Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It wasn’t one wyvern, it was a nest.”

The Earl of Lettenhove pales considerably as Geralt holds up the strung set of heads, five as proof of his claim, leaving another four behind. One creature he’d been told, maybe two. But nine? Nine was too many for a couple hundred orens, even for a town that looked to be struggling from the recent dry season.

The Earl recovers quickly, brushing his clothes off of imaginary dust as he deliberately looks anywhere but the fistful of heads. “My gods. A nest, you say? How many of the beasts did you kill?”

“All of them. Nine in total.” Geralt doesn’t outright say he should be paid more for it-- such things can get one run out of town by a mob with pitchforks-- but it is heavily implied by his tone of voice.

“You have done us a great service, witcher. I, ah, wish I could offer you more, but I’m afraid 200 is all the community was able to raise. That's all we have.” He pulls a velvet pouch from his jacket and hands it to the witcher.

Geralt glances up at the ornate manor behind him, towering above the two with its mosaic walkways and carved pillars, a stark contrast in comparison to the dingy looking homes surrounding it. All we have, sure.

The Earl follows his gaze, unease spiking in his scent. “I mean to say, it is the only sum of liquid funds we could acquire. Though I do admit, your effort is much appreciated. Perhaps we can come to an agreement?”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “What kind of agreement?”

“In my lands we have a custom, when one is in debt, we offer the law of surprise--”

“No.”

“I assure you, witcher, it can be a very beneficial--”

“I said no.” He turns to leave but the Earl’s voice stops him.

“I own a mine in the Eastern mountains,” The Earl calls after him. “Rich in gold and all manner of jewels. Reports of my operations come in every month, I never know what will be found. You could return then and receive a tidy sum from my earnings.”

Geralt hesitates. He’s seen the kind of shit the law of surprise can conjure up for people. He really doesn’t want to risk it, but at the same time…he really needs the money. He sighs. “Fine. I will accept the law of surprise and return in a month.”

“Excellent. The reports should come in some time around--”

“My Lord!” From the front doors of the manor, a servant is running towards them looking panicked. “It’s Master Julian!” She stops as she reaches them, panting. It looks as though she’d run all the way here.

“What happened, Agnes?” The Earl demands. “Is my son alright?”

Agnes shakes her head. “He’s presented, my Lord. As an Omega. He’s going into pre-heat!”

The Earl’s head snaps in Geralt’s direction, his eyes wide, no doubt connecting the dots the same time that Geralt does.

“Fuck.”

-------------------------------

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, is a late bloomer. He’s an eccentric young lad, who up until this point has shown no signs of a secondary gender, so naturally, everyone presumed he was just a beta. They presumed wrong. He attends Oxenfurt university studying poetry and music, and is home for the summer break between semesters. He’s also on the other side of this door, about to go into the first heat of his life, and is now expecting Geralt to come help him with it.

That is the information Geralt has been given in the hour between talking with the Earl and being ushered into the estate by a gaggle of servants, before being stripped, washed, dressed in an itchy doublet, and then deposited in front of the door to Julian’s room.

Geralt has been standing here for nearly ten minutes now, yet somehow can’t bring himself to knock. He can smell the sickly sweet scent of pre-heat coming from the room, can hear Julian inside, the poor boy tossing and turning in bed as his panicked heart races. He’s scared, probably, and the last thing he needs is an unknown alpha-- a witcher alpha at that-- coming into his room when he’s most vulnerable.

Leave now, a voice in his head whispers. Leave now and never come back. Both you and the boy would be better for it.

Geralt runs his hand over his face. “Fuck.”

As much as he doesn’t want to force his presence on the poor boy, Julian will have it much worse if he has to go through his first heat unaccompanied. And like it or not, the law of surprise has bound them together by destiny. Leaving now would only condemn them both to chaos.

Geralt sighs. He knows what he has to do, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna like it.

He brings his fist up to the door and raps three times against the varnished wood.

“Come in.” Julian’s voice is muffled through the door, but Geralt can make out enough to hear that he sounds nervous.

A wave of heat-scent hits him full force as he opens the door, fully enveloping his senses and making Geralt’s alpha instincts purr. It’s overpowering; spring air and orange blossoms, combined with the spicy undertone of arousal-- fuck, he smells fantastic.

No.

Stay calm. Deep breaths, Geralt. Think of selkimore guts. 

And then he actually lays eyes on Julian, and feels incredible relief wash over him.

