk. The other man sucks in a sharp breath, his hand reaching out to ghost over Jaskier’s side. When he looks down, he sees what Geralt’s focus is on.

Shit. The bruises.

His pale skin is mottled with the aftermath of last night’s fall, and he winces at the sight.

“You want to know what your punishment is?” The Dom asks quietly, levelly, and he’s afraid to nod.

“I won’t be playing with you until each and every one of these bruises fades.”

It takes a moment to register, but when it does, he has to fight the urge to protest.

“Every one?” he squeaks.

“Every single one,” Geralt confirms, and his heart sinks.

Fuck. That’s going to take weeks.

“But I—"

“No argument, Jaskier,” the Dom reminds him, voice tight. “Your only other option is to take the standard punishment and have your membership suspended.”

“How long?”

“A month.”

I can’t go that long without seeing him.

Fuck.

“Fine. The bruises need to heal first. Got it.”

Geralt gestures for the younger man to collect his clothing from the desk, and Jask can’t hide his disappointment.

Then he remembers condition number two.

I can’t even jerk off to take the edge off! FUCK.

“Geralt…” he whines, because that’s such a long time, how can he possibly—

“Should I explain?” The Dom says sharply. “Should I tell you what seeing you at the bottom of those stairs was like?”

Jaskier grimaces, feeling guilty. He hadn’t thought what that must’ve been like for Geralt, how scary that must have been to witness. Geralt steps forward, arms bracing on the desk on either side of Jaskier, caging him in. He’s so close, the younger man can see the dilation of his pupils as he draws near, but the stern set of his jaw doesn’t falter.

“I’ve never been more afraid in my life. You looked dead, Jaskier. And I thought I’d lost you before I ever had the chance to love you.” There’s raw, unguarded emotion in those eyes, and it makes his chest ache.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Geralt’s expression softens slightly.

“I know you are. And I don’t want to hurt you further, so I’m going to make you wait.”

Rough fingers caress his chin, following the curve of his jaw, and he shivers at the contact.

“If it helps, it means I can’t have you for that long either. My own punishment for being a dick.”

Jaskier swallows.

“Okay.”

The smallest of smiles breaks the hardened mask of Geralt’s face, and quickly transforms into a smirk.

“And besides, I’d like to start with a blank canvas when I leave my marks on you,” he rumbles. The tone of his voice and the way he’s towering over the smaller man makes Jaskier moan low in response, every atom in his body wishing he could reach out and wrap himself around the devastatingly attractive man before him.

“Evil man,” the sub mutters, earning himself a dangerous chuckle. Suddenly, he’s hyperaware of Geralt’s nearness, the heat pouring off his body and melting into Jaskier’s very core, making him twitch in his trousers.

“You’ve made it this far, baby. Just a little more patience, and I’ll make it worth the wait.”

He’d better.

This is going to be fucking torture.

Chapter Text

The first few days are easier to endure. There’s a surge of projects at work, and Jaskier doesn’t have time to go to Kaer Morhen after, too exhausted to even consider making the trip. He finally gets around to ordering Yennefer that fruit basket, which curries some favor and earns him points toward forgiveness for being a numpty.

He messages regularly with Geralt, much to his delight, and he finds that the man’s dry humor is truly marvelous over text. Trying to prod him for his own amusement, Jaskier sends him something every time he has a free moment; whether it’s a meme, a gif, or just a random thought, the other man always replies in minutes with some quip to make him smile. The exception, of course, is when the club is open and he’s working, which only serves to make Jaskier regret being stuck at home even more.

In his brattier moments, he teases the other man, sending him less-than-innocuous messages, occasionally including a reference photo. You know, messages like “Hey Geralt, thinking about hopping on the bike shorts trend. What do you think?” with a mirror selfie of the younger man in the tightest spandex shorts he owns, back arched in a way that leaves no question as to the real purpose of the message, or the more obvious “Do you think I’d look good with nipple piercings?” accompanied by a shot of his bare chest.

He can barely contain himself when Geralt replies with a “Don’t test me” or a “I know what you’re doing, brat.” It's like he can hear the man’s gruff voice in his head, and he grins to himself, loving to taunt the Dom. There’s a secret thrill about it, knowing he can push the older man’s buttons, playing a dangerous game and trying to provoke him just enough.

The soreness disappears in days, but the bruising stubbornly stays put, much to his chagrin. Every time he changes, or showers, he has to see the yellowish-purple reminders, and he’s never been more irritated with his own body.

Have bruises always taken this long to heal, or is this some kind of cosmic joke?

Things slow down enough by Thursday that he makes it home in time to change, and a text from Yen confirms that she and Triss will be meeting him at the club. Excitement thrums through him when he thinks about seeing Geralt, because even if they can’t play, he can still look at the guy and drool to his heart’s content.

I may have eternal blue balls, but I still get to see that ass in leather pants, baby.

He doesn’t want the bruises to be visible, hating that seeing them upsets Geralt, the physical evidence of his mistakes, so he digs in his wardrobe for something long-sleeved. There has to be something in here, anything… huh.

His fingers brush against something soft, and he pulls out a crushed velvet top, another one of his impulse purchases that he’s never worked up the courage to wear before. It’s a deep gold, and hugs close to his torso; frankly, he’s never worn it before because he’s always felt like he’d look like an ostentatious douchecanoe in the worst way, but looking at it now… It’s remarkably similar to the color of Geralt’s eyes.

So of course, now he has to wear it.

He distracts from the bags under his eyes with a ring of kohl, cursing his workplace for making him look less than his best, and pulls on one of his more form-fitting pairs of trousers.

If Geralt is going to torment me by making me wait, I’ll do everything I can to make him suffer too.

Okay, yeah, he’s a brat.

The inside of Kaer Morhen looks the same as always, with the exception that the low thumping beat sounds more familiar—is that eighties music?

He looks around, and sure enough, the clientele looks more colorful than usual, the PVC and leather mixed in with blinding patterns, a few shocking bell-bottomed playsuits, and a near-criminal amount of sequins.

Well, there go any concerns I had about standing out.

He locates Yennefer and Triss at a high-top near the bar, letting himself be folded into hugs before stepping back and taking in downright confusing wardrobe. Yen’s hair is teased, which she doesn’t look happy about, while Triss has a perm that he suspects is temporary. Further, where the former is decked out in an all-denim ensemble, the latter is in eighties workout gear, complete with colorful sweatbands and leg warmers.

Is this a fever dream?

“Hi? What the fuck is this?” He asks cheerily, and Triss grins.

“Eighties Night! I’ve been begging Geralt for months to do a theme night, and he must’ve been in a good mood this weekend because he finally said yes!”

Yen gives him a pointed look, and his ears burn hot.

I have an idea what put him in such a giving mood. Suppose I should be proud of it.

Triss gestures to his top.

“I didn’t know Yen remembered to tell you about the theme. That shirt is so cute!”

Yennefer purses her lips in amusement, and he shoots daggers at her with his eyes.

One day, witch. One day.

“You both look incredible. I especially love the hair,” he says, grin going Cheshire-wide, and the brunette scowls.

Ha! Point for me, finally.

Triss pats her curls.

“Thanks! I’m not keeping it this way, of course, but I thought it would be fun to dress up.”

“Well, I love it. The hair, the dedication, everything.” He knows not to comment on the over-the-top makeup that completes their looks, lest Yennefer murder him where he stands.

“I have to say, this was a great idea!” A deep voice announces, and Jaskier spins to see that they’ve been joined by two of Kaer Morhen’s favorite DMs, both decked out in truly heinous button-up shirts with popped collars and possibly illegally short cut-off jeans.

That is a LOT of muscular thigh.

Not that I’m complaining.

Just jarring to be surrounded by blokes who look like they should be carved out of fucking marble.

Lambert, the one who’d spoken, beams at him, clearly comfortable with wearing his hair gelled into a travesty resembling a mullet. He claps Jaskier on the shoulder, blessedly picking the unbruised one.

“If it isn’t the infamous brat—we haven’t officially met.” He sticks out his free hand. “I’m Lambert.”

Jask shakes it.

“Nice to meet you, Lambert. And I prefer Jaskier, if that matters.” He's given up on correcting the brat thing. Eyeing their bare arms, he continues. “Not on duty tonight?”

Eskel grins, reaching out to ruffle the smaller man’s hair.

“Nope! We blackmailed Geralt into giving us the night off. Couldn’t miss a good theme night!”

He high-fives Triss, and Jaskier truly feels like he’s stepped into another dimension.

Have I been drugged?

“By the way, Jaskier, truly well done on making an honest Dom of Geralt,” Lambert congratulates, squeezing the shoulder he still holds. “He even smiles now!”

This is chaos. Pure, unadulterated chaos.

His eyes dart to the bar, but he doesn’t recognize the blonde woman manning it.

Where is Geralt?

For a moment, he questions if he’s even in the right club.

Then the sound of a paddle hitting flesh reassures him.

Okay, not a parallel universe. Still unsettling, but reality nonetheless.

“You two playing tonight?” Yen asks the men, sipping at a paper umbrella-adorned drink that is a truly concerning shade of teal. Lambert shakes his head.

“Nah, Aiden is on a DM shift and Keira is covering the bar for—ungh!”

He jerks suddenly to the side, hand slipping from Jaskier’s shoulder with a surprised grunt.

The younger man turns to see a delicious sight awaiting him: Geralt, silver hair in a low ponytail, wearing a sleeveless white shirt that’s at least two sizes too small and tucked into his trademark leather pants.

I want to climb him like a tree.

“No touching,” he growls at the redheaded man, then turns his attention to his sub. Amber eyes move so slowly over him that it feels like they’re caressing every inch of Jaskier’s body, and the younger man preens at the attention.

“So possessive,” Lambert mutters, shaking him off and moving to the other side of Eskel for protection.

“He’s always been like that, don’t act so surprised,” the other DM reminds him, tipping to his lips a drink so laden with fruit that there can’t actually be that much liquid in the glass.

Jaskier’s hardly paying attention, because Geralt has slid a hand around his waist and drawn him into his side, where he can appreciate just how much sculpted arm muscle is exposed by this heaven-sent shirt.

“Theme night?” He murmurs teasingly into the Dom’s ear, and Geralt grunts.

“I’m blaming you.” He glances at Jaskier’s empty hands, frowning. “You haven’t gotten anything to drink?”

The sub’s eyes flicker warily between the examples of Keira’s work at the table.

“Er… I think I’d prefer a water.”

Geralt smirks, and Jaskier is suddenly very aware of fingertips kneading circles into his hip.

Just a few inches to the left, love—

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

With that, the silver stallion leaves his side and heads for the bar, and Jaskier watches with a lifted brow as he joins Keira behind it, dutifully ignoring all the patrons trying to get his attention and assembling a drink with practiced efficiency.

When he returns, it’s with one of those fancy glass-bottled waters and what looks suspiciously like a Buttercup, placing both on the table in front of Jaskier.

“Jask, I fully expect you to take advantage of this little ‘free drinks’ perk on our behalf,” Yennefer teases, looking like she’s actually beginning to enjoy herself as Triss giggles into her ear.

Golden eyes roll beside him.

“You’ve got enough special privileges as is, Yen,” he chides.

“I don’t get a bonus for introducing you two?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Jaskier snickers into Geralt’s shoulder.

For once… I’m having a fucking fantastic time.

With his chin pressed to the Dom’s shoulder, he’s blessed with an eyeful of sharp jawline and chiseled features.

The only thing that could make it better would be if these bruises would heal already and this man would rail me into next week.

As the conversation carries on around them, Jaskier speaks only to Geralt, low enough that the others don’t hear.

“I didn’t want to ask over text—when are we going on that date, darling?”

The larger man’s thumb does interesting things at the nape of his neck, sending tingles down his spine.

“I was thinking this weekend would be good. How are your bruises doing?”

The sub pouts.

“Still there.”

They’ve yellowed quite a bit, the lighter ones faded entirely—Jaskier may have googled some bruise remedies—but there’s still a couple that are quite obvious to see.

Geralt breathes deep, but his small smile doesn’t waver.

“Would you like to come over to mine for lunch on Saturday?”

At Jaskier’s thirstily hopeful look, he chuckles.

“Just to eat, brat.”

I can find plenty of things to put in my mouth, but you insist on being a killjoy.

“Can’t we technically have sex without it counting as a scene?”

It took a hot minute (read: days of sulking and ruminating about it), but he eventually figured out that loophole, and boy was he thrilled.

The Dom smirks.

“We could.” He eyes the younger man. “Don’t get me wrong, I want to, Jask. But abstaining is as much about me as it is about you, and I want to make sure we’re both ready.”

“So, on Saturday…”

Geralt leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to his sub’s lips that still manages to make his toes curl.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Well, if coming is on the table…” Jaskier muses, making the older man laugh.

“Let’s just start with lunch, you fiend.”

“Takeaway?” He asks, and Geralt shakes his head.

“I’ll cook.”

Jaskier can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face, picturing Geralt in an apron and a surprisingly PG-13 domestic setting.

Can’t get a good spanking with oven mitts in the way. Pity.

“Well, then I’ll bring dessert.”

He’s absolutely giddy at the idea of spending more time with his delicious Dom, even if it’s just ogling him while he makes sandwiches and tortures Jaskier with blue balls.

The night wears on well, giving Jaskier the opportunity to get to know all the closest people in Geralt’s life better without the pressure of formality—hell, it’s hard to be formal when everyone’s dressed so damn ridiculously.

He learns that of the three obscenely built men at the table, Eskel is actually the only unattached one (due to someone’s recent status change, ahem), and Lambert is in a poly relationship with Aiden, a yet-unseen DM, and Keira the blonde bartender.

Eskel and Lambert rejoice in regaling him with embarrassing stories from their childhood with Geralt, raised together by their foster father, much to the silver-haired man’s chagrin. He’s only appeased when Jaskier leans into his side, fingers entangled with his, and presses a reassuring kiss to the stubbled corner of his jaw.

As for the others, apparently Geralt, Triss, and Yen all met in college, and it was only a couple years ago that the latter two reconnected and started dating. This was due to a fortuitous invitation to one of Kaer Morhen’s showcase nights by none other than the grumpy grey gift from above himself, much to the younger man’s surprise.

Look at him, playing matchmaker.

Nothing but nougat under that crusty exterior.

And boy, do I want a taste.

Occasionally, the others mention someone named Ciri, and based on the way Geralt stiffens beside him, Jaskier’s instincts tell him that’s the young EMT he blearily remembers helping him after his tumble down the stairs. You know, the one with eerily familiar pale hair who called Geralt “Dad.”

He plans on asking him about it later, but even as tactless as he can be, Jask has enough wisdom to know better than to push the issue in front of all of their friends.

Yen and Triss are just leaving the table for their half-hour reservation block upstairs, looking excited, when an anxious server Jaskier doesn’t know appears and taps Geralt on the shoulder, panicked and sweating.

He misses most of the exchange, only catching something about the restrooms, a broken stall door, and a busted faucet, then Geralt growling something along the lines of “reading the fucking signs” and “so many other places to do that in a literal sex club” in response before he leaves with a squeeze to the younger man’s hand and assurance that he’ll be back as soon as he can.

Lambert follows him, demanding overtime pay on the way, and then it’s just Eskel and Jaskier. The DM gives him a proud smile, nursing a new extreme-looking drink crafted by Keira.

The woman is testing the laws of nature with these beverages.

“You actually did it. Told you he’d say yes,” he celebrates with a smirk, and Jaskier laughs.

“Excuse me, I don’t think you’re in the best position to pat yourself on the back, considering he was a proper demon to me and I had to fall down a flight of stairs to wake him the fuck up,” he retorts, pointing an accusatory finger. Eskel chuckles.

“My brother has a talent for being obtuse, what can I say? I’m just glad it all worked out for you both.”

He reaches out, patting Jaskier on his still-bruised shoulder. The younger man doesn’t hide his wince well, and the DM doesn’t fail to notice.

“Leftovers from your fall?”

The sub sighs, flicking the decorative peach slice on the rim of his glass.

“Yeah, my shoulder took a bad hit.” He pouts. “The soreness isn’t even the worst part.”

Eskel’s eyes spark with understanding.

“Ah… He won’t touch you, will he?”

The younger man groans, dropping his face into his hands.

“Even worse. You saw him—he’s so touchy, and it’s amazing, he just won’t let me—“ he cuts himself off with a grimace. 

Maybe that’s a little too much info.

Eskel winces.

“Geralt’s punishments are pretty fucking punitive,” he confirms. “And he’s creative about it, which is extra twisted.”

Fuck it, I need someone to complain to.

“The man is a menace, Eskel. I can’t fucking come until the bruises go away! My balls are going to fall off, I swear…”

The other man looks thoughtful.

“Well, have you tried arnica? Lots of people who play use it to heal bruising quick. I don’t know how medically legit it is—and you should probably patch test first—but it’s pretty popular.”

Jaskier blinks at him.

“What.”

Eskel continues with a nod.

“Yeah, hot baths and applying arnica cream a couple times a day could speed up the process.” He takes another swig of his drink, lifting an eyebrow. “Did Geralt not tell you?”

Evil, evil man his Dom is, he did not.

The look on Jaskier’s face answers for him, and Eskel makes a sympathetic face.

“He’s got a mean streak a mile long. Just… wait here.”

With a parting raise of his hand, he disappears, leaving Jaskier to fend for himself. In the few minutes he’s gone, the sub casually observes the show on the stage, watching with interest as the Domme straps her sub to a St. Andrew’s Cross and gets to work with a riding crop.

Ouch.

Kinda looks like fun.

He’s thinking about adding it to the list of requests he’s got for Geralt—after his punishment finally fucking ends—when Eskel returns and presents him with a small white tube that looks almost like toothpaste.

“Rules. One: Apply a couple times a day, massaging gently into your bruises. Two: Don’t tell Geralt I gave you this, because I think he’s still mad about the video thing and I fear his wrath,” the DM explains, and Jaskier gives him a questioning look.

“Video thing?”

He at least has the decency to look a little ashamed.

“Er… I may have prompted him to review the footage from your first session with me.” He holds up his hands defensively, clearly seeing the growing ire in the younger man’s eyes. “I was trying to get him to give you a chance, but I do feel guilty about it and I’m sorry.”

Jaskier resists the urge to throttle him, takes several deep breaths, and calms himself. To Eskel’s benefit, he looks genuinely remorseful. Plus, it would not help his budding relationship with Geralt to murder one of his brothers during Eighties Night.

Maybe a different theme, though.

“Okay... okay. I’m not happy about that, because I’m not pleased to be used as a pawn to manipulate Geralt,” he begins. “And obviously I would’ve preferred if you’d asked me beforehand.”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing.

At some point, we’re going to establish some fucking boundaries around here.

Surprisingly, he’s not filled with the level of humiliation he would’ve expected—instead, his heart pumps a little bit faster, his blood heating at the thought of Geralt seeing him like that, tempted by the image of Jaskier on his knees, Jaskier submitting.

It’s kinda hot.

Huh. Maybe I need to add exhibition kink to the list, too.

“Don’t do it again,” he orders, pointing a threatening finger at the DM. They must paint a hilarious fucking picture right now: Jaskier looking like a ruffled baby chick, threatening a giant man straight out of a Wham! video. “But I guess… thanks for looking out for me. And thank you for this,” he adds, holding up the tube. “If it works, I’ll be far less likely to seek vengeance.”

Eskel looks relieved.

“Well, I’m happy to help. And you’ll have to get in line behind Geralt.” He downs his drink, grimacing. “I’ve been hiding my shampoo and conditioner for weeks—that was his target last time.”

Jaskier chuckles.

“What happened?”

The DM shrugs.

“He dyed my hair green for cheating at Gwent.”

The younger man’s eyes widen in shock.

“Just for cheating?”

“Well,” he pauses, biting his lower lip. “The loser of that game had to help our father clean out his rain gutters.”

“Why’s that so bad?”

“Because I fell off the fucking ladder,” Geralt answers, finally reappearing at his side. “Right into Vesemir’s prized rose bushes.”

Eskel snorts.

“He had to replant the whole row.”

“And I hate gardening,” the Dom finishes, frowning. He shakes his head at Jaskier. “Never come between my father and his flowers. I had thorn wounds for days.”

The other man looks adequately guilty.

“He’s unreasonable about those bushes, the old coot.”

Triss and Yennefer return to the table, looking disheveled and satisfied in a way that makes him not want to ask any questions about it. The latter woman checks her phone, then nods.

"While this has been lovely, we should head home,” she informs the group, kissing both of Eskel’s cheeks and winking at Geralt and Jaskier. “Work in the morning, and all.”

Triss gestures to the musician.

“Do you need a ride home, Jask?”

I don’t really want to sit in a car with their “just-fucked” atmosphere, but it’s free…

He looks to Geralt, checking to see if he’d rather drive the sub home himself, considering his previous opinion on the matter. The silver-haired man looks regretful.

“I have to stay until the emergency plumber gets here, or I’d drive you,” he explains, frowning. “You should go with them.”

Jaskier tries not to look too disappointed.

“Alright. I’ll, er, see you Saturday, then.”

He moves to follow the women, but before he gets too far, a hand encircles his wrist, drawing him back into a firm chest. Geralt’s fingers wind into his hair and he kisses him deeply, igniting an instant, violent heat in Jaskier’s belly that has him clenching his fist in the other man’s shirt with a low whine.

It lasts only a moment before the Dom releases him, gently urging him to follow Yen and Triss out with a sigh.

Fucking hell, Geralt, now I have to get in their car with a boner.

He ignores the knowing looks from his friends, wishing the men goodbye and trying to subtly adjust himself as he exits out into the night, his smile pleased and stretching from ear-to-ear.

I have a date with Geralt.

Fuck, I can't wait.

Chapter Text

Huh. So he lives next door to the club. Go figure.

Jaskier looks up at the building he’s never noticed before, having been slightly distracted by the dungeon next door. Now that he thinks about it, he recognizes the gate—it’s the one Geralt took him through when they went down to the garage to get his car.

Wonder what floor he lives on?

He buzzes the intercom at the gate, strolling through when it unlocks.

Nice place.

Geralt meets him at the door, barefoot and soft-looking and Jaskier yearns.

The Dom ushers him in, leading the way to the kitchen, where he’s already working on an impressive spread. 

“I’ll be just a few more minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“I don’t mind one bit, darling.”

He snags a seat at the island in the middle of the kitchen, propping his chin on his palms to watch Geralt work.

He’s wearing an apron.

So cute I could scream.

“I wasn’t sure what you like, so I went with something simple,” the older man explains, scratching the back of his neck and looking adorably nervous.

“Considering I have no food allergies to speak of and you made it for me, I’m sure I’ll love it,” Jask responds, trying to sneak a peek past the broad-shouldered brawn and failing.

“Have you given up on being bratty and resorted to buttering me up?” Geralt teases, making the younger man snort.

“First—actually no, I’m not that clever. Second, just take the compliment, love.”

The silver-haired Adonis shoots him a look over his shoulder that’s so full of affection it makes his heart race.

“Telling me what to do now?”

“When it comes to accepting that I like you for more than just the godlike physique? Yep. I’ll fight you tooth and nail.”

If he’s not mistaken, that’s a flush at the tips of Geralt’s ears, and Jaskier feels his chest swell with pride.

Fuck. I like him so much.

“Geralt, I was thinking, do you like… movies?” He asks a tad awkwardly.

You were doing so well, sweetie.

“I can confidently say I do,” the older man replies, and Jask can hear the amusement in his tone. “Though I prefer watching at home.”

“Don’t like the other people?” He guesses. “Frankly, I find the chewing to be the worst.”

Geralt chuckles.

“While you have a point, it’s actually the seats. I usually don’t fit in them very well.”

Okay, brain cells, please form a single-file line as we collectively leap into the gutter.

I have to stop thinking about Geralt and dark rooms.

And his arse.

Mmm, you could bounce a coin off that taut beauty.

“You could fit on my couch decently enough, I think,” he manages to reply semi-intelligently. Granted, his sofa isn’t very big, but… cuddle opportunities.

Geralt gifts him another over-the-shoulder grin.

“Well then, I’ll bring the popcorn.”

Jaskier grins.

“Let me be clear—I intend to snog you like there’s no tomorrow once we turn the lights out.”

The older man laughs aloud, shaking his head.

“I gathered that.” And this time—this time he winks back at Jask. 

Hnnngh he’s flirting, it’s fine, everything is FINE.

Geralt’s laugh distracts him from his glitching brain.

“You okay over there?”

“I’m doing splendidly, thank you. How are you?”

Perhaps also thoroughly enamored to the point of dysfunction?

No? Just me?

That’s okay, take your time.

“I’m pretty much finished over here. Let’s eat.”

He serves up the meal, and Jaskier honestly can’t decide what to drool over: the food or the man.

Caprese salad, grilled chicken, surprisingly elegantly displayed fruit—Jask’s store-bought pie suddenly feels inadequate.

“Geralt, this looks incredible,” he compliments, taking the seat the other man pulls out for him. Some kind of sparkling lemonade is poured for him, and Geralt grabs the chair to his immediate left at the round table.

“Thank you. I started cooking when I adopted Ciri, and now I find it’s a good stress-reliever.”

Jaskier stills.

“Ah, I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of prying…”

Geralt’s hand catches his.

“It’s fine, I probably should’ve explained sooner.”

With his free hand, he starts eating, and Jaskier follows his lead, still watching the older man curiously and waiting for him to continue.

“So, I told you I grew up in foster care. I got lucky when I was finally placed with Vesemir and my brothers—it was the first real home I’d ever had.”

Jaskier squeezes his hand comfortingly, knowing not to push. Geralt continues.

“I was seventeen when I found out I had a half-sister, Pavetta. She was older, and she’d died in an accident with her fiancé. She… looked like me.” His voice is carefully neutral, but the younger man’s heart hurts for him. He can’t imagine what it must’ve been like to find out you that had a sibling that you’d never get the chance to know after years of questions.

“The hair is genetic?” Jaskier guesses, and Geralt smiles, running a hand through his loose locks.

“Yes. I didn’t realize it until I met Ciri.”

He takes a long drink of his lemonade, leaning back in his chair and finally locking golden eyes with Jaskier’s own gaze.

“My sister left behind her infant daughter when she passed. At the time of her death, her mother—Ciri’s grandmother, Calanthe—took Ciri in. She was only five when Calanthe died, too.”

Jaskier’s chest aches for the little girl who experienced so much loss so early in her young life. How lost she must have felt, how abandoned…

“Somehow, Calanthe knew about me. She’d sent me notice of Pavetta’s death, but didn’t say anything of Ciri—I didn’t find out about her existence until I was twenty-two, and social services informed me that I was this little orphan girl’s closest living relative.” His tone is so matter-of-fact, it betrays nothing, but Jaskier can see the emotion reflected in his eyes.

“Oh my god,” Jaskier mutters. What a shock that must have been.

“So, fresh out of college, I adopted my five-year-old niece.” He chuckles, clearly immersed in the memory. “Ciri was a terror. Calanthe had spoiled her rotten, treated her like a little princess, and I was a stupid kid with a mountain of student loan debt and no idea how to raise a child. All I knew was that I didn’t want to fail her like my parents failed me.”

Affection swells in Jaskier’s chest at the other man’s misty eyes. Geralt sniffs, shaking the emotion away.

“Vesemir helped me. A lot. I worked as hard as I could, trying to give Ciri the best life possible, and… yeah. She grew up.”

Oh goodness, the proud dad look is fucking cute on him.

Geralt’s smile is genuine, his eyes shining, and it’s only because Jaskier wants to hear the end of the story that he doesn’t kiss him with all he’s got.

“She’s twenty now, graduated youngest in her EMT program last year, and... I love her more than anyone in the world.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, like that level of verbosity was a truly Herculean effort for him, and Jaskier grins, ready to melt into a puddle at the man’s feet.

“Holy shit, Geralt. That’s incredible, all of it. Raising a kid at that age, and Ciri turning out as well as she did? Remarkable.”

He’s not going to cry. That might be a bit too much.

Geralt scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish at the praise.

“I owe most of the credit to Vesemir.”

“Yet you’re the one she calls Dad,” the younger man challenges with a fond smile. Said fond smile fades when he remembers just how he met Geralt’s precious daughter. “And her first impression of me was a drunkard who couldn’t make it up a flight of stairs. Not good, definitely not my best.”

Shit.

His Dom chuckles.

“She knew about you before, if that helps. Over the years, Yennefer has been sort of a surrogate mother to her, and she’s mentioned you.”

Jaskier is struggling to imagine Yen behaving in any kind of wholesome, motherly fashion, but hey, miracles happen.

“That must have been a godsend during puberty.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Geralt groans, shaking his head. He banishes the memory with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, don’t worry about first impressions. I’m sure you’ll grow on her.”

“Like I did with you?” He teases, making the other man huff.

“You didn’t grow on me so much as swung into my life like a wrecking ball.”

Jaskier purses his lips, eyes hopeful.

“But… it sounds like that kind of thing has worked out well for you so far?”

Geralt gives him a wry smile.

“I suppose it has.”

His amber gaze searches his face for a moment, almost serene, then he leans closer, pressing warm lips to Jaskier’s. The younger man can’t help but deepen it, seeking more from the contact, hungry, needy.

Geralt grunts into the kiss, sounding surprised at first, but then his hand comes up to firmly grasp Jaskier’s jaw and take control, sending the sub’s heartbeat into overdrive. The remains of their meal are forgotten as Jask pushes closer, wanting nothing more than to touch and be touched by this man whom he admires so, who can set every nerve in his body alight with just a piercing golden look.

Strong hands draw him closer, out of his seat and onto Geralt’s lap, and Jaskier is on fire. Nothing has ever felt better than Geralt’s hands on him, directing him, barely-bridled strength clear in every move. He’s hard where he’s pressed into the younger man, a broken groan escaping him when the sub grinds down desperately, starving for the sweet friction he’s been denied for so long.

“Geralt, Geralt, please,” the sub murmurs into his mouth, and suddenly his wrists are captured in an unbreakable grip and joined behind his back, the Dom easily restraining him with one hand. His free hand buries itself in Jaskier’s hair, and he jerks the smaller man back with a growl of his name.

“Jaskier,” he rasps, pupils blown wide as the man straddling his lap sucks in gasping breaths. He stares at Jask’s mouth, lust warring with reason in his gaze, and he only looks up when the younger man’s hips wriggle atop him, begging for attention. “This is more than just lunch.”

“They’re almost gone,” Jaskier breathes, licking his lips. “They’re faded, almost gone, and I’ve been so good, please…”

True to his word, he’s actually obeyed Geralt’s orders and kept his hands off himself despite the growing frustration from lack of release for the past week, and now he’s so hard he can’t fucking see straight. His hips give abortive twitches into Geralt’s, and he can’t stop the pained noises leaving his throat with every brush against rigid hardness. It’s so good but it’s not enough, and if he’d just fucking touch him—

The hand leaves his hair, and Jaskier whines, immediately missing the contact. His protest cuts off when he realizes Geralt is swiftly unbuttoning his shirt and shoving it back off his shoulders, exposing the length of his heaving chest. His amber gaze scrutinizes pale skin, and Jaskier regrets that there are still the slightest yellow shadows dotting his skin where the bruises used to be, not quite completely disappeared but so close…

Have some mercy, Geralt, please—

The Dom’s eyes are locked back on his parted lips, swollen and red after Geralt’s assault on them.

“So desperate,” he rumbles, eyes darkening. “You need this, don’t you baby? I think I’ve made you wait long enough.” Rough fingertips ghost over the planes of his chest, tugging on the soft curls there, the prickling pain sending jolts of heat to his hard cock.

Jaskier can only whimper in response, shuddering when Geralt gives one of his nipples a particularly sharp tweak.

“Please,” he begs, breath hitching.

“Please, what?” The Dom demands.

“Please, sir.”

A torturous silence stretches for what feels like ages, but then Geralt gives him a pleased grin.

“Good boy.”

He releases his hold to push their food out of the way, and Jaskier dimly hears the clacking of dishes before Geralt is standing and tipping him back to lie flat on the table, his hips at the very edge. The larger man looms over him like a predator, every inch of his muscular frame reminding him exactly who is in charge here.

Fuck, yes.

“Hands over your head,” he commands, and Jaskier obeys without question, toes curling when Geralt’s giant hand binds his wrists together again, trapping them against the glossy surface of the table. Heat radiates off the Dom like a fucking furnace, and Jaskier can’t wait to get burned.

The telltale sounds of a belt buckle being undone are music to his ears, and he only gets a brief glimpse of the monster between Geralt’s legs before his own trousers are yanked halfway down his thighs and he feels bare skin, scorching against the most vulnerable parts of him.

Fuck, fuck, he’s so big, Jesus fucking Christ—

A strong hand wraps around him then, callused thumb circling the throbbing head of his neglected cock, and Jaskier cries out at the long-awaited touch, precum weeping from the tip of him.

“Sensitive, aren’t you?” Geralt muses, voice like gravel and sending shivers down his spine. He leans down, speaking low in Jaskier’s ear. “I’m going to shatter you, just like you wanted.”

Hearing his own words thrown back at him has another spurt of pre escaping his cock, and Jaskier strains against Geralt’s hold with a whimper, his pulse like thunder in his ears.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

He reels at the sudden change in his tone, teasing becoming unexpected reverence, but he doesn’t have a moment to examine it because Geralt is lifting his own shirt, trapping the hem between clenched teeth and encircling them both in a harsh grasp that makes Jaskier keen beneath him.

“Fuck, Geralt—"

He gives them a few dry pumps that teeter his sub between pain and pleasure, then seems to think better of it, reaching past the younger man. Something cool and slick dribbles over them, and Jaskier’s moan is high-pitched and crackling when Geralt’s tight grip returns.

The Dom strokes their combined lengths slowly, the pace agonizing for the man pinned beneath him, and Jaskier squirms atop the table, increasingly despairing noises leaving him of their own volition as he begs with his body.

Geralt’s tongue delves deep when he kisses Jaskier again, coaxing the sub into sharing a filthy kiss that reaches down to his very bones, finding a hypnotizing rhythm that tingles across his skin, goosebumps covering every inch that Geralt’s heat doesn’t reach. He kisses like he’s claiming the younger man for his own, branding him from the inside out, and every cell in Jaskier’s body just wants to surrender to the other man’s will.

More, fuck, please, I can’t, I need more—

Molten eyes seem to read every thought from his pleasure-slackened expression, and Geralt’s hand speeds up, pumping, pushing, dragging so perfectly over his skin, and Jaskier can feel himself coiling, his core tightening with inescapable need.

He whimpers again, pleading wordlessly, and sharp teeth scrape against his jawline.

“Don’t hold back,” Geralt commands. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“I’m so close,” Jaskier gasps, and that punishing grip becomes impossibly tighter.

“Come for me, Jask. Now.”

With a fractured cry, Jaskier’s back arches and he explodes, shaking as cum splatters on his chest and stomach. Geralt pumps him through it, following moments later with a low groan and painting Jaskier with his own release.

Seconds tick by, the silence broken only by their gasping breaths, and the Dom loosens his hold on his wrists, brushing soft, warm kisses on the younger man’s overheated skin. He rubs gently at Jaskier’s wrists, down his arms and sides, murmuring soothing words, telling him how good he was while the sub trembles beneath him.

“Are you okay?” He checks in, and Jaskier musters a nod, mumbling something incomprehensible with a satisfied grin. His touch is tender on the smaller man’s face, and he presses reassuring lips to his face and jaw.

“I’ll be right back, okay? Just getting something to clean you up.”

His steps don’t take him far, and Jaskier’s ears pick up running water for mere seconds before Geralt is back at his side, a warm, damp cloth running delicately over his sensitized skin, meticulously cleaning him. He breathes shallowly, slowly, feeling wrung out under the other man’s gentle care.

“I’m going to move you,” his Dom warns, before strong arms gather him close, and then he’s being carried. His cheek rests against Geralt’s chest, and he blinks up at the man, the corners of his mouth lifting into a satiated smile. They settle together on the couch in the living room, Jaskier tucked safely into Geralt’s embrace, and he cranes his neck up in a wordless request.

Soft lips caress his in answer, and he feels them curve into a smile.

“You did so well, baby. So good for me.” Geralt’s nose nuzzles into his temple, huffing short breaths in dark hair. “How are you feeling?”

Wriggling happily, he grins up at the older man.

“I feel fucking fantastic, darling.”

His Dom chuckles, breath ruffling his hair.

“Good to hear.”

Jaskier bites his lip, searching golden eyes.

“Did you like it?”

“You have no idea,” Geralt sighs, his satisfaction clear in the loose-limbed posture he has beneath Jaskier’s bulk.

Perfect. It was better than I could’ve imagined.

I wonder…

“Will it be like that every time? That good?” He queries, hopeful as he meets that molten amber gaze. 

“I hope so. That was fairly light, by my standards. In a planned scene, it’ll be more intense.”

“I mean,” Jaskier pauses. “That wasn’t intense?”

The older man smiles.

“It was. And we’ll build up to even more. But you’re still new to this, so I’m not going to just throw you in the deep end.” He brushes a soft kiss over Jaskier’s temple. “We’ll start you off with floaties, first.”

“Well if ‘floaties’ includes more of that, I’m certainly not complaining,” the younger man responds with a grin.

An amused grey brow lifts in response, Geralt’s lips twisting into a dangerous smirk.

“Oh, Jaskier. We’re just getting started.”

Fuck, yes.

After the expertly done masterpiece of a dual handjob, Jaskier spent the rest of his Saturday at Geralt’s. He recovered enough to finish their lunch after about an hour of cuddles with his Dom, bursting out laughing when he realized just where the olive oil meant for the caprese salad went.

Upon finishing the meal, Geralt gave him a tour of his place, which was fucking gigantic—he didn’t realize the man had the entire building to himself. The ground floor was the main living space, an open floor plan housing his kitchen, living, dining, and laundry rooms, as well as a small bathroom. Next floor up was the guest bedroom with an en suite, Geralt’s master bed and bath, and a converted office space. The final floor was the ultimate surprise to Jaskier, split into two rooms: home gym on the left, and on the right, a fully stocked playroom with more toys and implements than he could count and complete with a bed, couch, and St. Andrew’s Cross.

His jaw had dropped at the latter, nearly jumping out of his skin when Geralt had approached him from behind, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s shoulders with a pleased sigh. The Dom had explained that while he did play at the club, he preferred to do it at home, hence the impressive setup.

Another mystery was solved when Geralt took him to the basement level, where his personal garage housed three different cars: the luxury sports car he’d driven him in before, a gigantic pickup truck, and a beat-up SUV that looked like something a soccer mom would drive. The last had been Geralt’s car when Ciri was growing up, and still had the stains to prove it.

Evidently, owning and operating an elite sex club-slash-BDSM dungeon is a fucking lucrative pursuit.

Following the tour, they’d returned to the couch, and an incredibly domestic Netflix-based cuddle session had commenced, with the addition of Geralt’s laptop as he browsed online for more lingerie to outfit Jaskier.

Let it be known, the man is true to his word.

Now, he’s back at home, lying in bed and staring at the shadows shifting on his bedroom ceiling. He can’t sleep, because for the first time in his life, he’s just so unbelievably happy.

Discussing expectations while cuddling with Geralt today had been super helpful, helping him understand that while their dynamic did typically extend beyond scenes—in appropriate spaces only—their relationship’s foundations aren’t nearly as strict as Dom/sub partnerships could be.

For instance, Geralt doesn’t expect Jaskier to kneel at attention at all times, which his knees are thankful for—when he’d made that particular quip, the Dom had laughed and murmured something about always keeping what he wanted within easy reach. They’re going to explore the possibility of a collar later; Geralt had commented that he wanted Jaskier to earn it, which piqued his interest, especially because he wants something to wear at the club that will show everyone exactly who he belongs to.

Most everything about this partnership is filling him with an excitement he hasn’t felt for years; one exception, however, is that Geralt wants to teach him how to drive. Specifically, he wants Jaskier to be able to stay some nights at his place if possible, and while he says he doesn’t mind chauffeuring the younger man around, he wants Jaskier to have the “freedom” of the road.

There’s a reason he doesn’t drive. He’d had his license as a teenager, but nowadays not only can he not afford a car, the thought of getting behind the wheel makes him so nervous he worries he’d puke in his own lap if he tried. Thankfully, he doesn't mind walking, and with public transportation and rideshare apps, he gets around just fine. But Geralt wants to use it as some kind of trust-building exercise, and it was only the encouraging, hopeful smile on the Dom’s face when he made the suggestion that kept Jaskier from shooting the man’s hopes down then and there.

Still, on principle, he refuses to learn to parallel park.

Setting the driving thing aside, what Jaskier didn’t expect is how fond he is of the silver-haired un-grumpiest grump. It’s almost scary how fast he’s falling, and while he knows it’s happening, he doesn’t think he wants to stop. It’s like he’s thrown himself over the edge of a cliff, but instead of being afraid, he just knows Geralt will be there to catch him at the bottom.

Oh god. I’m becoming a fucking sap.

But with his Dom, the vulnerability comes easy.

There’s a fierceness to Geralt, and not just the sheer physicality of the man. It’s in his loyalty, his compassion, his surprising patience—Jaskier isn’t shocked that Geralt made a great father. He may be intimidating beyond reason, but his capacity for affection, for pure, human connection… that’s even stronger. It's what makes Jaskier trust enough to give himself over to the man, to surrender all control.

