Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Thank you, thank you," Jaskier tells the crowd, bowing extravagantly as the last chord still reverberates from his lute. Half of his audience grunts while the other half ignores him. It's been a long day, and Jaskier can't even be too upset about his lukewarm reception as he bounds up the steps to their room.

Geralt's in the room already. The room's dark, faint shadows cast on the walls from the dim light coming in from the window. He's facing the window, white hair shining unnaturally bright in the dark, shape of his shoulders outlined by disappearing rays of the afternoon sun coming in through the window.

"Geralt!" Jaskier says cheerfully, tossing the lute on the bed closest to the door. "Why are you standing here in the dark? Light a candle! It's a little creepy, don't you think?"

"Hmm," Geralt says, from behind him.

Jaskier freezes. The man at the window — bone-white hair so much like Geralt's but it can't be — doesn't move. He turns to the side, slowly, trying to get a look at Geralt behind him while also keeping an eye on the stranger.

Geralt looks like his usual, unflappable self, standing in the doorway with one eyebrow raised. Jaskier hadn't even heard him come in, but of course he wouldn't. Jaskier huffs an annoyed sigh — honestly, who taught Geralt to be so melodramatic — but relaxes a bit at the lack of reaction. Feels curiosity replace the nervousness that had settled in his chest.

"Who's your friend, Geralt?"

Geralt takes a step forward, letting the door shut with a soft thud.

"Geralt?" Jaskier says.

The man at the window turns, near-silent but for the soft shift of fabric.

Golden eyes glint at Jaskier in the dark, calm and familiar.

"Ahh," Jaskier says, eyes moving slowly from the Geralt at the doorway to Geralt at the window. "I see."

He doesn't see, not at all. A strange, eerie panic builds in his gut, making the baby hairs of his neck stand on end. There's two Geralts in this room, and neither of them look especially concerned to be confronted with their doppelganger. They look absolutely identical, except Geralt-in-the-room is wearing a dark tunic and Geralt-in-the-doorway is still armored.

"Well!" Jaskier says, voice too-loud and cheerful in the quiet. "I think I should be off. Bar patrons to serenade, coin to make and all that."

Geralt steps further into the room. Jaskier stumbles backward, realizing belatedly he's being forced closer to the other Geralt near the window, and isn't that confusing? They're both close enough in the small room that he can't keep both of them in view, finds himself twirling around in an anxious circle, window-door-window-door, trying to figure out which Geralt he needs to be most concerned about.

"Calm down," Geralt says, and he's not even sure which one.

"Calm? I am calm," Jaskier says.

The door is unlocked. It looks so, so close in the small room, if only he could reach it.

"Sit down," Geralt says. It's the armored one, this time, the one between Jaskier and the door.

"Right." Jaskier nods a little frantically, and makes as if to sit. At the last second he feints, vaulting over the bed in a mad scramble to the door.

It's over before he even realizes what's happening. Large hands wrap around his ankles, yanking him backwards. He twists fruitlessly in the grip, punching out blindly.

"Calm down," Geralt growls. His body blankets Jaskier's, heavy and painful, straps of leather and silver rivets digging into Jaskier's skin.

"Get off me!"

"He'll tire himself out," Geralt says, voice coming from somewhere above Jaskier's head.

The Geralt crushing Jaskier huffs, sounding so annoyed that righteous indignation manages to pierce through the haze of terror and anxiety.

"Oh, so sorry to inconvenience you," Jaskier snaps. "Get off!" Geralt shifts, pressure lightening, and for the briefest of moments Jaskier thinks, maybe. Then he settles, heavy weight of his body forcing Jaskier's legs into the bed, hands circling around his wrists and pulling them over his head, hands unbottoning Jaskier's doublet.

Jaskier feels briefly disoriented —that's too many hands, he thinks, ridiculously, on the edge of absolute hysteria— before he feels the shift of extra weight on the mattress and realizes it's the other Geralt, kneeling on the edge of the bed and pinning Jaskier's hands in place while the Geralt above him removes his clothes.

Jaskier feels his breath quicken, panting short and fast.

"What are you doing," Jaskier says, stupidly.

Geralt snorts, a soft huff of laughter. "What do you think, bard," he says.

"I think we should maybe talk about this," Jaskier tries, dropping the indignation in favor of a more wheedling tone.