Oh thank the gods, he’s a man. Not a doe eyed youth far too young for Geralt to even think about, but an adult man, with strong limbs and chest hair . Julian is attractive too, chestnut hair falling in wispy tufts over his forehead, cornflower blue eyes, and a handsome face. On the younger side, sure, but the omega looks to be at least in his early 20s, making this whole situation suddenly more bearable. 

Only problem is, he is out of it.

The poor boy looks to be overheating, skin glistening with sweat, breath coming out in rasping pants as he writhes on the bed, curling in on himself as if to protect from an attacker despite the fact the pain is coming from within him. He’s still dressed in what looks to be soft and comfortable sleep clothes, dark gray pants and a loose fitting cream shirt that’s unbuttoned halfway-- Geralt can smell the beginnings of slick, and his clothes are likely already damp with it. He hardly lifts his head as Geralt enters the room, but it’s enough for him to lock eyes with the witcher. Julian’s face is fearful and pleading.

“Please,” he rasps. “I-I don’t know what to do. It hurts.”

Geralt is at his side in seconds. He’s hesitant for a moment-- he doesn’t want to touch a half coherent omega without their consent, but Julian looks hardly able to speak, let alone deal with Geralt’s own concerns. The thing that matters right now is easing some of the boy's pain. 

“Easy,” Geralt murmurs, gently guiding the boy’s face towards his scent gland. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just breathe.”

The moment Julian gets the first whiff of Geralt’s alpha scent, he buries his face into the witcher’s neck. “Oh, fuck. That’s-- yes, that’s good.” He groans, shoving his nose against Geralt’s skin further, letting out a desperate whine as his tongue shoots out to lick over the area.

Geralt holds himself still until Julian has had his fill, then he gently lifts the omega’s head to look at him. “Feeling better?”

Julian blinks, shaking his head as if waking from a trance. “Y-yeah.” Blues eyes trace over Geralt’s form, studying. “You’re him, I presume?”

He nods. “Geralt of Rivia. I’m…sorry about the circumstances.”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” the man replies, holding out a hand. “My friends call me Jaskier, and considering that the two of us are about to get to know each other very well, I suppose you can too.”

“Hm.” Getting to know each other was one way to put it. “Jaskier. What exactly did your parents tell you?”

Jaskier gives him a bit of an odd look, then, as if choosing his words carefully, says, “You’re the witcher that took the wyvern contract. You claimed the law of surprise as payment shortly before my father was alerted of my presentation, and so you’re given rights to me during my heat.”

Geralt fights the urge to wince at the matter-of-fact way the omega states it. It’s bad in theory, but it sounds even worse when you say it out loud. Rights. Like Jaskier is a thing rather than a person. Of course, in some of the more conservative regions on the continent there are still those that cling to the old traditions of treating omegas as little more than cattle for producing heirs and alliances, but most people have left those ways behind a hundred years ago. To be honest, he’s surprised the Earl is even condoning this considering that Redania is one of the more modern kingdoms. Geralt is sure any other member of the nobility would just have him imprisoned so he can’t claim what the law of surprise has given him.

Not that he wants what the law of surprise has given him. Geralt was in it for the money, not taking advantage of some poor omega on their first heat. (All things considered though, he’s lucky it’s only sex and not Lord Pankratz trying to marry them instead.)

“I’m sorry to drag you into this,” Geralt tells Jaskier sincerely. “I promise I will treat you with the utmost care and respect despite our circumstances.”

“I really appreciate that. Now I won’t need to have you beheaded afterwards.”

The witcher’s face falls.

“I…that was a joke,” Jaskier says awkwardly. “Or an attempt at one anyway. You know, to smooth things over…”

“Oh.” Geralt says.

“...Yeah. Why don’t we just forget that happened. I still do appreciate it all the same. You seem like a decent fellow.”

That makes Geralt snort.

“What?” Jaskier presses.

“Most would disagree.”

“I'm not most. I’m very good at reading people.”

“Oh really? I could be a monster. You’ve only known me for all of--” he glances at the clock-- “six minutes.”

“And yet despite being an alpha alone with an unmated omega on the cusp of heat, you’ve been nothing but respectful. Speaking of which-- aren’t alphas supposed to be unable to control themselves around omegas in heat?”

“Human alphas,” Geralt corrects. “Witchers have precise control of their bodies. We can suppress our instincts almost entirely if the need arises.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows disappear behind his hairline. “Now that’s handy. I-- ah-- ” He flinches suddenly, bending forward and clutching at his stomach as his teeth grind together. Geralt is quick to tilt his head back, exposing his scent gland as an open invitation and Jaskier’s nose finds it as if magnetized. “I-- ah, yes-- mmm.” He buries his face in the crook of the witcher’s neck and Geralt sits there frozen, unsure of what to do with his hands. His alpha instincts are screaming for him to wrap his arms around the smaller man, but Geralt knows it’s wrong to touch an unfamiliar omega without their permission.