In another life, Geralt would be a hero, Jaskier is sure of it. Slaying monsters, saving the world… it would be his destiny.

He gives up on sleep for the moment, recognizing a moment of inspiration when it strikes, and seeks out his notebook and guitar among the chaos of his belongings.

I think I’ve got a song to write.

Chapter Text

“Okay, who is it?” Ciri questions, ethereal eyes cutting through him with the unerring sharpness he taught her.

“What are you talking about?” He returns nonchalantly, swirling his drink in its glass.

Sunday brunch has been their tradition since his daughter graduated from her EMT program and moved out, a way for them to catch up every week and spend some quality time together before they head to Vesemir’s for afternoon tea with his father and brothers.

It’s also his daughter’s favorite time to interrogate him.

“You know who I’m asking about. Whoever it is that has you grinning like a fool while you stare at your fancy French toast.”

At some point in her childhood, Yen taught Ciri how to emulate her specific brand of terrifying, and Geralt is just barely resistant to the emotional damage the women can do. It’s taken years of practice.

“Have you considered that maybe I’m just having a good week?”

Ciri gives him a withering look.

“What, is ‘Floggers Monthly’ having a sale? Don’t bullshit me.” She points her fork at him with the next sentence. “I’m gonna figure it out.”

His loved ones’ specialty for invading each other’s business is otherworldly.

Geralt internally debates how to handle this. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to formally introduce Jaskier to his daughter—despite the amazing day they had yesterday, including the brief session on the dining table that warms his belly as he recalls it, it’s still so new. In a way, he wants to be selfish, to be greedy and keep Jaskier all to himself for now. 

“Okay, stepping up the threat level,” his daughter announces after moment of deliberation, speaking around a mouthful of fruit. “I’ll get Yen to tell me.”

He sighs.

“You can’t wait until I’m ready to tell you?”

She squints at him, shrugging.

“I mean, I could… but I don’t want to. Because you’re like, glowing.” Ciri waves a hand in a circle before him, encompassing his supposed glow. “And it’s kind of freaking me out.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Why can’t you let it be for now?”

I know why. Because she’s been corrupted by a violet-eyed demon.

“Because I need to know who it is so I can make sure they know the consequences for hurting you,” she explains sweetly… menacingly.

Why is every woman in my life like this?

Except maybe Triss. Have to have one exception, I suppose, when all the others are veritable bloodhounds.

“Ciri, you are not going to threaten my partner.”

Pale brows lift, and she grins.

“Partner, huh? Not just a sub?”

Shit. Too much information.

“Cirilla—“

“Oh no, don’t Cirilla me. You’re dating someone.”

Her excitement is tangible in a terrifying way.

“Ugh, fine. I am, and it’s new, and you need to mind your own business for now.”

His daughter pouts, rolling her eyes.

“Yen’s right. You’re a grade-A fun sucker.”

“That’s a new one. What happened to buzzkill?” He retorts, and she shrugs.

“Lost its shine.”

He rubs a frustrated hand across his face.

“If it tell you who it is, will you promise not to overwhelm them? Or threaten them? Or do anything to ruin my chance of dating them in the near or distant future?”

She frowns, crossing thin arms over her chest as she considers the deal.

“Not even just like a small warning?”

“No.”

“Teensy threat?”

“No.”

“Barest hint that I’ll do everything in my power to ruin their life if they so much as dream about hurting my dad?”

“I love you too, and no.”

She huffs and sits back, chin to her chest in the same petulant slouch she used against him as a teenager.

“Fine.”

Geralt sighs.

So much for keeping him to myself.

“It’s Jaskier.”

Her brows furrow.

“Why does that sound familiar?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward.

“Yennefer’s coworker and close friend.”

“Mm, not ringing a bell.”

He sighs again.

Sorry, Jask.

“The guy who fell down the stairs.”

Ciri’s bright green eyes widen.

“Oh. Oh.” She grins. “Dad! He’s so cute!”

“Please don’t.” One of his rare blushes heats his face, and he covers his eyes with his hand.

"Really, you should be proud of yourself. Hell, I'm proud of you. Who knew you still had enough game to pull a guy who looks like that?"

"Should I be insulted by that? I'm not that old, you know," he says with a soft scowl.

She holds up placating hands.

"I know, I know. I'm just saying—well done."

"Thanks, I guess?"

I never could stay mad at her, the little devil.

“Is he okay? After the whole…” She mimes someone falling down a spiral staircase with her hands, and Geralt looks to the heavens for help that he knows won’t come to save him from this conversation.

“He’s fine. He’s great, actually.”

Reveal nothing, Geralt. No details.

“Is he why you weren’t answering the phone yesterday?”

Fuck.

I swear she's fucking telepathic.

“Ugh. Yes, I had him over for lunch.”

She wiggles her blonde eyebrows at him, and he curses Lambert for teaching her how to do that particular trick.

“Oh yeah? Just lunch?”

“Ciri. Boundaries.”

She scoffs.

“Come on, don’t be a prude, Dad. We’re both adults, and a healthy sex life is really beneficial for your mental health—"

“Stop it,” he groans. “I’m begging you.”

“I’m just saying, when your dad owns a dungeon, you develop an open mind about sex—"

“Ciri, please.”

She snickers.

“You’re too easy to break, old man.”

Geralt shakes his head, raking tired fingers through his hair. This is what happens when you raise your kid surrounded by the greatest menaces to peaceful society.

Namely Lambert and Yennefer.

"So, when do I get to meet him? Like for real?"

He blinks. She's never wanted to meet one of his partners before.

"Er... I suppose I can ask him."

"Good. I need to meet the guy who has you looking all lit up from the inside and shit."

This is either going to go really well or be a total fucking disaster, and I have no clue which.

Tea at Vesemir’s ranch is actually a reprieve from the barrage of questions Ciri has been lobbing at him since he told her about Jaskier. The drive over was nothing short of painful, because all she wanted was details, and somehow she managed to weasel the story of his initial bad behavior toward the younger man out of him. After that, she spent the rest of the drive chewing his ass out, a lecture complete with his own life lessons thrown back in his face and citations of the latest research findings released by leading relationship counselors on healthy communication, which he has no idea how she relayed off the cuff like that. The kid is scary smart.

As if the lingering guilt wasn’t bad enough, adding the shame of his daughter’s disapproval really rounds it all out.

Once they’re at his foster father’s ranch, however, Vesemir sees fit to monopolize his only granddaughter’s time and leave his sons to their own devices, a welcome reprieve from the interrogation.

Which is why the three men are currently seated on the front steps of the farmhouse porch, nursing beers and sharing a plate of finger sandwiches in comfortable silence.

Or, it was comfortable. And then Lambert elbows Geralt with a leery grin.

“So… How was the date yesterday?”

Not a single person in this family knows how to mind their own business.

The silver-haired brother groans aloud, tilting his head back to take several gulps from his beer.

“Oh shit, was it bad?” Eskel butts in, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Geralt sighs.

“No. It was incredible.”

With his eyes closed, he hears his brothers high-fiving, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“He healed up nice, then?” Eskel asks, and Geralt narrows his eyes at him.

“So it was you who helped him cheat. What did you do?”

His brother smirks.

“Gave him some arnica. And c’mon Geralt, hasn’t he been punished enough already?”

“Yeah, kid’s gotta fuck you,” Lambert adds, and Geralt kicks him.

“I haven’t heard any complaints.”

“Oh? So it went very well, then,” Eskel concludes, his tone suggestive.

“Is he a screamer? He looks like a screamer to me,” Lambert muses, prompting another kick from his older brother.

Obnoxious little shit.

“None of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Lambert,” Eskel chastises.

“Relax. At least I’m not the one who dommed Geralt’s little crush first,” Lambert snarks back.

“And then made me watch the footage,” the silver-haired brother grumbles, making the eyes of the youngest go wide.

“What? You didn’t tell me about that.” He smacks Eskel’s shoulder. “That’s kinda twisted, dude.”

The dark-haired man grimaces.

“Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.”

“I mean that’s so low, it’s not even on the bingo card,” the other mutters, scanning his phone.

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“I told you guys to stop playing that—"

“Well, they can stop now, because I won this round,” Ciri announces, stepping out onto the porch. “Gramps is in the bathroom, but he said the tea’ll be ready soon.”

“Hold up, you won already? How?” Lambert returns incredulously.

Ciri presents her phone, evidence clear on the screen.

“See? Last box: ‘Geralt begs to end conversation.’”

“Dammit,” Lambert concedes, and both her uncles pull out their wallets, handing over a hundred each.

“This, right here—" Geralt points at the exchange. “This is fucked up.”

“C’mon Dad, you know the Geralt Bingo pot goes toward a nice Christmas present for you,” Ciri says with a victorious smile, pocketing her winnings.

“It’s not healthy that you three play a literal game about my life—"

“Mm, four now, actually,” Eskel corrects. “Yen got in on it this year.”

“There is something deeply wrong with all of you.”

“Hey, maybe Jaskier can play next year!” Ciri suggests excitedly, making her father groan.

Knowing Jask, the little imp would love Geralt Bingo.

“Who’s Jaskier?” 

Vesemir’s grizzled face appears at the door, and Geralt shoots a glare at his daughter.

Dammit.

Why do I even bother trying to have a private life?

It's Monday, and Geralt is trying to focus. He really is.

The problem is that Triss is explaining numbers, and taxes, and she’s got spreadsheets up on the screen for him to look over. Never mind the fact that understanding them is like trying to read some kind of mysterious language that is somehow magically boring.

So, like any normal person, his mind wanders.

And like any normal person in a brand new relationship, it wanders to the man he’s been thinking about nonstop in every free moment he has.

Taking Jaskier apart on the kitchen table during their lunch date wasn’t the plan, if he’s being honest, but it was good.

So. Fucking. Good.

The younger man’s sensitivity was as gorgeous as he’d anticipated, every shiver and tremor when Geralt touched him downright addictive. And his responses, fuck. Those pretty little moans and whimpers have been echoing in his ears for days.

There was something so perfectly satisfying about finally pinning him down, finally getting the brat under him and molding him to his will. And watching those dreamy doe eyes dilate, those supple pink lips parted so invitingly when he begged for him—it woke something primal in Geralt that wanted nothing more than to devour the man beneath him.

Every sound, every shiver he drew from the sub was intoxicating to experience, and it’s a test of his own patience that he can’t have the man in his arms (or his ropes) every night, giving him that sweet submission he craves. There are so many things he wants to do with and to Jaskier, and the list only grows by the day.

His imagination is a gift and a curse, supplying his mind with multitudes of vivid images—Jaskier on his knees, or tied down and immobile, begging, that furious blush painting the shivering canvas of pale skin as Geralt shows him exactly who he belongs to. Jaskier suspended midair, hips twitching desperately for relief that only Geralt has the power to give. Jaskier astride him, impaled and frantically fucking himself on Geralt's cock as he chases elusive release, a single snap from Geralt's hips the only thing able to push him over the edge. Every image is stunning in its own way, and Geralt wants it all.

I want everything my beautiful little sub can give me.

And then, on the other hand of it all, he sometimes finds himself distracted by surprisingly wholesome thoughts of the younger man. The way his eyes twinkle when he’s being cheeky, the open looks of affection Geralt keeps catching directed at him, the tiny furrow in his brow when Geralt frustrates him… he wants to latch onto each and every one and keep them close to his chest, basking in the warmth they give. He wants to hear that horrid little snicker-snort the man does when he’s amused by something naughty, and the sharp way he says his name when his absurdly posh accent betrays his irritation. He wants the soft, chaste kisses, the little pecks Jaskier gives him that make those affectionate feelings overflow, that make him feel cherished.

The duality of both sides is confusing to reconcile in his mind, because he can’t figure out what he wants more. His gorgeous mouth curved in a sweet smile, or slack with pleasure? Delicate hands entwined with his own, or restrained under his unyielding strength? Desperate whimpers, or musical laughter?

Jaskier the boyfriend, or Jaskier the sub?

Can I be greedy and truly have both?

Chapter Text

Tuesday nights are the slowest, without a doubt. It makes sense, when you think about it. Mondays make people want to blow off steam, because they’re terrible. In a dungeon, Wednesday becomes literal “Hump Day.” Thursday and Friday attract those looking to start the weekend early, and Saturday and Sunday are no-brainers. But Tuesday… not a popular day for play.

Maybe everyone is out getting tacos.

It’s for this reason that Geralt is bored out of his skull tonight, making just a few drinks per hour and mulling over whether he should do laundry or Jaskier on Saturday. Or both.

Definitely both.

He’s currently in the process of hiring another bartender and increasing Keira’s hours to free up his evenings; with Jaskier in his life, he doesn’t have to stay behind the bar to fill his time anymore, because he actually has someone he’d like to be around. Plus, it’s not fair to make the younger man come all the way here to see him and then work the entire time—not to mention the Uber charges.

Which will hopefully stop being an issue when I help him relearn to drive.

He has the unshakeable urge to do things for Jaskier, to do everything in his power to make the man’s life easier or better, and short of making the sub link Geralt’s card to his rideshare app, teaching him to drive is the next best thing.

And gives him an excuse to be in a small, enclosed space with him.

He wants to spend more time with him outside the club, too, whether it’s on a date, or even just at home. Maybe, on nights when Jask can’t make it to Kaer Morhen, he could go over there, cook for him, hang out… or other things.

I’d love to see how we both fit in that tub of his.

He loses himself to the raunchy daydream his mind cooks up, picturing Jaskier and himself and several creative uses for bubble bath. Or waterproof toys.

It’s a good thing the bar hides everything below the waist, because the tight leather pants leave little to the imagination, and he’s not doing well at controlling himself right now.

So of course, the universe decides it’s the perfect time for the subject of his daydreams to appear.

“Geralt, darling, you are a sight for sore eyes. Named any drinks after me lately?”

Fuck, he’s so pretty.

Jaskier looks tempting as always, this time in a sheer shirt that has his nipples on display and makes Geralt’s mouth water. He’s torn between wanting to drag the man over the bar to tease them into hard points and snarling a warning at everyone else who’s looking, because he’s a gorgeous sight and he’s his.

“Yes, actually. It’s lemon juice and jalapeño, and it’s called the Pain in the Ass,” he replies, his devilish side loving the affronted gasp that comes from the other man.

He’s so fun to tease.

“Okay, first of all, rude—and second of all, love, isn’t that your role?” He retorts with one of those sweet smiles and fluttering lashes.

“Is that when I spank you or when I fuck you?” Bantering with him is the entertainment he’s been missing, especially when that delicious flush blooms across the musician’s skin.

He purses his lips like he knows what they do to Geralt’s control.

“How about both at the same time?”

Fuck.

He gives his sub a heated look, one that communicates just how much he wishes he could haul the man from his seat and over his knee.

“Did you come here just to torment me while I’m working?”

Jaskier smirks.

“No, actually. I came to have a drink and ogle your arse while you’re working. Much more innocent motive.”

“Right.”

Cheeky little bastard.

He starts gathering ingredients to mix up a Buttercup for the welcome nuisance, but a shrill voice pipes up from the other end of the bar, cutting over the music.

“Excuse me! Hello! Can I get a drink please?”

The woman effectively screeching at him has a visitor’s bracelet on and is accompanied by one of his longtime members, who looks embarrassed, but also like he’s not going to do a thing to quiet her.

Great.

He shoots Jaskier an apologetic look, aiming to serve the woman as quickly as possible and get back to him, then walks over.

After explaining that no, they don’t serve alcohol, and yes, he can put it on her companion’s tab, he mixes her a quick Witch’s Brew (tonic water with gooseberry and lilac syrup) and hands it over, beating a quick escape.

When he returns to his waiting sub, he finds the younger man glowering darkly at the other end of the bar, his normally cheerful expression looking shockingly sinister.

“Jaskier? Why do you look murderous?”

If something happened while he was busy with his customer, he’s more than ready to hunt down the perpetrator and—

“She was staring at you.”

He lifts an eyebrow in surprise.

“Hmm?”

Cornflower blue eyes finally shift to meet his, and there is very thinly veiled anger in that gaze.

“Didn’t you notice? The way she kept looking you up and down, like you were a piece of meat?”

Oh my god. He’s jealous.

“I didn’t notice. And even if I did, I don’t care,” he answers with a shrug. “She can look all she wants. It’s part of the job, and it’s not like I’m interested, anyway.”

Jaskier’s reaction is visceral, and Geralt is suddenly reminded of those videos of angry kittens with their hackles raised, hissing furiously.

“No it’s not. You should be able to do your job without some horrible woman leering at you—"

“Jaskier, you quite literally admitted to doing the exact same thing not five minutes ago,” he points out, watching with amused eyes as the younger man’s nostrils flare.

“It’s not the same thing,” he insists. “I’m allowed to, aren’t I?”

“Oh, are you?”

“May I remind you of condition number one—"

“Jaskier, come here.”

He crooks his finger at his sub, waiting for him to lean far enough over the bar that Geralt can curl a hand around his chin and plant a deep, filthy kiss on his lips. Jaskier whines into the contact, panting when his Dom pulls back, and Geralt smirks at him.

“I know condition number one. And it’s why you’re the only one who gets that.”

“Hey, does that cost extra?” The shrill voice rises again, and Jaskier’s head whips in her direction.

“Back off, bitch!”

The sudden, unbridled vitriol makes Geralt laugh aloud, shaking his head.

“Now now, nice kitty,” he chides, waving in apology at the woman. “I don’t want a bad Yelp review.”

“Geralt, I will rip the hair from her head—"

“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

The younger man sits back in his seat with a frustrated huff, lean arms crossed over his chest and regrettably hiding his nipples from Geralt’s view.

“I don’t even care that you’re teasing. She can fuck off.”

“She doesn’t matter, Jaskier. Relax.”

“You want me to relax? Why don’t you make me?"

Grey eyebrows nearly meet his hairline.

“What did you just say?”

The younger man blanches.

Too late now, brat.

“Um… make me?”

Geralt’s still chuckling when he texts Keira to come cover the bar.

Ah, now that’s a beautiful sight.

It’s definitely worth bribing Keira with double overtime pay to cover the remainder of his shift.

Jaskier, kneeling at his feet, with his hands bound in his lap.

Lovely.

Geralt’s had him strip down to his boxer briefs, long limbs and pale skin all exposed for him to look his fill. And fuck, does he like what he sees.

He leans back in his chair, head tilted to the side as he appreciates the sight before him. Jaskier looks even better than he could’ve imagined, his cheek pressed to his Dom’s inner thigh, expression deceptively innocent as he looks up at him. But Geralt isn’t fooled—the baby blues don’t hide the blush high up on his cheeks, or the shallow breath, or the tip of a pink tongue that peeks out when he licks his lips.

Fuck, those lips. The things I could do to him…

He can’t resist tracing that mouth with his thumb, relishing the softness and the shuddering breath that comes out when he does it.

“Oh, baby,” he rumbles, thumb brushing across a plush lower lip. “I’m going to wreck you.”

Jaskier whines, one of his favorite sounds, and Geralt grins in response, baring his teeth like a predator to prey.

“You have two options, Jaskier. For talking back to me: one, you can take a spanking like a good boy, or two, you use this—" he dips his thumb into the wet warmth of that fucking lush mouth, “—and show me a better use for your mouth.”

Cornflower blue swirls with conflict as he tries to decide, and Geralt thoroughly enjoys watching the series of emotions playing out on his sub’s handsome face as he’s torn between his choices. Then his gaze drifts down to where the Dom is straining against his pants, the pressure just this side of agonizing.

Geralt watches, rapt, as he leans forward to press a kiss to the hard bulge, signaling his choice with a smirk and sending his pulse surging upward.

Fuck, yes.

“Is that what you want? You want to taste me?” He rasps.

“Mm, yeah.”

Jaskier’s eyes look glazed over with lust as he nuzzles at his Dom’s crotch, mouthing at the outline of his cock hungrily. His lips slide helplessly over the material, and he whimpers in frustration when he can’t get purchase on the zipper.

“Help, please,” he murmurs, turning now-pleading eyes up at Geralt, who’s suddenly feeling wonderfully generous.

“So good, asking for what you want,” he praises, and his hand cards through his sub’s hair. He flicks the button of his fly open with his free hand, opening the zipper tooth by tooth while Jaskier watches impatiently.

“C’mon, Geralt, hurry up,” he moans, and the hand in his hair tightens.

“What was that?” His Dom’s tone is sharp, warning him, and he corrects himself.

“Please, sir, I need it.”

“Much better, baby.”

He frees himself from the confines of his pants (the leather doesn’t allow for underwear), and Jaskier descends on his cock with a downright sinful groan, like he’s never tasted anything better than Geralt.

The Dom himself barely manages to stifle a fucking avalanche of sound that threatens to escape him. He knew Jaskier’s mouth would feel good, hell, he’d fantasized about it for weeks, but this… fuck.

This is a goddamn religious experience.

He’s impressed with how far the younger man gets before he chokes, the hand in his hair loosening to pet encouragingly. Every inch of Jaskier’s mouth is silken and warm around him, making him ache to bury himself in the sub’s throat.

He’s positioned them beside a tall mirror, and he finds his eyes scouring their reflections, memorizing the heavenly sight of the younger man’s face bobbing in his lap, every lean line of his body tensed beautifully as he works so hard to please his Dom.

“Fuck, Jaskier.”

His groan seems to spur on the man at his feet, and he redoubles his efforts, humming around Geralt’s length and sinking farther and farther with every lift of his head. Geralt can feel the head of his cock kiss the back of Jaskier’s throat, and he has to force his hips to still, to prevent himself from chasing that tight heat.

Then Jaskier pauses, and Geralt meets a gaze shining with tears, the wetness clumping those long, dark lashes together beautifully. He looks purposeful, deliberately taking his Dom’s cock far enough that his nose meets dark grey curls. Burning heat swirls in Geralt’s gut, and his fist tightens up again in Jaskier’s locks.

“You want me to use you, don’t you?”

The sub nods as well as he can with so many inches of his Dom buried in his mouth. Geralt pulls him off with a growl.

“Tell me.”

“Please, fuck my throat, sir," he gasps. "Use me. I'm yours, Geralt, I'm yours.”

He’s close enough to wrap his lips around the head and suckle while Geralt decides on a course of action, tormenting the man above him.

And he’s powerless to resist his sub’s charms.

Before he makes that sweet, soft mouth swallow him down, he orders, “If you need to stop, tap your foot on the ground twice. Do it for me now.”

The younger man obeys, his left foot thumping against the mat, and anticipation has Geralt’s cock twitching on its own, pre dribbling from the tip that Jaskier opens his mouth to catch.

“Good fucking boy.”

He uses his grip on dark hair to drag Jaskier back onto his length, a surprised grunt escaping him when the sub takes him all the way, throat pulsing around him in a vice.

I don’t know how long I can last like this, fuck.

Starting slowly, he controls the pace, at first using only his hold on the man’s head to work his cock. But then, when Jaskier shows less and less difficulty handling it, he finally lets his hips snap up, fucking his entire length in as deep as he can go, and the cracked groan the younger man releases is music to his ears.

Each thrust is more vicious than the last, his sub’s mouth stretched divinely around his cock, taking him so fucking well, and it’s only when he feels himself getting close that he lifts Jaskier’s mouth off him with a pop.

“On your face or down your throat?” He grits, and it only takes the sub rasping out “my face” before he’s climaxing with a deep snarl and streaking that angelic face with ropes of his release.

A moment of overwhelmed stillness overtakes them, broken only by shared panting breaths.

Then Geralt can’t stop himself from greedily taking those slack, swollen lips with his own, chest rumbling when he can taste himself on Jaskier’s mouth.

“So fucking perfect,” he praises, and then he’s standing and dropping to his knees, turning the younger man to face the mirror and kneeling behind him. “You’ve more than earned your reward, baby.”

He wraps an arm around Jaskier’s heaving chest, pinning his bound hands to his sternum and locking him in place against Geralt’s upper body. Still on his knees, the sub is tucked between the larger man’s spread thighs, his poor neglected dick straining for attention against the seam of his underwear, a growing wet spot visible even on the dark material.

“Hmm, so hard, and just from sucking me? You really did need it,” he observes, reaching down to free Jaskier from his cloth prison. The man in his arms keens desperately when he circles a hand around him, and Geralt moans into his ear, breath hot on his skin.

“You’ve got such a pretty cock, Jaskier. Fits perfectly in my hand.”

The sub squirms within his hold, helpless whines escaping his wrecked throat as his hips give tiny, involuntary thrusts into Geralt’s loose grasp, seeking even the slightest bit of friction.

“So wet, too. I don’t think we even need lube.” He scoops some of his own cum off of Jaskier’s face, using it to smooth the way as he begins lazily pumping the younger man’s leaking cock.

“Watch, Jaskier. Look how fucking beautiful you are. So sweet for me, my perfect little sub.” 

And it’s true. In the reflection of the mirror, he watches the man’s alluring eyes go wide at the picture they make, Geralt’s broad bulk dwarfing Jaskier’s smaller frame as he traps him against his muscled chest. The full-body tremor that wracks him is a delight, and Geralt sinks his teeth into a pale shoulder, savoring the answering whine.

He pumps faster, harder, twisting his wrist on the upstroke and burning every hypnotic response into his memory to cherish later.

“Keep watching, baby. I want you to see how gorgeous you are when you come.”

Those delicate, long-fingered hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists, powerless to help him find relief beneath the unbreakable bar of Geralt’s arm. He writhes against his Dom’s hold, whimpering, his watery blue eyes begging the stronger man for mercy, and Geralt knows he’s getting close.

“That’s it, Jask. Come on. Come for me, baby.”

Jaskier’s core flexes hard as his hips snap up into the circle of Geralt’s fist, coming with a broken wail and spilling all over his Dom’s hand. One particularly ambitious spurt even reaches the mirror.

When he’s spent, Jaskier sags in Geralt’s arms, gasping for breath as his hips give little twitches with each aftershock, every muscle quivering from the strain. Geralt lifts his cum-coated hand to the sub’s lips, deep voice grating out his final command.

“Taste yourself, Jaskier.”

A tired pink tongue laves at the spend, and when his hand is clean, he captures his sub’s chin and brings those lips to his, groaning at the flavor when it combines with the salt of his tears and the remnants of Geralt on his skin.

Delicious.

His grasp on the trembling sub loosens, his body softening to draw Jaskier in and cradle him close. He whispers soothing words of praise to the younger man, pressing them into his skin with feather-light kisses and gentle caresses, careful to avoid any oversensitized areas.

With a bit of adjusting, he’s able to scoop Jaskier’s lax body up into his arms and stand, leaving cleanup for later and heading downstairs to his bathroom. It was a good idea for Jask to suggest coming here to play—he can take better care of him in his own space, where it’s comfortable and familiar.

Geralt’s bathroom, despite being spacious and impressive, is more spartan than Jaskier’s. Thankfully, his tub is still big enough to fit them both, so he strips off Jaskier’s boxer briefs and props him up inside, leaving him just long enough to turn on the faucet and shuck off his own clothing. When he’s finished, he slides in behind his sub, wielding a washcloth to clean the drying tears, sweat, and cum from his heated skin.

It takes a few minutes of quiet care for Jaskier to sigh, shifting in his arms to lean more comfortably against Geralt’s chest.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, hand rubbing in soothing circles over the younger man’s chest.

“Good. Really good,” he breathes, his voice rougher after the pounding his throat just took. “Fuck, it was incredible, Geralt.”

He feels a proud smile spread wide across his face.

“Excellent. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” He hugs Jaskier back against his chest, pressing a kiss to the nape of the younger man’s neck. “I’m so proud of you, Jask. You did amazingly well. So good for me.”

Jaskier sinks into the embrace, nearly boneless in his arms, and Geralt’s eyes catch the edge of a dreamy smile on his face.

“Can we stay here for a while?”

“As long as you need, baby.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Jaskier eyes the bite mark on his shoulder with glee, poking at it while he brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Geralt loaned him.

He marked me.

Hehe, that’s hot.

When he finishes rinsing and spitting, he ambles back into the bedroom, biting his lip at the sight that awaits him.

Geralt is sprawled on the bed, the sheets wrapped around his waist but leaving his chiseled chest and legs exposed. Silver hair fans out around him like a halo, and Jaskier could swoon. The man looks like he was sculpted by a Renaissance master, and he’s waiting for Jaskier to rejoin him in his bed.

How is this not a dream?

Oh fuck, what if it’s one of those super-realistic coma dreams?

Did I get hit by a bus or something?

He crawls across the mattress as quietly as possible, lying down beside his dreamlike Dom, afraid to touch and dispel the illusion.

Then the illusion reaches out and yanks him into his side, pulling Jaskier’s arm to rest over his ribs and proving his fears wrong.

“You smell like toothpaste,” Geralt mumbles, while Jaskier busies himself exploring his chest.

With his mouth.

“Needed to brush my teeth,” he replies, fascinated by the firm contours of his muscles.

“I don’t mind morning breath.”

Jaskier snorts.

“Yeah, how do you feel about morning breath plus two loads of cum?”

Geralt groans, arm tightening around him.

“Gross.”

“And one hundred percent your fault,” Jaskier retorts, fingertips brushing over the mysterious collection of scars scattered across his Dom’s chest. “Geralt, can I ask…?”

He sighs.

“You don’t need to. It’s all the same story.” His head drops to the side, eyes meeting Jaskier’s. “Vesemir’s wasn’t the first foster home I was placed in. The other ones… weren’t very kind to me.”

Jaskier is no doctor, but the scars all look different: cuts, burns, one deep gouge that looks suspiciously like a stab wound. His own chest absolutely aches at the shadows of Geralt’s past, scored into his skin and preventing escape. He wants to find the people who did this to him and rend them limb from limb.

“I know it looks bad, but please… I hate the pity.”

Jaskier rests his chin on Geralt’s chest, gazing up at him with nothing but warmth.

“I don’t pity you. I admire your strength.”

“Bearing my scars on my skin doesn’t make me any more admirable than those whose scars aren’t visible,” Geralt returns softly, drawing Jaskier’s hand up and pressing a kiss to his palm.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were referring to my horribly homophobic parents,” he volleys back, faking the levity in his voice.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” the older man murmurs. “But I'm here for you, if you do.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Jaskier replies, shrugging. “I was raised an only child in a conservative, religious household. I went to uni for music at eighteen, realized I’m gay, came out at nineteen, and my parents disowned me.” He sighs, fighting the urge to bury his face into Geralt’s chest and hide. “I couldn’t afford school anymore, so I started couch surfing and busking. By some miracle, one of the producers at the label saw me busking, found me through my YouTube channel, and they offered me a job.”

“And that’s where you met Yen?” Geralt prompts.

“Yep. I spilled coffee on her.” He snickers. “I tell you, Geralt, I thought she was going to kill me on the spot. Instead, she took my shirt off my back, because she was late for a meeting and didn’t have time to change, and the rest is history.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t claw your eyes out.”

“Nope, just left me half-naked in the break room. But you should’ve seen the look of rage on her face. I nearly pissed myself.”

Geralt chuckles.

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I considered quitting, just out of pure fear. Stop laughing, Geralt, it isn’t funny.”

The man beneath him leans up, brushing a kiss across his lips, and as much as he adores the contact... his nose wrinkles.

Geralt laughs harder.

“You’re going to make me brush my teeth, aren’t you?”

“Please?”

“Alright, alright.” He sits up, eyeing the arm Jask has wrapped around his waist with amusement. “If you want my teeth brushed, you have to let me leave the bed.”

“I forgot about that part,” the younger man pouts.

Chuckling, Geralt detaches his human barnacle, unwinding his arm and climbing out of bed. 

“Nooo,” Jaskier protests, reaching out in lazy futility. “It’s lonely now.”

“Patience,” the older man chastises, but he still bends down to press kisses to his hair. “I’ll be right back.”

Jask shamelessly watches Geralt’s marvelously tight buns as he walks out, stretching out on the sheets with a catlike yawn.

The inventor of boxer briefs has blessed me more than they could ever know.

He should be thinking about getting up and going home so he can make it to work on time. That’s what a responsible adult would do. A responsible adult would likely not be lazing about in their partner’s bed and contemplating playing hooky to keep him in bed all day.

But then again, having Geralt to himself for an entire day? That’s a very appealing thought.

He rolls over into the fading warmth Geralt left on the sheets, burying his nose into the man’s pillow and inhaling his scent greedily.

Fuck, he smells good.

Jaskier’s hips twitch against the mattress, and he can’t help but laugh at himself.

Pull yourself together.

Geralt will run for the hills if he comes back to find me sniffing his pillow and humping the mattress.

He hugs the pillow to his chest instead, wishing it was muscle and not stuffing in his arms.

The comfort of the sheets and Geralt’s scent in his nose makes it easy to doze off a bit, the new melody he's been working on playing in his head on a loop, lyrics still unknown for the time being. He closes his eyes as he relaxes into the warmth with a sigh.

“Falling asleep on me already?” Geralt’s voice rumbles from the foot of the bed, and Jask blinks up at him.

“Just keeping the bed warm for you, my liege,” he returns, making the older man chuckle again.

“Wow, my own personal bedwarmer. I’ve never known such luxury.”

Jaskier shoots him a flirty smile.

“Surely you know what to do with one?”

A large hand wraps around his ankle, and suddenly he’s yanked down the bed with a yelp, Geralt’s strength making it an easy feat.

Oh fuck yeah, manhandle me—

The Dom puts a knee on the bed between his sub’s spread legs, nudging them apart to make room for his hips. When he presses against the younger man, Jaskier’s eyes widen.

Blessed fucking day, he’s hard!

“You look good in my bed,” Geralt observes, voice lowering as he braces himself over Jask’s smaller frame. “Like you belong in it.”

“Only if you’re in it with me,” he replies, fingers casually twirling a dangling lock of silver hair.

Preferably fucking me.

Cuddling works too.

Or both. Both is good.

Geralt leans down, and warm lips meet his softly, making him smile.

“Mm, minty fresh,” he murmurs, tilting his chin up to nip playfully at the full lower lip tempting him.

“I aim to please,” the larger man responds, deep voice rolling over Jaskier like a wave.

Jask wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist, shifting so the other man can feel just how interested he is in the current proceedings and earning himself a chuckle.

“Too bad you have to go to work,” he laments, nuzzling at Jaskier’s cheek. “I’d keep you right here if I could.”

“In your bed?”

“Under me,” he corrects, briefly letting his weight rest on the smaller man and relishing Jaskier’s low whine.

Fuck, the size of this man.

“You know… I don’t have to go to work,” he remarks, tongue flicking over the shell of Geralt’s ear. “I could be feeling ill and call off.”

He rotates his hips again, and Geralt grunts, pulling back to look at him curiously.

“You really want to spend the day with a boring old man?”

Jask lifts an eyebrow.

“A couple of corrections for you, darling. One, you’re not boring.” He runs a hand down Geralt’s spine, fingertips teasing at the waistband of those glorious underwear. “And two, you aren’t old.” The tip of his tongue drags down his Dom’s neck, making the man tense above him with a harsh breath. “Finally, you are not just any man—you’re mine.”

With that, he grinds up hard into the other man, hissing at the pressure that’s just this side of not enough but adoring the groan that leaves Geralt’s lips, cadence so deep that it rumbles through his chest and into Jaskier’s, jumpstarting his pulse.

“You might be even more possessive than I am,” the silver-haired god atop him teases, sounding surprised.

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The younger man grins, especially when a strong hand trails down his body, curving over his ass and squeezing.

“Fuck, Jaskier.”

“Exactly. Let’s,” he retorts, and Geralt drops his forehead to the juncture where Jaskier’s neck meets his shoulder, sighing.

“Later. For now, I’m going to be selfish and irresponsible and let you lie to your employer so that I can keep you all to myself today.” He presses a kiss to the smaller man’s temple, trying to stand and failing when the man beneath him refuses to unwind his legs.

“Geraaalt, don’t leave me here,” Jask complains.

“I need to shower, and you need to call in,” his Dom reminds him with an amused chuckle.

“Nooo, come back and crush me with your beautiful body. Or better yet, bend me in half and fuck me until I see God—"

The other man laughs aloud, shaking his head.

“Shower’s big enough for two, brat. Go make that call, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

Mm, Geralt in the shower.

Water running over all that warm skin, those muscles, fucking hell…

He’s never gotten out of bed faster.

Jaskier resists the urge to brood when they get out of the shower, scowling when Geralt laughs at his expression.

“I think it’s perfectly reasonable that I didn’t want our first time to be in the shower, Jask. No one really likes shower sex.”

“And yet we could’ve broken the mold. We could’ve been pioneers, the first people to truly master the art of fucking under artificial rainfall—"

He’s cut off when Geralt tosses the towel over his head, giant hands trapping him under the material while they dry his hair.

“Well, when we blaze that trail, we need adequate preparation. Namely, lube. Silicone-based, so I don’t hurt you when I bury myself in that tight little hole of yours.”

Oh fuck me, he’s a menace.

The man’s voice alone has him stiffening under the towel wrapped around his waist.

Geralt releases him from his terry cloth confinement, meeting him with heated amber eyes. Fingertips follow the line of his torso, paying specific attention to his nipples, teasing them until they’re hard and Jaskier is harder. Then they drag through the thick hair furring his chest, twisting in the curls and making his knees weak.

“Your body, Jask,” he murmurs appreciatively. “Fucking exquisite.”

“Geralt, gods,” he breathes, flushing red as he sways into the touch.

“So gorgeously sensitive. I wonder if I could make you come just like this.” He pinches one of the hard buds, forcing a shudder out of the younger man.

“Please…”

“On second thought, we’ll save that for when I get some clamps on you,” Geralt says with a smirk that sends his heart skittering.

If I’m this hard with just some nipple play and dirty talk, I may actually die when he finally fucks me.

Well, there are worse ways to go.

“You’re so mean,” Jaskier whines, and the Dom’s hand leaves his chest to grasp his chin.

“You don’t want to see me be mean, brat.”

The dangerous look in those golden eyes softens the longer he looks at the younger man, and then he’s brushing his thumb across his lip with that familiar reverence, like he’s truly struck by the sight before him.

He really thinks I’m beautiful.

Jask opens his mouth, watching dark pupils dilate until the amber is just a golden ring around feverish black. His Dom takes the invitation, thumb slipping in and sweeping over his tongue, pressing down into the soft, wet muscle with heated fascination in his gaze.

“Fucking sinful,” Geralt murmurs, almost to himself, his voice going raspy. His free hand slips under the edge of the towel at Jaskier’s hips and jerks him forward, and then he’s leaning in, tongue replacing his thumb between Jaskier’s lips as he lays claim to his sub once more.

Times seems to slow down when Geralt’s mouth is on his, like there’s a spark of magic that tells the universe to savor this moment, to make it last, and the only way Jaskier knows the seconds are passing is with the frantic beat of his heart.

It’s almost dreamlike when Geralt finally pulls away, breath just as quick and shallow as that of the man in his arms, and presses his forehead to Jaskier’s in what the younger man likes to think of as his “communication signal.”

“As much as I’d love to continue this and consume you from the inside out,” he begins, voice gravelly and betraying the heat in his eyes, “We have things to do today.”

“Counterpoint: You could have just one thing to do today, and it could be me,” Jaskier argues, earning himself a wry smile.

“You’re incorrigible. But really, there are errands to run, and I should stop at the club for a minute to see if any new bartender applications came in.” He steps back to put space between them, clearing the fog of arousal from Jaskier’s brain enough for him to register what Geralt just said.

“Bartender applications?”

“Yes, a position opened up.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

Jask blinks at him, confused.

“Wha—why?”

The silver stallion’s lips twitch.

“I have other things to be doing with my time. Manning the bar was really just a way to keep myself busy at the club, since I wasn’t playing.”

Heavens above, I hope by “other things” he means “railing Jaskier.”

“Oh.” He can’t stop the wild grin that spreads across his face. “That’s—that’s good to hear.”

The smile he gets in response is borderline predatory.

“Yes, we’ve got to make good use of your membership, after all.”

Jaskier lifts a dark brow to flirt back, but then a stray thought distracts him, contorting his face into a somewhat hopeful grimace.

“Darling, feel free to disregard this, but when you hire your new bartender… could you possibly train them, rather than Keira?” He winces. “Her creations… they terrify me.”

Geralt snorts.

“Sure, if it’s important to you. Don’t misunderstand though, I’ll still be making all of your drinks, just no one else’s.”

This time, Jaskier’s blush has nothing to do with his dick and everything to do with his heart.

“Ah, the VIP treatment. Who knew I was so special?”

“Of course you’re special. You’re mine.”

He drops a kiss on the tip of Jaskier’s nose that makes the younger man want to swoon and steps away, heading for the bedroom.

“Do you mind wearing my clothes today? We could stop by yours if you’d prefer not to, I just figure you don’t want to wear last night’s clothes,” Geralt continues, Jaskier trailing after him and suddenly very excited.

“Totally alright with borrowing yours, love.”

The older man gestures widely at the dresser and wardrobe.

“Alright, take your pick.”

He himself pulls on jeans and a henley that distract Jaskier from his task momentarily, because he can’t decide whether he looks better with or without clothes.

What kind of witchcraft makes every garment cling to him like that?

Can I be his shirt?

Is that crazy?

Maybe that's a bit unhinged, gotta rein it in.

He shakes the spiraling horny thoughts from his head before he plasters himself to his man’s body like a human octopus, surveying his options and tutting.