It's another surprise when Geralt leans in and kisses him. He's insistent but surprisingly gentle, careful almost, calloused hand cupping Jaskier's jaw and moving him where he wants him. Jaskier's lips part on instinct, and a groan slips out of his mouth, unbidden.

Jaskier feels Geralt's smile against his lips, hears the amused puff of breath from the other Geralt above his head.

Jaskier flushes, turns his head to the side.

"Relax, Jaskier," Geralt says. "It's just me."

"You're not Geralt," Jaskier says, unable to meet either sets of eyes boring into him.

Of course he's thought about this. Fantasized, both alone with a hand down his pants and during sex with other people, tried to picture Geralt in bed.

But this… this isn't how he wants it.

The monster wearing Geralt's face doesn't care. He kisses Jaskier again, soft but domineering, and his hands slip down Jaskier's body to the waistline of his trousers.

"Geralt," Jaskier says, words catching in his throat. "Geralt, wait—"

"Shh," Geralt says, voice pitched low and soothing. His hand travels inexorably down Jaskier's body, popping open the button of his trousers and pulling them off in one swift movement. Jaskier bucks, twists his freed hips away and to the side, but Geralt just kicks his legs apart easily and settles between them.

Another laugh from above his head. "Look at that," the other Geralt says, hands tightening near-painfully around Jaskier's wrists.

Jaskier closes his eyes, ashamed. A hand wraps around his half-hard dick, thumb brushing the head.

"Move over." The other Geralt —Jaskier's started to think of him as the mean one, with his smug smirks and derisive laughter— lifts Jaskier bodily off the mattress, flipping him face-down onto the bed. It's hard to tell who is who, like this, his face shoved into the rough duvet and his ass in the air.

Oil-slick fingers make their way to Jaskier's hole, tracing the rim. Jaskier tries to flinch away but can't, firm hands pressing his shoulders into the bed and forcing his knees in place. One, two fingers push into him, a smooth persistent glide that leaves no room for escape.

Jaskier's no stranger to this and it doesn't hurt, just the familiar burn of being stretched. But he's tense, uncomfortable, he doesn't want this, and if he doesn't relax it'll hurt when Geralt finally— when he finally—

"Fuck, wait," he says.

Geralt doesn't wait, pulls his fingers out of Jaskier's body in a wet slide that makes him shiver all over again.

"Breathe," Geralt says, like he's being helpful.

Panic jolts through Jaskier but he can't move, can't do anything but lie there and take it, breathing ragged and uneven, as Geralt aims the head of his cock against his hole and pushes in.

The prep wasn't enough. It aches, the width of Geralt's cock bigger than anything Jaskier's ever taken. Jaskier whimpers, tries to scrabble forward and away from the sensation, but all he does is end up with his head in the lap of the other Geralt, his arms pulled painfully to the small of his back. Geralt wraps one single, large hand around both of Jaskier's wrists, using them for leverage, the other hand pressing painfully into Jaskier's hips.

"Fuck, fuck, hold on," Jaskier pants, feels humiliated tears stinging his eyes. "Please, it's too much, just give me a second—"

Geralt bottoms out, cock stretching Jaskier impossibly wide, and Jaskier keens, broken whimpers and gasps wrenched from his mouth. The drag of Geralt's cock is too much, excruciating, and Geralt fucks him like he isn't overly concerned with Jaskier's enjoyment.

Hands pet his hair, rub the tears from his cheeks. "You're doing so well," Geralt says, voice low and rough. Jaskier feels overwhelmed, surrounded. Geralt's fucking him from behind and Geralt's holding his head in his lap, pressing him down and forcing him to take it.

Jaskier sobs and twitches, feels strangely comforted by the hands stroking his hair. This is the nice Geralt, he thinks foolishly, and immediately wants to laugh at himself for the thought. The nice Geralt is holding him immobile so the other Geralt can fuck into him, huge and merciless.

"Please," he whispers anyway. "Please, Geralt."

"We're gonna give you what you need," Nice Geralt says, and guides Jaskier's mouth to his dick.

Jaskier loses time, for a bit, floating in the sensation of being strung up between the two Geralts. Geralt thrusting into Jaskier's mouth, hands tangled in his hair and cockhead down his throat. Geralt fucking Jaskier's ass, unrelenting and on the edge of cruelty, forcing whines and choked-off sobs from his mouth.

The Geralt fucking his ass comes with a grunt. Jaskier sobs in relief as Geralt pulls out, even as he grimaces at the sudden emptiness. He can already feel the fingerprint bruises forming around his hips.