“It’s alright--” If Geralt can’t comfort him the way his instincts demand, he can settle for comforting words. “Just breathe,” he murmurs. “The pain will pass.”

Indeed it does, and Jaskier lifts his head this time on his own, panting as he stares back at Geralt with wide blown eyes. “Fuck,” he exclaims, “how does that work so well?”

“Alpha pheromones soothe heat pains,” Geralt explains. “The pain comes from your body’s desire to mate, it’s a reflex that’s supposed to force you to find an alpha. Once you do, our scent can relax it since the body assumes you’ve found a partner. That’s why heats can be so painful without an alpha present.”

Jaskier makes a distasteful expression. “I always knew heats were painful, but I admit, this is much worse than I expected.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but things are going to get worse. Your true heat hasn’t started until the fever kicks in.”

Jaskier groans loudly.

“They didn’t tell you much about omegas, did they?”

The boy shrugs. “Everyone in my family is a beta. Since it was assumed I would be as well, no one ever thought to teach me the intricacies of their reproductive cycles-- or an alpha’s for that matter. It’s not like anyone thought there was a chance I’d present as an omega.”

Geralt takes a deep breath. He honestly can’t say he’s surprised. The shortsightedness of humans is sometimes baffling; they never want to deal with something until it’s staring them right in the face.

“I’m not an expert,” Geralt tells him, “but I can do my best to answer any questions you may have.”

Jaskier gives him a pained smile. “Thank you, Geralt. I appreciate that. And I, uh, do have a list of questions, actually.”

Yeah. Geralt figured he might. “Ask away.”

“Have you been with an omega in heat before?”

Geralt nods. “I have. A few times actually.” Their increased stamina and infertility actually made witchers the ideal partner for a heat. Geralt had even been hired on contract once to assist an omega at a brothel who’d gone into heat unexpectedly. “I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

“Will you knot me?”

Instead of answering right away, Geralt responds with a question of his own. “Does this frighten you?”

Jaskier shrugs.

“Being knotted can greatly help to reduce both the pain and duration of a heat.” Geralt says carefully. “But I won’t do anything that you don’t want.”

“Would you mate me?” Jaskier asks, an eyebrow raised.

“No,” Geralt replies firmly. 

“But the Law of Surprise makes it so that you could.”

“The Law of Surprise is vague and provides loopholes,” he corrects. “I must be here in some capacity during your heat since we are now tied together by destiny, but I will not mate you. Witchers don’t have mates.”

“And what if you get me pregnant?” Jaskier asks.

“I won’t. Witchers are infertile. We can’t carry any diseases either.”

The omega’s eyebrows raise all the way into his hairline. “Oh. Well that’s a relief, I suppose.”

“But if you are still concerned… there are ways we could relieve your heat without having sex. It would be unpleasant, but your heat could be managed with just an alpha’s presence alone.”

The boy’s eyes narrow. “But it would hurt.” He makes a face as another cramp wracks his body, and Geralt tilts his head back, inviting Jaskier to scent him again.

As he relaxes, Geralt places a cautious hand on his back. “It would. But I would help quell the pain to the best of my abilities.”

Jaskier shakes his head, pulling away. “It’s not the sex I’m worried about. I was--” he turns his head away, but Geralt doesn’t miss the pink that seeps into his cheeks-- “a bit of a tart during my time at school, actually. I’ve had sex with other omegas and a couple of betas, never an alpha though. So long as there’s no risk of pregnancy or being mated against my will, I’ll be fine.”

Geralt stares at him, a little taken aback. Not by the fact that Jaskier would have had other partners-- modesty was never present during a witcher’s upbringing so Geralt has never cared for the stifling rules that nobles give themselves-- but by the fact that this young man seems almost unbothered by the fact that he will share his heat with a stranger. And a witcher at that. 

“I must admit,” Geralt begins carefully, wary of offending the omega. “You are surprisingly…calm about this. Considering the circumstances.”

“And you’re surprisingly nervous about this,” Jaskier counters, “considering you’re a big scary alpha witcher.”

It’s clear from his voice that Jaskier doesn’t mean anything by it, but the words still make something unpleasant bubble within him. It doesn’t matter that Geralt never intended for this to happen, the world won’t see it that way. They’ll see a brute of an alpha, the Butcher of Blaviken forcing himself on a poor helpless omega.