Main problem: Geralt is a giant.

He resolves to wear his own trousers for the sake of not flashing the public, then procures what looks to be a very faded, nearly threadbare band tee that he can tuck loosely so it doesn’t hang down his thighs.

When he’s finished, he holds his arms out and does a spin for Geralt, who watches him with amused affection.

“Well? Do I satisfy?”

The larger man ruffles his hair, laughing.

“Always. Now come on, we should get something to eat.”

“And coffee?” The younger man proposes hopefully.

“Whatever makes you happy.”

He loops an arm around Jaskier’s neck, pulling him close.

If it’s with you, I’m happy, big guy.

Geralt opts to take them to a local breakfast spot that’s apparently one of his favorites, because the hostess greets him by name and takes them back to a secluded booth with a bit more privacy than the other tables, handing over menus and disappearing quickly. At Jaskier’s questioning look, the other man smirks.

“I come here with Ciri every Sunday for brunch,” he explains. “They’re used to me.”

Okay, he brought me to a special place.

Don’t panic.

And stop blushing.

“Ah, that makes sense. It’s also adorable,” the younger man replies, unable to hold back his grin. “Any recommendations?”

“I’m partial to the French toast. The eggs benedict is also excellent.”

Jaskier nods, taking the options into consideration while perusing the menu. The Belgian waffle looks good too, but he also puts high value on Geralt’s opinion, so he’s leaning toward the French toast.

Something sweet, since the man has me feeling so fucking gooey inside.

Next thing you know, I’m going to be actually celebrating Valentine’s Day instead of just buying discount candy and moping at home.

The waiter comes over and takes their drink orders, a cappuccino for Jask and some kind of green juice for Geralt. When he leaves, there’s suddenly a foot grazing the younger man’s ankle under the table, and Jaskier looks up to find smiling amber eyes staring back at him.

“Footsie under table? Are we horny teenagers on our first date?”

The silver-haired devil smirks.

“Maybe not teenagers, but this is our first meal out together—"

“And we are, in fact, horny?” He finishes, snickering.

“Here I am, trying to be romantic, and you’ve only ever got one thing on the mind,” Geralt sighs, feigning exasperation.

Brow lifted, Jask reaches across the table to snag his hand and twine their fingers together.

“What’s next, rose petals on the bed? Champagne and bubble baths and teddy bears holding hearts propped up against my pillow?" He teases, tone sardonic.

Geralt gives him a dry smile.

“You think you’re mocking me, but all you’re doing is providing me ammunition, brat.”

The younger man rolls his eyes.

“Darling, I don’t need all of that over-exaggerated, lovey-dovey nonsense to know you care for me. I just have to look at you, and I can see it.”

Geralt’s hand tightens on his, and when he meets the other man’s eyes again, he sees the faintest blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Have you decided what you’d like to order?” The waiter interrupts as he sets their drinks before them, and Jaskier coughs, straightening and tearing his eyes away from the most devastatingly beautiful man on the planet.

“Right, yeah, I’d like the French toast, please. Egg over medium and bacon on the side, as well.”

“Excellent choice. And you, sir?”

“Avocado toast for me. Poached egg on top and seasonal fruit for the side, please.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Jaskier, and soon the younger man has a matching blush.

“Perfect, thank you. Those’ll be out shortly.” He collects their menus and scampers off, and once he’s out of sight, Jask snickers.

“It’s not nice to not look at people when they’re speaking to you, Geralt,” he chastises jokingly.

The other man doesn’t even flinch.

“I had something better to look at.”

Fuck, he’s good at this.

“Oh, how you flatter me.”

“Is it flattery if it’s true?” Geralt challenges with a smirk. “Changing the subject, I have a question for you.”

“Go right ahead, hot stuff.”

“Would you like to meet my daughter?”

Fuck.

Admittedly, not what I thought he was going to say.

That’s okay, roll with it.

It’s fine, just a huge step that makes the cowardly side of me want to sprint from the room like it’s on fucking fire.

“Er… your daughter? Your precious child, light of your life? You want me to meet her?” He’s not hiding his nerves well.

“Relax, Jask. You look terrified.” He grimaces. “She asked to be introduced properly, but I wanted to clear it with you first.”

“Gotcha.”

“Considering how you look like you just jumped out of a plane without a parachute, I think I’ll ask her to wait.”

Jaskier winces. He doesn’t like the look on Geralt’s face, because it looks like resigned disappointment he’s trying hard to conceal.

Communication, Jask.

Talk to him.

You can do this.

“It’s not that I don’t want to meet her. But yes, I’m scared.” He lifts his cappuccino to his lips with a shaking hand, pausing to steel his nerves. “It’s just… she’s really important to you.”

“She is,” the other man confirms. “Why does that scare you?”

“Well, I—if she doesn’t like me, then…”

How do I tell him?

How do I say that I don’t want to lose him, but I’d never drive a wedge between him and his family?

“What makes you think she won’t like you?” Amber eyes betray genuine confusion, and Jaskier has to look away.

“I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, Geralt. That on top of being the drunk idiot who fell down the stairs—"

“Let me stop you there,” the older man interrupts gently. “First, she knows you were pushed, not just fell, and she’s seen me do far more stupid drunk things.”

Jaskier scoffs, and Geralt lifts a warning brow to silence him.

“Second, do you want to know why she wants to meet you so badly? Because you make me ‘glow.’ Exact quote.” He lifts Jaskier’s hand, wrapping his other around it and drawing it up to his lips. “She’ll like you, baby. Not just because you’re charming, and gorgeous, and an unmatched smartass, but because you’ve made me happier than I’ve been in years. Alright?”

Fuck, I think I’m gonna cry.

He blinks away the burning sensation of welling tears, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.

“Goddammit Geralt, how are you so fucking sweet—"

“Your meals, sirs.”

Oh my god, read the room, dude.

He places their plates on the table before them, and even through bleary eyes, Jaskier can see that it looks divine. Geralt thanks the waiter for the both of them, and when he finally leaves them to their meal, he turns a concerned golden gaze on the younger man.

“Are you okay?”

With a deep sniff, he collects himself, wiping at the moisture around his eyes with his napkin.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, I’m just allergic to sentimentality.”

The other man laughs, the deep timbre of it settling Jaskier’s racing heart.

Who’d have guessed that between the two of us, I’d be the more cynical one?

“I’ll give you some time to think on it. When you think you’re ready, we can revisit the idea, alright?”

Jask nods, wishing there wasn’t a table between them and he could kiss the living daylights out of the man.

What kind of good fucking karma did I rack up in a past life to earn a man like this?

Must’ve been a goddamn saint.

Well, he’d better make the best of it. He’ll make his past saint self proud and fuck this gift of a man until he doesn’t know his own name. Maybe love him, too.

I’m so selfless, aren’t I?

Chapter Text

Jaskier feels fit to burst when they arrive at their next stop, still singing the praises of every single staff member from the cafe and vowing that he’ll be naming his firstborn after the chef.

“I hope you tipped them well, darling, because that was nothing short of magnificent.”

Geralt chuckles, shifting into park and glancing over at his ridiculous passenger.

“I had to, after the moan you let out when you took your first bite. I thought they might kick us out.”

“I was merely showing my appreciation for fine cuisine,” he retorts, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“You said ‘fuck me’ so loud I heard an old woman gasp a few tables over,” Geralt counters.

“Honestly, love, even if she thought I was talking to you, I’m sure she’d understand. I mean, look at you.”

The older man huffs out a short laugh and shakes his head.

“And you call me a flatterer.”

“Is it flattery if it’s true?”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, smartass. We’ve got shopping to do.”

That’s when Jaskier notices where they are, and his eyes go saucer-wide.

He brought me to a sex shop?

The larger man wraps a hand around his waist, drawing him forward, and he curls a hand in Geralt’s shirt.

“Love? What are we doing here?”

“Picking up a few things. Their website said they have a new prostate massager in stock with a six-hour battery life, and they have a large lingerie selection to browse—"

Jaskier wiggles a little in his hold.

“Er, couldn’t we just order online?”

Geralt chuckles, continuing forward with the younger man tucked into his side.

“Really, as long as the measurements are accurate, online shopping is quite reliable—"

“If we did that, I wouldn’t be able to watch you pick out your favorites.”

Jask narrows his eyes at his Dom suspiciously.

“You’re doing this just to torture me, aren’t you?”

He catches the corner of a smirk from the other man.

“No, but I’ll admit it’s fun watching you squirm.”

The younger man huffs beside him, then another thing he said finally registers.

“Wait, did you say six-hour battery? Geralt, why could you possibly need six hours’ worth of battery on a prostate massager?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t start you off there. Maybe one hour. Can’t push you too hard.”

He shivers beside the larger man, chewing on his lower lip.

What’s he planning?

“While that sounds lovely, Geralt, I did want to ask…”

“Yes?”

“Er, well, for the first time, when you finally fuck me… could it just be us?”

“Hmm?”

He elaborates.

“No bells and whistles, handcuffs or toys… just me and you. Together.”

Geralt pulls him in closer, thumb rubbing circles over his hip.

“If that’s what you want, I’m more than happy to.”

“I just—I don’t want to ruin it for you or anything, I’m not trying to be boring…” his voice trails off uneasily, and the older man shakes his head.

“Jaskier, I’ll reiterate as many times as I have to. I relish every moment I have with you. Asking for vanilla because it’s the first time can’t ruin it for me, because I still get to have you,” he explains. “Also, vanilla isn’t inherently boring, so please stop that line of thinking.”

“Okay.” His lips twist, and he leans into his Dom. “And I mean, it doesn’t have to be completely vanilla. I still like it rough. And being held down. And—"

Geralt laughs, head dropping to press a silencing kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

“Enough. We are still in public, you know.”

Jask’s racing heart calms despite the affection, reassured by the silver-haired wonder’s kindness.

I’ve never been with someone who actually cares how I feel about things, let alone prioritizes them.

I swear the man is a mythical creature.

He follows Geralt’s lead into the shop, blue eyes wandering curiously over the shelves and displays. There’s a whole lot here, everything from a mind-boggling wealth of dildos in all shapes and sizes to other toys with varying degrees of niche interest.

Is that supposed to be a tentacle?

Intriguing.

I didn’t know the human body could take something that big.

He glances over at Geralt, gaze traveling down the man’s impressive physique and zeroing in on his crotch.

Then again… I’m going to try and fit that inside me, so maybe I’m the crazy one.

Jaskier explores the space, surprised to find he’s more comfortable than he thought he’d be—perhaps it makes sense, considering most of the stuff here is tamer than what he’s seen at the club.

He finds himself in front of a wall of what he deduces are nipple clamps, but the sheer variety is intimidating. Some of them look pretty simple, non-threatening, with thick rubber pads on the ends that probably help with the sting. Others look more intricate, or have sharp teeth that he imagines must burn like a motherfucker on the areola.

“Interested?” Geralt asks, appearing beside him, and Jask gives him a noncommittal shrug.

“I’ll be honest—I don’t know enough to know what I’m looking at.”

The older man nods, picking two of the packages off the wall hooks.

“These are better suited for beginners, in my experience: bull-nosed and alligator clamps. Adjustable, so you can play with the intensity and see what you like.” These examples have the protective rubber, and Jaskier finds himself nodding, taking one of the packages and turning it over in his hands. Geralt snags another, holding it up for him to see. “Now these are clover clamps.  See how they’re connected by a chain? When I put them on you and pull, they only get tighter, and there’s no way to loosen them other than taking them off.”

Oh.

Jaskier shifts, tugging at the leg of his trousers with steadily reddening cheeks, his mind conjuring a tantalizing picture of his Dom before him, fingers hooked in the chain attached to his chest, taunting, watching him come apart with the slightest twitch.

Dark grey brows lift as he refocuses on the present, Geralt’s dangerous smirk returning full-force. The Dom drops all three packages into the basket in his other hand, and hungry amber eyes track the movement of Jaskier’s tongue across his lower lip.

He leans in close, voice low, and the younger man can feel the heat pouring off his body when he murmurs into his ear, “See? I told you this would be fun.”

He guides his sub over to another shelf, a sign proudly declaring its contents “Just Arrived!” plastered above a slew of toys. Geralt seems to know exactly what he’s looking for, grabbing a sleek-looking package containing a toy that looks somewhat U-shaped. Blue eyes widen when he sees the six-hour battery guarantee, then expand further when he notes the Bluetooth capability.

“It connects to an app?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice, and Geralt doesn’t even try to hide his own grin.

“This is the newer model. Two vibrating heads, for both internal and external stimulation, an app for hands-free control, eight pulse patterns and ten strength levels—they’ve really outdone themselves this time.”

My god, the man is like a kid in a candy store.

“I think this series has a plug, too—yes, here it is. Perfect.” He grabs another package and turns his smile to his sub. “Could be fun to watch you sit at the bar while I work, slowly getting more and more worked up and unable to do a thing to stop it.”

Fuck, that sounds hot.

The Dom adds both to his basket, and Jaskier’s heart thumps wildly in his chest.

I’m gonna have to start meditating to counteract all the fucking heart palpitations this man gives me.

“I think that should cover what we need for now… let’s go look at the lingerie, shall we?”

“Okay.” Yes there is a squeak in his voice, no he isn’t proud of it.

The selection is as huge as Geralt said, and he leads Jaskier to the racks of items cut for his body type, emphasizing broad shoulders and narrow hips, panties more accommodating to his external needs. He can’t help but run his fingers over the material, laces and silks that feel buttery and soft and make him want to buy everything.

Geralt follows him with mirth and heat in his eyes, and when Jaskier picks something up and sees amber go molten, he presents it to the Dom, beaming when it’s added to the basket. He figured he’s just about finished when the other man moves away, gravitating toward corsets that make the younger man’s mouth go dry.

The one Geralt is currently eyeing is a deep, crimson red edged with delicate lace and made up of sheer panels to showcase the boning. The display has paired it with open-back panties in matching lace and long, silky stockings to complete the look, and Jaskier’s flush licks like flames up the back of his neck and over his face.

I need to wear this for him.

He can already imagine the feeling of Geralt’s eyes on him in this ensemble, how pleased he’d be, and when the Dom turns to him, brow lifted in question, he simply nods.

Oh hell yeah.

Geralt’s answering smile is radiant.

The lot goes into the nearly overflowing basket, which Jaskier takes as a cue to leave.

Can’t completely bankrupt myself over lingerie.

Of course, that’s when he sees the collars.

The display draws him like a moth to flame, his attention totally captured by each collar his eyes light upon. The one he reaches out for is a classic black, the leather soft and supple under his touch, with a simple silver ring attached to the front. Suddenly all Jaskier can think about is having this around his neck, Geralt’s unfaltering grip on the ring taking full control and showing him who he truly belongs to.

Roughened fingertips slide over his shoulder, teasing at the length of his throat, and then Geralt’s low voice is beside his ear.

“You want it, don’t you, baby?”

Jask hums, leaning into the touch, and his Dom tuts into his ear.

“Verbal confirmation, Jaskier,” he reminds, warm breath sending goosebumps alight across the younger man’s skin.

“Please?”

“Just for you, baby.” He takes the collar from the smaller man’s hands and places it atop all their other purchases. “It’ll be a starter collar, because you’ve been so good for me lately.”

Yes.

It’s perfect.

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and leads him up to the register, only releasing him to pass their items over to the cashier and present his ID. When Jask tries to separate some of the lingerie out for his own transaction, all he gets is a funny look and shake of the head as Geralt takes it back and adds it into the pile.

“Wait, that one’s mine—"

“I know. I’ve got it.”

He’s buying all of it?

Guilt eats at the younger man as he watches the total rise with every item that’s rung up, and he only relaxes when his Dom’s hand curves around the nape of his neck, squeezing to reassure him.

“Let me do this for you.”

Jaskier is at a loss. He’s never been taken care of like this before. After years of scraping out a living, this kind of generosity… it feels too good to be true.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“No, you won’t. I don’t want you to.” His tone leaves no room for argument, so Jask watches the rest of the transaction silently, letting Geralt take his hand at the end of it and pull him from the shop.

Back in the car, the older man beats him to the punch.

“I like buying things for you, Jaskier. They’re gifts, I’m giving them to you because I want to.”

But what is he getting in exchange?

“Fine, but I just—it’s a lot of money, and I don’t have anything to give back to you,” he replies with a frown.

“This may be oversimplifying it, but you’re giving me you, Jask. Your submission. However, I don’t want you thinking of it like a transaction, alright? I just want to take care of you.”

I feel like he’s getting cheated in this deal.

“What are you thinking right now?” The Dom asks, eyes narrowing. “I don’t like that expression.”

The fuck? Who are you, Edward Cullen?

“Nothing.”

“Jaskier,” he warns, making the younger man sigh.

“You’re not getting much out of this if you’re only getting me.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, clearly seeking patience.

“Once again—it’s not a transaction. And further, the self-deprecation needs to stop. Don’t make me warn you again.”

“But Geralt, I’m really not worth—"

“Enough.”

Jask’s jaw snaps closed, eyes going wide.

“I think you’re worth everything. Are you questioning my judgment?” His tone is sharp, and Jaskier instinctively straightens his spine.

“No, I just—"

“There’s no just here, Jaskier. Maybe one day you’ll learn to value yourself the way I value you. In the meantime, you will take compliments, and affection, and gifts, and I don’t want to hear a word of dissent about your worthiness of them. Understand?”

Fuck. He’s hot when he’s stern.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

With that, the older man relaxes, Geralt’s hand finds his, and he interlocks their fingers, bringing them up to his chest in a move he’s done before that easily melts Jaskier’s ire.

“Still so tactile,” he comments, squeezing the hand that holds his.

“Sometimes Doms need reassurance too,” the other returns. “Touching you helps ground me.”

“Have you ever had to deal with dropping yourself?” The younger man asks, genuinely curious. He’s heard of it, but not firsthand.

“Occasionally. For me, it happens sometimes when a scene doesn’t go right, or I feel like I was too rough, too brutal,” Geralt explains. “Maybe emotional turmoil, or guilt could set it off, too. For instance, you know how I like that you’re smaller than me, more delicate?”

Jaskier nods.

“Being able to have physical control over you as well as mental is part of what I like about our play—the inverse of your submission, if you will. And yet societal norms say that’s wrong… so in moments of vulnerability, that conditioned guilt plus an endorphin crash can have consequences,” he finishes.

“Is there a certain kind of scene that makes it a higher risk for you?” The sub queries.

I should be prepared so I can support him if he drops with me, right?

“Yes. Impact play, usually.” His lips twist. “It can be difficult to reconcile the fact that I care for my sub, but I also get off on beating them. If the sub isn’t fully satisfied after… that’s a high risk for me to drop.”

Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt’s hand, watching the carefully controlled emotions on the other man’s face.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course, baby.”

“What exactly does it feel like?” He wonders aloud, and the corners of the Dom’s mouth turn down.

“It’s different for everyone, but the common denominator is it generally feels like shit.” He squeezes Jask’s hand again. “I’ll never let you drop without support. That, I promise you. Even if I can’t prevent it, I won’t leave you, okay?”

Jaskier’s chest aches at the hidden pain in his voice.

He’s experienced that before. Someone hurt him, didn’t they?

You know, maybe I’m fine with murder.

“Did your last sub… you said she broke your trust. Drop was a part of that, wasn’t it?” He asks gently. Geralt sighs.

“Somewhat. Renfri wasn’t the only one at fault—both of us were involved in the scene, and thus both responsible. Long story short, she wanted to try a new kind of suspension, she panicked mid-scene and hurt herself before I could get her down, and then she blew up on me when I tried to help her.” His jaw clenches, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the road. “I didn’t even see the drop coming, and then she started screaming about how I hurt her on purpose, that I was an abusive sadist—I wasn’t ready for the impact of that on my own emotions. It destabilized everything I knew about myself as a Dom, destroyed my confidence…” he shakes his head, as if shaking off the memories. “I was ready to wholly take the blame, because the things she said—frankly, they made me hate myself. Things got worse when she sent threatening emails, texts, phone calls, always berating me, blaming me for everything, saying I deserved to hurt as much as she did, because I was sick." His lips press into a thin line. "I tried to apologize, but it only made the harassment worse."

"What happened after that?" Jaskier asks, holding his breath.

"Eskel was the one who reviewed the footage from the playroom and gave it to our lawyer. She got the suit dismissed and filed for a restraining order. I insisted on paying off Renfri’s medical bills… and that was it. Once it was finally over, I couldn’t fathom suffering through something like that all over again, so I quit scening because I couldn't trust myself, let alone another person.”

I know it’s irrational, because I’ve never met her, but I’m fairly certain I could stab this woman with little guilt.

Geralt lifts their combined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s.

“And then you came along.”

Suppose I understand why he was such a bastard, now.

“And you fell head over heels for me,” he finishes for the other man, voice triumphant. “Happily ever after.”

Geralt chuckles.

“Happily ever after?”

“Well, I’ll take all the happy endings you give me, darling.”

The older man laughs aloud, shaking his head.

“So mature.”

“I don’t have to be the mature one. I don’t have the grey hair,” he shoots back, and Geralt gives him one of his trademark smirks.

“Deliberately provoking me can be hazardous for your ass, brat.”

Jaskier grins at him, happy to see the easy smile back on his Dom’s face.

If anyone ever hurts him like that again, I'll rip them to shreds.

“Feel free to demonstrate at any time, love.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he can’t contain the upturn of his lips.

“Maybe, if you’re good.”

“I can put that red corset on, you can drag me over your knee—"

“Jaskier, I’m driving.”

“That reminds me. Have you ever gotten road head?”

The older man’s hand tightens on the wheel.

“I’m more than happy to use that smart mouth of yours when I’m not operating a two-ton death machine. Until then, stay buckled in your seat like a good boy.”

“Killjoy.”

Geralt chuckles.

“I’m honored to ruin your fun.”

“I’d love it if you could ruin my hole too, while you’re at it.”

Heated golden eyes flick to him.

“Hmm, just you wait, brat.”

Oh, really?

At this point, he could bend me over the hood of the car in a parking lot and I’d fucking rejoice.

“Promises, promises.”

“Doubting me now?”

“Never, love, never.”

“I can hear the sarcasm, Jaskier.”

“Me? Sarcastic? No way,” he gasps, feigning shock.

“Of course, you’re the picture of innocence,” Geralt grumbles. His hand unwinds from the younger man’s, but Jask only has a second to mourn the loss before it’s curving over his leg, settling into a loose grip on his inner thigh that’s torturously close to his dick. Jaskier shivers at the shift of energy in the car, the simple display of dominance enough to set his blood pumping.

“Where to now? The club? Your place?” The anticipation and hope twist into pure need in his voice. “Your bed? Fuck, even the backseat, I think with some creativity we could manage back there—"

“None of the above,” Geralt answers with a neutral smile. “The grocery store is next.”

“Geraaalt, you cruel man,” he bemoans, leg jiggling under his Dom’s hand. “Work me up like this and then take me out for your weekly shop? Am I being punished?”

At this level of horny, I may end up doing some very naughty things in the cucumber aisle.

“No, you’re learning patience,” his silver-haired tormentor corrects. “An opportunity to earn yourself a reward if you can manage to behave for once.”

“Like what?”

Golden eyes meet his again, and Jaskier bites his lip at the heat in that gaze. 

So many filthy promises with just one look.

“Like maybe we’ll see how that collar looks on you. Just the collar.”

Fuck.

Like I’m going to turn that down.

“You drive a hard bargain, darling, but I’m sold.”

Geralt chuckles, always shaking his head at the younger man.

“The amount of verbal gymnastics I do with you could be a fucking Olympic sport.”

The sub grins devilishly.

“Just keeping you sharp in your old age. It’s a service, really.”

The hand on his thigh clenches, making the younger man gasp, trousers tightening against his will.

“That’s cheating,” he accuses, and the older man laughs.

“Mm, but it’s the perfect way to get you to make some of those pretty little noises for me.”

“Geralt, I am begging you, do not make me walk into the grocers with a boner. I could get arrested.”

“The only one putting you in handcuffs is me, baby.”

“Is this verbal edging? Is that a thing?”

No stiffies in public, Jaskier. Pull yourself together.

“And there you go again, giving me ideas.” He eyes his sub with a smirk. “I bet you could come untouched. A plug in your ass and me in your ear, winding you so tight that you have no choice but to spill.”

Fucking hell.

“Maybe blindfolded?” Geralt continues, musing to himself. “The only drawback there is not seeing how pretty your eyes look, all wet with tears when I take you apart.” His hand travels up a few inches, barely brushing against the bulge in Jaskier’s pants and forcing a soft gasp from his lips.

“Fuck, Geralt.”

“All this gorgeous sensitivity is what makes putting up with your sass so worth it,” the older man rumbles, fingers providing the slightest pressure against Jaskier’s groin. “So responsive.”

Finally, finally they pull into the grocery store parking lot, but rather than pick one of the empty spots up front, Geralt drives to the empty lot on the side of the building, parking in a secluded spot that’s out of sight of the entrance.

“What are we parking so far away for? You trying to get your steps in?”

Geralt scoffs, then a grey brow rises.

“Unbutton your pants for me, Jaskier.”

What.

“Here?”

“Right here, baby.”

He gapes at the other man, surprise warring with surging arousal.

This is one of those "be careful what you wish for" moments, isn't it?

“We’re in public.”

“Windows are tinted and there’s no one around,” Geralt counters. “I could take the edge off for you, if you want.”

Oh boy, do I want it.

“No one can see us?”

The older man presses a button, and the windshield itself darkens before his very eyes.

“Not unless they press their face up to the glass.”

The arousal is winning with every answer he gets, and soon Jask is straining against the zipper of his trousers.

“And if I say no?”

Geralt shrugs.

“Then we go inside, and you hide your erection behind the shopping basket. Or you could stay in here, wait it out while I shop.”

That sounds like a terrible, boring time.

And Geralt’s hand sounds like a good time.

Knuckles brush over his bulge, and he shudders.

Fuck, a really good time.

Jaskier finds himself nodding, smile spreading across his face as he accepts the promise of relief.

“Okay. Yeah,” he acquiesces, working hastily to open his pants and free himself.

“There’s a packet of lube in the glove compartment. Slick yourself up for me.”

He hurries to comply, heart pounding, and it takes about thirty seconds of frustrated fumbling before he’s ready, his cock glistening and demanding attention.

Geralt holds out a hand.

“Use this and show me just what you like.”

Cornflower blue eyes go almost comically wide.

He wants me to jerk off with his hand?

Jaskier takes the proffered hand, chewing on his lip to contain his whimper when he wraps it around his throbbing length. It takes both of his hands to keep it in place, grip just tight enough to tease himself, his head swimming with the control Geralt’s handed over to him. He pumps it slowly up and down, lost in the sensation, the power he has in this moment.

Meanwhile, he can feel his Dom’s eyes on him, watching, cataloguing every sound, every reaction.

“That’s it, baby. Does that feel good?”

Jask whines in response, hips lifting up off his seat in pursuit of more of that addicting friction.

“Verbal confirmation,” he reminds the panting sub, and Jaskier’s head presses hard against the headrest as he struggles to hold in a moan.

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

“I bet it does,” the other man croons. “Look at you, you love it. So fucking pretty, Jaskier.”

He leans over the center console, and then lips coast over Jaskier’s neck, tongue tracing the beating pulse under his skin. His free hand cups the younger man’s throat, a shadow of true restraint, and blue eyes nearly roll to the back of his head with the promise of it. Every touch makes him coil tighter and tighter, racing toward climax faster than he ever thought possible.

“Gonna look so beautiful with that collar on you, baby. My collar.” His teeth close over the corded tendon straining from Jaskier’s neck to his shoulder, biting and sucking and giving just enough sensation to drag the younger man closer to release.

“Should that be what I hold onto when I fuck you? Or should I pull your hair, make you arch for me while you take me?”

Jesus.

“Fuck, Geralt, please,” the sub pleads, using Geralt's hand to stroke himself faster now, sweat beading at his brow from the exertion. He's so close, but it's not enough, he needs more. “Help me, help—"

“You want to come, baby? Is that what you want?”

“Yes, yes, fuck, please, yes,” he breathes.

“Then do it. Come, Jaskier, show me how gorgeous you are when you come for me,” his Dom commands, thumbnail pressing sharply into the slit of his cockhead, the prick of pain zinging down his length and finally tipping him over the edge.

Geralt captures Jaskier’s lips with his own as he climaxes, swallowing the choked-off moan the younger man releases as his body, pulled taut like a bowstring, finally relaxes into boneless relief.

“So good, baby. So pretty,” the fucking incubus of a man murmurs, brushing soft, reassuring kisses over Jaskier’s cooling skin. “How are you feeling?”

“Well, I can comfortably say that was the best handjob I’ve ever gotten in the middle of the day in a grocery store parking lot,” he pants, and the other man chuckles.

“Such high praise.”

“Oh, the highest, darling.”

Geralt retrieves a tissue from the well-stocked glovebox and wipes up the evidence of Jaskier’s release with one hand while the other massages into his scalp, making him close his eyes with soft sigh.

“I’ll give you a few minutes, and then we can go inside.”

Right, we still have to do the shopping.

Fucking hell, the man’s turned my brain into pudding.

“What about you?” Jaskier asks, gaze dropping to his Dom’s lap.

“Don’t worry about me, baby. I’ll be taking care of this when we get home.”

The fire in his eyes tells the younger man everything he needs to know, and his spent cock twitches valiantly.

“Okay. Add Gatorade to the list, then, because I have a feeling I’m gonna need it later.”

Who needs a gym when you’ve got a Geralt?

Chapter Text

Jaskier did not, in fact, misbehave in the cucumber aisle. He may have pestered Geralt for about half a dozen pints of Ben & Jerry’s, but that’s just because the man refused to buy any other junk food and that’s just not how Jask rolls.

Now, they’re back in Geralt’s kitchen and the younger man is helping put groceries away, perhaps with an extra pep in his step after their pre-shop fun.

“I know it seems excessive, but there are so many flavors and it’s really the only way to get through them.”

It’s definitely not because I eat a whole pint at a time.

“By purchasing bulk amounts? Which is very expensive, by the way—the store brand was less than half the price,” the older man returns.

“Yeah, well my beloved ice cream people pay their employees fair wages and sit firmly on the right side of history, so they’re worth the extra.”

He empties the final bag—Geralt had a bunch of reusable canvas bags in the trunk, which just made him like the man that much more—and dances over to the fridge, where the other is organizing contents, bringing older produce to the front and whatnot, because he actually uses the produce drawer for produce, the freak. Jaskier uses his for cheese and his extensive collection of the little condiment packets he always has left over from takeaways. 

With one hand brandishing orange juice and the other an honestly enormous bag of spinach, (Why do they put so much in a single bag? No normal human can consume that much fresh spinach. Well, maybe Geralt, but the muscle mountain man is far from normal) he plasters himself to his boyfriend’s back, hooking his chin over the other man’s shoulder and nipping at his ear. He presents his offerings before Geralt, who takes them with a chuckle and frees his hands to wrap around his delicious torso.

“I suppose I can support such a good cause, then.”

Jaskier watches him organize for a moment, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“You know, I get the control freak thing—you being a Dom is a bit of a dead giveaway, darling—but I didn’t know you’re so meticulous.”

Geralt snorts.

“That’s a nice way to put it. Lambert calls me anal.”

“No, no negative connotation here. Organization is sexy,” he purrs into the other man’s ear.

Never mind the fact that my place is in a state of permanent disarray.

“Is it now?”

“Absolutely. All those little labels and color-coordinated boxes? So hot.”

Geralt finishes his task, spinning in Jaskier’s arms and walking him backwards to press against the counter, amber gaze thoroughly amused.

“Now you’re just trying to get on my good side.”

“You mean I’m not already?” The younger man taunts, fingers hooking through the belt loops at the other man’s hips. Geralt lets himself be drawn forward, meeting Jaskier’s body from chest to knee.

“You seem to like straddling the line between the two,” he points out, the distinct appreciation in his eyes when he looks at his sub contrasting his words.

“That’s because if I was good all the time, it’d be boring,” Jaskier informs him matter-of-factly. “Hopefully, if I keep you on your toes, you won’t lose interest.”

“That’s not something you need to be worried about,” Geralt rumbles back, leg sliding between the younger man’s, nearly hiking him up fully on an absurdly muscular thigh.

Forced onto his tiptoes, Jask grins.

“Maybe you should prove it to me so I never doubt again.”

“Tempting little manipulator,” he admonishes, capturing the smaller man’s chin in a firm grasp. “Don’t forget who’s in charge.”

“At this point I’m going to regrow my virginity. It’ll be a miracle. We could have a party for my new deflowering—"

Geralt slips two fingers into his mouth, effectively silencing Jaskier’s rambling. He dips in deep, the pads coursing over the smooth heat of the younger man’s tongue, and Jask closes his lips around them, sucking them in with a deceptively innocent look.

“You know what we forgot to buy while we were out? A gag,” he mutters, lips twitching at his imp of a sub. “Looks like I’ll have to improvise if I want any peace while you’re around.”

Jaskier retorts something incomprehensible around his fingers, making Geralt grin.

“Oh look, it works.”

The younger man reddens, then his lip curls back, baring his teeth. Grey brows lift in response.

“Threatening to bite me, brat?”

Blue eyes go wide, and the older man chuckles lowly.

“You’re so easy to tease, Jaskier.”

He withdraws his hand, ruffling the younger man’s hair affectionately before stepping back.
“I still need to stop by the club before I succumb to any more of your distractions today. Want to come with me?”

Jaskier shrugs.

“Sounds like more fun than staying here by myself.”

“Great. You can help me install the new dispensers that just came in.”

“New dispensers?”

Didn’t Eskel mention something about that when I first met Geralt?

Jaskier grins.

Sneaky man is trying to get me in a playroom, isn’t he?

Excellent.

I appear to have miscalculated.

Jask stands behind Geralt, watching him wield a cordless drill as he quite literally screws one of the hands-free dispensers into the wall by the bed in the playroom.

And here I thought I’d be the one getting screwed.

On the bright side, it’s still stupid hot to watch Geralt do hyper-masculine handyman things, and since he’s been relegated to carrying around the box of new dispensers, his mind is free to swim with fantasies of role play featuring Geralt wearing nothing but the tool belt that’s currently around his waist and announcing he’s there to clear out Jaskier’s pipes.

By clogging them first, of course.

With his dick.

That’s the metaphor.

He’s too busy admiring how the muscles of his man’s shoulders bunch beneath the cling of his henley to notice when another person walks into the room. That is, until he speaks.

“I’d accuse you of role-playing, but considering how your sub is over here trembling with a stiffy and you’re not paying him a lick of attention, I know better,” Lambert drawls.

Geralt pauses, first to glare at his brother, and then to shoot an apologetic look at Jaskier, who lowers the box in his hands to cover his crotch.

Mouthy ginger.

“What is it, Lambert?” The silver-haired man asks, clearly exasperated.

“Another bartender application I think you should look at. Guy’s name is Coen.” He hands over a tablet that Jask presumes has the applicant’s info loaded. “He used to bartend at a mainstream nightclub in the city, but he’s part of the scene and said he’s been waiting for a position to open up here.”

Geralt scans the screen, scrolling and nodding to himself. He must like what he sees.

“Alright. Send him the questionnaire and schedule an interview. Make sure he knows about the background check,” he orders, passing the tablet back to his younger brother.

“You got it. Anything else?”

“No, not for now. Just make sure the onboarding paperwork is updated if we offer him the job.”

With a nod and a cheeky wink at Jaskier, the redheaded man departs, and Handyman Geralt sighs.

“I’m sorry this is taking so long. I just need them to be installed correctly so there aren't any issues with the rollout,” he explains, and Jask smiles.

“Were we not just discussing how I find your extreme diligence endearing?”

“Yes, but you didn’t sign up for a day hauling around boxes and doing my errands.”

The younger man shrugs.

“I wanted to spend the day with you, Geralt. That doesn’t just mean endless fuck sessions and holing up in your house.” He smirks at the rising blush on the other man’s cheeks. “I’d rather spend the day following you around like a personal assistant with orgasmic perks than boring myself to death at work, anyway.”

“Hmm,” the older man replies, which Jaskier takes to be his pensive noise. “What is it that you do for work, exactly?”

“Well, I’ve got my finger in quite a few pies, but mostly I help out with songwriting, sometimes composition or production, almost always for newer artists looking to get a foothold in the industry.” He grimaces, noting the irony there. Helping other people achieve the dream I gave up. “Quite a few of the executives like to try and make me get them coffee, which is distinctly not in my job description.”

Geralt pauses, regarding the younger man.

“But you perform your own music, don’t you?”

Another shrug from the sub.

“Sometimes. I’ve got a YouTube channel, and I go to the odd open mic night.”

“But your company didn’t want to promote you as an artist?”

Jaskier sighs.

“Well, despite the amazing strides the industry has made lately, at the time they hired me, they were hesitant to spend money on an openly gay artist.” His lips twist, and he shakes his head, dispelling the memory of the disappointment he’d faced when that was first explained to him. “They wanted my talent, but they didn’t want my face on it.”

“Fucking assholes,” the older man grumbles, making Jaskier snort.

“Eh, it’s a job. Pays my bills, keeps me from imposing on my friends’ hospitality by allowing me to have a roof over my head.”

Geralt gives him a serious look.

“Does it make you happy?”

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Of course it doesn’t.

“It puts food on the table. And it gave me Yen, who in turn led me to you.” He gives the silver-haired wonder a small smile. “That in itself makes the rest worth it.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Geralt points out, and Jaskier sighs.

“No. But I got you out of it, and you make me happy, so I think the universe and I are square, love.”

The larger man grunts in response, obviously not fully pleased with his answer despite the blush still riding high on his cheeks.

“We’ve just got one more room to do, and then we’re finished.”

Geralt’s plan is to employ the hands-free dispensers in the public playrooms first, see how the patrons respond, and then add them into the private rooms later. Jaskier is just glad that he doesn’t need to haul around a bigger box.
He follows the Dom into the next room, standing dutifully by while he makes his installations and filling his time by brazenly eyeing every muscled contour of the beautiful brute.

The man is a fucking work of art.

I can see it now—Renaissance sculptors clawing at each other just to get a chance to immortalize this man for all of history.

I’d have to keep a close eye to make sure they didn’t get too handsy, or dare to not do that magnificent cock justice.

“You’re being quiet over there. Should I be worried?” His gruff voice teases.

“Mm, only thinking.”

“About what?”

“What I’d pay to see your cock sculpted out of marble.”

Geralt lets out one of those rare, belly-deep laughs that make Jaskier tingle from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

“Your mind must be a fascinating place, brat.”

“I wholly blame it on you, you know,” the younger man huffs. “I wasn’t nearly this horny all the time before I met you. I had hobbies. It’s like you’ve rewired my brain with those eyes and that hair and those fucking leather pants—"

The other man laughs again.

“You think I’ve had it easy? You come into my club looking utterly indecent in all the best fucking ways…” his sentence tapers off with a rumble that ties Jask’s stomach in knots. “Half the time I wanted to vault over the bar just so I could have you, right there for anyone to see.”

Jaskier’s face is positively aflame, and he gulps to collect himself even a minuscule amount.

He’d have a fucking enthusiastic participant if he ever did.

“The other DMs have reserved playrooms, right? Do you—do you have one, too?”

There are dark promises in the smirk that’s turned his way then, amber gaze once again molten with a desire that sets every nerve in his body alight with its intensity. It’s the kind of look that vows to show him the very limits of what his body can take, with Geralt at the helm of it all, mastering him like a musician fine-tunes an instrument to his precise pleasure.

“I do. Wanna see it?”

Absofuckinglutely.

The ceiling is of particular interest to me.

Or the floor. I’m not picky so long as he’s got me horizontal.

“Sure.”

That’s right, play it cool.

Cool as a cucumber.

…

I bet Geralt is bigger than a cucumber.

Fuck, Jaskier, not the time—

The older man leads him from the room, heading up to the next floor and then to the playroom at the far end of the hallway, right beside the door to his office.

Geralt scans his watch to unlock the door, letting Jaskier in ahead of him and closing the door behind them.

Whoa.

The space is starkly different from the room he used with Eskel. A lot of the same items, but the walls are painted darker, the lighting less harsh, some of the leather furniture is more plush, and scattered about the floor are lush-looking rugs that all serve to soften the overall atmosphere. The most intimidating thing is the wall of implements that spans one length of the room a wide assortment of paddles and floggers and whips and things he doesn’t have names for, made from all kinds of materials. He suspects there are even more in the ornate chests and dressers that line the lower part of the wall.

Blue eyes catch on hooks and loops securely bolted to the ceiling, a few also placed on a bare section of wall at convenient heights to stretch one’s body out, put them on full display for the Dom. It’s darker, and feels more intimate, more personal than any of the other rooms he’s been in.

It feels like him.

He turns to find the other man watching him, carefully mapping his reaction while he leans casually against the closed door.

“Care to share your thoughts?”

Jaskier hesitates a moment.

“It feels—soft, almost. Like everything in it has been chosen deliberately to lull me into a sense of safety.” He presses his lips together, still taking in every detail he can. “This may sound odd, but it feels more like you than your playroom at home.”

A grey brow quirks at him, and Geralt gives him a slow nod.
“I’ve had this room longer. The playroom at my place… it initially began as a sort of immersion project for me.” He rubs a hand across his jaw, frowning. “After what happened with Renfri, I couldn’t stomach coming in here. It took months. Eventually, I decided that I needed a new space, a way to get reacquainted with who I am as a Dom, so I set up the other playroom.”