"Fuck," Geralt says, and comes into his mouth. Jaskier takes a shuddering breath, mouth hanging open, heedless of the spit and come dripping from his lips.

Jaskier closes his eyes. His whole body is weak and trembling, and he doesn't move even as he feels both of the men — or the monsters, whatever they are — withdraw. He hopes, vainly, that he'll open his eyes and they'll be gone, nothing more than a bad dream.

"Fuck," Geralt says again, and the hands come back.

Jaskier's not a small man, taller than most and sturdy across the shoulders. He's had his dalliances with men larger than himself, of course, enjoyed the push and pull of fucking a man stronger than himself. But none of them have been like this, never possessed such an overwhelming preternatural strength that leaves him helpless and at their mercy.

They move him like a doll, position him as they like with ease. He finds himself staring up at the ceiling, dazed, as they bend his knees and spread him open. His thumb traces Jaskier's abused hole, causing Jaskier to shiver and twitch helplessly, oversensitive and exhausted.

"Look at that," Geralt says.

"He's all fucked out," Geralt says.

"Please," Jaskier says, voice cracking.

Geralt's hand wraps around Jaskier's dick, still half-hard and vulnerable between his spread legs. His thumb pushes Jaskier's foreskin back, rubs along his sensitive cockhead. Jaskier gasps and his hips jerk forward despite himself, seeking the warm wet heat of Geralt's palm. Geralt chuckles and gives it one last stroke before letting go.

"My turn," the other Geralt says, and Jaskier realizes with horror that he's still hard. They're both still hard, cocks red and glistening with come.

"Please, I can't, I can't."

"I think you can," Geralt says.

The pop of an oil stopper sounds forebodingly loud in the dark room. How considerate, Jaskier thinks, and he almost wants to laugh.

It's worse, this time, despite the extra oil. Jaskier keens, a high-pitched whine ripped from his throat. He's babbling, words incomprehensible and pleading, while Geralt fucks him deep and slow, this time. Someone's hand wraps around his dick and he's grateful, the slick jerk of his tight grip a distraction from the overwhelming stretch of his cock.

Jaskier doesn't hear the door open, doesn't hear the soft thud of boots walking across the room.

"Jaskier," a voice says. Jaskier turns his head, weak, and sees the new figure standing next to the bed.

"Geralt," he says, like a prayer. A third Geralt, this one has to be the real one, he's come to save him—

Geralt reaches down, rubs a thumb across Jaskier's swollen lips. "Beautiful," he says.

Jaskier feels something in his chest crumple.

"Please, I'm sorry, it's too much," Jaskier says, voice choked and pathetic to his own ears. He doesn't know what he's apologizing for.

"You can take it," they say, hands rubbing down his flank like soothing a startled horse.

He can't, but he does.

"Think we can fit both in at once?" Geralt says, teasing. He's in Geralt's lap, impaled on his dick, with another Geralt pressed up close behind him. He rubs his cock against the rim of Jaskier's hole, already stretched wide and stuffed full. Jaskier keens, struggle renewed, but he knows it's hopeless.

"Hmm, maybe," one of them says, and Jaskier feels an oil-slick finger probe the edge of his hole curiously.

They're going to kill him.

Jaskier kisses Geralt, desperately, caresses Geralt's face with shaking hands. He's the nice one, he thinks; he likes Jaskier to want it. "Don't let them," he begs. "Please, Geralt, I can't, you'll kill me, you'll kill me."

"Hmm." He kisses back, bites Jaskier's lip and slides his tongue into his mouth. Jaskier lets him do what he wants, open-mouthed and panting.

"I think he likes you more than me," Geralt says, sardonic.

"You're mean to him." Geralt rubs a hand through Jaskier's hair fondly, like he's a favored pet.

"You're both hogging," Geralt says, sprawled out on the bed with a hand lazily stroking his cock.

"Let me suck you off, I'll make it good." Jaskier feels like he's losing his mind, frantic with panic and terror. If they both try to fuck him at once they'll rip him apart.

"Well get over here, then," Geralt says.

Three sets of golden eyes track him as he crawls over on shaky legs.

Geralt slaps Jaskier's hands away when he reaches out, tangles his fingers in Jaskier's hair so he has no control over pace or depth, no choice but to relax his throat and try to breathe when he can. Jaskier lets himself zone out, lets himself pretend. Pretends it's Geralt, the real Geralt, who he'd be happy to get on his knees for.