“Hey,” Jaskier’s voice brings him out of his thoughts as the boy gently uncurls Geralt’s fingers from where they’re digging into the meat of his hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. You seem a decent enough fellow, not at all scary.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt mutters, pulling his hand from Jaskier’s grasp. “Did you have any other questions?”

Jaskier hums, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “When do you think my heat will actually start?”

“To be honest I’m not sure. For every person, the experience is different. Your pre-heat could last a few hours, or it could end any second now. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Hmm. Well if we potentially have a few hours to kill; do you know how to play gwent?”

--------------------------------------

It turns out Jaskier is great company-- when he’s not doubled over in pain, at least.

Once he begins to warm up to Geralt, he starts talking non-stop; which is somewhat annoying, but also strangely pleasant to listen to.

Jaskier tells Geralt about his hobbies, his time spent at Oxenfurt studying music, and his dream to become a bard. He also seems to have endless interest in Geralt’s life as a witcher, asking question after question about the beasts he’s killed and the history of the Wolf School. It’s honestly strange to Geralt that Jaskier could ever be interested in the details of his life. Most people despise witchers, usually the best you could hope for was toleration. But Jaskier, he seems to think that Geralt is some knight in shining armor.

All in all, Geralt wouldn’t mind having more conversations with Jaskier in the future.

They’ve been playing gwent for just over an hour, pausing every ten minutes or so to quell Jaskier’s cramps, when the fever starts to kick in.

Geralt can see it take hold from the way the younger man seems to slump further in his chair, only to be followed by a sharp spike to his scent. It sets Geralt’s inner alpha alight at the prospect of being near an omega that smells so inviting and ready, his instincts coming on so suddenly Geralt barely has time to silence the low growl rising in his chest-- omega, take, fuck, mate, mine.

He gains control of himself moments later, and his composure moments after that-- he’s glad for it too, he doesn’t want any sudden reactions to spook the boy. Geralt calmly places his cards down. “Jaskier. Are you alright?”

“Geralt, it’s-- I don’t know what’s happening, it hurts.”

“Your heat has started,” Geralt says, keeping his voice steady as he comes to the boy’s side. “It’s going to be alright, just stay calm. Do you think you can make it to the bed?”

Jaskier makes an attempt to rise from his chair, then hisses, teeth clenched and shaking his head.

Geralt cups the other man’s face in his hands, gently guiding him towards his neck where his alpha scent is strongest. “Okay. Just breathe, Jaskier. Can you do that for me?”

The omega whimpers and buries his face in the crook of the witcher’s neck and shoulder, mouthing along the skin as he heaves deep, gasping breaths. Geralt wraps his arms around the boy and lifts him out of the chair, then carries him towards the bed. 

He lays Jaskier down amongst the pillows-- or tries to, rather, since Jaskier refuses to let go of him, keeping his arms taut around the witcher’s neck and tugging him down. Afraid of squashing the smaller man with his weight, Geralt shifts them at the last second, so they're both laying on their sides facing each other. Jaskier makes a pained sound and presses himself against Geralt, trying to get so close it’s as though he’s attempting to fuse their bodies together.

“Shhh,” Geralt runs a hand up and down Jaskier’s back, quieting him. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ll take care of you, but we need to get you out of those clothes first, yeah?”

The omega whimpers, but nods, pulling away from Geralt and rolling onto his back. Geralt can already see him shifting uncomfortably beneath the fabric. Heat makes things feel very intense; it can be like war on the senses. The few omegas that Geralt has had the opportunity to partner with during their cycles all seemed to hate the feeling of wearing clothes once the fever kicked in, scratching and clawing at themselves like they wanted to climb out of their own skin.

Geralt makes quick work of stripping Jaskier of his clothing. The flimsy garments he’d been wearing are already wet with slick and sweat. Geralt tosses them onto the floor-- he’ll worry about them later, once his omega is satisfied. Geralt then shucks the remainder of his own clothes.

“There,” he says, focusing his attention on Jaskier. “That better?”

“Y-yeah. Still hurts though.”

“I know,” Geralt murmurs, running a hand through the bard’s hair that he leans into. “I’m sorry. It’ll get better soon.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispers, voice small and quiet. “I’m afraid.”

The words cut Geralt deep, followed by guilt. Of course Jaskier is afraid. No one should be forced to spend the very first heat of their life with some stranger-- and a witcher at that-- as if they were an object that was traded away. Of course Jaskier is afraid; his body is changing so rapidly, without his consent or knowledge, and the only person he has to rely on is Geralt.