Dark brows pull together in a look of concern sent toward the older man.

“Are you alright being in here? We don’t have to stay.”

I won’t sacrifice your emotional safety to satisfy my curiosity.

Geralt shakes his head, a wry grin finding its place in his expression.

“I’m fine, but thank you. I… started coming back in here recently.”

“How recently?” The younger man asks, tilting his head in question.

The other’s lips purse in thought.

“A few weeks ago. I was inspired to, mmm, re-explore the space.” The heat is back in his eyes as they bore into cornflower blue. “I kept thinking that maybe I could erase the bad memories, overwrite them with someone new, someone who made me feel so good that it would make the pain feel like nothing in comparison.”

I need to start writing some of this shit down.

The man is a fucking poet.

And I’m hard again, fucking hell.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, a shaky hand carding its way through his hair so he doesn’t do something reckless like throw Geralt down on the nearby bed and ravish him.

Huh, am I a switch?

Putting a pin in that for later.

“Well… supposing I meet those requirements, I wouldn’t be opposed to performing that particular service.”

“Hmm, you wouldn’t, would you?” The Dom’s voice is going low and raspy in a way that has Jaskier’s fingers twitching at his sides, aching to grab the other man by the shirt collar and fucking devour him.

“Not at all. I think I’d consider it an honor, even.”

The silver-haired Adonis stalks forward like a predator, but despite his pounding heart Jaskier stands his ground, feet cemented even as the other towers over him, his muscled bulk seeming to radiate carnal energy that sinks to the smaller man’s very bones.

“You want to know why there’s so much softness in this space, baby?”

Jask sways forward, practically fucking magnetized to the Dom before him.

“Yeah.”

Warm fingers trace the side of his face, following an invisible path from temple to jaw to chin, and he shudders at the feather-light touch, eyes closing at the sensation.

“I like contrast. The things I’ll do to you here will be sharp, or rough, or stinging—knowing that you’re feeling that while your feet sink into the comfort of a rug, or your face presses to plush leather, or your skin is caressed by velvety softness, and that your mind will be torn between the two, trying to decide which you want more—it’s perfect.” His fingertips follow the unseen trail down Jaskier’s neck, over his thudding pulse. “I love the contrast on your skin when you blush for me, so red against such a pale canvas. I know it’ll be even better when I make you red myself, when I put that color on your skin and paint you scarlet just the way I like.”

Fuck me sideways.

Geralt’s fingers hook in the stretched collar of Jaskier’s borrowed shirt, pulling it away from his neck to reveal the mark he left on him last night.

“It’s one of the reasons why your submission is so fucking perfect, baby. All this strength and noise, attitude and fire, tamed for me. Your very nature bending to my will because you need it, how I make you feel, so opposite the Jaskier that you show the rest of the world. The perfect contrast.”

His thumb presses into the mark, drawing out a blissful ache that makes the younger man shiver, and then he leans in closer, bringing the hot rasp of his voice right to Jaskier’s ear.

“You’re your own man, Jaskier, but you’re mine. You were mine the moment you turned those pretty blue eyes on me and begged me to take you.”

“Fuck, Geralt—"

A large hand curls over his shoulder, tight enough that Jaskier is certain Geralt must feel the pounding of his pulse under his skin.

“Come home with me, Jaskier.”

As if I’d ever say no to you, love.

Chapter Text

They don’t crash through the door, making out with a ferocity to rival two opposing forces on an ancient battlefield, like Jaskier thought they would.

Instead, Geralt guides him inside, hand resting on Jaskier’s lower back in a touch that makes his spine tingle in all the right ways. With a kiss to his sub’s temple, he breaks off to the kitchen to get dinner ready, while Jaskier retrieves the douching kit he bought while they were out and heads for the bathroom to do some preparation.

He’s not sure if they’re actually fucking tonight, to be honest, but hey, it’s safer to be prepared, right?

Every time he does this, he’s reminded how sensitive he is back there, and it makes him anticipate just how good it’ll feel to have Geralt finally working his magic downstairs. The man knows what he’s doing, that much is certain, and he’s so attentive and caring and giving… that combined with his innate need to shatter Jaskier into a thousand little pieces means he’s probably in for a hell of a ride.

Maybe literally, depending on how Geralt feels about cowboy.

When he’s finished, he stops before the bathroom mirror, peering at himself and trying to see himself through Geralt’s eyes.

Does he notice how one side of my mouth is a little bit thinner than the other?

Or that I can never get that piece of hair in the front to sit quite right?

Are my flaws as plain to him as they are to me?

He shakes the thoughts from his head, scraping a hand through his hair.

Why am I doing this to myself?

If Geralt were in here with me, if he knew what I was thinking—he’d be pissed.

He can almost hear it now, the gruff voice admonishing him for even looking for flaws in the first place. He’d probably crowd the younger man close to the sink, forcing him to look in the mirror, pointing out everything he likes about Jaskier to counter his insecurity.

What does Geralt see when he looks at me?

He’s commented on his eyes before, how blue they are, and staring back at himself, Jaskier can appreciate it. Geralt has fixated on his mouth on many an occasion, always touching it, taking it for his own. Jaskier runs his fingers over his own lips, and yeah, maybe they are kind of full, enough to tempt a man like his Dom. His hand follows the memory of Geralt’s touch on his neck, the distinct attention he seems to like to pay it. He finds the mark on his shoulder and sucks in a breath, fingertips brushing over it with the lightest pressure.

When Geralt looks at me, he sees someone worthy of being wanted.

He even left his mark to prove it.

Meeting his own eyes again in the mirror, Jaskier allows a small smile to curve the corners of his mouth upwards.

I am worthy, aren’t I?

When he makes his way back into the kitchen, Geralt is finishing up the salads, and he greets him with a warm smile.

“You mind having something light for dinner? Breakfast was heavy,” he explains, and the younger man nods, taking a seat where Geralt indicates at the island. A bowl slides into place in front of him, and then the older man sits in the barstool beside his with his own plate.

It’s beautiful, of course, full of color and fresh with some kind of fancy vinaigrette that makes Jaskier vow to himself to never let Geralt see the squeeze bottles of dressing cluttering his fridge.

The silence between them as they eat is comfortable, companionable, and after a few minutes Jask can’t help but utter a wry question:

“Not in a rush for the main event?”

Geralt chuckles, and a large hand lands on the smaller man’s thigh in a grip that can only be described as possessive.

“Gotta eat first. You’ll need your strength.”

Jaskier feels his eyes go saucer-wide, and every muscle south of his navel clenches.

I might not survive this.

Death by dick, that’s how I’m going out.

Who said destiny wasn’t real?

“Y-yeah? You plan on wearing me out?”

Fuck why am I suddenly so nervous?

Geralt’s hand squeezes, making the younger man twitch in his pants.

“We got you Gatorade, didn’t we?”

Jaskier grins into his bowl, snickering.

“Well, let me know if I need to limber up first.”

The other man snorts.

“Cheeky shit.”

Jask lets the mischief shine through his eyes.

“Tell me, should I dip into another sick day? Really let you give it to me?”

The amusement in Geralt’s gaze melts into heat, and he lifts a single grey brow. He leans in close, so close that Jaskier can feel the warm breath breezing over his own lips.

“If you want me to prove myself, take the rest of the week off.”

Challenge fucking accepted.

The younger man closes the gap between them, sealing the deal with a heated kiss. Geralt’s teeth catch his lower lip when they separate after several blisteringly hot seconds, tugging at the pillow of flesh and tearing a low whine from the other’s throat. Jaskier can feel his pulse surging throughout his body, and he levels his boyfriend with the best “fuck me” eyes he can muster.

“Consider it done, darling.”

The transition from the kitchen to the bedroom is blurry, at best. All Jask can recall is that suddenly hands were on him, yanking him to his feet and crushing him to Geralt’s body. The older man had heaved him up into his arms like he weighed nothing, growling instructions to wrap his legs around him and hang on.

And Jaskier obeyed.

How the man managed to make it up those stairs with his tongue down his throat was some kind of superhuman feat.

Now, he’s half-naked and squirming on Geralt’s bed, his shirt rucked up under his arms to give the larger man unrestricted access to the expanse of flushed skin before him, with Geralt mouthing hungrily at a sharp collarbone, hands resting around the younger man’s heaving ribs.

“Fuck, Geralt, quit torturing me,” Jaskier whines, hips lifting off the bed to seek desperate friction against the other’s body. The older man pins him with a hand low on his belly and a wicked grin.

“Patience, Jask.”

He ducks down to wrap teasing lips around a pink nipple, his fingers rolling its twin and making the smaller man keen, his hands buried in silver strands for some semblance of control.

“At this rate— fuck —it’ll be years before you get inside me,” he pants, earning himself a dark chuckle.

“Let me savor you, baby. I’ve waited a long time for this.” He gives the nipple under his fingers a sharp twist, biting down on the other and clearly relishing Jaskier’s answering gasp.

It feels like everything Geralt touches has a direct line to his throbbing cock, and he’s hard enough that he could probably fucking hammer nails with it.

“ Please, please, fuck.”

“Do you think you could come like this? In your pants, just from me playing with these?” He flicks one stiff bud, and the younger man’s fists clench in his hair.

He’s evil.

Sexily, mouthwateringly evil.

“I am begging you—“

Geralt surges up, capturing Jaskier’s lips with a low groan, his hands sliding downward to unfasten his trousers. The smaller man’s hips rise in undeniable invitation, and soon he’s completely bare beneath a still fully-clothed Geralt.

Well that’s not fair, is it?

He only spares a moment to regret releasing the other’s locks before he’s yanking at Geralt’s shirt, mumbling something in the way of “off” that’s mostly muffled by the lips devouring his own.

When the older man finally obeys, sitting up to strip off the garment, Jaskier has to bite his lip to contain his groan.

Fuck, he’s beautiful.

Geralt must see the look on his face, because his smirk is nothing short of devilish.

“Like what you see?”

“You could suffocate me with those pecs and I’d say thank you.”

The delicious demigod shakes his head with a wry smile, and Jaskier most definitely eyes the way his abs ripple when he leans back down, shivering when he can feel the weight of Geralt’s chest against his own.

“Your dirty talk is surprisingly violent,” he remarks, sucking kisses into Jaskier’s chin, jaw, neck—

“My need for you to fuck me is surprisingly violent,” the younger man shoots back.

“All in good time, sweetheart.”

His descent down Jask’s body begins anew, this time past his nipples and on to his hips, skirting around the straining erection quivering for his attention and instead dragging blunt teeth over the ridge of each hipbone. The edge of pain curls Jaskier’s toes and sends a drop of precum dribbling down the side of his cock.

Golden eyes spot the droplet, and a hot tongue darts out to lick it up before Jask can even squeak.

He shudders instead, and Geralt grins up at him, his face cradling Jaskier’s stiff cock. He catches the younger man’s hands and guides them to his chest.

“Touch yourself for me, baby.”

Fucking hell.

Tentative fingers follow the command, but Jask has to avoid his nipples, otherwise he’ll undoubtedly come all over his boyfriend’s face.

And he almost gets away with it.

But then a critical grey brow rises.

“Do it like I would, Jaskier.”

Fuck.

As soon as he obeys, Geralt’s mouth sinks down over his cock, making the younger man shout with the sudden sensation.

Inside, it’s all blissful wet heat and Jask can feel tears welling in his eyes as he struggles to hold back, still mindlessly working his own chest while Geralt sucks him. He can feel himself coiling, approaching that precipice, and his head tosses desperately from side to side.

“No, no, Geralt—I only want to come when you’re inside me, please, please— “

The heat disappears, and then there’s a hand circling him, squeezing and holding off the impending spill. Jaskier fights to pull himself back from the edge, gasping, his hands—having abandoned their task—twisting in the sheets to ground him.

When his breathing slows and his heart descends from a dangerously thunderous pace to a calmer gallop, he relaxes just a tiny bit, and that’s all Geralt needs.

A comforting hand pets over his thigh, soothing him, and wet blue eyes meet appreciative amber.

“Gorgeous,” he rumbles, nuzzling at the crease where Jaskier’s thigh meets his hip.

Then his soft smile turns predatory.

“Let’s do that again.”

What—

Strong hands catch his knees and push them up toward his chest, exposing his hole to the other’s greedy golden gaze, and Jaskier can’t contain the shiver that wracks his body when he sees Geralt’s pupils dilate impossibly wide.

“Hold your legs, baby.”

Trembling hands curve around his knees, and he can’t help the involuntary twitch when he feels Geralt’s thumb caress the pink furl of muscle, barely pressing into the skin but sending a needy whine out of the smaller man’s throat.

“You’re so fucking pretty, Jaskier. I’ve been waiting so long to open you up for me.”

Christ, he sounds fucking reverent.

It seems like hours that he holds the position, goosebumps covering every inch of his skin while Geralt pets over his hole, murmuring his appreciation. It’s sweet torture for the younger man, and when he finally can’t take it anymore, he whimpers the other’s name in a desperate plea.

“Geralt, please— “

A calming hand courses down his thigh again in response.

“Shh, it’s okay baby, I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t even have time to blink before Geralt is diving down, and then his mouth is on him.

“ Fuck! ”

He’s fucking ravenous, eating him like he’s starving and Jaskier is his favorite meal, fucking feasting on the quivering man’s hole until tears roll down his cheeks and he’s gasping for breath.

“Geralt, fuck, Geralt, Geralt—“

Jask is consumed by fire once again, scorching across his flesh as that constant buzz of arousal flares up into a searing blaze. He’s begging, heedlessly, wantonly begging, but the only word that can leave his lips is Geralt’s name.

Geralt’s attention is nothing short of worshipful, devouring him like Jaskier’s body is the altar for his devotion and he’s his most dedicated supplicant. It’s so much, too much , and then his tongue is wriggling its way inside the tight furl and Jaskier can feel his nails digging into his skin, the clutch of his hands the only thing that’s holding him together and preventing him from breaking apart.

A thick finger works its way inside with his love’s tongue, finding what it wants with deadly precision and pressing , ripping a keening sob from Jaskier’s chest when it doesn’t let up, persistently massaging over the spot until he’s shaking, pleading —

The stretch of a second finger reels him back in, and teeth sink into the meat of his ass, the sharp pain giving him something to focus on other than the torment of pleasure inflicted on him by Geralt’s hands.

“So fucking beautiful , baby. Breathe for me, Jask, you can do it. Hold it in for me, that’s it, take my fingers…”

There’s a goddamned puddle of precum pooling on his stomach, his neglected cock begging for attention while he barely withstands the blissful assault on his hole. He does as he’s bidden, sucking in shaky breaths to try and relax when Geralt spreads his fingers, opening Jask up just like he promised.

The smaller man focuses on the other’s face, the open look of awe combined with unrelenting concentration making a devastating picture. His lips are swollen, his jaw slack as those keen amber eyes remain locked on the place where his fingers are entering Jaskier, scissoring open and occasionally brushing against that sweet spot to keep him gasping.

A broken noise escapes the younger man when he pulls away, but he’s back in a fraction of a moment with warm slickness coating his fingers, and Jaskier’s spine bows almost supernaturally when he adds a third finger.

The soft touch of his free hand caressing over Jask’s flank with gentle words of encouragement is a stark contrast to the relentless stretch at his hole, and he’s torn between which sensation to chase in his mind, reduced to agonized whimpers of Geralt’s name that spike an octave every time the other man spreads him further.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he praises. “Almost ready. Fuck, I can’t wait to get inside you.”

His free hand moves to the fastening on his jeans, swiftly unbuttoning and shoving them down his legs in a feat of acrobatics Jaskier doesn’t understand, especially as his fingers remain buried in the younger man throughout.

When Geralt takes one of his legs from his clenching fingers and hooks it over his shoulder, Jask finally glimpses his cock, deliciously hard and straining for the smaller man like a fucking divining rod.

Fuck, that’s bigger than I remember.

How did I fit that monster in my mouth?

How is it going to fit in me ?

His marbled god among men sees him looking and smiles, giving off the type of brilliance that should only be reserved for sunrises over the ocean, glittering and warm and hopeful. That smile meets his own gasping mouth with unbridled heat, bending Jaskier nearly in half to reach.

“You ready, baby?” Geralt murmurs against his lips.

His heart thuds in a resonant drumbeat that vibrates through every cell of his body, and with every pulse through his veins he becomes even more sure.

He nods, catching Geralt’s lips again to seek more of that intoxicating contact. The older man’s fingers flex inside him in response, the pressure on his prostate zinging through him, compounding with the anticipation until he’s begging for it, begging to be filled, begging to be fucked.

Geralt hooks his other leg over his shoulder, fingers retreating, and when he leans down to press his forehead to Jaskier’s, he can feel how open he is, stretched and soft and wet and exposed just for Geralt, only for him.

Golden eyes hold his gaze when the blunt head of Geralt’s massive cock meets Jask’s rim, trust and affection morphing into molten wonder as he sinks in, the exquisite, overwhelming fullness making the younger man gasp out desperate little sobs for more, more of him, please—

It’s so slow that it’s agonizing, and Jaskier’s trembling hands weave into silver hair once again, refusing to let go of Geralt, taking him for himself in every sense of the word. When he finally, finally bottoms out, Jaskier is so unbelievably stuffed that it feels like it’s choking him, his panting breaths the only sign that Geralt isn’t somehow so far inside him that he’s reached his fucking throat.

This is what I’ve been waiting for.

Him.

Fuck, there’s so much of him, so full—

“You feel incredible, Jask, fuck,” the larger man murmurs, his words ghosting over the other’s slack mouth, and Jaskier can only breathe them in, take them into his lungs and taste every ounce of love Geralt put into them. “So good, baby. So fucking tight, I just barely fit, but you’re taking all of me anyway because you’re so fucking good—“

Of course he’s extra verbose when he’s buried to the hilt in my arse.

“Don’t stop kissing me,” Jaskier pleads breathlessly, nosing at the man above him, inside him. “I need it, I need you—“

Geralt takes his mouth again as he draws out, the sudden emptiness making Jask whine into him in protest. He swallows every noise the smaller man makes, sliding back inside with insistent pressure on that blessed spot that makes the man beneath him whimper every time he grazes it.

The rhythm is infuriating for Jaskier, slow, methodical, controlled, and the only thing he can do is fist his hands in Geralt’s hair and beg for more, faster, harder, please love just fuck me.

“Let me have you how I want,” Geralt rumbles back, and Jask can feel the vibration of it against his rim. “Let me indulge first, and then I’ll fuck you, baby. I’ll fuck you so good you’ll forget what it’s like to not have me inside you, and you’ll feel so fucking empty without my cock encased in this tight little hole of yours—“

A thumb brushes over Jaskier’s stretched rim, making the younger man shudder with sensitivity.

“Feel it, baby, feel me inside you. You’re mine, Jaskier. You were always meant to be mine, right here, my cock buried inside you, filling you up just like you need, just like you crave. ”

His cockhead thrusts into Jask’s prostate with the last word, sending another spurt of pre oozing out of him with a choked gasp.

He maintains the torturous pace, the intensity of it dizzying, and every slide of his cock winds Jaskier tighter and tighter until he feels like he’ll split apart at the slightest touch. His tongue against Jaskier’s feels leisurely in comparison, reveling in the younger man’s mouth as he guides him ever closer, pushes him ever higher, until—

“ Geralt— “

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

His answering moan borders on a scream, and he clings to Geralt through it all, every muscle convulsing around the man inside him until he can’t take it anymore, falling back into the sheets bonelessly, hot tears rolling down his face. He welcomes Geralt’s lips as he finishes deep within him, warmth spreading inside as his low groan reverberates through Jaskier’s ears. He presses kisses to Geralt’s nose, jaw, cheek, temple—anywhere he can reach, cloaking the man in his love while he recovers.

When Geralt pulls out, there’s emptiness in his place, but Jaskier can’t despair while his arms are still full of the man himself, that beautiful face tucking into the juncture of his neck and shoulder as he gently lowers the younger man’s legs and gathers him close, lying down nearly atop him in a blanket of muscle and affection.

I—I think I might be falling in love with him.

Holy fuck.

“Give me half an hour, and I’ll fuck you until you don’t even know your own name,” Geralt promises, the scrape of his stubble carving the oath into the other’s skin.

Jaskier shivers.

He’s a fucking marvel, this man.

And he’s mine.

Chapter Text

Let it be known that I’m true to my word.

It isn’t long before Geralt stirs, lips seeking Jaskier’s in a meandering path up from his collarbone, along his throat, and over his jaw.

“Admirable recovery time, darling,” the smaller man sighs, basking in the attention.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

His tongue delves in to meet Jaskier’s, who welcomes him with a pleased sound, fingertips curving around the jut of a sculpted cheekbone while he lazily responds. There’s leisure in their touches, no rush, just relish in the intimacy of it, the ease.

“Addicted to me now, are you?” the younger man teases. “I should’ve known this would happen once you finally got a taste of the good stuff.”

I’ve been stuck on you for a lot longer than you think, brat.

“Oh yeah? Your hole? That’s what finally did it?” He taunts, loving the familiar pretty blush burning across the other man’s cheeks.

“Well, surely you wouldn’t have been so lackadaisical had you known how good it would be,” Jaskier assures him, lighting kisses in a line up Geralt’s nose.

“Are you assuming I haven’t thought about it every day since you said you’d be mine?” He returns, and that blush flares for him, bright and warm under his lips.

“You—what?” He sputters in reply.

Geralt takes his lips again, savoring the silken heat that opens for him, the sweet little noises he consumes with every kiss. He rises to his hands and knees over the younger man, enclosing him fully.

“In almost every free moment,” he murmurs, golden gaze riveted on cornflower blue, “I couldn’t help but wonder. How soft you’d be, how tight—" He drops feather-light touches over the other’s face, lips, neck. “What kind of sounds you’d make for me, how perfect it would be when I finally made my little lark sing…”

Jaskier’s breath hitches.

“Why do you call me that? Your lark?”

Geralt smiles. 

“You’re noisy, undeniable, inescapable,” he begins, laying a kiss down on the younger man’s skin with each word.

“Excuse me—"

“But you also create so much beauty that without you, the world would be hellishly dark. At least, my world would be.”

That’s how it was before.

Mindlessly marching through my own life, convincing myself I was happy.

And then this little fucker waltzed right in and woke me up.

Long-fingered hands wind into his hair and jerk him down to meet the paradise that is Jaskier’s mouth, demanding everything he has and taking it without hesitation.

“I fucking adore you,” he vows in response, fingers clenching in silver hair.

Nothing has ever compared to the way I cherish this little brat.

His hand slips down Jaskier’s side as he kisses him, finally curling around his hip and flipping him over with ease. The smaller man makes an aborted noise of protest, quieting when Geralt blankets his back, his lips brushing promises of pleasure over the nape of his neck.

“I’m going to give you exactly what you wanted, baby,” he rumbles, hand finding a pillow and tucking it under the other’s hips to lift that delicious ass up for him.

I’m gonna fuck him just like he’s been begging for.

He eyes the tempting swell of the younger man’s ass, pale globes invitingly round, a single bite mark bestowed on one from Geralt’s teeth, puffy pink hole still gaping slightly from his previous attentions. He can see dribbles of his cum leaking out, dripping down Jaskier’s taint and sending a wave of possessiveness crashing through him that makes him groan audibly at the fucking delectable sight.

He’s mine.

He has to taste it, has to lay claim on the furl of muscle laid out before him like a hard-fought prize. Jaskier’s squeal when Geralt’s tongue laves over his well-used hole is almost better than the whimper that immediately follows, his hips flexing into the pillow beneath him but unable to escape the larger man’s siege on his body.

“Geralt, Geralt, fuck—"

“Tell me how it feels, Jaskier. How does it feel to have me taste your hole, what I’ve left inside you?”

He tightens around Geralt’s tongue, hips stuttering into the friction of his cock against the silk pillowcase.

“Fucking hell, Ger—oh, gods.”

His moan is broken, fluttering in his throat as Geralt seals his lips around the opening and sucks, amber eyes engrossed in the taut, graceful arch of the younger man’s back, muscles tensed beautifully while his hole quivers under his attention.

I’d call him a work of art, but no master could paint a picture as fucking stunning as this.

Reaching out, he coats his fingers liberally with lube, regretfully giving up his prize to sink three straight into the flushed heat of his brat’s body.

Jaskier gasps at the stretch, body instinctively fighting the invasion before he finally relaxes with a shaky sigh. A delicate hand extends back, seeking his touch, and Geralt takes it gently, anchoring the man beneath him.

“You need to be stretched if I’m going to be rough, baby,” he informs him, pressing an apologetic kiss to the bite mark adorning his ass. “Just breathe for me.”

He adds another finger, and Jaskier’s hand twitches in his, a low moan echoing off the walls as he takes even more than before. Geralt can’t take his eyes off the fucking enticing sight of his hole, his thumb petting over the smaller man’s taint, aching to be tucked in beside its companions and plunge into the fevered bliss of Jaskier’s body.

One day, but not tonight.

“You feel so fucking good around me, baby,” he rasps, the words spilling forth unbidden, driven by the awe in his chest. “You were made to take me, Jaskier. This hole was always meant to be mine.”

When he deems him finally adequately loosened, he replaces his hand with his cock, luxuriating in Jaskier’s answering whine, satin heat encasing every inch of him.

“Fuck, Jask—"

Geralt allows himself a few moments to savor the euphoria of being inside him again, heavenly fire scorching down his spine as the younger man’s back bows in an impossible curve, like an invisible bowstring is pulling him into the trembling arc. He sobs out Geralt’s name, and the older man pets over silky locks, soothing him.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he praises, and the needy clutch of his hole relaxes into softness. Perfect. “I need you to do something for me, okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes.

“Good boy. Put your hands on the headboard.”

It takes a moment, but then he complies, musical fingers splaying across the surface, shoulder muscles bunched beautifully with the effort.

Geralt leans down, speaking into a reddened ear.

“Ready?”

Jaskier groans low, forehead pressed into the mattress.

“Verbal confirmation, baby.”

“Please.”

Teeth close over the soft lobe.

“As you wish.”

He pulls back, takes a breath, then slams back in, hips meeting Jaskier’s ass with a resounding slap of skin that harmonizes with a high whine from the man beneath him. His body clings to him with each thrust, the perfect balance between tight and slick, stretched well enough that Geralt knows it’s safe to begin pistoning in earnest, setting a brutal pace that has Jaskier’s fingers curling, nails digging into the wood under his hands.

Gorgeous.

He hovers on his elbows over the smaller man’s prone form, forearms wrapping around Jask’s torso in ghosting comfort while his hips pound in a rapid drumbeat against the flesh of his ass. Geralt revels in the yield of Jaskier’s body, how well he takes every fucking inch, like he was born to do it.

“Hard enough for you, brat?” He rumbles, targeting Jaskier’s prostate with ruthless accuracy that makes the smaller man keen, desperate for more but nearly overwhelmed by every sensation rocketing through his body.

Geralt is merciless, lowering his head to sink his teeth into the muscle of Jask’s unmarked shoulder in a stinging grasp, groaning when his tongue encounters the hint of salt from sweat beaded on his partner’s skin, sucking to ensure his mark stands out starkly against the pale canvas.

Delicious.

“You’ll never need anyone else, baby. Just my cock, hard and waiting for you whenever you want it, whenever this greedy little hole is hungry for it.” He drags the flat of his tongue up the pulsing vein on Jaskier’s neck, grinning at the gasp his words elicit. “I’m going to ruin you for everyone else. No one will satisfy you like I can. No one. You’ll only want me inside you.”

He punctuates his sentence with a particularly savage thrust, and when he tastes salt this time, it’s from the tears rolling down the smaller man’s face.

“Ger—" his voice breaks, trying to turn his face without disobeying his earlier order. “Need… more. Please.”

Geralt pauses, earning a whine in protest at the cessation.

“I’ll always give you what you need, Jaskier,” he promises, kissing the mark he left behind.

He sits up, using his grasp on the younger man’s hips to hike him up to his hands and knees, then sliding his grip up to clasp onto Jaskier’s shoulders for leverage.

“Breathe, baby.”

When he resumes, it’s with a new ferocity that allows him that much deeper, his ears ringing with Jaskier’s cries as he brutalizes the younger man’s prostate over and over and over again. He can feel him clenching, tightening around him, and Geralt has to grit his teeth with the effort to hold his pace steady, resisting the urge to put every ounce of his power into wrecking the man beneath him beyond repair.

I want to mark him inside and out.

I want him to feel me every time he moves, ache with the memory of my cock inside him.

I want him to be as devastated by me as I am by him.

One of Jaskier’s hands sneaks under him, reaching for his abandoned cock, and Geralt smacks it away.

“No.”

“But—"

“You’re coming on my cock, and my cock alone,” he orders, voice rough with the desire searing every cell in his body. The clutch of Jaskier around him is nearly too much, but he refuses to come first. The tempo of his thrusts turns punishing instead, determined to take Jask to that place of no return, that peak of frenzied ecstasy. The new speed draws out those pretty noises he craves, mindless mewls and gasps and stuttering moans that tell him everything he needs to know: faster, harder, more, fuck, please, I can’t take it, but I want it.

A barbaric urge in his chest sends his hand shooting out, fingers tangling into Jaskier’s soft hair and pulling, the younger man’s sharp cry matching the sudden vicegrip around Geralt’s cock.

Thrusts never ceasing, he jerks Jask up by the hair until his chest is flush against the smaller man’s trembling back, limbs loose as he’s fucked within an inch of his life. Geralt’s hand finds a new prize around his throat, coiling over the delicate column and clamping down just hard enough to see a spurt of precum escape the younger man’s cock.

“You like that? Being at my mercy?” He rumbles into Jaskier’s ear, hand tightening minutely until there’s a steady dribble of pre leaving his slit. “Just wait until I collar you. Then everyone will know you’re mine.”

I could spend the rest of my life buried inside you.

“Geralt.”

“I know, baby.”

His gentle tone is in pointed contrast to the brutality of his thrusts, and he can’t help but clasp Jaskier to him, his free hand twisted in the thick curls covering the smaller man’s chest, his forearm providing a handhold for frantic fingers. Being inside him isn’t enough—he wants every part of him, to share in it all, to bathe in the sun of Jaskier’s soul.

He fucks him like he’s swearing fealty, and when he can feel Jask finally getting close, he concentrates every effort on that sweet spot, that spot that makes the younger man sing.

The pulsing clutch of Jaskier’s body as he comes is enough to drag Geralt to the summit, his savage rhythm faltering as he spills inside that delicious fucking heat, teeth scraping over his skin as he claims him in every way he can.

When he’s empty, and the only sound in the room are their shared gasps and the thumping of his heart in his chest, he sits back on his heels, letting Jaskier sag against his body as he softens inside him. His grip loosens, fingertips finding the other’s chin and turning his lips to Geralt’s for an exhausted, satisfied kiss.

“You’re fucking exquisite,” he breathes into his slack mouth, nipping at Jaskier’s kiss-swollen lips. He receives a loose grin in reply, long fingers petting over his forearm, where they’ve left two sets of matching half-moons, dug harshly into his skin at the height of climax.

“You’re a man of your word,” Jask sighs.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me my name… I’m not sure I can remember it.”

Geralt chuckles, brushing soft kisses over every mark he can reach.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve just been fucked by a mythical being,” he replies dreamily, relaxing further into Geralt’s embrace. “I think your cock might be magical.”

Geralt can’t help but laugh again, burying his nose into dark hair.

I’m so fucking happy.

“I think you should probably lie down, and I’ll go get you your Gatorade.”

“Mmm, not yet,” the other counters. “Don’t go.”

“No?”

“No,” he asserts. “Stay inside me as long as you can.”

Geralt sighs.

I’ll give you anything you ask for.

“Okay.”

He gently maneuvers them to the side and away from the puddle of Jaskier’s release on the bed, keeping the younger man tucked against his body as they sink into the mattress, heart in his throat when he catches Jask’s pleased hum. The smaller man wiggles into place, settling every available inch of his body against Geralt’s.

“Stay like this for now,” he mumbles, fingers tangled with Geralt’s thicker, rougher hands and trapped against his chest so that the older man can feel his steady heartbeat.

With you, I could stay like this forever.

Chapter Text

Every muscle in his body is so very pleasantly sore.

Jaskier rolls over, stretching each well-used limb and soaking in the comfort of Geralt’s bed. Regrettably, Geralt himself isn’t in it, but that’s because he’d been called in early to interview that bartender applicant—apparently Lambert doesn’t care about his beauty sleep.

But still…

Four times.

He grins to himself. They’d fucked four times last night, each one more earth-shattering than the last, and at the end of it all Geralt had cleaned them both up and curled up with Jaskier wrung-out and wrapped securely in his arms, a satisfied smile on that beautiful face of his.

It was perfect.

He closes his eyes, conjuring up the memory of Geralt above him, pressing him down, hand in his hair, using his superior strength to remind Jaskier exactly who was in charge. Taking him, filling him so deep he didn’t know where Geralt ended and he began, sinking blunt teeth into him and adding an edge of pain to heighten the pleasure.

Fuck, it was so good.

When he finally convinces himself to get up and shuffle to the bathroom, he’s met with quite the sight in the mirror.

Holy shit, I look like a chew toy.

Bite marks and hickeys litter his skin, most concentrated around his neck and shoulders—Geralt’s favorite place to latch on when he’s about to come. They’re scattered around his torso, too, and when he turns around he finds more on his ass, as expected.

Laughter bubbles up in his chest, and he has to brace himself on the vanity as he stares at his newly colorful reflection.

I look like I’ve been mauled by the horniest bear in the woods.

Is Geralt a bear? Not really, right? Is there even a word for a Geralt-type? 

We need a new one. He can be a… a wolf!

Perfect. Hot and bite-y.

Amusement still making his shoulders shake, he goes through his morning routine, poking at some of the marks with his free hand. It’s a good thing he already called off for the week, otherwise he’d be wearing turtlenecks every fucking day.

No regrets.

I’ll trade having my back thoroughly, masterfully blown out for a few bruises any day, darling.

Some arnica might help, but his search through the bathroom cupboards is fruitless, so in the end he gives up and takes a quick shower instead. The hot water feels amazing on his aching muscles, and even though they aren’t his own, the scent of Geralt’s shampoo and body wash remind him of the other man, making him miss him in his absence a tiny bit less.

He’s just toweling off when he hears activity downstairs in the kitchen.

Perfect timing. I can ask him where the arnica is.

And maybe get some kisses.

Preferably with tongue.

And not just on my mouth.

Jaskier wraps the towel around his hips, leaving his chest bare, marks on display for Geralt, because he knows just how much the older man will enjoy seeing them, possessive as he is.

Not that Jask minds that one bit.

“You know, I’m thinking about investing in a muzzle for you, love. I look like I’ve gone to bed with a ravenous beast—"

He stops short when he sees the source of the noise.

Familiar platinum hair, but shorter, curvier, and unmistakably not Geralt.

Oh fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Ciri.

Sea-green eyes widen at the sight of him, her jaw dropping in surprise, and Jaskier wishes for a brief moment that he’s just slipped in the shower and this is a head trauma-induced hallucination and he’s not standing in Geralt’s kitchen with Geralt’s daughter, half-naked and covered in Geralt’s bite marks.

But I’m not that lucky.

Ciri recovers faster than he does.

“You must be Jaskier. It’s, um—nice to see you again!”

Shit fuckity FUCK.

“Ah—excuse me.”

He’s not proud of running from the room, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it.

Jaskier books it back up the stairs, wrenching open drawers in Geralt’s room and yanking on the first articles of clothing his hands touch. By the end of it, he’s clad in a set of mismatched sweats that he’s completely dwarfed by and burning red with humiliation.

Blue eyes flick to the window.

It’s what, two stories down?

I can survive that fall.

He shakes the thought from his head, realizing he has very little desire to find out what a crash landing to the asphalt below would feel like. Instead, he scrambles for his phone, fingers flying over the screen as he sends a string of panicked texts to his boyfriend/Dom/man responsible for this fucking travesty:

hi I need you to come back now please

Geralt your daughter is HERE

WITH ME

GERALT

COME GET YOUR CHILD

“Jaskier?” Ciri calls up the stairs. “I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to freak you out!”

I have to go talk to her.

Fuck.

Okay, Jask, you can do this.

You’ve already embarrassed yourself, there’s no going back now.

Steeling himself, he makes his way back down and fights the instinct to sprint for the front door, turning to the kitchen instead.

Ciri is waiting for him, and to her credit, she looks almost equally as uncomfortable as he feels.

“Hi… I’m so sorry to intrude, I came to see my dad and—yeah, that’s not important right now, I’m just really sorry and this is so awkward…”

“Awkward is certainly a word for it,” he chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair and praying Geralt walks through that door to save him soon. “I’m sorry, too, that you had to see that. And hear… that.”

This would’ve been less painful if I’d just fallen down the stairs again.

She grimaces.

“Well, um… I’m glad to hear things are going, er, well for you guys.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, eyes cast skyward and begging the heavens to strike him down where he stands so he can escape this conversation.

“Ah… thanks.” He shakes his head.

Pull yourself together, Jaskier.

This is Geralt’s daughter.

Don’t be a dick.

“Listen, this is wildly uncomfortable for us both, so can we start over?” He tries, with what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“That sounds like a good idea,” she replies, and he can see some of the tension leave her.

“Great. Er… it’s nice to officially meet you, Ciri. I’m Jaskier.” He extends a hand, which she gratefully takes, squeezing firmly as she shakes it twice before letting go.

“You too. And I’m glad you’ve recovered well from your fall—that was a nasty spill.”

Fabulous. A wonderful reminder I did NOT need of my inability to not make a complete idiot of myself in front of Geralt’s kid.

“Thank you. Not one of my better moments, that.”

“It’s okay, it happens to everyone.”

It absolutely does not, but it’s sweet of you to say so.

“… Right. Well, thank you for your help that night. I never got the chance to say so at the time.”

She smiles, and her eyes crinkle in a way eerily similar to Geralt’s when he laughs.

“Of course, I was happy to help. Especially since you’re so important to my dad.”

Jaskier lifts an eyebrow.

Important?

“Oh, has he… told you much about me?”

She nods, her smile growing.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve seen him this head-over-heels for someone like ever—"

She’s cut off by the sound of the front door banging open, immediately followed by a booming “Cirilla!”

Jask winces, and pale brows shoot up to her hairline.

“Ah, he came quicker than I thought.”

Ciri eyes him.

“You called for help?”

She gets a nod in return.

“Eh, I can’t blame you.”

“Jaskier! Ciri!”

“In the kitchen!” They both shout back, Jask reddening further at the singsong unison of it.

Geralt appears in the doorway looking nothing short of ruffled and immediately steps between them, hiding Jaskier behind his bulk as he faces off with his daughter.

“Cirilla, how many times do I have to ask you to call before you come over?” He’s breathing hard, clearly having run from wherever he was at Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier really doesn’t want to witness this.

“In my defense, you’re normally doing boring old guy shit, not parading naked men around the house,” she retorts, not one to be chided easily.

Geralt’s head whips back to see a scarlet-faced Jaskier, who truly looks like he’s wishing for death.

“What I do is not the issue here,” he grits out, turning back to her. “What is is the fact that you’ve not only violated my privacy, but also Jaskier’s.”

He’s got his I’m-a-dad-and-this-is-a-teachable-moment voice on, and Jaskier contemplates the preferable safety of being picked up by a tornado and yeeted far away from this conversation.

“I already apologized to him,” she returns, the pout in her voice betraying her age. “It’s not a big deal. I see naked guys all the time.”

Please stop mentioning the naked thing, fucking hell, woman.

“Whether or not it’s a big deal isn’t for you to decide,” her father corrects. “You aren’t the one whose privacy was invaded.”

There's a long pause, but then Jask hears a sigh from the young woman, and when she speaks next, she sounds genuinely remorseful.

“Okay. You’re right.” She leans around Geralt to look Jaskier in the eye. “Again, I’m really sorry, Jaskier. I hope we can meet under better circumstances in the future?”

Jask nods.

“Of course. Thank you, Ciri.”

She gives him a tight smile.

“I’d really like that.” Facing her father again, she jabs a thumb in the general direction of the door. “I’ll head over to the club to wait for you, if that’s okay?”

“It is, thank you.”

He maintains the stern look until she’s out of the house, but as soon as the door clicks shut, he turns to encircle Jask in a crushing embrace, burying his nose in the younger man’s hair.

“Fuck, Jaskier, I’m so sorry. I know you didn’t want to meet her like that.”

“It’s not your fault,” he mumbles back, face still flaming.

“Yes it is. You set boundaries, and they were still crossed, if inadvertently,” Geralt reminds him. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

He hugs Geralt tighter, chest swelling against this angel of a man who validates him at every fucking turn, who makes him feel worth so much more than he ever thought he could, and the sting of embarrassment lessens.

“She already apologized multiple times, you know. You raised a good kid.”

Geralt chuckles.

“Thanks, but I needed to hear it myself. And now that we’re together, I really can’t have her or anyone else barging in at any given moment.” He presses a kiss to Jaskier’s temple. “I mean, this was bad, but it could have been so much worse. You wouldn’t have been so forgiving if she’d walked in on me bending you over the counter.”