"Touch yourself," one of them says.

Jaskier wraps a hand around his cock obediently, afraid to anger them. It's Geralt, he thinks, you want this. This is no different than any blowjob he's ever given, can't pretend like he's never fantasized about sucking Geralt off while on his knees for another man. Thick fingers twist in his hair painfully and Jaskier shudders, comes all over his hand.

Ignores the mean laugh of the doppelgangers behind him, thinks, it's Geralt. It's just Geralt.

Geralt saves him on the fourth round, or maybe it's the fifth. Jaskier doesn't even know, entire body throbbing and bruised, too overwhelmed and dazed to keep track of the way they used him.

Jaskier sees him and thinks, oh, a fourth, with a kind of disassociated calm. It's not until the new Geralt plunges a silver sword through the Geralt pulling his hair that he realizes what's going on. The remaining two doppelgangers are dispatched in quick succession, heads rolling across the floor before they can retaliate.

Jaskier blinks, sprawled out and covered with come and fresh blood spatter. He should move, probably, but his muscles don't seem to be working quite right.

Geralt strides forward, golden eyes dark and angry as he takes in the scene. Jaskier flinches.

Geralt freezes, hand outstretched.

"Sorry," Jaskier says.

Geralt doesn't respond. He turns away, and for a split second Jaskier thinks he's just going to leave him. Instead, he pulls the grey blanket off the second bed and uses it to bundle up Jaskier, covering his entire body before lifting him up into his arms.

The ease with which Geralt moves him sends a familiar bolt of fear down his spine, but Jaskier ignores it. He'd be embarrassed to be carried like this at any other time, like a bride or a child, but now he finds he's too exhausted to feel much of anything at all.

Geralt takes him to another room in the same inn, places him on one of the beds before calling for a bath. Jaskier curls into the blankets and lets himself drift, watches Geralt move around the room with oddly vacant eyes.

"Would you like me to leave," Geralt asks.

Jaskier blinks at him. Blinks at the hot tub of steaming water in the middle of the room — when did that get here? — and looks at Geralt again, uncomprehending.

"You need a bath," Geralt says, voice oddly quiet.

Right. Jaskier nods, movement jerky and uncoordinated, and tries to sit up. He gets tangled in the blanket as he moves, and by the time he finally manages to perch on the edge of the bed, he feels sweaty and exhausted all over again.

Geralt doesn't move, watches him struggle feebly with the blanket from the opposite side of the room.

The tub looks very far away.

"I— I can't," Jaskier says. His voice rasps unpleasantly in his throat. He wonders if he still has come on his face. He hopes he doesn't, for Geralt's sake.

"Do you want my help?"

Jaskier smiles a bit, at that, mouth slanted upwards humorlessly. He doesn't want any of this.

Geralt seems to get it, though, and nods. He's not exactly gentle, calloused hands used to battle and hard work more than caretaking, but his touch feels impersonal and conscientious as he helps Jaskier get into the tub.

Once Jaskier's safely settled, Geralt doesn't leave. He hovers, awkward in a way Jaskier has never seen before. Geralt embodies a cool confidence, graceful and sure of himself no matter the environment. Awkwardness doesn't suit him, sitting strangely on his large frame.

Jaskier skims his trembling hands along the surface of the water, watches the ripples disturb the water's surface with disproportionate fascination. He likes the way the ripples distort the lines of his body under the water, make his shape warped and indistinct. The third Geralt had been the meanest, pinching deep purple bruises along Jaskier's inner thighs as he fucked him. They look blurry and ill-defined under the water, ghostly fingerprints on Jaskier's skin.

"Jaskier," Geralt says. Jaskier twitches a bit at the sound of his voice, doesn't look up.

"Yeah?"

A washcloth enters his field of vision. Jaskier takes it with a nod.

"I'll wait outside," Geralt says.

"No," Jaskier blurts out, looks up at Geralt with wide eyes.

Geralt's dressed, all of their gear in the other room, and Jaskier thinks, he knows, that if he leaves now he won't come back. Jaskier's a pest on the best of days, loud and annoying and bad at taking direction, and now he's— well, Jaskier doesn't even know what he is, now, can't bear to put a name to it.