Gods this is all his fault.

“I know,” Geralt murmurs, taking Jaskier’s hand in his. “I’m sorry.”

“It hurts,” the omega whines. “Make it stop.”

“I know,” Geralt says again, “don’t worry. It’s going to be okay.” He smooths a hand down the bard’s side, hoping the action will calm him. “May I touch you?”

The question, for a moment, seems to pull Jaskier out of his haze. He makes a face. “You are touching me.”

“No. I want to--”

“Oh. Yes. Alright.”

Geralt slides his hand lower until it gently cups Jaskier’s cock. He’s already hard and leaking steadily. The omega shivers the moment the witcher’s calloused hand encloses around him, making a high-pitched sound at the back of his throat.

“Fuck.”

“Sensitive?” Geralt slowly strokes him a few times, his inner alpha purring when Jaskier’s scent spikes with desperate arousal.

“Y-yeah. It’s never been like that-- ah, shit.”

“Heat makes everything more intense. It’ll feel a bit better once you cum, but tell me if it’s too much, okay?” Then he starts stroking him with more purpose.

It doesn’t take long for Geralt to make Jaskier spill-- heats were never meant for lasting-- and afterwards, the witcher can see that the other man has calmed considerably with his release. 

“Any better?” Geralt asks him, wiping his hand on one of the many towels that the servants were kind enough to set on the bedside table.

“A little,” Jaskier replies, squirming under him. He’s already growing hard again. “I just need--” He covers his face with his hands, but Geralt doesn’t miss the deep blush that spreads on his skin. “I-I feel-- Gods, this is so embarrassing.”

“Empty?” Geralt offers.

The omega bites his lip and nods furiously. “It’s all I can think about.”

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

Jaskier makes a desperate sound. “Please.”

“Alright. Roll over.”

The smaller man is quick to comply. Geralt makes sure he’s comfortable; setting a pillow beneath his hips, and one by his head so Jaskier won’t have to bend awkwardly and make himself sore. 

Geralt has to bite his lip to stifle the pleased growl that rises in his throat when he sees how wet Jaskier is. He’s practically dripping with slick, leaving his ass and thighs shiny with it. Such a good omega you’ve found, his alpha purrs, so wet and responsive for you. He’d be a beautiful mate. Geralt bites himself harder and forces the thoughts to the back of his mind.

He smoothes a hand down the bard’s spine. “Have you taken anything inside you before?”

“Just fingers. I’ve, uh, never actually been brave enough to try something more.”

“If you want to stop for any reason, you tell me, alright?”

“Okay.”

Jaskier groans at the first touch of Geralt’s fingers to his entrance. The witcher doesn’t breach him the right way, just rubs the pads of his fingers over his hole, collecting slick before he pushes the tip of his index finger against his rim. Jaskier is almost unbearably hot inside, and so, so wet. Geralt’s finger slides in easily, meeting almost no resistance as he rubs along silky walls, testing how ready he is.

A heat usually makes an omega loose and slick enough to take a cock right away, but just to be on the safer side, Geralt fingers him a bit to make sure Jaskier is well and truly ready. The situation is bad enough as it is; he doesn’t want Jaskier to experience any pain or discomfort on top of that when it could be avoided.

To be extra careful, Geralt works up to three fingers before he pulls out and murmurs, “I’m going to put my cock in now.”

Jaskier nods. He’s growing impatient, and has been steadily rutting against the pillow, moaning softly amid Geralt’s careful preparation.

Geralt takes himself in hand and positions his dick against Jaskier’s crack, rubbing over his entrance a few times to slick himself up before pressing into him. 

“Oh fuck,” the omega gasps as Geralt bottoms out in one slow, smooth slide. He pauses then, giving the other man time to adjust to the intrusion before Jaskier is rocking his hips back towards him, moaning, “alpha, please. I need it.”

That makes something inside him snap, and this time a low growl escapes the witcher’s mouth before he can stop it. He rolls his hips forward and begins to thrust.

Beneath him, Jaskier moans, spreading his legs and pushing back against Geralt’s movements, as if trying to force him deeper.

Geralt shifts the angle, grasping the omega by the hips and dragging him onto his aching cock as he rocks into him, searching for that spot that will make him see stars.

“Ah-aah.”

Hm. Found it.

Geralt continues to aim for that spot, over and over again, until Jaskier is gasping and moaning into the pillow. 