The heat returns to the younger man’s face with a vengeance, and he hides it in Geralt’s shirt.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

He can feel the vibration of the older man’s laugh against him.

“Tell me what happened. Why did she say something about you being naked?”

Jaskier groans.

“I wasn’t naked. I was in a towel. But… I’m a little marked up.”

An understatement, really.

Golden eyes suddenly burn with hungry curiosity.

“Yeah? Show me.”

Jask can feel his body respond to the look, heart pounding harder, blood getting hotter as every nerve lights up in answer to Geralt’s electric interest. He grabs the hem of his borrowed sweatshirt and pulls it over his head, revealing Geralt’s handiwork to the artist himself.

A heavy silence stretches between them, making Jaskier’s breath sound loud in the void, until—

“Fuck.”

Rough fingertips skate over each and every mark, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and when Jaskier opens his eyes, Geralt’s grin is nearly feral.

Someone sure is pleased with himself.

The larger man steps closer, crowding Jask back against the fridge.

“Let’s go to the club tonight.” His deep voice comes out in a near-purr that sends sparks down the younger man’s spine.

“Tonight?”

“Mm-hmm.” He leans in, licking a long stripe from one hickey to another in the world’s horniest game of connect-the-dots. “We can show everyone your new collar.”

A single callused finger traces the base of his throat, dipping into the hollow of his clavicle, and Jaskier shudders under the promising touch.

“Hngh, yeah.”

“And I’d like to revisit my playroom. Christen it anew.”

The smaller man gulps.

“You’re the boss.”

Geralt’s hand wraps fully around his hickey-speckled neck, warm lips teasing Jaskier’s as he smirks back.

“You know it, baby.”

Yen finds the whole story fucking hilarious, of course.

Evil witch.

Jaskier is sitting across from her in their regular booth, watching her cackle with an exasperated pout.

“It’s not funny! I’m traumatized.”

“It’s absolutely funny,” she retorts with a toothy grin. “And look on the bright side, at least she didn’t see your dick.”

A very thin silver lining in an otherwise nightmare scenario.

“That being the only plus to this situation doesn’t help me in the slightest, Yennefer.”

Triss at least is giving him a sympathetic look, shaking her head at Yen’s amusement.

“Ciri is very mature for her age, Jask. She won’t hold it against you.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, still pouting.

“That’s not the problem. The problem is I can’t maintain a shred of dignity in front of the poor girl.” He grimaces. “It’s bad enough that I’m closer in age to her than her father.”

Yen waves the comment off.

“Don’t worry about that. It can’t really be helped when they’re already close in age, anyway.”

Jaskier squints at her skeptically.

“Has he ever dated anyone else this much younger than him than me?”

“Well… no.”

“Great. Fantastically unhelpful, that.”

It’s like his life is specially programmed to humiliate him solely for Ciri’s eyes. Even his little tumble down the stairs was confined to the empty stairwell, blocked by the door and out of sight of the rest of the club, so only a select few were privileged enough to witness it.

One time, just one time would he like to have an interaction with the young woman that doesn’t result in him injured, humiliated, or both.

If she doesn’t think I’m some kind of gold-digger, then she definitely thinks I’m just an idiot, and I don’t know which is worse.

A familiar hand lands on his shoulder, and he’s instantly more at ease with Geralt by his side, shoving his angst to the back of his mind.

“Hello, darling. Training going well?”

After a bit of heavy petting to tease Jaskier into thrumming anticipation for tonight’s events, Geralt had returned to Kaer Morhen to both speak to Ciri and finish up his interview with the new hire, Coen. Training began right away, and for the past couple hours, he’s watched Geralt work with the other man, moving like clockwork and clearly pleased with his decision to hire him.

“Very. I’ve left Keira with him for now to keep an eye on things, but so far, so good.”

Idle fingertips rub over one of the darker marks on the back of the younger man’s neck, and he leans into the touch.

“Wonderful. I was wondering when you’d finally free yourself up to socialize instead of hiding behind the bar for the rest of our lives,” Yen chimes in, earning herself a sigh from Triss and a glare from Jaskier.

Geralt just chuckles.

“I think you’ll find that you won’t be seeing me that much more, Yennefer.” The aforementioned hand curves possessively around the back of his sub’s neck. Yen’s answering smile is dangerous.

“Oh really? Well, that’s even better news.”

She looks far too satisfied with herself.

“What she means is that we’re very happy for you two,” Triss adds, somehow sweetly affectionate for the manifestation of malice beside her.

So lovely and yet so sinister.

It’s like a marigold falling in love with a Venus fly trap.

Hehe, marigold, Merigold. I’m so clever.

“Yes, even if Jaskier is determined to become the primary source of Ciri’s trauma,” Yen jokes, making the younger man roll his eyes.

“Witch.”

“Jask, did I ever tell you about the time Ciri covered Yen’s face in temporary glitter tattoos?” Geralt asks with a sly grin, and the other man has the pleasure of watching violet eyes go wide. “It turns out they were much harder to remove than we thought, and I still have the photo evidence—"

“Geralt, if those photos see the light of day, I will shave your head in your sleep,” Yen threatens, brows arched menacingly.

“Touch his hair and I’ll remove your fingers,” Jaskier snaps sharply, earning himself the pleasure of Yen’s jaw dropping. “I do love you, darling, but I cannot stress enough how violent I’d get if you harmed a single strand of that gorgeous hair.”

Geralt snorts.

“Just like a spitting kitten,” he chuckles to himself.

“What was that, love?”

“Nothing, baby.” His hand travels up into Jaskier’s hair, nails scratching pleasurably over the younger man’s sensitive scalp, and he addresses the women at the table next. “Ladies, it was lovely seeing you both, but I believe it’s time I take Jaskier here upstairs. Until next time,” he finishes with a polite nod, and Jask stands, sneaking under the larger man’s arm with an anticipatory grin.

His gaze meets a devilish smirk and a sweet smile.

“Enjoy,” Yen purrs, manicured claws curling around her own sub’s hand.

Oh trust me, witch, I will.

Geralt guides him toward the door to the stairwell, his grasp on the younger man’s hip confidently firm and full of promises.

I most certainly will.

Chapter Text

Hey everyone, I’m a little early but it’s technically posting day, so shit timing on my part, but it’s because I can’t sleep.

Um, some important people in my life found this fic and know it’s me and I’m having some seriously not-good feelings about it (mainly anxiety—not their fault, I’ve always been really protective of my writing and really afraid of vulnerability, which is why I post anonymously), so I’m honestly just not in a good mental or emotional place to post the next chapter right now.

I’m really sorry to everyone who was waiting for it, I love all your comments and support so much. I’m going to try and work through this and hopefully get the next chapter up as soon as I can. Again, I’m really, really sorry, but I just can’t handle it right now. If anything changes, I’ll update this note, but if/when I get the next chapter up, I’ll delete this note bc honestly looking at it is making me hella sad.

Thanks for the patience, hope to see y’all soon ❤️

-Tilted

EDIT: Good news, things have gotten better over the past couple days, so I plan on returning with the next chapter this coming Saturday! Love and appreciate every single one of y’all! ❤️

Chapter Text

They don’t go straight to the playroom, and Jaskier has to resist the urge to bitch about it.

I want my damn collar, Geralt.

Instead, he’s led back into Geralt’s office and pulled onto the sofa beside the larger man.

“Please don’t misunderstand, darling, I treasure every moment we spend together, but I was under the impression we’d be revisiting your playroom,” he says gently, and Geralt smiles.

“I know, and thank you. I wanted to check in with you first, make sure you’re okay.”

Jaskier lifts an eyebrow.

“I thought we already did this?”

Geralt sighs.

“You’ve had several hours to stew, and knowing you, you’ve worked yourself up about what happened.” His fingers clasp Jask’s chin, forcing the younger man to meet his gaze. “I need to make sure you’re in a good place mentally and emotionally before we play. So talk to me, baby.”

Jaskier chews on his lip, thinking.

Truly, the man must be some kind of psychic.

Might as well be honest, considering he’ll read it off my face anyway.

“I—I haven’t made a good impression with Ciri, and I’m quite stressed about it,” he confesses, the honesty coming easier as he looks into Geralt’s comforting amber gaze. “I want her to like me. I want her to approve of me being with you.”

“Do you want to explore why that’s important to you, or do you just want reassurance? I’m comfortable with either.”

The younger man shifts, resting his head on a sturdy shoulder and closing his eyes.

I should tell him.

I’m fucking terrified, but it feels right to tell him.

“Honestly… I’ve never felt about another person the way I feel about you, darling,” he admits quietly. “You, and what we have, are so important to me, and I’m so afraid of mucking it up. Being anything other than worthy in the eyes of your daughter, someone even more important to you than me… it feels like a failure where there isn’t room for anything but success.”

Geralt wraps an arm around his shoulders, tucking Jaskier into his side.
“I won’t invalidate your fears, even if I feel that the basis for them is unwarranted.” Jask can feel his lips in his hair, a sign that Geralt is using his scent for comfort. “I don’t want you to automatically assume that you have lower importance in my life. For me, there isn’t a hierarchy that you’re confined to.” His free hand cups Jaskier’s cheek, thumb stroking over soft skin. “You’re right that things haven’t gone perfectly when it comes to your interactions with Ciri, but I can assure you that she cares more about what you mean to me and how happy I am with you than any mistake you make with her. And to be clear—you make me so, so happy, baby.”

Jask’s throat tightens, eyes pricking with the beginnings of hot tears as Geralt’s words work to thaw the icy stress and fear and uncertainty numbing his chest.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” he murmurs, and Geralt strokes gentle fingers down his jaw.

“I don’t think you really doubted me, Jaskier. I think you’re doubting yourself. But it’s alright, that’s why I’m here to remind you of your worth every time you need it.”

Fucking angel of a man.

“What did I ever do to deserve someone like you?” Jaskier whispers, almost to himself.

“You existed. That’s all you had to do.”

He lays a soft kiss on Jaskier’s temple, and it’s so much easier to breathe now, anxiety assuaged for the time being with Geralt’s careful guidance. Jask can’t help but wonder at how far they’ve come, from verbally sniping each other to this deep, vulnerable communication.

It’s a marvel to him how easy it is to be vulnerable with Geralt. He doesn’t have to fight his instincts so much, like his body knows there’s relief on the other side, trusting the older man enough to place his worries in his hands without fear. And Geralt, to his credit, is surprisingly masterful at it—despite the roughness around the edges, he handles the most sensitive subjects with artful delicacy. He treats Jaskier like something precious, and that care is undeniable.

“Have you ever talked to someone, Jask? A professional?” Geralt asks gently, and the younger man shakes his head.

“A therapist? Not really. My parents didn’t believe in it—until I came out that is, and then they tried to send me to conversion therapy, so… no positive experiences, at least,” he admits, and he can feel the older man’s hands briefly tighten on him before he takes a long, deep breath.

Trust me, I was angry about it, too.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He’s holding back the fury in his voice, but Jask can still hear it.

It feels good to hear it.

To know someone else is angry on my behalf.

“I figured it out fast, before they could do any real damage, but thank you.”

He’d googled the “doctor” after, and the man had been accused of everything from force-feeding emetics to electrocution—he still has nightmares about what could’ve happened if he’d stuck around. It’s why he hasn’t been back to his childhood home in years; at the time, he chose to have nothing rather than have everything taken from him.

The only time they can ever convince him to come back is for important events in his younger cousins’ lives, and only if they’re in public. He’s careful, now.

And I have him.

Geralt wouldn’t let anything like that happen to me.

Maybe… I could try it. Maybe talking to someone could help.

“Have… have you tried it? Therapy, I mean.”

The other man nods.

“My brothers and I started going when we came to live with Vesemir. He knew we needed it.” He scratches his chin. “I haven’t gone back since Renfri—I probably should. Especially now that I’m this invested in a new relationship.”

“Does it help?”

Geralt shrugs.

“It sounds cliché, but you sort of get out what you put in. When I started going as a teenager, it took a long time to make progress—I hated talking, and I was angry at everything, all the time.” He sighs. “On the other hand, Ciri started going not long after I adopted her, and she took to it much more quickly.”

Jaskier doesn’t try to conceal his surprise.

“Wow, does—does everyone in your life go to therapy?”

Geralt smiles.

“Yeah, probably. Yen and Triss love their relationship counselor, and Ciri has since switched to someone who specializes in workplace burnout and trauma, but she still goes regularly.”

“No wonder you lot are so fucking well-adjusted.”

That makes the other smile, squeezing Jaskier close.

“We try. Most everyone I love are still neurotic busybodies with too-flexible boundaries, but at least we’re all very in tune with our emotions.”

The younger man purses his lips.

“I think I’d like to try it. Therapy, I mean, not being a busybody.”

Geralt’s answering smile is warm and proud in a way no one has looked at Jask in a very long time.

“Okay. I can help you find the right one, if you’d like.”

“You know I’ll never turn down your guidance, love.”

Long fingers rasp over a stubbled chin and turn Geralt’s lips toward his, and it isn’t heat between them this time, but something even more, something deeper that settles into the very marrow of Jaskier’s bones. Trust, maybe? Something he’s never completely given another person, and yet with a single, unhurried kiss he’s handing it over to this man, and he isn’t afraid.

“Are you feeling a little better?” The older man asks, the tip of a sculpted nose grazing Jaskier’s. “Did talking help?”

“I think it did,” he replies, lips curving upward. “For a savage brute, you’re quite the sophistcated conversationalist.”

Geralt’s lips twist.

“Are you trying for a spanking, brat?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no…”

“Perhaps you need reminding of what could happen when you use this—“ he drags a thumb over Jask’s lower lip for emphasis, “—for misbehavior.”

“Feel free to remind me, darling. I’m so forgetful, you know.”

Geralt leans in, the heat is back, and the game is on.

“Come with me.”

I plan on it.

Finally back in Geralt’s playroom, the air is suddenly charged, the anticipation sizzling through every nerve of the younger man’s body as he watches his Dom move through the space. It’s not the prowl of a predator, per say, but there’s undeniable power in it, in the sheer command of his presence.

He doesn’t just have control, he is control.

“Kneel for me, Jaskier.”

The sub doesn’t hesitate to obey, sinking to his knees right where he stands.

Geralt watches him, eyes calculating, and the younger man’s spine becomes impossibly straighter, his body straining to be perfect for his Dom.

And of course that golden gaze misses nothing.

“Relax, baby. You need to be comfortable down there.”

He does as he’s bid, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

Stop overthinking, just listen.

Just obey.

It’s Geralt—you trust him.

He’ll take care of you.

“That’s better.”

Thick fingers card through his hair as Geralt circles him, then the older man pauses, out of view behind him.

“The first time I saw you on your knees, I almost couldn’t contain myself,” he reveals casually, likely enjoying the hot blush painting the kneeling man’s face. “Trying so hard to be good, so sweet, so needy…”

The hand clenches, yanking back to turn his face up to his Dom. Pain shoots from his scalp, down his spine, and straight to his cock, making him gasp beautifully for Geralt’s appreciative eyes.

“I knew you were mine. You knew too, didn’t you baby?”

Jaskier’s breath comes quick, shuddering in and out of his chest as he looks up at the man towering over him. Their size difference is far more pronounced like this, and Geralt’s dominating presence only adds to the heady power dynamic. 

It’s the stuff of Jaskier’s fucking dreams.

“You worked so hard to get me to listen. Such a good boy.”

The praise is like a drug, making him high on his Dom’s approval, floating in a sea of esteem that deepens with every compliment.

Geralt’s hand suddenly tightens in his hair.

“I didn’t like it when you let other men touch you. But that won’t happen anymore, will it?”

Who? Eskel?

Wait—

“Do you mean Dog Boy?” He blurts, and he can’t keep the indignance out of his voice. “You were actually jealous of that canine man-child—?”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, because then Geralt is looming dangerously over him, amber eyes blazing.

“What was that, brat?”

Fuck, that’s hot.

Put me over your knee, over a bench, upside down, anything—

“Nothing.”

“Excuse me?”

He’s leaning in closer, the heat of him like a furnace radiating into Jaskier’s pebbled skin.

“Nothing, sir.”

The Dom smirks.

“Better.”

He releases his grip on the sub’s hair, fingers traveling downward to stroke lovingly over the pale column of Jaskier’s throat, already spattered with his marks.

“My collar is going to look so beautiful on you, baby.”

Surely he can feel how Jask’s pulse jumps under his touch?

How his blush follows the trail of his fingertips, like Geralt is personally painting the crimson across his skin?

He has to see that there’s more than just submission in the younger man’s expression—chiefly, adoration is what looks back at him when the Dom casts an authoritative gaze downward.

Wreck me.

To Jaskier’s brief disappointment, Geralt turns away and strides over to the bed, leaving him on his knees and suppressing a protesting whine.

When the Dom returns, he’s holding something, and he retakes his position standing over the smaller man.

“This is a symbol, but it’s also a tool for communication.” He lifts the collar for Jaskier’s hungry eyes to see. “This symbolizes the gift of your submission to me, and tells other players who you belong to. Between us, it means even more.” He carefully wraps the supple leather around Jaskier’s neck, buckling it into place and checking the fit with two fingers tucked between the band and his throat.

Oh, gods.

This feels… good. So good.

It feels like security. Like trust. Like everything that I feel for Geralt all locked into place so I don’t explode from the intensity.

“What we have is more intricate than a casual play partnership, because there’s a relationship involved, too,” Geralt explains, caressing the place where the leather meets his sub’s skin. “Putting on this collar tells me when you want the Dom more than the boyfriend, and I’ll adjust my behavior accordingly. I’ll be what you need, baby, and this is how you can communicate that to me. Understand?”

The younger man nods.

A grey brow lifts, and he corrects himself.

“Yes, sir.”

Geralt smiles, and it doesn’t hold the ease of his typical persona, but there’s still pride in it.

Okay, so this is Dom-mode.

A bit different, but still my Geralt.

“Now, that isn’t to say that collarless time means I’m not your Dom,” he clarifies. “Mouth off or misbehave, and there will still be consequences. This is about your needs and your ability to recognize and communicate them.”

A single finger slips through the ring at the center of Jaskier’s throat and gives it a testing tug.

“It’s just an added benefit that it looks so fucking pretty.”

His smirk could be Jask’s undoing.

“Just an added benefit?” He quips breathily, biting his lip to contain a mischievous smile. “As if you haven’t thought about this every day, as preoccupied with my neck as you are.”

Is bratting like this dangerous? Yes.

Does the glint it puts in Geralt’s eyes make it worth it? Hell yes.

“Taunting me is an interesting choice to make when you’re already on your knees.”

And then his hand is back in Jaskier’s hair, fisting and jerking his head back to force those pretty blues up to meet his critical gaze.

“Just being honest, sir.”

The sub can see the points of his canines when he smiles, the promise of pain singing from every strand of hair caught in Geralt’s grip all the way down his spine.

“I know exactly what you’re doing, brat. Stand up.”

He keeps his grasp on Jaskier’s hair as the smaller man obeys, head tilted to the side to regard him with a dangerous gleam that makes the sub’s stomach flip.

Fear? Anticipation? Arousal?

All of the above.

“Strip.”

Luckily, Jask has a button-down shirt on today, so he’s able to remove that without Geralt’s hand—still buried in his hair—impeding his progress. When he gets to his jeans, the Dom seems not at all inclined to let go, so he slips out of them, sucking in a breath every time a spark of pain flares from his scalp. He’s sporting full chub by the time he’s nude, and the curve to his Dom’s mouth holds satisfaction that warms his already-flushed chest.

“Come here.”

He leads the younger man to the bed, where he takes a seat and draws Jaskier down, over his lap.

Oh fuck yes.

He’s finally gonna spank me.

It’s an unfamiliar sight, staring at the upside down perspective of Geralt’s ankles and feet, covered because of course he’s still fully clothed. His own bare feet sink into the softness of the faux fur rug beneath them, and he understands the contrast his Dom was talking about when he registers the cool slide of leather against his sensitive cock.

It’s quickly heating as their shared warmth meets, and Jaskier suppresses a groan when a callused hand scrapes its way down his spine.

He jolts when it comes down in a stinging smack on the meat of his ass.

“What did I say about holding back? I want to hear you, brat.”

Another slap lands on the other cheek, making him jerk and whine.

And sending a new rush of blood to his cock.

Fuck.

“Sorry, sir.”

Geralt’s hand massages in a thoughtful circle over a rapidly-pinkening globe.

“As much as I’d love to give you a good old-fashioned hiding, let’s try something else.”

Excuse me, a hiding will do.

You don’t have to get creative.

Not when I’ve waited so long for this.

The tip of his Dom’s thumb brushes over his exposed hole, and Jaskier shivers.

Fuck that’s good.

Never mind, darling, get as creative as you want.

“You’re still a little loose from last night,” the larger man observes, admiration in his tone. “So fucking gorgeous, baby.”

His hand leaves the sub’s ass for a moment, then Jask’s ears pick up a low mechanical sound before it returns, wet slickness on his fingers.

Ah, someone installed a dispenser in here.

His thumb is back and prodding at the younger man’s hole, pressing in and stretching the furl of muscle with decisive dexterity. Jaskier’s entire upper body is burning scarlet, breath coming quickly. He knows he’s leaking onto Geralt’s pants, the pressure on his stiff cock impossible to ignore.

After what feels like ages of this torturous treatment, the Dom relents, and Jask takes a deep breath to steady himself.

Then there’s something new against his rim.

“Tell me how this feels, Jaskier.” There’s a gruff rasp to Geralt’s voice now, a reassurance that he’s feeling it, too. The electricity in every movement, the magnetic pull between them.

It’s just the two of us in this orbit, arousal feeding off of each other’s in an endless, blissful loop.

The object entering him is tapered, and Jask can feel himself opening wider for it with every millimeter it goes. A gasp escapes him when it eventually stretches slightly beyond what Geralt’s meticulous ministrations prepared him for, almost too far, a hint of burn to undercut the pleasurable fullness, and then dips back in, fully sunk inside him and freeing his hole to tighten around the flared base.

“So full,” he groans, hips flexing into Geralt’s lap. “But not as big as you.”

His Dom’s chuckle is deep.

“Flattery won’t help you escape your fate.”

Three taps to the base knock the plug into his prostate, and Jaskier keens in response, grasping frantically at Geralt’s pant leg.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” the Dom murmurs. “We need to make sure you don’t come too soon, hmm?”

With that, he adjusts the younger man across his lap, slotting his hard cock between his legs and away from the tempting pressure of his thigh.

“Alright. Comfortable?”

Groaning, Jask can’t decide if he appreciates the relief or misses the friction more.

There’s a pause, and Geralt’s hand gentles over his shoulder blades.

“Color, baby?”

Checking in.

Right. Verbal, Jaskier, he asked you a question.

“Green,” he gasps out.

“Okay. Answer me when I ask you to, Jask.” The reminder is nothing but gentle, but the sub still stings at the thought of disappointing him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” 

He positions the younger man to his liking, then cups a cheek and squeezes appreciatively.

“Now, time for the real fun to begin. I’m going to spank you, but instead of you counting them for me, you’re going to do something different.” Fingertips clasp the base of the plug and twist it inside him, tormenting him with the barest glances against his prostate.

“For every spank I gift you, you’re going to tell me something you like about yourself.”

What?

Why?

“Sir?”

“You’re wondering why, aren’t you? I’ll tell you.” His hands are everywhere, skating over the exposed surface of Jaskier’s back and leaving teasing goosebumps behind.

“You seem to think there’s some question of your worth, that I can be easily shaken in this relationship because of the clouded lens through which you view yourself.” Rough fingers dig into the meat of his ass, making his toes curl. “So you’re going to tell me all the things you think are likable about you, and you’ve got the incentive of a spank for each one.”

Fucker.

This is psychological warfare.

“Okay.”

“Hmm?”

Dammit, he’s thrown me off.

He’s so good at this.

“Okay, sir.”

He waits for a spank that doesn’t come, expecting Geralt to kick things off, but the other man just hums.

“The spank is the reward, baby. When we start is up to you.”

Jaskier’s cheeks (the ones on his face this time) redden, and he chews on his lip while he thinks.

What do I like about myself?

“Er, well… I’ve got a nice arse?”

The smack comes with no warning, and the sub jerks in place as the sting radiates through his buttock.

“That you do,” his Dom replies appreciatively.

The residual ache of the spank makes his body warm all over, and Jaskier closes his eyes to soak it in.

More.

“Erm… I like my eyes.”

The next spank is harder, and he can’t stop the tiny mewl of pleasure that leaves him at the impact, his flagging erection refilling in answer to the pain.

This is it.

This is what I needed.

“Mmm—my singing voice. It’s quite lovely, I think.”

His reward practically whistles as Geralt’s hand flies through the air, getting progressively harder right along with Jaskier’s cock.

Yes, gods yes.

“Fuck, ungh—my wit. I like being witty.”

This spank sends electricity up his spine that escapes in a squeal, fingers clenching in Geralt’s pant leg. He can feel the burning shadows of each handprint left behind, overlapping and singeing his nerves in the best fucking way.

“That smart mouth is one of my favorites too, brat,” his Dom adds affectionately, hand rubbing over Jaskier’s increasingly tender ass. The skin is hot, throbbing in a drumbeat he can feel all the way to his fingertips, and the sub is gasping now, rim pulsing around the plug still buried inside him.

So good.

Why is this so good?

Fuck, who cares, I just want more.

I need more.

“What else? Or are you finished?”

Menace.

“M-my lips. I like them now,” he gasps.

Geralt pauses.

“Now? You didn’t before?”

His face flushes darker.

“Well… you seem to really like them.”

This time, Geralt must aim for the plug, because it plunges into his sweet spot and rips a moan from what feels like his fucking soul.

“Fuck!”

He can hear the smile in his Dom’s voice when he replies.

“You’re right, baby. I do like them.” He pets over burning, aching flesh with agonizingly thorough strokes. “What else have you got for me?”

Jaskier’s chest is heaving, his grip on Geralt’s ankle getting shaky as his mind zeroes in on the perpetual sting, every beat of his heart pumping the pain through his veins and flooding his cock. 

He lets it carry him, sinking below the surface to bask in the weightless space below the waves of blistering heat rolling from his abused ass. His voice comes out softer, dreamlike when he musters his final answer.

“My love for you.”

There’s no resounding impact that follows. There’s just the sound of his panting breath, loud in his ears, and then a quietly groaned,

“Jaskier.”

Something clicks, and suddenly there’s relentless vibration against his prostate that snaps the bowstring of his arousal, forcing a high moan from his throat as he comes untouched between Geralt’s legs, voice breaking with a pained whimper when he’s edged into brief overstimulation before the vibration shuts off and the plug is eased out of him.

Geralt.

Hold me.

Hold me together so I can’t fall apart.

“You did so, so well, baby,” Geralt murmurs, and his hands on Jaskier’s body anchor him to reality, giving him pinpoints to follow as he floats back down from the high. “Come on, let’s get you laid down so I can take care of you. That was amazing, baby, I’m so proud of you.”

He’s proud of me.

I did well.

Soothing hands rub in circles over his back and legs, avoiding the tender flesh of his buttocks. When he finally gets Jask turned properly to slide onto the bed, the younger man wraps loose arms around his middle, clinging to him.

“Wait, wait… You didn’t come?” He asks blearily.

“This wasn’t about me,” his Dom gently reminds him, petting affection into dark locks. “And what you gave me was even better.”

He shifts beneath the smaller man, and then there’s a wonderful cooling sensation being spread across his scarlet ass, massaged in until the entire surface is left with a pleasant tingle.

I already miss the sting.

But he gave me this, too, so I’ll take it. I’ll treasure it.

Lean arms tighten around the older man’s waist, Jaskier nuzzling into his Dom on instinct, seeking the comforting intimacy of Geralt’s touch.

“Don’t leave.”

“I would never leave you, baby. Just relax, okay? Do you want anything, maybe some water?”

“Mm-mmm. Lay down.”

Geralt obeys the mumbled order, leaning back into the bed and smiling when Jaskier nearly climbs up his body, encircling him with every available limb and settling heavily on his chest.

“Better?”

“Mmm. You smell good.”

He fumbles for the buttons on the larger man’s shirt, desperately seeking the warmth, the security that comes with every beat of Geralt’s heart against his. When his fingers slip, he lets out a frustrated whine, but Geralt’s hand catches his gently.

“Shh, let me help.”

The older man deftly unbuttons the row for him, and then Jaskier is able to slip a hand under the material, fingers skating over crinkled chest hair and firm, scarred skin that contains every wonderful iota of the man beneath him, the man he loves. He finally settles when his ear is over that ideal spot, memorizing the rhythm of his love’s heartbeat and letting it lull his exhausted body into soothing rest.

I could walk the path of life to the beat of his heart and never miss a step again.

Fuck.

His arms tighten around the sleeping Jaskier, cradling the smaller man to his chest and just breathing.

“My love for you.”

He’s sure Jask doesn’t remember saying it—he was either near to or already in subspace when it came out, and even Geralt thought maybe he’d imagined it.

But I didn’t.

He loves me.

He thought things may be heading that way—after all, Jaskier doesn’t do things halfway. And even he can recognize the surprisingly profound depth of feeling he has for the younger man. But the question remains—is Jask really ready for something like that?

Geralt barely is, especially after weeks of denying his feelings. Hell, they haven’t even been dating that long, and every bit of reason his brain has managed to cling to in the face of his feelings for Jaskier is screaming at him to slow things down, to wait, to be cautious.

But I don’t want to.

I want to fling myself into the abyss of him, regardless of the consequences.

Still, he has to hold back, if only for Jask’s sake. He needs to come to terms with this in his own time, without the pressure of Geralt’s feelings pushing him into something he’s not prepared for.

His fingertips coast over the sleeping man’s skin, tracing the marks he’s left behind on the otherwise flawless surface, and his chest is seized with the familiar tightness of affection.

I can wait for him.

Hours, days, months, years—I can wait.

Just for him.

Chapter Text

My fucking arse hurts.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good hurt, but fuck, it’d be nice to sit down without Yennefer smirking at the wince on my face.

“Well, well, someone got a taste of the good stuff last night. What’s wrong, did Geralt go too light on the arnica?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“First off, never disparage that man’s devotion to aftercare. I’m surprised the word isn’t tattooed on his forehead.” Which isn’t anything to shake a stick at—it’s really fucking lovely to have that incredible treatment after being dommed into delirium. “Second… yeah. I mean fuck, Yen, it was so good.”

He can’t keep the dopey grin off his face, and a manicured brow lifts in response.

“That good? Really?” She purses her lips. “What did he use? Flogger? Paddle? Cane?”

He shakes his head.

“Mmm, nope. Bare-handed.”

She smirks.

“Ah, so he wanted to share the sting. Cute.”

Wait, what?

“Share the sting?”

She shrugs, casually examining her fingernails.

“Bare-handing a spanking is intimate that way. Your palm takes the hit just as much as your sub.”

He wanted to feel it too?

... Why is that so fucking romantic?

“So what else did you guys do? Role play? Nipple torture? I just know he’s been dreaming at getting at those nips, Jask.”

He blinks at her.

“Um, setting aside the nipple thing for now—that was it. I mean, apart from the plug.”

The other brow joins its twin.

“Just spanking? Huh, frankly I thought he’d be more thorough, what with all the chomping at the bit to play with you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“He was plenty thorough, witch. I’m pretty sure I got a taste of subspace.”

This time, violet eyes widen.

“Really? From just a spanking? You sure?”

“It was kind of a floaty feeling, almost a high—"

She lets out a low whistle.

“Wow. No kidding. From a simple spanking? That lucky bastard. What are you, a super sub?”

He chuckles, face reddening.

“I don’t think so. Geralt just happens to be very good at what he does.”

She shakes her head.

“Maybe, but don’t give him all the credit. You’re involved in the scene just as much as he is.” She gives him a rare genuine smile. “It takes a lot of trust to let yourself go there with someone. Be proud of yourself too, Jask.”

Is this... affection?

Who are you and what have you done with Yennefer?

He grins back.

Geralt said he was proud of me.

Guess she’s right—I can be proud of myself too.

He takes a deep breath as his memory of those last few moments of the scene replay in his head, tensing when he recalls what he said to Geralt when he was loopy with subspace.

I told him I love him.

Indirectly, of course.

But I think it still counts?

And what does Geralt think?

There wasn’t much response from him in the moment, other than turning the plug on and destroying me.

Did he not hear?

Did it scare him as much as it scares me?

What if he doesn’t feel the same?

What if this will ruin things between us?

Fuck.

“Are you okay? You’re turning purple,” Yen observes, and he frowns in return.

“Geralt wouldn’t happen to be a commitment-phobe by any chance, would he?”

Sharp eyes narrow at him.

“While I think you already know the answer to that—no. Do you want to tell me why you’re asking?”

“Not particularly.”

Her lip curls.

“I hope you get your arse beat again, brat.”

“Me too.”

“Shut up.” She sighs, then relents. “Jaskier, he’s in an exclusive relationship with you in which you two do deeply intimate things and communicate until you’re blue in the face. No, commitment isn’t a problem for him. But, that isn’t to say it’s not a problem for you.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Okay, maybe I’m the one who’s actually freaking out.

I’ve never told someone I love them before.

And I meant it with him.

FUCK.

I really need that therapist.

“Don’t dwell on it too much, but think about where those insecurities come from,” she advises. “I’ll admit, I struggled with a similar issue when Triss and I got serious, and you just need to remember that you can ruminate without spiraling.”

“Well… I am terribly good at spiraling,” he confesses with a frown.

“Then slow yourself down. You don’t have to do everything at a full sprint, darling.”

But he makes me want to sprint.

“I suppose you’re right,” he allows.

“Of course I’m right,” Yen returns. “I’m always right. So listen to me when I tell you that if you just talk to the man, you’ll be fine.” She lifts her previously discarded menu from the table. “And you’ll avoid premature wrinkles, which you really should start keeping an eye on, by the way. You aren’t a teenager anymore, you know. You’re almost thirty.”

“Oh fuck off, I just barely turned twenty-six, you wench,” he snipes back. “You’re one to talk. How far away is forty again, love?”

“Nothing sunscreen, a good skincare regimen, and expertly utilized botox can’t hide,” she sniffs. “And it isn’t polite to mention a woman’s age, Jaskier.”

They make special exceptions if the woman is demon spawn.

“I don’t know why I’m friends with you. You’re quite rude,” he retorts, and she simply smirks back at him.

“Because you’re equally rude. It cancels out.”

“Touché.”

Yen’s smile is triumphant.

“Now, help me choose something. You said Geralt recommends the French toast?”

Despite the general clutter, Jaskier’s flat feels so empty when he finally returns.

It feels like ages since I’ve been back.

Between morning breath-filled kisses after they awoke, Geralt informed him that he had another busy day at the club and proposed Jask take the time to come back and grab an overnight bag, because quote, he “isn’t done with him yet.”

My arse is fucking tingling with anticipation.

Of course, the younger man took the opportunity to invite Yen to brunch first… because he wanted to gush. And worry. But mostly gush.

Who else do I have to tell how fucking incredible my boyfriend is at impact play?

Now, back in his own home, it’s far too quiet. It has the usual chaos and disarray, but something is missing.

Something large and muscular and well-endowed.

He hums the melody that’s lately been taking up primary residence in his brain while he gathers necessities, splitting them between an ancient messenger bag littered with colorful pins and a giant canvas tote printed with a cartoon turkey in a pilgrim’s hat bearing the words “My favorite thing to do on Thanksgiving is get stuffed.”

Best purchase ever.

He takes his time in the shower, and despite the warm fuzzy feeling he gets in his belly when he uses Geralt’s soaps, it’s nice to use his own again, a comforting familiarity that follows him out and wafts around his head while he shaves and finally restarts his full skincare routine, Yen’s warnings ringing in his head.

I know not to take her seriously.

After all, I’ve been told I look the same as I did when I was eighteen.

Ageless, that’s what I am.

Have to be, with that gorgeous harpy around.

By the time he’s ready to go, he’s surrounded by his bags, guitar case, notebook, and his single houseplant that looks woefully unwell.

Really ought to stop neglecting the poor thing.

Alas, given the choice between watering a plant and getting railed so hard that my soul fucking astral projects… yeah. Not much of a choice.

It’s fine, he’s rescuing it now and finding a nice sunny spot in Geralt’s place to put it as an apology.

Saintly.

Ubering back to Geralt’s is second-nature by now, and he lets himself in with the key the older man pressed into his hand this morning (okay, yes, there was the briefest of affection-induced meltdowns, but he’s fine, everything is fine, shut up).

There’s not much for him to do while he waits for the other to come back, so he decides to do a quick try-on of all the lingerie they bought the other day, anxious to see if it fits and if he looks good enough to let Geralt see him in it.

Plot twist, there's not a single piece he dislikes

Fuck me sideways, I love a nice surprise.

The last of the lot is the red corset and accompanying accoutrements that the Dom himself picked out, and fuck if it isn’t sexy as hell. But of course it is, because once again, Geralt.

The man has excellent taste.

He spins in front of the mirror, admiring himself from all angles, and grins.

He’s going to lose his mind.

I look incredible.

To complete the look, he lines his eyes with the same kohl eyeliner he wore the night they got together (that’s the most important memory of that night, nothing else, not a single thing involving stairs and/or gravity) and applies a crimson liquid lip he bought at Yennefer’s behest a few months ago. He ruffles his hair for good measure, and by the time he’s finished—fuck, yeah, he looks good.

I’ll wait until he’s here to put my collar on.

For the drama.

Now, to wait.

He hasn’t got much to do, so he settles on an armchair with his guitar, plucking out that earworm of a melody over and over again, trying out different lyrics. He’s got quite a bit of the song written, so now he’s just got to arrange them in an acceptable order.

It has to be perfect.

It’s for Geralt, after all.

Hours later, Jaskier is still strumming away when the front door opens, and cornflower blue eyes lift to meet his boyfriend's eyes with a smile.

Said boyfriend is frozen in place, staring.

“Hello, darling. How was work?”

Look at me, being adorably domestic.

Next thing you know, I'll be wearing an apron and baking pies and shit.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just continues staring wordlessly, and it only takes a moment for Jaskier’s doubt to creep in.

Shit.

Why isn’t he saying anything?

Does he hate it?

His smile falters.

“Uh… if you don’t like it, I can go change—"

“No.”

Apparently the threat of losing the sight before him is enough to spur the older man into action, and he drops everything he’s holding—Ooh, takeout bags—and strides purposefully over to Jaskier, bending and dropping his hands to either arm of the chair to trap the seated man in place.

“Well, alright then.”

His heartbeat kicks up several notches as Geralt looms over him, hungry golden eyes taking in every inch of the sweet morsel below him. A single hand rises to Jaskier’s face, thumb tracing the plump curve of his rouged lower lip in open admiration.

“How is it possible that you’re this tempting?”

There’s a deep rasp to his voice that sends goosebumps pebbling over the younger man’s skin, pupils blown impossibly wide as that amber gaze consumes him.

Holy fuck.

“So… you like it?”

Geralt’s only answer is a thunderous rumble from the depths of his chest. Thick fingers wrap around Jaskier’s chin, tilting his face up for a better view.

“I want these painted lips around my cock.”

Jaskier’s own responds to the promising tone of the other’s voice, stiffening inside lacy panties and making him squirm. Geralt must notice, because he carefully removes the guitar from the younger man’s shaking grasp, setting it safely aside and revealing the full picture for him to feast upon.

A single fingertip traces the outline of Jask’s straining cock through the lace, making the smaller man’s breath hitch in his throat.

“What a thing to come home to. Hard and ready, so fucking pretty… You should be careful. I could get used to this, baby.”

“Geralt—"

“I think you deserve a reward for getting all dressed up for me, don't you?”

He drops to his knees, and Jaskier nearly comes right there.

Is he really going to—?

“It’s hard to resist tasting you when you’ve dressed yourself up so lovely for me.”

He reaches for Jaskier, freeing him from his delicate confinement, and sends a dangerous smile upward.

“Keep your hands on the armrests, baby.”

Oh fuck.

“And Jaskier, I’d love some music while I work.” He lifts a grey brow. “Why don’t you sing for me? How about that song I heard when I came in?”

Whatever parts of his body that weren’t already burning scarlet join the rest in an inferno’s worth of blushing, and he gulps.

“It’s not ready yet.”

Geralt shrugs.

“Then something else. Your choice.”

With that, he licks a long stripe up the younger man’s cock, stealing the breath from his lungs.

How the fuck am I supposed to sing while he does this?

… He just wants to hear me fall apart, doesn’t he?

Fucking hell.

Somehow, the last few functioning brain cells in Jaskier’s head fire enough for him to choose something, an old ballad he wrote ages ago that he’s sung hundreds of times.

His first stutter comes when Geralt’s hair brushes over his hips, tickling the skin in agonizing contrast to the sucking heat around his cock.

He’s going to kill me.

Suck my voice right out of my cock like some twisted version of a Little Mermaid porn.

Geralt’s free hand is wandering a torturous journey over Jaskier’s body, following the edge of the stocking around his thigh first, then making his way up the line of the corset, squeezing where it dips in at the smaller man’s waist.

“This is where I’ll hold you when I fuck you,” he promises into the sensitive head of his cock. “You were made for my hands. Think you can hold those notes when I’m inside you, baby?”

This man treats fucking like an extreme sport.

His voice crescendoes when Geralt teases the edge of his teeth down the pulsing vein on his shaft, trembling hands grasping desperately at the armrests to hold himself in place as commanded.