The room is silent but for the soft splashing of water and the rhythmic tapping of rain on the windowsill. Geralt inclines his head, slowly, and sits on the bed. Jaskier lets himself float in his own head as his body goes through the motions. He feels oddly like a marionette, invisible strings moving his arms and legs as he steps out of the tub, gets dressed, sits on the edge of the bed next to Geralt.

"So," Jaskier says. "Any more doubles I should be worried about?" He means it to sound flippant, wants to cloak himself in unaffected humor. It falls flat, his usual wit out of reach, words thick and false on his tongue.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier sees Geralt twitch almost imperceptibly. "No," he says. His face is impassive. "It was a curse. I've taken care of it."

"Well that's good. They didn't really have your charm," Jaskier says. "A little too chatty, if you'd believe it. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I found myself quite missing your usual taciturnity."

"Jaskier." Geralt sounds stiff, a strained edge to the words.

"Don't go and ruin it, now," Jaskier says. Shifts on the bed so he's facing Geralt fully, legs tucked underneath him. Geralt continues to look ahead, eyes fixed on nothing that Jaskier can see.

His hand reaches out, touches Geralt's shoulder tentatively. Something in his body shivers at the contact, cringes pitifully away from the man who shoved him down on a bed so similar to this one and— he forcefully shuts down that train of thought. If he doesn't get over it now, he'll never be able to touch Geralt again.

The thought makes him ache deep in his chest, more painful than the bruises and burning soreness of his body, the idea that something between them is irrevocably ruined. That one night could destroy their fragile, burgeoning friendship, leave Jaskier disconnected and hollow.

Geralt holds unnaturally still, but he doesn't push Jaskier away. Jaskier tugs, knows fully he could never move Geralt if he didn't want to be moved, but Geralt lets himself be poked and prodded, moved and repositioned like there is any power in Jaskier's hands.

Geralt's finally looking at him, and Jaskier forces himself to meet his eyes. He looks exactly like he did when Jaskier first met him, like he did this morning when they made camp. Exactly like the three specters that showed up in their room.

"Let me," Jaskier starts, stops. He brings his other hand up to touch Geralt's face, cupping his jaw gently. He closes his eyes, lets touch and instinct guide him forward to press his lips to Geralt's. He thinks this will be the moment Geralt stops humoring him; another punch to the gut, reminiscent of their first meeting, or maybe he'll just push him away gently but firmly, eyes pitying.

But Geralt— Geralt lets him, keeps still and docile under his hands. His lips are soft, a little chapped. They part slightly, allowing Jaskier access, but Jaskier doesn't push, keeping it a chaste brush of skin against skin.

When Jaskier was little, he fancied himself an artist. He was atrocious, naturally, deftness of his fingers on the lute failing to translate to skill with a brush. He'd paint the same canvas over and over, fascinated by the way fresh brushstrokes would completely obscure his previous efforts. A castle hidden underneath a forest hidden under rolling fields of wheat.

Maybe that's not how this works, but Jaskier wants to try.

"Thank you," Jaskier murmurs, voice a whisper. He lets his hands drop, and only then does Geralt pull away.

"I'll keep watch," Geralt says. Face as unflappable and unreadable as ever, he says it like everything's normal, like nothing strange has happened at all. It soothes something in Jaskier's chest, makes him take in a deep, shuddering breath as he nods.

Curled up under the covers, Jaskier watches Geralt. Seated in the middle of the room, eyes closed, legs crossed in his signature meditative stance. Nothing escapes Geralt's notice, when he's like this; he can hear a man on horseback a mile away, Jaskier's seen it, so he knows nothing will be able to enter the room without escaping Geralt's notice.

Still. Jaskier shifts under his blankets, feels the tension building.

"Go to sleep, Jaskier."

Jaskier nods, tries to still himself. His feet twitch restlessly under the covers.

"You're sure?" he says, finally, unable to let it go. "They can't come back?"

"I promise."

Jaskier nods again. This is Geralt, he thinks. Memories crowd his head, flashes of lights-sounds-smells; hands in his hair, merciless yellow eyes glinting down at him, derisive huffs of laughter and cruel comments. Jaskier curls tighter in his blankets and shakes his head like he can physically shake the thoughts away.

Thinks instead of the metallic-sour smell of paint and turpentine, the rasp of bristles against canvas. Thinks of Geralt, the real Geralt, with careful hands and soft lips, broad shoulders forming a barrier between Jaskier and the door.

Somehow, he sleeps.