He slows after a particularly loud cry from the other man, pausing with a gentle hand over his ribs and checking in, “is this alright?”

“Feels so good,” the omega moans, canting his hips against Geralt, as if he just can’t help it. “Feels so good inside me. Need you.”

“Shhh,” he coos, moving again. “You have me, Jaskier. Gonna give you everything you need.”

Geralt knows not to take anything Jaskier says in this state too seriously. While still coherent enough at this point to be himself; caught between the desperation of arousal and the pull of instinct, his babbling is a mishmash of the two. An omega might say anything if it meant that they would receive a partner to provide them relief from their cycle. Geralt knows that Jaskier doesn’t want him, just what he has to offer. Which is fine, really, it is, but the alpha within him wants to believe that it’s more than that.

His instincts don’t understand the difference between reality and a willing partner. As much as Geralt is able to control them, there are still things he can’t; like the way Jaskier’s scent is incredibly pleasing on his senses, they way he admires the omega’s soft curves and lean muscle-- he’s built sturdier than most Geralt has seen; taller, hairier, and it appeals to him. An omega worthy of being a witcher’s mate, his alpha muses-- not that witchers have mates. But if they did, Jaskier would be perfect.

Except for the fact that he doesn’t want you.

As he feels himself grow close to his peak, part of Geralt feels guilty for finding pleasure in this. He condemned Jaskier to this, so his only concern should be for Jaskier’s comfort. Yet he can’t help the fact that everything feels so good. The heat pheromones affect him too, though to a lesser extent, making him eager and responsive. And he so rarely gets the comfort of a warm body.

He blinks, trying to right steady himself as he feels the jerk of his hips becomes more erratic. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt runs a hand up the smaller man’s back, hoping to grab his attention. “Do you want me to knot you? If not, you need to tell me now.”

“Want it,” the omega mewls. “Please. Need you.”

“Alright.”

He lifts Jaskier’s hips as he feels his knot begin to fill, taking hold of the bard’s cock and jerking him in time with his thrusts.

“Geralt. Geralt, please.”

“Shhh. I’ve got you.”

And then Jaskier is spilling into his hand with a cry, and Geralt gives a hard thrust, pushing his knot past the omega’s rim and locking them together as he feels his own release.

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier gasps as he’s filled. “Yes, yes, fuck.”

Geralt cums for a long time, his brain feeling hazy with pleasure as he mindlessly grinds their hips together in slow circles, hands mapping the expanse of Jaskier’s body. Once he finally comes to they’re still tied together, so he rolls them onto their sides and throws an arm around the smaller man.

For a while they just breathe. Then Jaskier’s quiet voice says, “Geralt?”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I think the fever stopped? Everything seems clearer.”

The witcher places a hand on the boy’s forehead and the fever has indeed subsided. “It’ll come back eventually.”

Jaskier hums. “How long does it take for your knot to go down?”

“Not too long. A quarter of an hour or so.”

“How long do you think I’ll have until the fever returns?”

“Not sure,” Geralt says. “We’ll have to just wait and see.”

Jaskier hums quietly to himself, clearly not satisfied by the answer. Geralt feels bad for him. Heats are difficult enough for omegas as it is, it must be frustrating for Jaskier to go through his first without warning or preparation like this.

He does his best to make sure Jaskier is comfortable until his knot goes down; adjusting the pillow beneath his head, caressing his ribs and chest, keeping him calm. Once Geralt is able to pull out, he does so carefully, before leaving the bed. He finds a soft rag and a basin of water in the adjoining bathroom. The water has since gone cold, but Geralt is able to heat it up with a weak igni so it’s pleasantly warm before he dunks the rag, wrings it out, and returns to Jaskier’s side. He cleans the remaining spend from Jaskier’s stomach and between his legs, then helps him sit up against the headboard.

“Would you like something to eat?” Geralt asks, putting the rag aside. The servants had put out a platter of food before Geralt’s arrival; a loaf of crusty bread, soft cheeses, smoked meats, and an assortment of fruits and nuts.

Jaskier nods. “Yeah. I’m-- really hungry, actually.”

Geralt prepares a plate of food for Jaskier then one for himself, as well a glass of water for each of them before sitting down next to the bard. He’s grateful for the spread; they’ll both be using a lot of energy in the coming days and Geralt is sure he’ll need to eat if he plans to fully attend to Jaskier’s needs without the aid of his own cycle for stamina.

“You doing alright?” Jaskier asks as they eat.

So absorbed in the food, it takes Geralt a second to respond. “You’re worried about me?” he asks.