Jaskier can’t keep the tremors from his song as he gets closer, not with the older man swallowing him down like it’s a fucking art.

“That’s it, Jask. Sing for me.”

Is this how I die?

Death by blowjob?

Suddenly, Geralt hums around his length, the absolute devil, and the younger man chokes on a note, unable to suppress the compulsory moan of pleasure that replaces it.

“Geralt, Geralt, I can’t, I’m going to—"

There are tears in his eyes again, and he wants to touch, he has to touch him. Fluttering fingers brush a feather-light touch over silver hair, marveling at the silky texture while the tears spill. He can’t sing any more, he can only gasp and whine and let out shuddering notes that Geralt’s free hand catches, fingertips back and resting over the younger man’s parted crimson lips, feeling every panting breath.

“I’m so close, Geralt—"

He hums again, and Jaskier can’t resist the pull, tumbling over the edge and curling in on himself, over the other, hands burying themselves in Geralt’s hair and clenching viciously as he whimpers out his release.

Geralt swallows every drop, sucking him through every pulse that rocks his body, and when he’s finally spent the older man surges upward, capturing painted lips and letting Jaskier taste himself on his tongue. The kiss is almost bruising in its intensity, and Geralt crowds him back into the chair, one knee planted between the younger man’s legs as he devours him.

When he's had his fill, he only retreats enough for them to share each shallow breath, grinning down at the man trapped beneath him.

“Catch your breath, baby. We aren’t finished yet.”

So much for dinner.

Looks like we’re skipping straight to dessert.

Or whatever part of the meal that railing me into another dimension counts as.

Chapter Text

“Are you gonna make me sing again, love? It won’t be pretty, you know. I couldn’t do it before, and I wasn’t even the one with a cock down my throat—“

His snark cuts off when Geralt jerks him to his feet, pressing his body to Jaskier’s for a filthy kiss punctuated by the squeeze of large hands on the younger man’s still-tender ass.

“Wrap your legs around me, brat.”

Jaskier does as he’s bid, hopping into Geralt’s arms and clinging, buzzing at the thrill of being manhandled by the larger man.

It’s like being fucked by Superman.

“You’ve no idea how sexy it is that you can do this,” he murmurs into warm lips. “Remind me to spectate the next time you work out. I’d love to see how these gorgeous muscles are built for me.”

“Someone’s feeling chatty today,” the other rumbles, hiking Jask up higher to get at his exposed collarbone while he ascends the staircase.

“Had to be,” the smaller man breathes. “I had brunch with Yen today, and I swear the woman could moonlight as a Spanish Inquisitor.”

“Mmm, did she hang you upside down from your feet and make you reveal all your darkest secrets? I’m jealous,” he practically purrs into Jaskier’s chest.

“Oh god, don’t you go getting any ideas,” the younger man warns, fingers twisting in Geralt’s shirt as his heart pounds harder beneath warm lips.

The older man chuckles.

“I don’t need to steal anyone else’s ideas, baby. I’ve got plenty of ways to torture you already.”

He deposits his well-decorated burden on the bed in the playroom, instantly following and landing on his elbows to cage his little lark in against the mattress with a smirk.

“With you dressed like this, I may not be able to stop at torture. I’ll fuck you all the way into incoherence.” The tip of his nose brushes Jaskier’s as he leans down to take his lips again, biting and licking at the smaller man’s mouth like he’s Geralt’s last meal, somehow both savage and savoring all at once.

I should just quit my job and be this man’s plaything 24/7.

How is it always this good?

Long, musical fingers play over the defined contours of Geralt’s back, alternately stroking and digging in depending on what devilish thing the man has decided to do with his mouth.

“Fuck, Geralt—“ he gasps when the larger man finally lets him breathe. His lips are swollen and puffy from the near-assault of the other’s hungry mouth, somehow still painted scarlet, and Geralt dips to suck the lower one between his own.

The calluses on the older man’s hands are rough on his exposed skin, one curling around Jaskier’s neck, thumb stroking the jut of his Adam’s apple. Its twin slips into the younger man’s mouth, sweeping over his tongue and sinking into the velvety warmth.

“This red is going to look so fucking pretty stretched around my cock,” he promises, sealing it with a kiss to the corner of Jask’s occupied mouth. “Think you can take all of me again, baby? I’d love to see you try.”

Those lovely blues light up for him, and Jaskier nods, his enthusiasm almost enough to dislodge Geralt’s thumb from between his lips.

His Dom smiles wide enough to show off the points of his canines.

“Good boy.”

He stands from the bed, pulling Jaskier up and spinning him to lay so that his head hangs over the edge, showing off the long line of his neck for the older man’s appreciative gaze.

“Lovely. Stay right here for me.”

He steps away briefly, and when he returns, it’s with a familiar set of padded cuffs. One at a time, he takes the younger man’s wrists and secures them, leaving the pair to rest on his sternum when he’s satisfied.

Then he starts unbuttoning his trousers.

Yes.

Give it to me.

I need it.

When Geralt frees himself, Jaskier can’t help but reach for his throbbing prize, but the larger man fends him off, pressing his bound wrists back to his own chest.

“Keep them here.”

But I want to touch you.

Once again, he must be able to read the bound man’s mind.

“You used your hands when you weren’t supposed to,” he tuts. “So now you don’t get a choice. They stay right here. No touching.”

Fuck.

The chair.

“But—“

Even upside down, he can see Geralt’s face shift into stern resolution.

“No arguing, brat.” He sinks a hand into the thickest part of Jask’s chest hair, right beside his cuffed wrists, and tugs. The younger man hisses at the pain that radiates from the spot, arching up off the bed despite the hindrance of the corset, cock twitching below it. “No touching. Not me, not yourself. None. Understand?”

Oh look, it’s the consequences of my actions.

Fuck.

“Yes, sir.”

The Dom’s lip curls upward.

“Good.”

His hands return to those goddamned heaven-sent leather trousers, shoving them down his legs and fully releasing that veritable monster of a cock. Jaskier practically drools at the sight of it.

It feels like ages since I’ve seen it.

Even longer since I’ve tasted it.

He opens wide before Geralt can even issue the order, nearly wriggling below him with unrestrained excitement. Even the fingers of his sidelined hands are clenching and unclenching in anticipation of Geralt’s cock down his throat.

The older man chuckles at the display, the fingertips of his free hand scratching affectionately at Jaskier’s scalp while the other strokes himself right over his mouth, open and waiting.

“So eager,” he muses darkly. “So desperate. You know, in all my years, I’ve never met anyone so in need of a good fucking, baby.” His thumb brushes over painted lips again, delving in to press into Jaskier’s palate. “Every single one of your pretty little holes is just starved for cock. It’s fucking gorgeous.”

Fuck.

Give it to me.

Please, Geralt, fucking give it to me.

He wraps his lips around the Dom’s thumb and sucks, trying to remind him exactly what his mouth is good for, and the older man smirks.

“Impatient as always. You know, you’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

With that, he removes his thumb, poised just out of reach of Jask’s waiting mouth. The younger man can see a drop of precum at the tip of his cock, beading and ready to roll down the length. He cranes for it with a high whine, neck stretching to catch the droplet, unwilling to waste anything Geralt has to give him. Molten amber eyes watch him, and Jaskier senses the moment the playful attitude leaves the room.

“If you need to stop, thump your foot on the bed thrice. Do it for me now, baby.”

Jask obeys readily, right leg lifting to carry out the command, and his Dom nods.

“Good boy.”

He teases the head of his cock over Jaskier’s parted lips, retreating when the sub tries to suckle at it.

“Tsk, tsk, patience, Jaskier. You’ll take it when I give it to you, and only then.”

Then let me have it, you stubborn brute.

He has to hold back his instinctive frustrated whine, resisting the urge to frown.

“Don’t you pout at me,” Geralt chides. “Or you won’t get it at all.”

The younger man schools his expression immediately, blinking innocently up at the man above him.

Fuck, behave, Jask.

I’ve got to be good for him.

The Dom smiles.

“Much better.”

His reward is Geralt sliding into his waiting mouth with slow, shallow strokes to ensure the smaller man is capable of taking him.

Jaskier closes his eyes with a pleased moan, heart pounding at finally having his Dom inside him again, like Geralt’s fit the missing piece into place and made him whole. It’s easy to relax for him then, now that he’s gotten what he’s been waiting so anxiously for, and he works Geralt’s cock with diligent lips and tongue, having to remind himself again and again to keep his hands on his chest instead of reaching for the other man. He wants to touch Geralt, to feel the heat and strength of his skin as he fucks into Jaskier’s mouth with brutal skill, but he has to be good, because he promised, and it’s Geralt. He deserves to be obeyed, and Jaskier is determined to be worthy of each and every command.

It feels different, almost strange as his lips stretch around Geralt’s girth—the lipstick is drier, and every thrust pulls harder at the seal of his mouth, mirroring Geralt’s presence in his throat in an almost poetic parallel. It’s too bad he chose the liquid—he’d love to see a ring of scarlet around Geralt’s cock, marking how deep Jask is devoted to taking him.

Next time.

“That’s it, baby,” the larger man grunts, plunging in and out of the silken heat more rapidly, one hand curled around Jaskier’s throat to feel his progress in and out of the tight channel.

Jaskier’s own cock is reawakened and begging for attention, his hips fidgeting as Geralt uses him, barely holding fast to his promise to be good. His fingers tangle in the hair decorating his chest, the pain giving him a focal point amidst the torrent of sensation: Geralt’s cock in his throat, his hands on his skin, petting over him, the insistent, throbbing ache of his own erection. The restriction to every heaving breath reminds him of the corset still laced tight around his torso, the silk almost too much for his sensitized skin now, the delicate lace torturous against each goosebump that rises on his heated flesh.

He’s sinking again, below the surface, floating in the waves of sensation. Every new one is like a single thread tugging gently at his attention, just enough to keep him close to the surface without breaking the tension.

Geralt pulls back, and he’s talking to Jaskier, his rasping voice a blanket that the younger man wants to curl up underneath, pulling it close around his chin and wrapping it around himself like a shield from the outside world.

“Still with me, baby? Color?” The gentle touch is back, and Jask resurfaces to see warm golden eyes watching him, Geralt’s hands supporting his head so carefully as he waits for an answer.

“Yeah,” he breathes, grinning widely at the man above him. “Green. Keep going. I’m here.” He cranes his neck up, lips seeking the other’s and getting exactly what they’re asking for. “I want you.”

When they break apart, that amber gaze searches his face, gauging his lucidity, and after a moment, he seems satisfied.

“Alright.” Geralt presses another kiss to swollen lips. “Up.”

Up?

He lets the larger man maneuver him back to sitting, and then Geralt rearranges his loose limbs so he’s face down, ass in the air.

Ohh.

Fuck yes.

Jaskier wiggles his hips in anticipation.

He’s going to love the surprise.

His pulse thrums through every inch of his body as Geralt pulls his panties over the swell of his ass, unveiling the present he’s left for the other man, then pauses.

“ Jaskier …”

The reverence is back in his voice, and he taps the plug lodged in the younger man’s hole.

The plug Jask custom-ordered, with Geralt’s name in elegant script across the base.

Marking me as his.

“Baby— fuck. ” Warm lips ghost over the plug, then upward until they meet the edge of the corset. “You’re mine, aren’t you? All mine.”

His voice lowers to a near-growl that reverberates up the smaller man’s spine.

“My perfect little whore.”

Jaskier stills, goosebumps prickling over his skin as he registers Geralt’s words.

They’re followed by blazing heat.

Fuck.

Yeah.

I am.

“Just for you,” he moans, bound hands pinned under his body but aching to be back on Geralt: in his hair, gripping his back, his shoulders, cradling his cock, anything.

“That’s right. No one else gets this,” the older man rumbles into his skin, teeth carving the words into his hip. “No one else gets the privilege to make you feel like this. Only me.”

Rough fingers pull the plug free, and he can feel himself gaping, so empty, begging to be filled.

Please.

“Jaskier…” Geralt sounds almost fevered above him, fingertips tracing the rim of the younger man’s already-stretched entrance, lubed and waiting for him.

“I’m ready,” he murmurs, pressing back into the other man’s touch, desperation growing. “Please fuck me, please, please—“

“Shh, I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

His Dom’s hand smoothes over his skin, and then he’s sinking into the younger man, inch by inch, until he’s fully encased in his trembling partner.

“Fuck me, Geralt,” he whines, voice shuddering, the addicting fullness bringing burning tears to his eyes.

“Anything you want, Jaskier. I’m yours.”

Strong hands wind in the ribbons lacing Jaskier’s corset and pull, instantly setting a pounding rhythm that tightens the lingerie with every vicious thrust.

Yes.

Geralt’s strength is a force of nature within him, pushing and pulling and realigning his universe to revolve around nothing but the pleasure the other man gives him.

I love him.

I love him.

Fuck, I love him.

“You feel so fucking good,” the older man groans, dropping the ribbons to run shaking hands up Jaskier’s sides. “So good, baby. Soft and warm and tight and mine—“

His pace is thunderous, the sound of skin on skin echoing in Jask’s ears as he fully surrenders to his Dom, body going loose and pliant under Geralt’s attention.

“Jaskier, fuck, Jaskier…” His silver-haired god of a man can’t seem to stop saying his name, grunting it with every drive of his hips into the smaller man’s body. Gradually, he slows, hands wandering back to Jask’s hips, coasting over the soft, reddened curve of his ass.

“Taking me so well,” he mumbles, and Jaskier gasps at the press of a thumb to his stretched rim, easing in beside Geralt’s cock and sending jolting pleasure up his spine.

“ Fuck. ”

“Look at you,” the older man continues, thumb hooked into the ring of muscle now as he rocks in and out of Jaskier’s body. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful, baby. Every time, I can’t believe how fucking beautiful you are.”

“Touch me,” Jask manages. “Please, please touch me, Geralt.”

He’s far from the surface now, fully present with the man he loves, receiving every iota of worship Geralt is paying his body with open arms.

Figuratively, of course.

What with the cuffs and all.

His neglected cock, however, feels fucking abandoned, and he knows if the other would just brush—

“ Fuck! ”

The barest touch of Geralt’s fingers to his cockhead have him spilling with a full-body shudder. The climax itself feels ripped from his very core, like Geralt’s just dislodged a piece of his soul and replaced it with a shard of his own.

He’s still coming down when Geralt empties inside him, the vicegrip of Jaskier’s orgasm enough to bring him right over the edge and fill the hole he’s claimed again and again.

When the tremors subside, Jask becomes numbly aware of the kisses being pressed into his neck, Geralt’s fingers working quickly to loosen the laces of the younger man’s corset and drag it off, leaving him clad in nothing but stockings and hickeys.

It’s quickly tossed aside, and then Geralt is back, unbuckling the cuffs with practiced efficiency and discarding them as well. He climbs back up the bed, his body blanketing Jaskier’s as he clutches the smaller man to his chest, shivering and leaving kisses everywhere he can reach.

He’s shaking.

When did he start shaking?

Jaskier’s hands find their home back in the older man’s hair, threading through the silver locks and massaging gentle fingertips over his scalp. His lips meet Geralt’s in an exhausted kiss, pouring every ounce of affection his wrecked body can muster into the contact, every vein of love and adoration he has for the wonderful man in his arms.

“S’good, my love,” he murmurs into a soft mouth, tongue barely teasing past Geralt’s lips to meet his. “Incredible. You’re incredible.”

He kisses the younger man back fiercely, and there’s a vulnerability to the action that has Jaskier pressing closer, clinging tighter.

He has to know how I feel.

He has to know how remarkable he is.

He has to know how hard I’ve fallen.

It takes a few moments, but then the Dom relaxes, shifting downward to touch the lines left behind on Jaskier’s torso, remnants of the corset’s constriction on his skin. He drags first fingertips, and then lips over the marks, mapping out the full design with warm appreciation and finishing his journey back at Jask’s lips.

“My Jaskier, so full of surprises.” He says with with a precious smile, making the musician’s stomach do a series of flips that leave him nearly breathless. He grins back.

“I do have a few tricks of my own. After all, I’m an entertainer, darling.”

Geralt’s fingers curve over Jaskier’s jaw in a gentle caress, drawing painted lips back to his own and stealing the younger man’s breath yet again.

“As much as I loathe to move, we should get cleaned up. The takeaway will have gone cold by now.”

Jaskier shakes his head.

“That’s what microwaves are for. Stay in bed with me.” He snuggles in closer, fitting his face into the curve of Geralt’s neck.

I need to talk to him.

I need to know what he thinks.

I need to know if he feels the same.

“Geralt, about last night…” his voice trails off, and a warm palm curls around the back of his neck, grounding him.

It’s all the reassurance he needs.

I trust him.

He’ll take care of me.

“Yes?”

“I—well, I said something during the scene, and… I’d like your thoughts on it.”

“Hmm, you’ll need to elaborate for me, baby.”

Ugh, he’s making me spell it out.

Stupid, sexy, emotionally secure man.

“You know… when I, uh, when I said I love you.”

Geralt’s arms tighten around him.

“Is that what you said?”

“Well, maybe not in those exact words, but—“ Oh, fuck it. “Yes. Yes. I’m falling in love with you. There.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, one heartbeat, two, three, and then Geralt nuzzles into his temple.

“My beautiful little lark…” He brushes a kiss over the sensitive skin, breath ruffling Jaskier’s hair. “I think you already sang my heart into your hands a long time ago.”

Jaskier pauses.

“Fuck.”

He bursts out laughing, peppering kisses all over Geralt’s face, holding him close and refusing to let go.

“You’re so—“ Kiss. “—fucking romantic, you—“ Kiss. “—enormous beast.” Kiss. “How dare you make a more poetic love confession than me? I’m the artist, here.”

He rolls atop his love, trapping him against the mattress and smothering him with newly unleashed affection.

“I make art my own way,” Geralt counters. “These,” he points out, fingertips brushing over Jaskier’s growing collection of love marks. “And this,” he adds, thumb swiping through the tear tracks of melted eyeliner running down his face. “And the pièce de résistance, of course.” The fingers of his other hand dip into Jaskier’s well-used hole, painted with his spend. “Weren’t you listening before? You’re my canvas.”

Jask’s breath catches at the glowing sincerity in the other man’s eyes, and he fists his hands in Geralt’s hair and drags the man’s lips back up to his, letting his tongue speak for him.

When he pulls back for air, they’re both gasping.

“We’re not leaving this bed until you’ve fucked me so well that I can’t be jealous of your lovely fucking metaphors anymore,” he asserts, and Geralt’s answering chuckle is buried in his neck.

“Anything you want, baby. I live to please.”

Jaskier sighs.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Chapter Text

Shit. I’m almost out of turtlenecks.

His week with Geralt was nothing short of marvelous, while also being a harbinger of utter exhaustion. And resulting in Jaskier looking like a patchwork of blue and purple, with the occasional break for pink welts and scratches.

His wardrobe has been worked to the limit to make him presentable for work.

If fucking was an Olympic sport, Geralt would be setting records and bringing home the gold.

However, now that he’s been back at the office for almost a week, he’s been facing the terribly sexless, mundane doldrums of reality.

Reality that is distinctly missing over six feet of silver-haired demigod catering to his every sexual whim at any given moment.

Alright, perhaps that’s a slight exaggeration.

It’s only most of the time.

He insists we eat and sleep, for instance, which frankly feels like a waste of precious hours during which he could be putting his cock in me.

Well, except for that one exceedingly lovely night when I got a crash course in cockwarming. Those hours were not wasted.

Here’s the thing—work is boring. It’s always been boring, but now that he’s taken time to just do what he wants for a week: writing, composing, being turned into a well-fucked man pretzel by the human equivalent of a sexy brick wall… It’s worse. He spends all day thinking about what he’d rather be doing than working, and the steep difference between the two only highlights how under-appreciated and ill-utilized he is here.

Have I really spent the last several years of my life doing this pointless treadmill of a job and going absolutely nowhere?

How could I have not noticed?

When lunch rolls around, he finds himself where he spends essentially all of his free time at work: Yennefer’s office.

“Oh good, you’re here. Do you happen to have your measurements? Triss wants to make sure the tailor has the most current numbers possible, and the most recent ones I have of yours are from last year,” she greets him without preamble, and Jaskier’s brows rise in confusion.

“Surprisingly, no, I don’t, and how did you get my measurements in the first place?” He distinctly does not remember being fitted for anything.

“Not your concern, really. It’s fine, just come here and hold still.”

Suddenly, she’s brandishing tailor tape and beckoning him closer.

I’m only a little afraid of her.

Minimal amount.

“I don’t suppose you know Geralt’s numbers, do you?” She asks as she wraps the tape under his arms, holding it snug and jotting down the result. If it was anyone else, he’d be incredibly unsettled by the proximity.

“No, Yen, it may come as a shock, but we don’t spend our time together measuring ourselves,” he snarks, grimacing when she helps herself to his inseam measurement.

Never have I wanted Yennefer anywhere near my dick. It’s like having it in the open jaws of a fucking crocodile.

“Yes, yes, I know it’s all sucking and fucking right now, but just wait until the honeymoon phase is over. You’ll be surprised to see what you’ll do just to keep entertained.”

I don’t think I could doubt that more.

The last thing I could be with Geralt is complacent.

“Thankfully, we’re still far from whipping out rulers to occupy ourselves.”

Actually, there’s a thought.

We could measure that monster between his legs, and then he could bend me over his desk and put the ruler to even better use.

Mmm, I should write that down.

Yen rolls her eyes.

“Jaskier, please refrain from the dirty thoughts. Your boner is throwing off my measurements.”

He nearly leaps away, hands dropping to cover his junk while his face flames with embarrassment.

“Fuck, okay, I’ll send them to you later, alright? Stop with the tape.”

She snickers.

“Eh, it was fun while it lasted.” She tosses the roll of tape to the side, gesturing to the seat across from her. Jaskier drops into it with easy familiarity.  “Anyway, how are things with Geralt? Have you been able to see each other this week?”

He frowns.

Taking a week off was a great idea at the time, but problematic for him as a result, because he’s spent the entirety of this week catching up on his work. It’s completely monopolized his time, and he’s been left exhausted and wholly unable to make the trip to either Kaer Morhen or Geralt’s place.

“Things are fantastic, but no, we haven’t,” he sighs. “I invited him to mine, but he’s been training the new hire all week and it’s always too late by the time he closes.”

Geralt did send a rather gorgeous bouquet as an (unnecessary) apology for not being able to drop by, and because he’s horribly romantic, it included buttercups.

Where did he even get them? They’re not in season.

Yen hums.

“Have you thought about staying at his place a few nights during the week? I’m sure he’d be happy to drive you to work in the morning.”

Geralt’s offered that exact arrangement multiple times, but Jaskier can’t shake the fear that he’d be imposing. After all, the other man needs to rest, and Jask can’t fathom the guilt of eating up over an hour of his valuable sleep time just to take him to work. It wouldn’t be such a bother if their schedules lined up better, but that’s the trouble with dating a man who works nights, isn’t it?

“I can’t ask him to do that,” he replies, slouching back in his seat. “It’s not fair to him. It would be taking advantage.”

She squints at him.

“Don’t you think that’s up to Geralt to decide? Besides,” she pauses to pop a grape in her mouth, shrugging. “Knowing Geralt, it’d be worth it just to see you.”

Jaskier’s heart squeezes in his chest.

“You think so?”

The look Yennefer gives him could wither a full meadow’s worth of foliage.

“You really have to ask, genius? He looks at you like you are personally responsible for every good thing that’s ever happened to him, and you’re wondering if he’d sacrifice a bit of his day to spend time with you? Are you daft?"

Well, when you put it like that…

He shrugs.

“I just… I’ve never been a priority for someone before, alright? It’s really strange.”

Yen smiles.

“Well, welcome to a healthier relationship than any you’ve ever had, Jaskier. He gives a shit about you and wants you to be happy with him. Shocking.”

Jaskier can feel the blush returning to his face.

So what if it is shocking to me?

It’s not like I’ve got a precedence here.

Geralt is claiming quite a few firsts.

“It’s taking some getting used to, is all,” he returns, scraping a hand through his hair. “Frankly, I thought having your ideal boyfriend dropped in your lap is supposed to only happen in the movies.”

Violet eyes roll back into her head.

“Perhaps, but apparently not for you. You have Geralt now, so don’t take him for granted.”

As if I ever could.

I swear I feel like I should pinch myself every morning when I wake up just to see if this is all still real.

My cynical side wants it to be too good to be true, but my heart just wants Geralt.

My everything wants Geralt.

“I won’t take him for granted.” It’s a promise to her, but also himself. It’s a promise to remember that as much as he may mean to Geralt, the other man’s love is equally returned, if not more so. Because not only has his Dom demigod given him love and hope and joyous pleasure—he’s also started him back on the journey to loving himself as well, a journey he thought he’d abandoned a long time ago.

And he’s also got that fantastic fucking cock.

Can’t forget that.

Something in his expression must satisfy her, because she smiles, shaking her head.

“I knew you idiots were perfect for each other.”

He huffs.

“Lucky guess.”

“Excuse me, lucky?” She lifts a manicured brow. “More like years of friendship and encouragement.”

“And an unwillingness to mind your own business,” he adds with a cheeky grin.

Yen does not look amused.

“Whatever. It was effective. Now shoo, I’ve got work to do, and I’m quite certain you’re still behind on your own.”

Jaskier has to work to contain his groan.

He stands, heading for the door, and the roll of tailor tape smacks into the back of his head.

“Don’t forget to send me your measurements. And there had better not be any fluids on that tape when you give it back to me.”

Guarantee she was some kind of tyrant in a past life.

Still, he obeys, snagging the roll from the floor and beating a hasty retreat, because he needs to finish on time today.

He has an appointment.

The office is actually quite comforting, with lots of crowded bookshelves, heavy curtains, and plush furniture. It doesn’t feel clinical—if anything, the general atmosphere is rather academic, and the redheaded woman sitting across from him has the half-moon glasses and professional fashion to match.

Dr. Shani’s pixie cut is immaculate, and her green eyes are sharp, reflecting the intelligence behind the assortment of framed degrees decorating the wall behind her.

“Ah, Oxenfurt! You’re a fellow local?” He asks, trying not to fidget in the velvety burgundy armchair that he’s slowly but surely disappearing into.

Almost too comfy.

My paranoid side is suspicious.

She gives him a warm smile.

“Yes, I am. Did you attend, as well?”

His tentative smile turns downward.

“Um, sort of. Extenuating circumstances, ah, prevented me from completing my studies, unfortunately.”

Fidgeting again, Jaskier.

Knock it off.

She watches him a moment, then sets her notepad to the side, leaning back and folding her hands on her lap.

“You seem quite nervous, Julian.”

“Jaskier,” he corrects, lips twitching. “I prefer Jaskier.”

She nods.

“Alright, Jaskier. I know this can be very intimidating, especially for your first session, so I’d like you to think of it as just a conversation. No pressure.”

He takes a deep breath, then lets it out, shoulders rolling back, tension releasing a little.

“Right. No pressure. Just telling you all my deepest, darkest secrets.” 

And being psychoanalyzed. Judged.

Probably found wanting.

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” she assures him. “This is only an introduction, after all. I’d be surprised if you went straight for the heaviest topics.”

Oh.

Okay.

He nods, fingers unclenching from around each other.

“Right. That—that makes sense.” He sighs. “Sorry. I don’t have a very good history with, er, therapy.”

“That’s perfectly fine. We’ll stick to what you’re comfortable with.” She removes her glasses, setting them atop her discarded notepad. “Would you like to tell me why you sought out therapy?”

He relaxes some more.

That’s an easy one.

“My boyfriend suggested it. He goes, and he thought it could be helpful.”

She nods encouragingly.

“That’s lovely of him to do.”

He smiles, and it’s genuine this time.

“Yeah, well that’s Geralt for you. As considerate as he is handsome.”

Am I unashamedly bragging about my boyfriend?

Of course.

It’s better than talking about my own flaws.

Another warm smile from the good doctor.

“It’s good to have someone like that in your life. Have you been together long?”

He shakes his head.

“About a month, maybe? We were introduced by a mutual friend, and once he stopped acting like a moody bastard and admitted he liked me, well…” he shrugs. “Things have moved rather fast.”

I should tell her.

After all, I picked her because one of her specialities is couples in the scene.

“To clarify—we met at a club. A, er, a BDSM club.”

She nods again, completely unfazed.

Huh. No judgment.

“And is participation in that community something you would consider an important part of your relationship?”

He purses his lips, considering.

“Well, yes. They’re intertwined, you know? It’s a bit of a chicken-and-egg scenario.” Jaskier shifts in his seat, propping his ankle up on the opposite knee. “We met at the club, and technically we agreed to be play partners first, but I knew I wanted more than that, and luckily, he did, too.”

He grins, remembering that conversation fondly. The punishment that followed was less fun, of course.

But worth it.

So worth it.

“It sounds like you already have a foundation for communication,” Dr. Shani observes, and Jaskier bobs his head.

“Oh, definitely. Geralt made it a priority, and I wholeheartedly agree. I think it’s made things… well, not easier, it’s still a new relationship of course, but it’s helped us understand each other better.” He chuckles to himself. “I swear, sometimes it’s like he can read my mind.”

“Is that level of communication new for you?”

This time, he laughs aloud, though there’s a tinge of bitterness to it.

“Absolutely. My parents barely spoke to each other when I was growing up, let alone to me.” He sighs, his hand rubbing over his face. “When I came out, I might as well have dug a fucking trench between us.” He meets her eyes, and there’s nothing but understanding and attentiveness to be found. “Having a gay son was their worst nightmare.”

“That must have been quite difficult for you.”

He snorts.

“Yeah, no shit.” Jaskier’s chest tightens, and he focuses on keeping his breathing even. He can’t stop the burning in his eyes, though. “I mean, I get it—they’re religious before anything else. And it’s not like they were great parents in the first place.” He sucks in a trembling breath. “But I just thought—I don’t know. I thought they at least loved me enough to—" he shakes his head. “I didn’t think telling them the truth of who I am would ruin my life. And I was wrong.”

Tears well in his eyes at the memory of the shock and disgust on his parents’ faces, the way his mother had begged him to "think of his family" and “choose the right lifestyle,” as if he wanted them to hate him.

Jaskier takes another deep breath, wiping at his wet eyes with his sleeve. He’ll never forget the look of hateful disappointment in his father’s eyes when he realized he couldn’t “fix” his son.

“Anyway—" he blows air through his lips, “To answer your original question, yeah, this kind of communication with someone I love is brand fucking new.” His eyes widen. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear—"

She lifts a placating hand.

“Don’t worry about language. I want you to be comfortable speaking to me, and that means using your typical vocabulary.”

He feels almost lightheaded after his confession.

I just bared my soul to a bespectacled stranger.

Is this what they mean when they say it’s easier to have an objective third party?

“Right. Okay.”

Dr. Shani smiles, and his paranoid side is silent, his nerves all but disappeared.

This… this is good.

I can do this.

“You’ve told me a lot about Geralt, and your parents, but I’d like to talk about you now. Tell me about Jaskier.”

He blinks at her.

What can I tell her?

Who am I?

How do I describe myself?

He suddenly leans forward, elbows on his knees.

Might as well start at the beginning.

“Choosing the name Jaskier was the first thing I ever did for myself,” he begins. “And... Julian ceased to exist the moment Jaskier was born.”

Jaskier is completely drained by the time the Uber drops him off. He shuffles up the walk to his flat, wanting nothing more than to climb into his bathtub with a glass of wine and his favorite Adele playlist.

I’ll FaceTime Geralt once I’m settled.

I really need to see his face.

He stops short when he sees the man standing on his doormat.

When Geralt turns, he has a gentle smile for the younger man, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes Jaskier’s chest swell with so much emotion, he feels like he could burst.

“Hey, perfect timing. I brought you some dinner,” he says, lifting the bag so Jask can see. “I figured you might be too tired to cook after your first session, and—"

Jaskier stumbles the last few feet between them, throwing his arms around the larger man’s neck with a broken sob.

He came.

Of course he did.

Fuck, I love him so much.

“Baby, hey…” Strong arms wind around him, hugging him close, and every breath Jaskier takes is full of Geralt, full of comfort and safety and home. “Are you okay?”

“You’re here,” he sobs, squeezing the older man tighter. “I missed you so fucking much.”

Geralt sighs, and a soft kiss is pressed to his temple.

“I missed you too, Jask.”

He gathers the smaller man close, and Jaskier is vaguely aware of large hands stroking down his back, soothing him as his shoulders shake and his tears soak into the other man’s shirt.

“Come on, let’s go inside,” he murmurs, his breath warm in Jaskier’s hair. “You can eat something, then relax for a bit.”

A rough hand curves over the nape of his neck, squeezing gently. The younger man sighs, hitching breaths gradually calming under Geralt’s touch. He hands over his keys, staying tucked into his boyfriend’s broad chest while he’s guided across the threshold and to the living room.

“We can talk about it later, if you want,” Geralt begins. “But for now, let’s just eat, alright?”

“Mm-hmm.”

They settle together on Jaskier’s tiny sofa, the smaller man claiming his spot between Geralt’s legs, leaning against his chest. Limbs heavy with exhaustion, he lets the older man bring small bites of food to his lips, chewing obediently until he’s satisfied.

His boyfriend’s hand rests low on his stomach, under his shirt, Geralt’s thumb brushing repeatedly through the line of dark hair there. There’s nothing sexual in the gesture—it’s just for the connection, needing to touch after being apart for so long.

A chaste kiss is placed gently behind his ear.

“Want me to run you a bath?”

Seriously, this man should win an award of some kind.

“Will you get in with me?”

Geralt chuckles.

“If that’s what you want.”

Of fucking course it is.

Jaskier captures his free hand, lifting it to his lips and dropping a kiss on the lined palm.

“What if I want you to stay the night, too?”

“I’d be delighted to accept the invitation, baby.”

Good.

I’m severely overdue for cuddles.

“You don’t have to be at the club tonight?” He questions. As much as he wants Geralt right here with him, he can’t forget that the man has obligations.

“No, they can handle things without me. I have something much more important to focus on.”

Fucking sap.

I love him.

“Good. I want to keep you all to myself.”

Geralt's smile singlehandedly chases away any doubts of his desire to be right there with Jaskier.

“Then that’s what you’ll get.”

Later, it turns out that they both fit quite well in Jaskier’s bathtub, but this time, the younger man insists on bearing Geralt’s weight. Silver hair tickles his nose a smidge, but he gets to touch, and he’ll never get tired of memorizing each and every ridge of muscle on the older man’s torso with his fingertips. He pokes at the lines that form a deep vee leading beneath the water.

“Hey, you know what these are called?”

Geralt tilts his head up, amber eyes barely catching Jaskier’s gaze.

“Enlighten me.”

The smaller man barely refrains from snickering when he says,

“Cum gutters.”

Geralt pauses.

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

He hums in response.

“Not really applicable to us, though, is it?”

He doesn’t see how Jaskier’s brow furrows in confusion, but clearly he can sense it.

“What do you mean?”

The older man chuckles.

“I always cum either in you or on you. So I guess that makes you my cum gutter, doesn’t it?”

Jaskier’s face flames.

“Fucking menace of a man—"

“Don’t worry though, baby,” Geralt continues, picking up his hand and brushing a kiss across the knuckles. “You’re an amazing cum gutter. Best I've ever had.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You started it.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, then frees his hand to flick a flat nipple in retaliation, laughing when he loses it to the other man again, Geralt recapturing his hand and nipping the offending fingers.

“Brat.”

His revenge now had, he switches tactics, lining kisses from Jaskier’s wrist to each fingertip and making the younger man’s pulse jump.

“Do you want to talk about today? You don’t have to go into detail,” he rumbles, and Jaskier’s face drops forward, resting his cheek against the top of Geralt’s head.

“It was good. Hard, and surprisingly exhausting, but really good.” He wraps his free arm across the other man’s shoulders, squeezing. “Thank you for suggesting it. And for getting the recommendation for me.”

In the interest of privacy, Geralt asked his own therapist to recommend a colleague for Jaskier, which is how he ended up with Dr. Shani.

“Of course. I’m so glad it was good for you.” He breathes deeply, settling in a little closer against Jask’s chest. “It can be really scary the first time, and words can’t tell you how proud I am of you for trying, baby.”

Fuck, do NOT start crying again.

Even if you do have the sweetest man alive in your arms.

Ugh.

Tooth-rottingly sweet and wonderful.

“You’re too good to me,” he returns, arm tightening around his boyfriend.

“Mm, maybe,” Geralt allows. “But that’s only because I love you.”

Goddammit.

I’m crying again.

Tears drip into silver hair, and he knows the older man can feel his chest heaving against his back.

“How did I get so lucky?”

“Lucky?” Geralt scoffs, pressing another kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles. “Luck has nothing to do with it. We were matched by the violet-eyed devil herself.”

Jaskier lets out a teary laugh.

“Whatever you do, don’t tell Yen that. She’ll never stop patting herself on the back.”

The larger man chuckles.

“Speaking of Yen, how was work this week?”

Jask’s sigh is beleaguered.

“Terrible. I think I hate my job.”

“Well, that’s not good.”

“No, it’s really not,” the younger man replies. “I just… I wish I could do exactly what I want to do with my life. Talking to Dr. Shani today made me realize how passionate I was for music when I was younger, and since I got my job, that’s been on the back burner.”

Geralt’s tone turns curious.

“What would you rather do, if you could?”

A wistful smile tugs at Jaskier’s lips.

“Honestly? Devote more time to my music. Devote more time to you.” He sighs. “Spend my days writing and composing, performing, and spend my nights in your bed. Or, you know, at your feet, across your lap, bent over whatever piece of furniture is closest. And then snuggling, literally so much snuggling.”

There’s a long pause where Geralt doesn’t say anything, and Jaskier’s wistful smile fades when he continues.

“Problem is, that wouldn’t pay the bills. So the dream remains a dream.”

The older man’s fingers interlock with his.

“We used to have live music at Kaer Morhen.”

“Did you? That’s fun.”

Bit off-topic, but that’s alright, love.

You’re still pretty.

“We could again.”

“Mm, you should go for it.”

Relevance, darling. We’ll work on it.

“Jaskier. I want you to do it.”

The younger man stiffens.

“Wait… what?”

“I’ve heard you play, and I’ve definitely heard you sing.” Jaskier’s ears burn red with the memory of the last time he sang in front of his boyfriend. Dirty old man. “You’re quite good. I’d be honored to have you perform at Kaer Morhen.”

What?!

“I, well, I—I don’t know what to say.”

“We could have you once, maybe twice a week, and you’ll be paid, of course,” Geralt continues.

“That’s quite generous. Possibly too generous, love.”

I didn’t enter this relationship for his money.

Wouldn’t this be taking advantage of him?

“I want you to be able to live the life you want, Jask,” the older man returns.

“But... Geralt, I don’t want you to feel like you have to fund it,” Jaskier protests. “You’re my boyfriend, not my sugar daddy.”

“It’s a job, baby. Obviously you’ll get paid like everyone else.”

Is it wrong to want to say yes?

Jaskier’s arms tighten around him.

“Can—can I think about it?”

Geralt’s grasp is reassuring.

“Of course. You don’t have to give me an answer right away. I just want you to know you have the option.”

So many possibilities.

If he says yes, he can probably go part-time, or find another job with more flexible hours to make up the difference.

If he says yes, they’ll be on the same schedule.

He can see Geralt more often.

He can spend more time on his music.

He can do what he wants for the first time in over half a decade.

I just have to say yes.

Jaskier holds Geralt close, mind whirling with the prospect of freedom. He won’t decide right away—he needs to truly consider every facet of this decision. But the idea of it… it’s intoxicating. It’s the first time he’s felt this excited about his future since Geralt agreed to be with him.

After their bath, Jask tugs a naked Geralt into bed with him, curling up in those wonderfully muscular arms and falling asleep in minutes.

In the morning, he remembers his promise to Yennefer, and the tailor tape is retrieved and put to work. Of course, as they typically do when it comes to Geralt and Jaskier and nudity, things may get a bit out of hand, and when they’re finished, sweaty and tangled up on Jaskier’s bedroom floor, he has to send Yen a regretful text.

so… I may owe you a new roll of tailor tape

Yen’s replies chime in mere minutes later in quick succession.

You two sicken me.

Just send the measurements, deviant.

And leave me alone for the rest of the day.

He shows the messages to Geralt, whose laugh comes from deep within his belly, rumbling through Jaskier’s chest where it’s pressed against him.

“We probably shouldn’t have told her,” the older man speculates, fingers threading through dark hair.

“Maybe not, but I do like to return the torture now and then.”

Geralt chuckles in response, and though they finally manage to disentangle their limbs and pick themselves up off the floor, all they do is fall back into bed, silver hair fanning wide over the younger man’s chest.

Fuck, do I love the weekend.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few weeks since Geralt made his offer, and true to his word, he hasn’t asked Jaskier about it again. Meanwhile, it’s been all Jask himself can think about.

Every time he goes into work, he thinks about it.

Every time he curls up in Geralt’s arms to spend the night, he thinks about it.

And every time he picks up his guitar, it’s right there, tickling the back of his mind.

Freedom.

He’s been exploring the idea with Dr. Shani, among other things, and the more they talk about it, the better it seems. 

His weekly sessions have actually been kind of incredible—more than just having an objective listener, he’s been able to talk through things he’s been terrified to even think about before. Things like his childhood, religious trauma, the damage his parents did… getting it all out there, even though he knows it’ll likely take years to even come close to resolving, has been unbelievably uplifting.

Jaskier’s felt light as air, and that lightness, that newfound access to himself, has translated fantastically to his relationship with Geralt, who couldn’t be prouder of him for his progress.

“I feel like introspection is just so woefully underrated, you know?” The younger man posits, eyes focused on the cutting board where he’s chopping romaine for their dinner while Geralt assembles the steak marinade. “Like why weren’t we taught these kinds of insightful coping mechanisms and thought processes as a part of our general curriculum in school?”

Geralt grunts.

“The same reason as always, Jask—curriculum is controlled by bureaucrats who don’t give a rat’s arse about mental health.”

Jaskier makes a small noise of frustration.

“I just… I think of how many kids who don’t get support and guidance through the most difficult years of their lives. Like imagine how much less toxic society would fucking be if the people in charge prioritized mental health!”

Geralt’s arms encircle his waist from behind, and a soft kiss is pressed to his temple.

“I completely agree.” His chin hooks over Jaskier’s shoulder to inspect his progress. “Want to start on the beans, and I’ll take the rice?”

The younger man turns to brush his lips over the corner of that beautifully sculpted jaw.

“Sure, but I refuse to use that bloody garlic mincer. I hate it and it’s not my friend.”

Geralt snorts, sneakily grabbing a cheeky handful of Jaskier’s ass as he steps away, making the other jump and blush.

“It’s not that bad if you clean it properly.”

Long fingers thieve a piece of tomato from the older man’s side of the bench and pop it between pink lips.

“Except that the extra cleaning time thus defeats the purpose of the blasted thing, love. It’s supposed to be quicker than doing it by hand, not make cleanup a faff.”

Geralt’s wry smile makes his stomach do the typical fluttery nonsense.

Ugh, he’s so pretty.

Even if he’s weirdly attached to that horrible fucking mincer.

We all have our flaws, I suppose.

“I think the idea is that the more skill-heavy portion of the task becomes easier,” his silver stallion returns, turning his attention to his new dish while Jaskier dumps handfuls of chopped lettuce into Geralt’s salad spinner.

The man’s got a gadget for everything.

Probably should’ve seen that coming, what with the extensive toy collection.

Mmm, my ridiculously handsome pack-rat.

“But then I don’t get to watch you wield a knife,” the younger man counters. “Which, may I point out, is stupid hot and also something you’re unfairly good at.”

Geralt chuckles.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“What, did Vesemir teach you lot to sword-fight growing up?” Jaskier snarks.

“Among other things, yes.”

The brunette stills.

“Wait, what? Really?”

The older man shrugs.

“He had three high-energy kids in one house. Had to find a way to expend it, and it helped teach us discipline, too.”

“Huh... Your father is an interesting man.”

Another warm chuckle from Geralt.

“He is certainly unconventional.”

Jaskier pauses.

Hold on a second.

Vesemir helped raise Ciri.

“Geralt… did you teach Ciri to fucking sword-fight?”

He gets a grimace in response.

“Yes?”

“The same daughter who is, in your words, ‘violently protective’ of you?”

“I only have the one daughter, Jaskier.”

“I am going to be turned into a bloody fucking kebab, Geralt.”

The older man laughs aloud, turning away from his task to wrap strong arms back around the other, drawing him in close to pepper kisses all over his face while Jask squirms in his grasp.

“She already knows she’s not allowed to maim you.”

“What a comfort.”

Geralt’s lips drop to the curve of his neck, tone suddenly serious.

“You know I’d never let anyone hurt you, Jask.”

“Because I’m yours?” He returns, arching into the contact.

“Because I love you,” he corrects. He’s been much more free with the phrase lately, always ready to remind Jaskier how he feels, and frankly, the younger man adores it.

If he’s being honest, he was a little worried. A horrid little voice in the back of Jaskier’s head insisted that given enough time, Geralt would get bored with him. That the novelty would wear off, and Jaskier wouldn’t be enough at the end of it.

Of course, that particular insecurity would earn a stern look from Dr. Shani and at least half a dozen orgasms, voluntary or otherwise, from Geralt, so he’s never voiced it. Instead, he forced himself to trust his eyes, his ears, all the tangible things that he can rely on to override those internal doubts.

And Geralt, being Geralt, in all of his wonderful consideration and compassion and mind-blowing patience, has made certain that those doubts are proven wrong, even without knowing they were there.

His tactility hasn’t decreased over time—if anything, he touches Jaskier even more, whether it’s the tempting touches that send goosebumps skittering over his body, or the innocent brushes of affection: a hand on his waist, ruffling his hair, twining with his fingers. It’s always there, like he can’t help it so long as the younger man is in his orbit—he just has to reach out.

And I’ll always reach right back.

Then the sex—fuck, the sex. To put it simply, it’s still phenomenal. It still leaves Jaskier wondering how he doesn’t shatter into a thousand well-fucked pieces every time Geralt takes him. Both in and out of scenes, he can always feel it, the underlying devotion to his pleasure that Geralt wields like a well-honed weapon.

Their play, too, hasn’t skipped a single beat. The older man’s creativity when it comes to planning scenes is nothing short of vast, essentially limitless, and he’s made a habit of getting Jaskier into subspace with almost absurd frequency. Even when sex isn’t involved, even when neither of them come, it’s always so good. It’s like they were made to be partners, rarely ever trying something either dislikes, and that deep, profound trust only gets stronger with every moment they spend together.

It’s fucking mind-boggling, is what it is.

It took a while for Jaskier to get over the general terror that their connection brought about; sure, he’s come to grips with the easy vulnerability Geralt pulls from him, but that trust… Feeling that for another person seemed so dangerous at first, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and just waiting for reality to push him over. Dr. Shani said that was normal, especially for someone with the kind of trauma he’s faced.

And Geralt—he just keeps proving, over and over again, that that trust isn’t misplaced. That Jaskier is safe with him.

That his love is earned and kept and fucking treasured by a man who respects him as much as he loves him.

And maybe that’s why it’s been so terrifyingly easy to fall, because Geralt is falling right beside him. Because the core of Jaskier’s very being just knows that this—this is it.

This is the shit that all those stories try to capture.

Novels, films, songs, epic poems—sweeping verse that’s woven by masters and yet can’t come close to encompassing how he makes me feel.

Consumed.

Devastated.

Exalted.

Like every breath I take isn’t mine alone.

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

“What are you thinking about? You’re being suspiciously quiet,” Geralt rumbles into his ear, and Jaskier turns his head to meet destined lips.

“Oh, nothing important. Just how you’ve completely changed my life and how I’m deeply, madly in love with you,” he replies, earning a brilliant smile.

“Ah, I see, trivial thoughts.” A hand curves behind Jaskier’s head, making its home in dark locks, and he opens for Geralt, welcoming him in with a low moan.

“So trivial.”

He turns in Geralt’s arms, meeting him chest to chest, and snakes a hand south, finding that beautifully muscled arse and squeezing appreciatively.

“Jaskier,” the older man groans, pulling back to rest his forehead against the other’s. “We’re going to burn our dinner again.”

“Mmm but we can always get a takeaway,” he murmurs into a wickedly stubbled jaw.

I want that to leave a burn on my thighs later.

Geralt chuckles.

“No, no, that would be the third time this week that we’ve ruined dinner and had to order food,” he reminds them both, pulling farther away, but leaving his hands on the younger man’s hips.

“It’s not my fault you’re so fuckable when you’re in chef-mode,” Jaskier retorts, but obeys nonetheless, attention returning to his task. And he isn’t exaggerating, there’s something about the loose bun Geralt ties his hair up in, combined with that very familiar look of concentration in those always lovely amber eyes that just does it for him.

Throw on an apron and I’ll drop to my knees right here.

“Well, store that energy for later. You’ll need it when we go to the club,” he promises, that delightfully dark guarantee enough to make Jaskier’s cock twitch in his trousers.

“Still not telling me what you’ve got planned?”

“Nope.”

“Evil man,” he pouts.

“Keep up the attitude and I’ll add overstimulation to the agenda,” Geralt warns, making Jaskier shiver.

“Oof. Fine, I’ll back off. Spoilsport.”

One overstimulation orgasm per week is fucking plenty.

When it comes to that, there is such a thing as “too much of a good thing.”

After dinner is eaten and cleanup is completed, it’s time to don their costumes.

“You don’t think it’s too much?”

Fuck.

Jaskier stands before him, arms stretched wide, and for a second he considers saying to hell with the party at Kaer Morhen and just keeping the younger man here, all to himself.

He looks fucking gorgeous.

The musician is clad in gold, specifically a golden corset edged with red rose detail, with matching ruffled bottoms and—fuck—thigh-high stockings and garter. He’s even got golden silk gloves that hug his forearms, ending just above the crook of his elbows. Jaskier decided to forgo his typical kohl eyeliner for glittering gold that extends out to his temples and a ruby red lipstick that’s very familiar and stirs all kinds of possessive feelings in Geralt’s gut. The look is completed with his signature Docs and a new collar, more delicate than his previous one, with gold hardware rather than silver.

Sinful.

Mine.

The man in question is grinning widely at Geralt, cornflower blues alight with his own amorous intentions, though the older man’s costume really isn’t that different from his usual club uniform: loose poet shirt open wide at the neck to display a “drool-worthy” amount of his chest (Jaskier’s words), the tightest pair of leather pants he owns (chosen by the little fiend), and hair tied back in that fancy pre-Revolution French aristocrat style.

Jask initially wanted him in the full ballroom regalia worn by his character in the film, but he had to veto that idea; his high body heat and the usual stuffy warmth inside the club on busy nights would be miserable with all those layers. Thus, the poet shirt. His compromise was agreeing to wear the boots with platform soles that Jaskier requested instead, giving him towering height over the younger man.

It’s the first time he’s ever actually dressed up for the annual Kaer Morhen Halloween party, despite the tradition extending all the way back to when they opened.

At least I managed to avoid getting roped into Eskel and Lambert’s plans.

Am I secure in my masculinity? Very. 

Do I want to wear a French maid outfit in front of all my employees and friends?

Not at all.

Yen and Triss typically go all-out with their costumes, so he’s intrigued to see what they’ve come up with this year, but right now… Fuck, right now, his eyes are riveted on the man before him.

Maybe we should’ve done Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf, like Jask originally wanted.

Because I want to eat him up.

“Geralt, love, you’re staring. And you haven’t said anything for several minutes. Are you broken? Hello?”

Jaskier’s voice breaks his lust-filled trance, and he steps forward, making sure his expression conveys just how appreciative he is of the younger man’s sartorial efforts.

“I’m deciding whether or not to lock you up in my playroom and keep you here all night instead,” he rumbles, head dipping to claim painted lips. He would worry about smudging the color, but Jaskier assured him it was “transfer-proof,” whatever that means.

“That may be getting a bit too in character, darling,” the pretty thing retorts, finger drawing a seductive line from the dip in Geralt’s collarbone, all the way to his sternum. “If I hadn’t worked so hard on this costume, I might have taken you up on it. Alas, I look incredible, and it would be a true disservice to the patrons of Kaer Morhen to deprive them of the opportunity to witness it.”

Geralt’s fingers hook around Jaskier’s jaw, making blue eyes spark for him.

“Mm, you’re right.”

Let them look.

Let them see what’s mine and envy me the privilege to conquer you.

His acquiescence is worth it to earn that beautiful smile from the man he’s going to ravage tonight.

“I knew you’d understand. You’re a smart man.”

“Mmm.”

It’s a good thing the walk from Geralt’s place to the club is short, because it is fucking freezing outside.

“Hmm, wind’s howling,” the older man muses aloud, earning a lifted brow from his shivering companion.

“Yes, a remarkably astute observation about the weather that I, too, am experiencing, my love,” he says sarcastically, teeth chattering around every other syllable. “How are you not freezing?”

Geralt gestures to his heavy wool overcoat.

“Some of us don’t sacrifice comfort for fashion.”

“It’s a worthy sacrifice,” the younger man huffs.

“Let’s see if you still think that when your nipples are perma-frosted,” Geralt retorts with a twist to his lips, but still pulls Jaskier close anyway, tucking him under the thick material as far as he’ll go. “Better?”

The brunette hums happily.

“Mm-hmm.”

I’ve never been this fucking whipped before.

What has he done to me?

Oh, right. Little fucker made me fall in love.

They breeze through the entrance, then make a quick pit stop upstairs to drop off Geralt’s coat in his office before returning to the party, which has the main club packed even tighter than showcase night.

Yennefer and Triss are holding court in their usual booth, so Geralt sidles through dancing bodies and pulls Jaskier along with him until they reach the coveted spot.

Violet eyes roam admiringly over the pair of them.

“Beauty and the Beast, huh? On the nose much?”

Jaskier cackles beside him, reaching forward to drop welcoming kisses on either cheek, then doing the same with Triss.

Meanwhile, Geralt’s trying to figure out what their costume is.

Triss has her ginger mane straightened and teased up high, so structured it almost looks like a wig, with a black crop top and olive green cargo pants. Yen is dressed even more dramatically in some kind of black and neon green catsuit, and they’ve both got a bizarre lipstick situation happening, dark colors painted on only their top lips, which he’s sure isn’t some trend he’s not caught up with.

I would know, what with Jaskier force-feeding me pop culture so I’ll understand his references.

“You two look… nice,” he offers, and two sets of eyes roll at him. Triss, the angel, just offers a sweet smile.

“You don’t know who we are, do you?” Yen asks, and he shrugs.

“Not a clue.”

“They’re Kim Possible and Shego!” Jaskier announces excitedly. “And they look damn good, if I do say so myself.”

“You have excellent taste, Jaskier. I knew there had to be a reason why we’re friends,” Yen compliments, and his lips purse.

“And you make the perfect villain, Yennefer.”

Her smirk contains the usual amount of evil.

“Thank you.”

Geralt shakes his head, chuckling, and pulls the younger man close to speak into his ear.

“I’m gonna grab us some drinks. Want to stay here?”

His head bobs in response, and Geralt leaves him with a quick peck to red lips before turning back to wade into the crowd of sweaty, gyrating bodies.

Generally, he doesn’t love when the club is this packed, because he feels it’s harder to keep patrons as safe as he’d like, but the cash influx is hard to pass up—it goes straight into the staff’s holiday bonuses.

And they earn every penny on nights as crazy as this.

He slips behind the bar with a nod to Keira and Coen, assembling his and Jaskier’s drinks quickly and efficiently, then even tossing together some complimentary glasses for Yen and Triss.

I’m overflowing with goodwill tonight, apparently.

Returning with the drinks is more challenging, but he manages to do it without any catastrophic spillage, and distributes them accordingly.

The effort is worth it to see the way Jaskier grins at him.

Fuck, I’m so gone on this little brat.

“Awful generous of you, love,” the musician observes.

“Spirit of the holiday,” Geralt grunts back, making his counterpart snicker.

“Wrong holiday, but I love you for it all the same.”

He brings his drink to smiling lips, and the older man can’t look away as his head tilts back, the sensual, long line of his pale throat broken only by the collar secured around it.

Beautiful.

And he loves me.

“Wanna dance with me, darling?” Jaskier asks, batting his eyelashes with the request, and Geralt sighs.

He’d like to, he really would, but the crowd… it’s not something he enjoys. Jask doesn’t mind being touched by strangers, and so long as those unfamiliar hands don’t wander into restricted territory, Geralt doesn’t worry about his paramour’s dance floor activities. But for some reason—maybe because he’s a big guy and draws the eye—he can’t keep other people’s hands off himself when he’s out there, and it only took one try for Jaskier before the younger man realized just how viscerally uncomfortable it made his Dom. He’s proud of his body, but the unwanted touching, the groping… when it’s not Jaskier, it feels so wrong, and he hates every second of it.

He also hates having to crush his partner’s hopes when he shakes his head with a rueful smile.

“Maybe later, baby, when the crowd’s… thinned.”

To his credit, Jaskier hides his disappointment well.

I hate disappointing him.

It’s not that I don’t want to.

I just… can’t.

“I’ll go with you, Jaskier!” Triss pipes up. “Do you mind, Geralt?”

Thanks for the save, ginger angel.

He shakes his head with an encouraging smile, and they depart hand-in-hand, leaving him alone with his favorite witch.

“Quit worrying, or you’ll get wrinkles.”

“Helpful, Yen, thank you.”

She reaches out, squeezing his hand in a rare moment of open affection.

“He doesn’t hold it against you, you know. We’ve all got our dislikes.” She takes a refined sip of her drink. “Can’t blame you for having boundaries, Geralt.”

“I want to make him as happy as I can,” he protests. “And yet I can’t do something as simple as fucking dancing with him.”

She frowns.

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and he understands that. I’m sure you more than make up for it in other ways.”

He sighs, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair.

Can’t mess up Jaskier’s hard work.

“You’re right. I know you’re right. He’s made it abundantly clear that he’s happy.” His eyes watch the fluid movement of his sub’s body as he dances, thankful for Triss’s protective presence beside him. “But I want to give him everything.”

“You’re not fucking Superman,” she scoffs. “You’re allowed imperfection. Gods know your beloved Jaskier has buckets of it.”

He throws a warning glare her way.

“Watch it.”

She smirks.

“You’re fine, Geralt. Have you talked to Nenneke about it?”

Almost too much.

This relationship has been the central topic since I started my sessions with her again.

“Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

He sighs.

“Pretty much the same thing you did. And that I should talk to him about my insecurities.”

“Bingo.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Don’t say that word around me.”

Yennefer grins in that menacingly beautiful way she has.

“Have you told Jaskier about Geralt Bingo yet? I know he’d love it.”

Geralt shoots her another glare, this time paired with a displeased frown.

“No, and you’re forbidden from mentioning it.”

She lifts a sharp brow.

“You know he’s going to find out the moment you properly introduce him to Ciri. I’d get ahead of it, if I were you.”

Another thing to mull over.

His family—namely Ciri and Vesemir—have been pestering him to invite Jaskier to Sunday dinner, possibly even brunch. Yet another thing that he actually desperately wants, if it weren’t for that fucking game.

Everyone I love in one place.

Everyone getting to meet the man I’ve fallen in love with.

The first step to Jaskier becoming part of the family.

“I still have to ask him. After the towel incident, he’s been… skittish.”

She snickers.

“No shit. He’s got the worst luck, I swear it. It’s downright cosmic.”

“Hey! Fancy ponytail, I like it.” Lambert’s voice cuts easily through the music, and then his brothers are right there, in all their maid dress-encased glory.

Geralt’s jealous side immediately wants them far away from Jaskier’s sight.

Have to admit, they look good.

“I can’t believe you went through with it,” Yen’s awed voice speaks up beside him.

Lambert fucking curtsies, while Eskel simply grins.

“It’s all the rage. Gotta keep up with the trends.”

If either of them flexes, they’re going to split every last seam on those dresses.

Honestly, they’re actually rather comical when paired with the men’s black dress socks and combat boots, their DM bands dutifully wrapped around their biceps below the puffed sleeves.

“I’m so glad I escaped this fate.”

Eskel gives him a once-over.

“Jaskier went easy on you this year, but just wait. Guarantee he’s got all kinds of ideas for you, bro.”

I shiver at the thought.

Literally, because those skirts are short and neither of them is even wearing leggings for warmth.

Rest in peace to their balls when they go outside.

“Where is the little brat, by the way? I wanted to say hello,” Lambert asks, and the silver-haired brother jerks a chin to the dance floor before taking a generous gulp of his drink.

“Uh, G—you may want to step in.”

The look on his red-haired brother’s face has Geralt shooting to his feet and pushing them aside, eyes frantically searching for Jaskier.

Triss is gone, and the younger man is still dancing, but there’s a larger, bulkier man sidled up behind him, and Geralt’s eyes glint with building rage when his hands trail down the musician’s body, nearly making it to Jaskier’s ass before he swats them away. Painted lips turn a displeased frown his way, and Jaskier shakes his head, his words inaudible below the music but clearly rejecting whatever offer the stranger made.

Time seems to slow down when the stranger’s hand reaches up, fingers hooking in the loop of his sub’s collar to pull him closer.

Oh, fuck no you don’t.

Heart pounding in his throat, he’s in the crowd in the blink of an eye, slipping between bodies without a care for anything other than getting this fucking asshole away from his lark. His eyes stay locked on the pair and Jaskier jerks back, anger and fear battling in his expression as he shoves at the stranger’s chest, nearly shouting now and loud enough that Geralt can pick up the words. 

“I fucking said no, get your hands off me—"

Why are there so many people in the goddamned way—

“Back the fuck off, I’m serious—oh, now you’ve done it.” Blue eyes meet his with gratitude and relief, widening when he sees the barely-contained rage on Geralt’s face. “I’d let go of me right now.”

“Yeah? Or what—fuck!”

Geralt’s fist closes in the stranger’s shirt collar, whipping him back and away from Jaskier, heedless of the other bodies around them. The other man chokes as the material pulls tight around his throat, and then he’s met with a blistering golden gaze as the furious Dom looms over him.

“Clearly, you need a reminder of the rules,” he snarls. “Number one—no touching without consent.”

The man sputters in his grasp, struggling against the hold and steadily turning a darker shade of red.

Good.

“Number two—never, ever touch a collared sub, you piece of fucking filth.”

“I’m sorry—" he tries gasping in response, but Geralt’s glare only burns hotter.

“And your biggest mistake? Touching what’s mine.”

Violence is simmering under the surface of his skin, itching to be released, and he’s only stopped from caving this fucker’s face in by a familiar hand on his shoulder.

“Geralt, calm down,” Eskel’s voice says steadily, his grip firm enough to get his brother’s attention but not enough to trigger the rage he knows wants to come out. “Go get Jask. I’ll handle this prick.”

He loosens his hold on the stranger’s shirt, dark expression unwavering when the man gasps for air.

“He’s banned. Get him out of here. And anyone who came with him,” he orders. “I don’t care who they are, they’re never stepping foot in my fucking club again.”

“Got it.” That’s Lambert’s voice beside him now, uncharacteristically serious. “We’ll take care of it. Jaskier needs you.”

Jaskier.

He spins to find him in the crowd, spotting the golden lark easily and stepping forward, unsurprised when the bodies part to make a path for him.

I’ve never been this angry before.

Well, maybe once.

The image of Jaskier’s body at the foot of the staircase flashes across his mind, and he strides to the younger man, hands shaking a little when they reach out for him.

“Are you okay?”

It should be him asking that, not Jaskier, but the smaller man is watching him with open concern in those pretty eyes.

Not really.

“I’m fine,” he grits out. “Did he hurt you?”

He shakes his head.

“Nope, got a little handsy, but no damage done. Can’t say the same for him, though. That was quite the display, love.” He lays a hand on Geralt’s heaving chest—when did I start breathing so hard?—and smiles up at him. “How about we go upstairs so you can calm down, hmm?”

“Jaskier? What happened?” Triss reappears in their little bubble, brow furrowed.

“Just a small disagreement, darling,” he replies, waving a dismissive hand. “Would you go keep Yennefer company, please? We just need a little break is all.”

The redhead nods, wary green eyes darting between them in confusion before she weaves her way back through the crowd.

Jaskier’s hand clasps his and starts pulling in the opposite direction, toward the stairwell.

Inside, it’s quieter, the music muffled and the relative peace making it easier to breathe.

His fingers tighten on the younger man’s, and Jaskier gives him a warm smile.

“Just a minute, love. Wait until we’re alone.”

Alone.

But together.

Right.

They stop in front of Geralt’s playroom, and Jaskier taps his watch to the scanner to unlock the door, having earned his own access a couple weeks back.

He ushers his Dom inside, and when the door is finally closed behind them, his head tilts at Geralt, a surprising amount of wisdom in those cornflower blues.

“You’re not fine.”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but Jaskier holds up a single finger, then reaches up and deliberately unfastens his collar, setting it to the side.

“Talk to me, Geralt.”

Fuck.

Rouged lips twist, nothing but fondness in his partner’s gaze.

“Not that I don’t love the dominance display—I’ll confess, you lifting a grown man off the ground with one hand was unnecessarily sexy, you primal beast-man—but you were nearly out of control, weren’t you?”

Perceptive little thing.

Geralt gulps, face reddening in embarrassment.

“Yes. I was.”

Jaskier walks over to the bed, patting the space beside him and waiting patiently for Geralt to follow.

“I love you, Geralt. I really do. And that’s why I’m not afraid of you, like all the other people who just saw that definitely are." He grimaces. “I think that guy was well on his way to pissing himself, you know.”

“He would’ve deserved it,” the older man growls, and Jaskier sighs, reaching out to draw Geralt close enough to plant a gentle kiss on frowning lips.

“Yeah, probably. He was a bit of an arsehole, for sure.” His thumb brushes over the larger man’s lower lip in a mirror of Geralt’s favorite gesture. “But perhaps not quite worth the dismembering you almost gave him?”

Geralt closes his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. I just… I’m very protective of you.”

The brunette chuckles.

“I gathered that, my love. And that was some epic fucking jealousy, if I do say so myself. But I just want to make sure you’re truly alright. You can talk to me, you know.” He scratches at the stubble along the older man’s jaw. “I happen to love you no matter what, in case you’ve forgotten.”

I knew Jaskier was gracious, but holy shit.

He doesn’t see me as some kind of monster after that?

How?

His fingers find Jaskier’s and squeeze.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, that’s a start.”

Geralt sucks in a deep breath.

“I... I want you to be happy.”

There it is.

The serene look on Jaskier’s face transforms almost instantly into one of indignance.

“And why the fuck would you think I’m not?”

“Well, I—"

“Hold on.” He pushes Geralt back, moving forward to straddle the older man’s lap and hook his arms around his neck. “Whatever frustrations, or worries, or insecurities you have, anything that bothers you, I want to hear about it. I’m with you for all of it, you magnificent brute, even if you want to play the big strong man and keep it to yourself.” He presses another kiss to his lips, this one deeper, more assertive. “Share everything with me, Geralt. I want it all. Because I really fucking love you.”

Thick arms encircle his corseted waist, and he holds Jaskier to his chest, breathing in the comforting scent of the other man and blinking back the tears that threaten to fall.

This little shit.

He really has me.

It’s a few moments before he truly calms, the blood in his veins slowing back to its usual rhythm, and Jaskier sighs atop him.

“I was looking forward to playing tonight, but I think I’d just like to go home with you instead. We’ll take a raincheck, and you can thoroughly ruin me next time, hm?” He asks, and Geralt chuckles.

“Sounds like a plan, baby.” He collects himself, dropping a kiss on the tip of Jaskier’s nose. “You know, I accuse Yennefer of being a witch, but sometimes I think it’s you who’s truly put a spell on me.”

“Fucking hell, Geralt, that’s so corny.”

He bursts out laughing, sharing snickering kisses with the man in his arms, and it’s like his earlier angst has been erased from existence. Wiped away with his partner’s boundless understanding and unrelenting forgiveness.

He really is like magic.

“Now—" Jaskier slides off his lap and crosses the room, back to where he left his collar. He buckles it quickly, then reaches out to his Dom. “Coming, love?”

It’s instinct to follow wherever he goes.

Back outside, the wind has blessedly died down, but it’s still bone-chillingly cold, and Geralt drops his coat around Jaskier’s shoulders without a word.

Ah, my sweet, thoughtful beast.

There’s a lot more turmoil in that lovely head than you let on.

But that’s alright, because I’ve always wanted you just as you are.

They’re walking hand-in-hand, and Jaskier is anticipating a long night of cuddles and comfort in that wonderful bed of his boyfriend’s, when a noise down the alley they’re passing catches his ear.

Huh?

“Did you hear that?”

“Hm?” Geralt answers, shaking his head. “Could just be rats. The dumpsters are down there.”

And there it is again, a tiny sound, but enough to draw Jaskier forward, into the darkness of the alley, seeking it out.

“Jask? Baby, there are roaches. And garbage.”

The younger man shakes his head, hurriedly pulling his phone from the pocket of Geralt’s coat and turning on the flashlight.

“I swear I heard something.”

It’s unmistakable this time, and his eyes widen, pushing boxes and rubbish bags aside while trying to keep a good grip on his phone.

“Oh my gods, Geralt, oh my gods.”

The older man is beside him in an instant, peering down into the dumpster Jaskier is holding open.

The space is bright with the white light from his phone, and sitting down there in the garbage, blinking up at them with the tiniest blue eyes, is a shivering brown kitten meowing its little heart out.

“Does that look like a roach to you?” The musician snarks. “Here, hold this, I’m gonna get him out.”

Geralt obeys, one hand supporting the lid and the other grabbing the back of Jaskier’s coat when the younger man nearly tips himself into the dumpster trying to reach for the tiny creature. It takes a curse-filled minute, but then those long fingers are scooping the kitten up and cradling it to Jaskier’s chest, safe and sound.

“Oh, Geralt, he’s shaking,” he says mournfully, tucking the cat closer and pulling his coat closed around it. “I can’t imagine how long the poor thing has been out here, and it’s so cold, oh you poor baby…”

The older man is tapping away at his phone, then nods.

“Okay, the nearest emergency hospital closes in about an hour, but we should be able to make it in time if we leave right now,” he informs Jaskier, fishing in his coat for his keys. “It’s a good thing I left these in here. Come on.”

Jaskier hurries to follow, still cradling the kitten to his chest, and only passes it to Geralt long enough to buckle himself in. The cat is horribly thin, and so small, and it’s breaking his heart just to look at the thing, but he holds it close.

We’ll take care of you, sweet one.

The drive feels treacherously long, but then they arrive, and Geralt, the wonderful man, has already called ahead, so they’re ready and waiting when the two men burst through the doors.

The receptionist only spares a brief moment to gape at their costumes before they’re showed into an exam room.

Minute after anxious minute passes by as they wait alone in the exam room, the staff having taken the kitten back to warm it up and evaluate it.

To see if he’ll survive.

After what feels like fucking forever, when Jaskier is just about ready to crawl out of his skin, the white-coated vet walks in and places the furry bundle on the exam table.

“Is he okay? How is the little guy?” Jask asks worriedly, and the vet gives him a reassuring smile.

“She’s a her, actually.” She pets over the kitten’s little brown head with gentle fingertips. “And don’t worry, she’ll be fine. We were able to get her temperature back up to normal, and it doesn’t seem to have left any lasting damage, which is good.” Those bitty blue eyes blink at Jaskier, and he sucks in a breath.

She’s so cute, ugh my heart.

“She is malnourished, which is to be expected based on where you said you found her,” the vet continues, “But I think regular feedings and proper care should turn that around in a week, maybe two?”

Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief.

“That’s so great.”

The vet smiles again.

“Yes, it is. She’s been given a flea treatment, a dewormer, and her first round of vaccines, so she’s good on that front. We checked, but there’s no chip, which isn’t uncommon for kittens her age when they’ve been dumped.”

“How old do you think she is?” Geralt asks.

“Eight weeks, maybe nine,” the vet confirms, gaze still aimed at the cat on the table. Jaskier smiles.

Would you look at that, a woman who doesn’t melt at Geralt’s feet.

I like her.

“Anyway,” she continues, putting her hands in her coat pockets. “Now that she’s in the clear, we can discuss rehoming. Obviously, as the ones who found her and brought her in, you’re more than welcome to take her home—if not, we’ll hang on to her overnight and have a local shelter come pick her up in the morning.”

Jaskier frowns.

His lease doesn’t allow pets.

The kitten keeps blinking at him, then tilts her head and mewls.

Shit.

I don't want to leave her.

He turns pleading eyes to Geralt, who sighs, then smiles with an indulgent shake of his head.

“We’ll take her.”

Someone is getting the best head of his life later.

The vet grins, nodding happily.

“Excellent. The receptionist can get you checked out up front and give you a copy of her records for future appointments.” She lifts the little furball and places her in Jaskier’s outstretched arms, where he’s exceedingly pleased to find that she’s no longer ice-cold. The kitten curls up with a tiny meep, making herself at home against his chest and nearly filling his heart to bursting on the spot. “Have you thought of a name?”

Jaskier meets Geralt’s amber gaze, and his lips twist, recalling his earlier quip to the older man when they found her.

“How about Roach?”

Chapter Text

Oh my gods.

That is so fucking cute.

Jaskier fumbles for his phone, dropping his overnight bag and guitar case on the floor of Geralt’s living room to snap a photo of the adorable sight: Geralt, somehow asleep on the sofa while sitting up, and Roach, curled up and tucked into the solid curve where his neck meets sturdy shoulders.

Something about the tiny ball of fluff perfectly content to be snuggled up to her massive protector makes his chest ache, wishing he could squeal at the cuteness but holding it back so he doesn’t disturb their peaceful slumber.

Over the past several weeks since they found her, Roach has taken to Geralt like a fish to water, much to Jaskier’s jealousy and Geralt’s begrudged acceptance.

After all, I’m the one who pulled her out of the garbage.

But I’m the end, he can’t fault the little cat. She’s proven she has excellent taste.

Truth be told, her needy attention has been almost too much for the older man, who hasn’t had to take care of something so small and dependent in years, and Jaskier has been spending most nights out of the week at Geralt’s place to help with their young charge, establishing a routine and regular feedings to follow, to amazing results. Roach has already started putting on weight and growing, and she learned to use the litter box in record time, though it must be said the child’s leavings are foul.

Next step is convincing Geralt to get one of those fancy automatic litter boxes that scoops itself.

He clicks away merrily, getting every angle he possibly can and barely refraining from giggling at the heartwarming picture they make.

A single golden eye blinks open, and Geralt’s lips purse.

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier gingerly steps over the array of cat toys littering the living room floor, careful not to disturb any of the collection with bells or other kitten-waking accoutrements, and snaps one last photo with a cheeky grin.

“Documenting the cutest bloody thing I’ve ever seen,” he informs the older man, before a thick arm winds around his waist and jerks him onto Geralt’s lap with a yelp. Roach yawns, snuggling in closer and pressing a paw to a stubbled chin.

“She wouldn’t stop meowing until I let her up,” Geralt grumbles, shrugging but failing to dislodge his furry burden. “And then she just fell asleep. I didn’t want to move and… well, I guess I nodded off.”

Jaskier laughs, kissing him soundly.

“You sweet man, you’re just one big softie.”

“Careful. I still owe you that ruination I promised,” Geralt returns. He nips at the younger man’s lower lip, smirking dangerously.

With the kitten taking up much of their attention, they haven’t yet found the time for the session Geralt had planned for Halloween, much to Jaskier’s dismay. Of course, that hasn’t stopped them from other spicy activities, but with Jaskier’s work schedule and the new addition to their household, managing more than a few rounds of blissful fucking is beyond them right now.

Excuse me. “Lovemaking.”

The first time Geralt corrected him during a post-coital cuddle, he scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He’d thought it was antiquated to call it that, but Geralt—ever the incorrigibly sweet romantic—kissed the derision away and asked him if he could truly call their time together something so base.

And he couldn’t, not really.

Not when his love fills my lungs with every breath.

Nor when his touch sings across my skin, carrying warmth and safety and devastation.

No, I know it’s not just fucking. It’s never been.

“That you do. Promises, promises, Geralt,” he taunts, and the older man chuckles.

I’ll admit, I am getting a bit antsy.

I sort of miss full Dom-mode Geralt.

“Well, if you’d let me leave Roach with a babysitter, they wouldn’t have to be only promises,” the silver-haired man points out. “Yen and Triss offered, and so did Eskel. Hell, I could probably even convince Ciri to watch her.”

“Not Lambert?”

Geralt snorts.

“She’s too innocent to see what happens at Lambert’s house.”

True.

They make Geralt and Jaskier look like prudes.

Jask sighs, reaching up to stroke gentle fingers over Roach’s fur.

“I just—she’s so small still, and I worry about her.”

The cat has more than doubled in size, actually, but Jaskier’s paternal instincts can’t be denied. “And she doesn’t know them very well, does she? She just knows us, and what if she thinks we’ve abandoned her?”

Geralt chuckles, arm tightening around the younger man’s waist.

“Considering how you tell her you love her more times in a day than you tell me, I think it’s safe to say we don’t need to be concerned about that,” he retorts.

Jaskier’s smirk widens, and he shifts on his boyfriend’s lap.

“Feeling neglected, are you? I can remedy that, my love.” He scoops up the sleeping Roach, who meows a complaint, and apologizes before depositing her on a nearby cushion.

Geralt gifts him with a blinding grin when he swings a leg over to straddle him.

“Can you, now?” Large hands grasp narrow hips, and he draws the smaller man closer.

“It’s my speciality.”

His kisses find a home over every handsome plane of Geralt’s face, taking their time before claiming his prize at the older man’s lips.

A deep groan rumbles through the other’s chest when he finally gets a taste of his Jaskier, clearly resisting the urge to throw the smaller man down on the sofa beneath him and take him apart, piece by piece. Instead, he lets Jaskier direct their path, a rare opportunity he knows better than to waste.

Long-fingered hands slip up from Geralt’s chest and wind into his hair, pulling at the snowy strands and relishing the catch in his boyfriend’s breath.

“Feeling naughty today, baby?”

“It’s been a while since we christened your couch, hasn’t it?” Jaskier returns, swallowing Geralt’s chuckle.

“It has… but I don’t think we’ll be wanting the work of cleaning it before everyone comes over.”

Right.

Dinner.

After several long conversations—and piles of lip-gnawing worry on Jaskier’s part—they finally decided to host a dinner party at Geralt’s place to allow Jaskier to meet his family on familiar ground, rather than drag him all the way to Vesemir’s with no means of escape.

Geralt is obviously thrilled, beaming every time he mentions it, and it’s almost enough to dispel the anxious dread in the younger man’s gut.

It kind of helps that he’s really only meeting Vesemir for the first time—he counts Eskel and Lambert as friends now, and Ciri… well, aside from a few awkward greetings at the club here and there, he doesn’t exactly know her, but she’s familiar enough.

Of course, if he thought impressing Geralt’s daughter was enough of a fiasco, he can’t imagine what’s in store for him when he meets the man’s father.

I’m so screwed.

“Right. Because that’s tonight.” He drops his forehead to rest against the older man’s, breathing deep.

“You okay?” One of Geralt’s hands leaves his hip to coast over his back, stroking and pressing in on certain spots he knows sometimes cause Jaskier problems. He’s a master at finding and kneading out knots, the blessed man.

Jask takes another deep breath.

Am I?

“Yeah,” he answers truthfully. “I just—I really want him to approve.”

I’ve had enough disapproval to last a lifetime.

“I know you do, baby. Don’t forget, you’ll have me right there beside you the whole time, alright?” He drops a kiss on the tip of the younger man’s nose. “And Yen, and Triss, Eskel, Lambert—"

“Ciri,” he adds with a grimace.

“Ciri likes you.”

“Ciri thinks I’m a drunken nudist.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“She does not.”

“I mean, I can’t blame her. She’s been privilege to my humiliation more than once.”

The older man grips his shoulder.

“Jaskier. Stop it. This isn’t productive, and you know it.”

The musician sighs.

He’s right, of course. This is the beginning of one of his “worry spirals,” and he has to pull himself out of the negative mindset before it ruins his whole damn day.

“Can you help me, please?”

Geralt gives him a soft peck.

“Of course. What did you agree to give yourself when it comes to Ciri?”

“A clean slate.”

A rough thumb slides over the nape of his neck, the familiar touch easy to focus on in place of the budding anxiety.

“And what are you not going to do?”

“Assume her opinion before she gives it.”

Geralt kisses him again, this time longer.

“Why?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, hands fisting in his boyfriend’s rumpled and lightly fur-dusted shirt.

“Because I view myself through a harsher lens than other people do.”

“That’s right, baby.”

This time, Jaskier is the one who initiates the kiss, hooking his arms around Geralt’s neck to wrap himself entirely around the larger man.

“Who loves you, Jaskier?” Geralt murmurs into his lips, and the younger man’s breath hitches at the sudden surge of emotion that nearly chokes him.

“You do.”

And there’s that smile, that perfect smile that he saves for Jaskier, and Jaskier alone.

“I do, baby. I really do.”

Roach chooses that time to meow for the attention she’s owed, slipping herself into the sliver of space between their bodies with a continuous purr and batting at the medallion swinging from Geralt’s neck.

He doesn’t wear it often, but Geralt once explained that it was a gift from his father to all three brothers, and they always make sure to wear them when they’re seeing the old man.

Roach just likes it because it’s shiny.

They chuckle together at the kitten’s antics, then Jaskier scoops her up to shower the little furball in kisses, his smile wide and genuine.

I’ve never been so happy.

I could do this forever.

Well, he hasn’t tried to jump out of any windows, so that’s good news.

Geralt’s been doing his level best to keep an eye on Jaskier throughout the evening, mindful of the younger man’s anxiety and committed to stepping in if things become too much.

When his father arrived, he’d had a protective hand on the nape of the musician’s neck, grounding him (and maybe preventing him from running for it), and Vesemir’s keen eyes hadn’t missed the gesture. If anything, they’d warmed to it.

To Jaskier’s credit, he’s been handling himself extremely well—entertaining their guests while Geralt puts the finishing touches on their meal, making sure everyone’s wine glasses are topped up, while drinking plain cider himself. The older man can’t help but smile at the memory of Jaskier insisting that he wanted to stay sharp and not devolve into, quote, a “messy bitch.”

I’d love him either way.