The omega shrugs, taking a bite of bread. “You’ve been making this face for the past twenty minutes.” He turns to Geralt and makes an exaggeration frown. “So yeah, I thought I’d check in.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why are you pouting?”

“I’m not pouting. That’s just my face.”

“...right,” Jaskier says, in a voice that doesn’t sound at all convinced. “You know, my Nan used to say that if I frowned too much as a kid, my face would get stuck like that. I thought it was bullshit, of course, but now…” he shoots Geralt a look, smirking, “now I’m not so sure.”

The tone and the smirk remind him of Lambert, and a brief warmth floods Geralt’s chest at the thought of home. His brothers will definitely have something to say about this situation come winter.

“My face is fine,” Geralt grunts, taking another bite of food.

“Darling, your face looks like it is in desperate need of a smile.”

“Trust me. You don’t want to see me smile.”

“Oh but I do,” Jaskier exclaims. “I bet you have a lovely smile.”

Geralt breathes a laugh. “My smile unnerves people.”

Jaskier pauses for a moment. Then he puts his plate down on his lap. “Tell you what, Geralt of Rivia. I swear that by the end of my heat, I’ll have made you smile at least once.”

The witcher raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

Jaskier grins. “Oh my dear, witcher. I’m always serious.”

“Hm.” Geralt highly doubts that

Chapter Text

By the time they finish eating, Jaskier’s temperature has started to rise again. Geralt is hardly able to put their dishes aside with the omega pawing at him, and the increased intensity of Jaskier’s scent makes it difficult to think straight.

“Geralt,” the bard groans, grasping at his shoulders, trembling. “Geralt, please--”

“Alright, alright,” Geralt says, leaning his head back so Jaskier can scent him. “You wanna lie down?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier flops against the mattress so he’s lying on his back. “Could we do it like this maybe?”

“If that’s what you want,” Geralt says, climbing over him.

Geralt is somewhat surprised that Jaskier would want to face him. If he takes Jaskier from behind then he can distance himself a bit; it doesn’t have to be Geralt, it can be anyone fucking him. That’s how it always is with the whores Geralt hires. But then again, Jaskier is not a whore.

No, he’s beautiful like them, but his noble birth would give him away in seconds. His body is too well-kept, his manner of speaking too refined. And most different of all: he doesn’t seem disgusted by Geralt in the slightest-- at least not in any noticeable way.

“Could you…maybe kiss me this time too?” Jaskier gives the witcher a sheepish smile, as if embarrassed by asking. “I like kissing. It would make things feel more…normal.”

Instead of responding, Geralt leans in and places a delicate kiss on the bard’s lips. 

Jaskier responds enthusiastically; kissing back and wrapping his limbs around Geralt to pull the witcher on top of him. 

He’s a good kisser, Geralt thinks dumbly as Jaskier’s tongue teases his lips. Not too rough or too gentle, but a perfect mixture of both, and the witcher soon finds himself getting lost in the pleasant movement and heat of Jaskier’s mouth, the bard’s hands on his back and legs around his waist, keeping the two pressed together so Geralt can feel the hot line of the omega’s cock against his abdomen.

He would very much like to suck Jaskier’s cock if time permits, but right now he has a job to do.

As they kiss Geralt presses forward, curling Jaskier and pulling his legs up so they’re rested over his shoulders. He reaches down and feels along the omega’s hole, pleased to find it still wet and loose, and showing no signs of damage or chafing. He guides his cock inside carefully and Jaskier groans, spreading his legs wider.

“Ah. Yessss,” the omega hisses, eyes slipping closed.

Geralt fucks him with slow and deep thrusts, pressing kisses to Jaskier’s mouth, neck and shoulders. He catches himself at one point lingering over the man’s scent gland, teeth bared as he breathes deep, and quickly swaps out the gesture to instead mouth at the skin of Jaskier’s neck with a groan.

The omega seems to grow more desperate with each minute, and eventually Geralt has to make him cum twice before he’s deemed relaxed enough to take another knot. Jaskier is still whining with his second release when Geralt’s knot begins to swell, pulling him into a rough kiss as the witcher pumps him full.

Once he comes down from his high, Geralt rolls them over so he’s sat on the bed with Jaskier in his lap and busies himself kissing and mouthing along the omega’s neck once more.

A slender hand carding through his hair makes Geralt pause.

“You really like that, don’t you?”