He’s currently holding court with Lambert and Vesemir while the rest of the party coos over Roach, who can’t seem to decide whether to preen under the attention or hide between the couch cushions.

It’s pretty fucking great.

“He’s handling himself really well, don’t you think?” Yen muses, appearing at his elbow and offering a hand to carry dishes into the dining area. “You can hardly tell how nervous he is.”

Geralt can see it, though, in the way the younger man’s fingers grip his glass just a bit too tightly, and how he subtly shifts from foot to foot while Lambert guffaws over something he said. Blue eyes flick his way every so often, and he makes sure to offer a comforting smile every time, so Jaskier knows just how proud of him Geralt is.

“He’s amazing,” he returns fondly, and Yen groans.

“Okay, you don’t have to get gooey. And quit eye-fucking him while I’m talking to you—it’s rude.”

“As if you don’t do the same thing with Triss,” he retorts.

Yen huffs.

“I'll neither confirm nor deny that. How’s he doing with Ciri, you think?”

Geralt winces. That’s a point of solid concern.

While Jaskier has handled conversing with Vesemir apparently absurdly well, he seems to have managed to avoid the young woman with near-acrobatic effort. Aside from greeting her at the door with Geralt, he doesn’t think the other man has said more than a sentence to Ciri before excusing himself on some errand or another. He does it with his usual grace every time, but Ciri has the same keen eyes as her father and grandfather—she knows he’s avoiding her. And short of grabbing Jask by the scruff of his neck and locking him in a room with the girl, Geralt doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Not well.”

Yen waves a hand in the air.

“Just give him time, I suppose. He’ll come around.”

I hope so.

Conversation flows easily at dinner, much to Geralt’s pleasure, and he can see the naked relief in the set of Jaskier’s shoulders when they manage to avoid any catastrophes. Though he does look a bit worried when Vesemir shoos him into the living room with the others and stays behind to help Geralt clear the table, those lovely blues sending a questioning look in Geralt’s direction. He simply nods, giving Jask his best reassuring smile, then turning his attention to his father.

Vesemir is still sturdy for his age, nearly as broadly built as his sons and equally as towering. But kindness has worn lines into his weathered face over the years, giving him a softness that wasn’t so apparent when Geralt first came to live with him.

Frankly, the man was fucking terrifying.

Still, the old man has a charisma to him that Geralt’s always coveted, words coming easily and his pride in his sons more than obvious to anyone who’s looking. Right now, he has that light turned on his silver-haired boy.

“He’s a good kid.” Vesemir inclines his head in Jaskier’s direction. “Lively.”

Geralt chuckles.

“That’s one way to describe him.”

“You look at him like he’s the sun, Geralt.”

His words hang between them for a moment, heavy, and then Geralt sighs. His gaze is steady when it meets his father’s.

“Yeah… I guess I do.”

Vesemir’s smile is gentle, maybe a little reserved, but genuine nonetheless.

“He looks at you the same way, son.” He sighs. “I’ve been waiting years for someone to look at you like that. To see your worth. And you finally found him.”

The old man’s voice sounds tight, like he’s choking up, and he pats his eldest on the shoulder.

“Do everything you can to keep him. I like him.”

Geralt grins.

“I like him, too.”

And I plan on keeping him.

His fingers brush over the item hidden in his pocket, and once again he finds himself unable to hide the joy on his face as he surveys his family, finally complete.

Okay, you can do this.

Just talk to her.

Jaskier sidles up beside Ciri, who’s reaching up to scratch a grateful Roach behind the ears while she crouches atop her massive cat tree.

The way-too-expensive cat tree that Geralt insisted on buying because Roach “deserves the best.”

Fucking softie.

“She’s cute, huh? She’s on her best behaviour right now, with everyone here,” he begins, and Ciri smiles.

“I’ve been trying to get my dad to adopt a pet for years,” she replies. “I worried about him getting too lonely here by himself after I moved out.” She turns sharp green eyes on him. “Obviously I don’t have anything to worry about.”

Jaskier blushes, his returning smile uncertain.

“Well, uh, I’m happy to help.”

Ciri chuckles.

“You don’t have to be nervous around me, Jaskier. Yen is way scarier, and you do just fine with her.”

Yeah, but she’s not my boyfriend’s beloved child.

Or trained in fucking swordplay.

He sighs.

“It’s less about you and more about what always seems to happen to me in front of you. It’s like the universe is determined for you to see the worst impressions I have to offer.”

She laughs again.

“If that’s your worst, then your best must be fucking awesome.”

He relaxes a bit, laughing along with her.

“You’ve no idea how thankful I was that the towel stayed on, Ciri. I don’t think we could’ve come back from that.”

Ciri snickers, turning her attention away from the cat and fully on Jaskier.

“Trust me, I’ve seen worse. Dad’s skinny jean phase was a fucking tragedy.”

Mmm, Geralt in skinny jeans?

I need to see that. For research.

Maybe he still has a pair or two—he is a borderline hoarder, after all.

“We’ve all been there,” he allows with a grin. “I, personally, went through a rather heinous preppy phase in my teens that haunts me to this day.”

So many sweater vests.

“Ooh, let me guess. Pompadour? Boat shoes?”

He nods grimly.

“The works.”

Ciri gives him a sympathetic wince.

“See? It could be way worse. I could’ve seen that.”

Jaskier’s chest lightens with every sentence, tension draining from his shoulders. Ciri’s not so bad.

Geralt raised her, after all.

Why did I think she’d be so menacing?

“Well, I’m glad you were spared the experience. And I’ll make sure to burn and delete all evidence for the future.”

There’s a comfortable pause between them, and then Ciri takes a deep breath.

“Maybe this is awkward, but... I want to thank you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm?”

What did I do?

“My dad—" her eyes are on Geralt, across the room and sandwiched between his brothers, grinning wider than should be possible while their wine threatens to slosh over the sides of their glasses. They’re singing an unfamiliar song, horribly off-key, but the other three occupants of the room are laughing along with them, the merriment downright infectious. “He’s so much better with you. Like he’s come back to life. You did that for him.”

“I, er—I don't know what to say.”

She turns the fond look his way.

“You put the light back in my dad’s eyes, Jaskier. That’s a fucking gift I’ll always be grateful for.” Her face suddenly lights up. “Speaking of gifts, we have this yearly tradition that I think you’ll love.”

“Hmm?”

“So it’s called Geralt Bingo…”

Chapter Text

“Geralt, darling, I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but I just needed to check—is your offer still on the table? The gig at Kaer Morhen?”

The older man blinks, taken off guard by Jaskier’s abrupt tone.

Why is he breathing so hard?

“Uh, yes, of course it is—"

“Perfect! I love you. I’ll call you right back, alright?”

He hangs up before Geralt can even utter another word, leaving the bewildered man clutching his phone in silence.

Well, alright then.

He turns to Roach, who’s watching him from her perch on his shoulder.

“You have any idea what that was about?”

She meows in response.

“Yeah, me neither.”

Roach blinks at him, then lifts a tiny paw to lick, ignoring her silver-haired human.

“Well, he’s not to be understood, is he?” He scratches behind her ears, chuckling to himself. “At least he’s pretty.”

And loving.

Snarky.

Undeniable.

Mine.

He lifts an eyebrow at Roach.

Ours, apparently.

“Your other dad is quite the enigma, cat.”

She mewls in answer.

Right.

Because I’m talking to a cat.

… This is Jaskier’s fault.

About half an hour later, his phone rings again, Jaskier’s smile lighting up the screen.

“Jask. Explain.”

There’s a giddy laugh from the other end.

“Pardon any rustling, love. I’m cleaning out my desk.”

Geralt blinks.

“Okay…?”

“I quit my job! I’ve had enough of these arsehole executives treating me like—oh, hello Yennefer. Come to help me pack up?”

Their voices become muffled as he presumably pockets his phone, and Geralt sighs.

It’s a good thing for Jaskier, of course, but the impulsivity worries him slightly.

Who am I kidding?

It’s Jask, did I really expect him to resign normally?

We should just be thankful nothing was thrown.

… Fuck. I hope he didn’t throw anything at anyone.

“Jaskier, I’m still here,” he says loudly, hoping his partner’s sensitive ears pick up the sound.

It takes a moment, then the line becomes clear again.

“Geralt, my sweet love, apologies for the interruption.” The younger man’s voice sounds strained. “I’m on my way over, so I’ll see you in a bit and explain everything. Say hi to Roachie for me!”

The line goes dead, and Geralt sighs.

I may love him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s as everlastingly annoying as he is endearing.

The love of his life (and bane of his existence) effectively explodes into his home not long after their phone call, a wild grin on his face to match the sweat plastering his fringe to his brow.

“Honey, I’m hooooome!” He singsongs, and Geralt sighs.

Here we go.

“In here,” he calls back.

“Ah, there you are. How was your day? How’s our girl?”

He’s far too chipper for someone who just imploded his own professional life.

“Jask, sit. We need to talk about this.”

“About what, love? I’m free. Finally!” He throws celebratory hands in the air, and Geralt just barely spots the tremor in them.

He’s not as okay as he’s pretending to be.

“While I’m happy that you’re happy with this decision—I can’t help but wonder if it’s a bit rash,” he says gently. “You know I’ll support you no matter what, baby, but…”

Jaskier turns that naked blue gaze on him, and after a moment of indignant denial, he deflates.

“Okay. You’re not wrong. It was a decision made in the heat of the moment,” the younger man admits. “But I’ve been considering it for a long while, Geralt. And today, I—I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

He sinks onto the sofa beside the larger man, dropping his head to rest on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

Jaskier nestles closer.

“The usual. Despite years of experience and significant contribution to the company’s income in the process, some of the executives still try to treat me like a fucking intern.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “My face may not be on the album covers, but I’m the reason many of them exist. And I finally reached my limit on how much longer I could tolerate such treatment.”

Geralt wraps an arm around him.

“It sounds like it was good for you to leave.”

“It was.” His breath turns shaky. “I know it was.” Jaskier chews on his lower lip, absentmindedly stroking over Roach’s fur when she leaps into his lap. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got some savings, and I can find another job, or maybe some other gigs… With those and my nights at Kaer Morhen—I can pay my bills. I think?” He presses trembling hands to his eyes. “Fuck, I’ve never done this. Living off my music, I’ve never been able to—"

Geralt pulls him closer, sparing just a moment of remorse for dislodging Roach and forcing her to jump down, his instinct to comfort Jaskier in his rising anxiety too much to ignore. He presses warm lips to the younger man’s forehead, determined to smooth out the creases his worry is putting in the normally flawless skin.

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you. I can help you find other gigs, vouch for you, anything. Don’t forget you’re not alone in this, Jaskier.”

The musician’s lips twist.

“You’re too fucking generous for your own good, you marvelous creature.”

Just for you, Jask.

The tightly wound tension finally drains from Jaskier’s body, and he sighs into Geralt’s shoulder.

I want to ask him.

But after today’s events… I should wait.

He’s had enough excitement for one day.

The wait is killing him, but he wants to make sure the younger man has a clear head when he gives his answer, and obviously now is not the time, what with Jaskier upending a significant part of his life.

Roach hops back up, landing on Geralt’s lap this time, and both men wrinkle their noses at the smell she brings with her.

“Oh, Roachie, not again!" Jaskier complains, spotting the smear of yep, cat shit her paws have left on the older man’s jeans. “When will you learn to cover your poo instead of stepping in it? Bloody hell.” He covers his nose. “Ugh, Geralt, it’s all over her arse, too.”

More used to the shit-related accidents, Geralt scoops her up and stands with a grunt.

“I’ll go wash her off. Can you see if she got it anywhere else while I’m in there?”

Jaskier grimaces, then holds up a hand.

“Wait, give me your jeans. I was going to do a load of denim tonight anyway.”

They make a comical picture as the Geralt stops, holding the messy cat aloft while Jaskier kneels to unbuckle his belt and pull the soiled trousers down his legs.

“This is the least sexy way you’ve ever undressed me,” the older man grumbles, earning himself a snicker in return.

“Parenthood, love. It complicates things.”

“I’ve been a parent. Ciri never shit on me.”

Blue eyes glare at him, those lips he’s mapped with his own turning down in displeasure.

“That’s not fair. She was already potty-trained when you adopted her. Roachie is still learning.”

And now we’re comparing my daughter to the cat we found in the garbage.

Roach mewls uncertainly, and Geralt’s heart softens.

Ugh, fine. She’s cute. And she makes Jaskier happy.

Dammit.

Once Geralt can step free from his pants, he beelines for the bathroom, closing the door behind him to prevent any feline escape.

With Geralt disappeared to bathe Roach, Jaskier tosses the dirty jeans onto the pile of denim for now and heads for the cupboard where they keep cleaning supplies. Time to hunt for shitty footprints.

The task is easy, and it lets his mind wander back to what to do next, now that he’s no longer employed.

Still can’t believe I fucking did it.

Dr. Shani is probably going to chew me out for making such an impulsive decision.

He’s a long way from having to go back to couch surfing, thankfully, having been nagged enough by Yennefer to actually put money in his savings account on a regular basis. The gig at Kaer Morhen will be enough to scrape by for now, at least until he secures another source of income.

This can work.

With Roach’s mess cleaned up, he thoroughly washes his hands and returns to his laundry pile, which is patiently awaiting his pocket-emptying expertise.

While Geralt is very nearly flawless, the man seems to have a supernatural ability to leave everything in his fucking pockets. Keys, lip balm, lube packets, you name it. And after the first time Jaskier took over the laundry and had to clean what seemed to be at least seven receipts’ worth of shredded, soggy paper from Geralt’s washing machine, he always double-checks.

Just in case.

He sets the Roach-poop jeans to the side so they don’t smear on anything else and gets to work, dropping all the little treasures he finds in a bowl for Geralt to sort through later.

Why the hell does this man always accept receipts? You don’t need them, Geralt, fucking hell.

By the time he’s through the pile, he’s got at least two sets of car keys, several sticks of gum, a handful of hair ties, and an impressive amount of lube packets rattling around in the bowl beside him. Plus all the bloody receipts.

Pack rat.

He’s just digging through the shit-soiled pair as Geralt emerges from the bathroom, Roach enveloped in a fluffy towel and meowing pathetically, and his fingers snag something unfamiliar in the front pocket.

What the hell?

Is that ribbon?

“Geralt, my sweet love, since when did you start keeping your house key on a fancy ribbon instead of your carabiner?” He holds it up for inspection, the familiar metal shape dangling from his fingers, and his boyfriend’s expression goes slack.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

Silver hair hangs with Geralt’s head, shaking, and he sighs.

“I forgot that was in there.”

Jaskier chuckles.

“It’s fine, darling. I’ve got all your other treasures right here—"

“It’s not mine, actually.”

Dark brows lift and draw together.

“Okay… then who, pray tell, does this key belong to?”

What is he playing at?

I know this key.

Maybe it’s Ciri’s?

Geralt sighs, face reddening.

“I—I was hoping it would be yours.”

Open confusion reigns supreme on the younger man’s face.

“I mean, I appreciate it, but I already have a key to your home, love. Does giving me a spare somehow warrant such a reaction?”

The older man groans.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this. Fuck.”

Jaskier frowns.

“Alright, now you’re making me nervous. Talk to me, Geralt.”

Golden eyes are full of hope when they lock with his, sending that familiar electricity skittering down his spine.

“I know you already have one, but it was supposed to be symbolic. I—" He runs a free hand through his hair, breathing deep. “I was going to give that to you when I asked you to move in with me.”

Jaskier blanches.

Wait a minute.

What?

Geralt continues, rumbling voice betraying his anxiety.

“I just—you mentioned your lease is up soon, and you practically live here already anyway, and…” He smiles at the younger man, tentative and vulnerable. “I love waking up beside you, Jask. I want to do it every day. I want you here, all the time, because without you it’s just so empty—" he cuts himself off, shaking his head. When he speaks next, his voice is steady. “I love you, Jaskier. Will you move in with me?”

The musician gapes at him, actually speechless for once.

Oh my gods.

This man.

This amazing, magnificent man I call mine.

I love him so much.

Jaskier surges to his feet, nearly knocking Geralt off his when he throws his arms around the larger man and attacks those wonderful lips, relishing the scratch of his love’s stubble on his chin.

“Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man!”

Roach meows out a protest where she’s squished between them.

“Is that a yes?”

“Of fucking course it is!”

Geralt frees the cat from her fabric prison, then wraps those deliciously muscled arms around the younger man, nearly squeezing the breath from his chest with how tightly he’s holding him.

And Jaskier can’t stop kissing him.

The best part is, I don’t have to stop.

When they finally come up for air, panting and painfully hard, Jask tilts his head back, letting Geralt get his fill of his neck while he speaks.

“Find someone to watch Roach tonight, love,” he breathes. “I’m cashing in my raincheck.”

Fuck.

Geralt runs the flogger down Jaskier’s spine, between shoulder blades painted red.

So fucking good.

Jaskier trembles against the St. Andrew’s Cross, buckled in so he’s facing the crossed beams and his backside is wide open for Geralt’s flogger.

“So fucking pretty, baby. I’ve never seen a more gorgeous shade of red.”

He whips the flogger twice on the meat of his sub’s ass, one per glorious cheek, relishing the sound of each impact as it harmonizes with the younger man’s answering whimpers.

Whimpers that get louder when he can’t decide if he wants to punish his chest by arching away from the brutal thuds, or take them full-force.

The clamps were a stroke of genius.

Secured to the sub’s nipples, with the connecting chain looped around the junction of the cross, the alligator clamps tug beautifully every time Jaskier pulls against his bindings, forcing out those desperate whines that make Geralt’s cock so agonizingly hard.

Every lovely inch of the sub is trembling, his own cock leaking profusely, and Geralt smiles.

All fucking mine.

He moves in close, warm breath ruffling the younger man’s hair as he wraps his free hand around that pretty throat, over the collar buckled around it, showing him just who his little lark belongs to.

Me.

“You like that, baby? Taking it so well for me?”

Jaskier blinks, craning his head back to catch a glimpse of Geralt’s face.

“Yes, sir,” he gasps, voice wrecked.

Fuck.

“I know you do. Such a good boy.”

He drags his hand down his sub’s chest, avoiding the clamps, and fists that sweet, straining cock.

Perfect.

“Who does this belong to, Jaskier?”

“You,” he whines in answer, hips stuttering as he’s torn between pressing the plug in his ass against Geralt’s hard cock or thrusting into his callused fingers. “Please, sir—"

The Dom releases his erection in favor of grasping the smaller man’s jaw, twisting his head to claim plush lips in a possessive kiss, biting and deep and savage. He swallows every sound Jaskier makes, enamored with the sweet symphony of his sub’s pleasure, and when he’s had enough, he steps back and begins a new series of lashes across that delicious ass, sparing a few for his shaking thighs, too.

“Fuck, Geralt—" Jaskier’s fingers and toes curl when he arcs too far, the clamps pinning him in place and ripping a needy sob from his throat.

The older man takes a moment to admire the trembling curve of his sub’s back, every lean muscle tense and quivering and beautiful.

“I should’ve put clamps on you sooner. This is fucking gorgeous, baby.”

He presses in close again, making sure Jaskier can feel the heat of him, the line of desire in his trousers that only Jaskier can put there.

“I thought about gagging you.” His hand clasps his sub’s face again, this time sinking two fingers into the sinfully wet heat between lush lips. “But then I couldn’t hear you sing. And I love when you sing for me, little lark.”

Jask moans around his fingers, tongue working along the lengths of them with a devotion that makes Geralt’s cock throb in his pants.

He forces himself to withdraw his hand from heaven on earth, lowering it to twist slick fingers in the chain attached to his nipple clamps. Jaskier squirms in place when he gives it a teasing tug, trapped between his Dom and the cross with no escape.

The older man bends his head to lick at the droplet of sweat racing down the line of his sub’s jaw.

“I’ve never heard moans as pretty as yours, baby.” He presses a kiss just behind Jaskier’s ear, scraping at the skin with his teeth. “It’s a privilege knowing they’re just for me.”

“Only for you, sir,” his sub gasps, and Geralt wishes he could see his answering smile.

“That’s right, Jask. They’re mine. Just like you.”

He’s still riding the high of Jaskier saying yes to him, agreeing to share his home, to wake up with the younger man in his arms every day and know he’ll be right there again every night when they go to sleep.

He’s my home.

He steps back to swing four fierce lashes across Jaskier’s delicious ass, closing his eyes to revel in his sub’s responding whine.

“Please.”

“What do you want, baby?”

“You.”

“Hmm, you’ll have to be more specific.”

He drops the flogger, crowding the younger man up against the beams of the cross. He loves how small Jaskier feels, like he can cover every inch of him with room to spare.

I can protect him from anything.

Except me.

“What part of me do you need, Jaskier?”

His fingertips trace the younger man’s stretched rim, dipping in next to the plug, while his other arm bars across his sub’s chest to draw him back from the cross and torment his abused nipples.

“Ungh. Your cock. In me. Please,” he whimpers, and Geralt nips at the delicate lobe of his ear.

“Mmm, greedy. You already have something in there, but you want more…”

He grasps the base, tugging it free from Jaskier’s body and letting it fall to the floor.

“You know, baby, I can’t decide which part of you is more starved for cock,” he muses. “Your sinful fucking mouth—" he pauses to conquer said mouth, tongue sweeping in to taste his sub’s desperate moan. “—or your tight little hole.” He presses a thumb inside the furled opening, and he knows it’s not enough by the way Jaskier’s hips shift, grinding back in search of more.

Insatiable.

And yet he can’t help but indulge him, reaching down to free himself from the confines of his pants and place his tip at the younger man’s twitching entrance.

“Take what you need, baby.”

The command is barely past his lips when Jaskier throws his hips back, Geralt plunging into clinging heat almost dizzyingly fast while Jask sobs at finally being filled. He rocks into his Dom, his moans growing increasingly frustrated because he can’t get the leverage he wants, can’t generate enough force to fuck himself on Geralt’s cock the way he needs.

“Fuck, please, Geralt—"

“Is that how you address me?”

“Please, sir, I need it, please.” He’s truly begging now, frantically working himself on Geralt’s length to no avail.

Hmm, I’ll take pity on him.

My way.

He lifts his free hand back to the chain, keeping Jaskier trapped against his chest, and leans down to murmur into his ear.

“I’ll give you everything, Jaskier.”

His hips snap into his sub’s in the same moment that he yanks on the chain, and the smaller man keens, struggling in Geralt’s hold for more, for less, for something.

Geralt sets a brutal pace then, the sound of his hips against Jaskier’s scarlet ass ringing through his playroom, pounding breathy moans from the depths of the younger man’s throat with every thrust. He tugs on the chain at irregular intervals, sending the moans to a higher, pleading pitch, and sets his teeth against Jaskier’s shoulder, another point of contact to tie the other to him. Finding the sub’s prostate is simple by now, a memorized target that Geralt hits with every stroke, driven by the sounds coming from the man encasing him.

Jask’s pleas come in an endless stream, begging to come, and Geralt is nothing if not generous, panting as that pretty little hole clutches at him when he withdraws.

“You think you deserve to come?”

“Yes, yes—"

“Tell me why.”

“I’ve been good, so good, fuck, I’m yours—"

Geralt smiles against his skin.

“Then come for me.”

He jerks the chain so hard that the clamps pull free, sinking back in as Jaskier’s overwhelmed shout travels down to his hole, clenching in a vicegrip that rips Geralt’s orgasm straight from his spine. He hears the splatter of Jaskier’s cum on the floor as he spills his own deep into his sub, hips flush against that gorgeous ass.

So fucking perfect.

Shudders wrack the smaller man’s entire frame as he recovers, trembling against Geralt’s bulk. The Dom presses reassuring kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, keeping one supportive arm around Jaskier while the other hand blindly releases him from his bindings.

“I love you,” Jask whimpers, reaching for Geralt as soon as his hands are free, brushing shaking fingers over the older man’s skin. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, baby. You did so well.” He unclips Jaskier’s ankles, walking him backward to the bed. “You always do so well for me. My perfect Jaskier.”

They collapse atop the mattress, Jask spinning in his arms to wrap himself around Geralt’s body, every limb clinging to the older man. Hitching sobs are buried in Geralt’s chest, and he rubs soothing hands over his sub’s back, murmuring softly to assure Jaskier that he’s everything Geralt could ever want.

“I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here.”

I wish I knew poetry like he does.

I wish I could fill his ears with masterful prose, words as beautiful as he is.

He deserves nothing less.

“I love you, Jask. The sun should be ashamed of rising each day, knowing it has you to compete with.”

Jaskier’s exhausted smile is brilliant, indulgent when he turns it up to the older man’s face.

“Fucking sap. I love you.”

Once they’ve recovered, they agree to head over to Jaskier’s place to get a jumpstart on packing, because the man’s extensive wardrobe will require multiple trips alone.

“It’s too bad we didn’t bring your mom van,” the younger man laments, leading the way up the path to his front door, fingers intertwined with Geralt’s. “That thing looks like it can haul loads of stuff.”

“We’ve got time,” the older man reminds, reeling him back in for a kiss. “All the time we need, really.”

Jask beams at him.

Fuck. 

I’ll never get used to how beautiful he is.

They’re not far from Jaskier’s door when Geralt spots a young woman waiting there, golden curls shining even under the artificial light. His brows furrow in confusion.

“Jask, who is that?”

The younger man turns, stiffening.

“Priscilla?”

“I didn’t know who else to go to,” Priscilla mumbles, tears streaking down her face.

“Let me get this straight,” Jaskier begins, sitting across from her in his tiny living room. Geralt reappears, passing them both steaming mugs of tea and taking the seat beside him. “Your parents caught you with your girlfriend in your bedroom…” his voice trails off with a wince. He really doesn’t want to talk about his teenaged cousin’s love life.

“We weren’t even doing anything. Just making out,” the blonde insists, biting her lip. “But they threatened to kick me out if I don’t break up with her.”

Jaskier’s fists clench.

It appears the homophobia in my family is alive and well.

“I’m sorry, Prissy. I know how hard that is.”

When she blinks, more tears spill.

“She’s not out to her parents, so I can’t stay there without raising questions. And all of my friends’ parents would call mine, and then they’d know…” she sobs, and Jaskier reaches over to pat her on the hand.

He knows who’s really behind this.

Priscilla’s parents adore her, and the love is mutual. But his aunt and uncle have always deferred to his parents, which is why Jaskier ended up couch surfing all those years ago, instead of staying with the family he had just down the road.

They’ve poisoned them against her, just like they did with me.

Fucking bigoted assholes.

Anger burns hot on Jaskier’s chest, and he clenches his hands around the mug trapped between them.

“You can stay with me, of course, as long as you need,” he assures her. “I’m here for you, Prissy.”

She takes a deep breath, and her smile is bright even through her tears.

“Thank you, Jaskier. I knew you’d understand.”

“What are you going to do about school?”

She’s in her last year, with uni just around the corner, and he knows she’s got a record to keep up.

“Break starts next week, so that’s not an issue right now, thankfully.” She sighs, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Jaskier… I was hoping…”

“Yeah?”

“Will you talk to my parents for me? Maybe you can convince them it’s okay.” There’s hope in those blue eyes that are so much like his own, and his heart aches in response. “I mean, look at you! You’re gay, and yet you’re doing so well, and you’ve got—“ she pauses, finally acknowledging Geralt. “I’m sorry, we haven’t actually met, have we?”

“Prissy, this is Geralt,” Jaskier introduces, grasping his boyfriend’s hand to disguise the shaking in his own. “Geralt, this is my cousin, Priscilla.”

“Nice to meet you,” the older man says automatically, and she nods in response.

“You too.” She shakes herself. “Sorry. As I was saying, you’ve got such a good life here. If anyone can show them that who I love isn’t the end of the world, it’s you.”

Old fears creep up the musician’s spine at the thought of reliving those conversations, those painful, horrid conversations that fester like open wounds in his heart.

She shouldn’t have to do this alone.

Not like I did.

But still, the thought of confronting his family head-on after all this time—it’s fucking terrifying.

“I’ll—I’ll think about it, okay? For now, I’ll show you to your room, and you can clean up, then try to get some sleep, alright?”

He explains where the bathroom is and lends her a new toothbrush, some toiletries, and towels. While she’s in the shower, he makes up the guest bed, Geralt helping him silently.

“I called Ciri. She said she’s fine staying with Roach tonight.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to go back?”

The older man shakes his head.

“You’re my priority, Jask. As long as you’ll have me, I’m staying with you.”

I love him so fucking much.

“Thank you. Fuck, Geralt, you have no idea how much that means—" he cuts himself off, feeling his throat go tight with emotion.

“Are you really going to do this, baby?” Geralt asks, concern obvious in his tone. “I saw your face. You don’t have to go there and see them, not if it will hurt you.”

Jaskier smoothes the duvet with unsteady hands.

“I need to. For Priscilla, and for me. I could do with some closure.”

Geralt nods solemnly.

“Alright. Can I come with you?”

The younger man smiles, emotion choking him again.

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

I can do this.

I’ll have Geralt beside me.

I’ll stand up for her the way no one stood up for me.

Chapter Text

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Jaskier turns to Geralt, who’s driving with one hand on the wheel and the other curled around the younger man’s leg.

“I think Priscilla would understand if it’s too painful,” he continues, worry furrowing dark grey brows.

Always taking care of me.

“Trust me, love, I am absolutely not looking forward to it,” he asserts. “But it’s necessary.”

If anything, he can tell them she’s safe. Knowing his aunt and uncle, they have to be worried for her. The drive from Lettenhove is hours long, and a young woman traveling alone is bound to make anyone nervous.

“And please thank Ciri again when you get the chance. I would’ve hated to leave Prissy by herself.”

Geralt nods.

“Of course. She’s your family, and you’re ours.”

Jaskier’s breath catches, warmth radiating from the center of his chest and finding its way up to bloom on his face.

Does he know?

Does he realize how saying something so simple makes me love him that much more?

“And you don’t mind missing your Sunday plans for this?”

The hand on Jask tightens briefly.

“You need me right now. I already rescheduled with Ciri, and I bribed Vesemir. We’re all clear, baby.”

“Bribed him with what?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth lifts.

“I’m bringing you to the next family dinner. And asking if you want to come over for Christmas.”

The younger man’s jaw drops.

“You bribed him with me?”

The incredulity in his tone earns him a chuckle.

“He likes you. And I think he wants to hear you play, so don’t be surprised if he asks.”

Jaskier blinks, stunned.

“Well, I—I can do that, I suppose.”

And there’s the grin that grips his heart in a vice of choking affection.

“Great.”

“Plus, I’d love to see what Ciri’s Geralt Bingo present is.”

The older man groans.

“Fuck. Not you, too.”

Jaskier’s smile is wide and mischievous.

“Oh, absolutely, darling. And I plan on winning next year.” He pats a muscled shoulder. “As you know, I’m quite competitive.”

“Careful, Jask. I can’t punish any of them, but you…” his smile is wickedly dangerous. “Antagonizing me may not be in your best interest.”

The musician pouts.

“Spoilsport.”

When they fall back into comfortable silence, Jask tries not to dwell on his rising nerves, grasping Geralt’s hand instead for something else to focus on. He examines the calluses closely, the shape of his palm, tracing the lines there and wishing he knew what they meant.

I wonder if I’d see me in them.

He follows the curve of every finger, brushing exploratory fingertips over coarse knuckles and the corded tendons that give him the strength and dexterity that ties the younger man up in knots.

Sometimes literally.

Jaskier snorts to himself, and Geralt curls his fingers around his love’s hand, bringing it up to his lips for a kiss.

“We don’t have to stay long, alright? I’ll be with you the entire time. If at any moment you want to go, we can go, no questions asked,” the other man assures him. “Your safety is what’s most important to me, Jask.”

“Thank you, love.” He means it. Having the older man by his side is a bolster to his resolve, and a welcome support when the doubts creep in.

I really am in love with him.

It’s not immediately obvious how the world changes when the cross the town limits, but Jaskier swears he can feel it. Memories tug at him from all sides, the familiar landscape jarring in how unsafe he suddenly feels. This is not how home should feel, like a battlefield he’s finally returning to long after the dust has settled, ghosts lurking across the land in waiting. His hand tightens on Geralt’s, and he knows Geralt sees the signs, billboards here and there advertising churches and evangelism and making his skin crawl. There aren’t any pride flags flying, nothing even remotely suggesting that this place is welcoming to queer folks.

Because it really isn’t.

Lettenhove is built on religion, and outliers tend not to last long. There’s no outward violence, of course, nothing untoward to mar the squeaky clean image they’re all so fucking obsessed with. It’s the sideways glances, the whispering, the microaggressions—he grew up with all of it. The Pankratz boy who smiled a bit too wide, who showed too much affection and wore too much color. His parents hated taking him anywhere, because the stares and whispers followed him no matter where they went, even when they went out of their way to bend him into the right shape.

His mother only bought him clothes that were conservative and overtly masculine, dark or drab colors that wouldn’t draw the eye or cling too tight. His father spoke over him when possible, doing everything short of instructing him to stay quiet, determined to prevent Julian from embarrassing him in front of his peers.

Julian.

Boxed in and beaten down until you gave up.

Until you didn’t care who you were, so long as you didn’t have to suffer the silence and resentment that blanketed your life.

So fucking suffocating.

Fuck, he remembers the first time he bought himself clothes, having saved up a bit from a summer job at the supermarket and wanting just a little something for himself. His father was livid, disgusted, but of course it wasn’t said out loud—no, it was in his eyes, the disappointment, the distaste, and there wasn’t any screaming, just a long, exhaustive lecture on “not giving people the wrong idea” and what it means to be a “real man.”

It was just one fucking shirt. A boring shirt just like all the others, but for the color. Yellow.

Like buttercups.

He’d just wanted one thing for himself, one speck of brightness to clutch close when the isolation became too numbing.

His mother “accidentally” spilled bleach on it the following week.

Jaskier grips Geralt’s hand tightly, throat closing around the despair he’d felt, remembering the tears he’d had to hide from his parents.

I hid so many things.

Buried them, and a piece of myself with every hole I dug.

Until there wasn’t anything left of me to see the sun.

University felt like salvation. Away from the crushing weight of his parents’ disappointment and judgment and prejudice, he’d slowly started making choices for himself. Buying the clothes he wanted to wear, studying music instead of business like his father believed, socializing and talking and not hating himself every minute of every day. He’d befriended people who didn’t care what fucking color his shirt was, or who he liked, what he wanted.

The first time he kissed a man, he cried. He broke down and sobbed through the night because how could it have been wrong when it felt like the truth? When it felt like him?

Trying to decide whether it was worth going to the hell he’d been promised all his life was the most agonizing experience he ever had, but he couldn’t let go of it, the joy of finally living.

As Jaskier.

He mourns Julian to this day. The boy who never understood acceptance, who lived in paralyzing fear and denial. Julian, who never got to see the sun.

Jask eyes the clock on the dashboard, taking a deep breath and nearly weeping when Geralt fills his lungs.

That’s what home feels like.

“They’ll still be at church for another hour. We should probably grab a coffee, maybe a bite to eat?”

Not sure if I actually can eat right now, but it’s good to be optimistic.

Geralt nods and pulls into a parking lot just off the main square.

“Is it… safe for me to touch you?” He asks gently, keeping their intertwined hands low enough to not be seen from outside. “Is that okay?”

Jaskier gulps.

“They won’t do anything, if that’s what you mean.” He frowns. “People might stare. Whisper. But they won’t make a scene.”

Those gorgeous golden eyes contain every ounce of love he was denied in all his years here.

“Do you want me to?”

Geralt’s hand feels like an anchor, a shield, a weapon to show them that despite all their efforts, he persists.

“Don’t let go,” Jaskier murmurs.

“Okay, I won’t.”

He can feel it in the coffee shop, the way eyes find them, then their joined hands, and judgmental silence shifts to hissing whispers that crawl over his skin like insects. Geralt’s grasp tightens, shoulders squaring like he’s heading into battle, and Jask steps closer.

The barista’s lips are pressed into a tight line, but she says nothing.

Geralt still drops a tip into the jar when he’s finished ordering, and the younger man almost chuckles to himself.

All the scary dog privilege in the world and he’s still kind to a fault.

The chatter in the room nears its normal volume again, and with their tray in one hand and Jaskier in the other, the silver-haired man guides them to a booth in the corner and lets Jask slip in first before taking the seat right beside him.

So protective.

My knight in shining armor.

… I wonder if I could get him to wear some armor. Could be hot.

“You alright?” Geralt asks him quietly, and after thinking about it, Jaskier nods.

“Actually… yeah.”

There’s no sane person on the planet who would even consider approaching Geralt with anything less than begrudging respect, and the younger man is well within the radius of his “don’t fuck with me if you want to keep all of your limbs” aura, so he can honestly say things are solidly okay right now.

And since Geralt gave her that tip, the barista didn’t even look like she was going to spit in our food.

Winning.

Despite the lack of drama so far, he can’t help but watch the clock on his phone, time ticking by in that horribly inevitable way it likes to do, and it feels like mere moments before it’s time to go see his aunt and uncle.

Fuck.

Fuckity fuckity fuck.

I can do this.

I’m not that broken kid anymore.

I’m strong, and there’s nothing they can take from me.

Not anymore.

Directing Geralt to Priscilla’s family home is a blur of anxiety and trembling breaths, but when the time comes to exit the car and knock on the front door, he steels himself.

This is for Priscilla.

And Julian.

He knocks thrice before stepping back, linking his hand back with Geralt’s and letting the larger man give him strength as the seconds pass.
The door clicks, and his aunt is on the other side, eyes red-rimmed and puffy when she looks at him with open surprise.

“Julian?”

He swallows.

Here goes nothing.

“It’s Jaskier now, actually. May we come in? I’d like to speak to you about Priscilla.”

Phew. Nailed it.

A few minutes later they find themselves in the parlor, mugs of steaming tea sitting untouched on the coffee table before them and his aunt and uncle huddled together on the opposite couch.

It’s always so uncanny to see his mother’s sister—his own cornflower blue eyes look back at him from her face, and Aunt Cecylia is the spitting image of the woman who did such a poor fucking job loving her son that he had to create an entire new identity for himself. Granted, she’s certainly aged better than his mother, and she’s always been the more compassionate of the two, a trait he’s banking on to keep her from making the same mistake his parents did.

Prissy gets her blonde hair from her father, and probably her sweet disposition, too—Uncle Aleks was one of the few who looked more regretful than hateful when his parents decided to disown Jaskier. Cecylia had merely cried, as if there was nothing in her power to do to help him.

Convenient for her.

“You said you know something about Priscilla, Jul—Jaskier,” his aunt begins, stumbling over her words. “Is she safe? Where is she?”

He nods.

“She’s safe, I promise you. She came to find me, and we’ve been taking care of her.”

“We?” His uncle’s gaze shifts between him and Geralt.

His boyfriend squeezes his hand, and it’s enough to quell the nerves at telling them the truth. His wonderful, blessed fucking truth.

“Yes. This is Geralt, my partner.”

The silver-haired man gives a polite nod to each of them.

To their credit, they look stunned, but the disgust he expected to see is nicely absent.

Cecylia recovers first.

“You have a partner… well, that’s—that’s nice.” She clears her throat, hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

Jaskier wants to be spiteful. He wants to rage, and scream, and demand to know why they did what they did, why they think little banal pleasantries are enough to make up for abandoning him when he needed them most. He wishes the hurt didn’t outweigh the spite.

“Thank you.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “I came here today because I think you’re making a mistake with Priscilla. You made a similar one with me, and we all know how that turned out.” Only speaking to each other when Jaskier is in town for one of Prissy’s milestones, consumed by the awkward discomfort of guilt and resentment every time they’re forced into close proximity. Hell, Jaskier hasn’t even been back to this house since he came out, and being back within these walls is making his skin crawl.

He forces himself to continue, Geralt’s bulk at his side a solid wall of comfort.

“I know you love Priscilla. And she adores you both.” His heart aches when he thinks of how much he used to covet their relationship, how much it hurt to see them doting on his cousin with so much warmth and affection as he became more and more numb, so alone. “You can’t let prejudice be the thing that destroys that. Especially when each of us is fully aware of where that hate is actually coming from.”

His aunt’s complexion goes ghostly, while Aleks stiffens. The latter responds.

“We don’t know what you’re talking about—"

“Of course you do,” Jaskier snaps, barely refraining from raising his voice. “You’re letting yourselves be the puppets of my parents’ hatred, and you’re going to lose Priscilla if you don’t grow some fucking spines and defend her.”

“Julian, I know you don’t think that this life you’ve chosen is sinful, but our daughter is still young, and it’s not too late—" His glare shuts her down.

“Don’t parrot that bullshit at me. You know it’s not a choice. Not for me, and not for Prissy.” 

“Priscilla is just confused,” Aleks says, sounding completely unconvinced by his own argument. “Once she returns to a more godly path and abandons these sinful notions—"

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jask groans, shaking his head. “You can’t look past your bigotry for your own fucking child? Fine.” He clenches his jaw so they can’t see the pain that makes it quiver. He’s not going to sit here and listen to this again. “Then I will love her in your stead. I’ll teach her not to be afraid of who she is, I’ll give her everything I can, and I’ll show her love should never be fucking conditional.” He spits the last word, hands shaking, and Geralt moves closer, wrapping a soothing arm around his shoulders, just barely keeping him from breaking apart.

Why won’t they listen?

Priscilla doesn’t deserve this.