Shame wells in the witcher’s chest as he pulls away somewhat reluctantly. “Sorry.” He’s usually better at suppressing his instinctual urges than this.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier murmurs, running his hand through the witcher’s hair in a comforting motion. “I don’t mind. It feels kind of nice, actually.”

“Hm.” The bard’s hand guides him back towards the crook of his neck, encouraging the action. Geralt hesitates for a moment, then cautiously resumes his ministrations.

Jaskier continues gently threading his fingers through the alpha’s hair, then after a while asks, “what do I smell like?”

Geralt pauses, considering. Most omegas have a scent that is overpowering on a witcher’s heightened senses; sweet and thick in the air, enough to make Geralt’s head spin. But something about Jaskier’s is different. The smell of an omega in heat is enough to make his head spin, sure, but beneath that it’s calmer. Grounding. 

“Sweet,” Geralt decides eventually. “Like orange blossoms and honeysuckle on a warm summer’s day.”

“Mmm. That sounds nice.” Jaskier leans in and scents along the witcher’s neck. “You smell like earth and the rain, but also…hmm, maybe rosemary? I’m not sure really, but it’s soothing.” He yawns, slumping forward against the witcher’s broad chest. “Fuck, I could sleep like this. Why are you so comfy?”

The witcher snorts. “I’m not. You’re just tired.”

“Mmm, nope.” the omega snuggles further into his chest, wrapping his arms around the larger man. “You’re like a giant pillow. I bet you give great hugs.”

That’s…not the strangest thing Geralt has been called. But oddly one of the nicest, if being compared to a household item could be considered nice.

“You can sleep,” Geralt offers, laying back against the mattress.

“Yeah but you’re still…” he trails off, rolling his hips slightly to put emphasis on the fact that they’re still tied together. “I can’t just lie on top of you, I’m too heavy.”

“It’s alright. If your body’s telling you to sleep it’s because you need it. Rest, Jaskier. I’ll take care of you.”

“Mmm. Okay.” The omega yawns again and relaxes against his chest. He’s silent for a moment, then, “hey, Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“You’re a pretty nice guy, you know that?”

Geralt’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t say anything, but Jaskier already seems to be drifting towards sleep anyway. He has a feeling that the omega won’t say that once his heat is over. No one in their right mind would think that the Butcher of Blaviken is a “pretty nice guy.” But for now he doesn’t want to cause the other man any more distress than he’s in already, so Geralt keeps his mouth shut and waits for Jaskier to pass out.

Once his knot goes down, he gently pulls out and slides out of Jaskier’s grip, then repeats the routine of cleaning him up and getting him comfortable on the bed. Only after he's taken care of Jaskier’s needs does the witcher go to sleep himself.

-------------------------

Geralt wakes to Jaskier riding him.

The omega’s eyes are blown wide with lust, his skin covered in the sheen of sweat as he shamelessly moves up and down the witcher’s cock, making small whining noises with each rock of his hips. From the looks of it, this has been going on while Geralt was asleep for a while, and the evidence of multiple orgasms is splattered across them both.

“Jaskier?” Geralt blinks up at him warily, rising to a seated position.

The bard throws his head back, continuing his unsteady rhythm with a certain desperation that borders on violent. “Alpha.”  

Geralt fights the urge to cringe at the name. Well, it looks like they’ve finally hit the apex of it all. He wraps an arm around the back of the bard’s neck and guides his nose to the spot where his alpha scent will be the strongest. 

Jaskier immediately makes a pleased sound and presses his face to the crook of the witcher’s neck. When he pulls back, Geralt is hoping to see recognition in those eyes, but all he is met with is glassy blue, with Jaskier buried far behind them. He’d been afraid of this. He slept for too long; leaving Jaskier to his own devices has driven him to incoherence as his desires take over.

Geralt sighs and gets to work.

He rolls them over so that Jaskier is beneath him, giving the omega’s strained legs a break as he pushes deeper inside him, delivering quick, grinding thrusts that have the smaller man howling with it. He brings Jaskier off with his hands twice before he knots him, then, once he’s grown soft enough to pull out, works his way down the omega’s body until he is hovering over the boy’s still hardened length.

Geralt takes it into his mouth with ease, pleased at the way Jaskier arches off the bed as he’s suddenly enveloped by wet heat. He suckles along the head, then takes him deeper, hollowing his cheeks as he allows the omega’s cock to nudge his throat. It’s not a task he has the pleasure of doing often, despite his preference for acts that seek to pleasure his partners, though he’s had many years in his long life to perfect the skill. He can tell the exact moment when Jaskier approaches his peak, can sense the subtle shift in his scent, growing richer and more pungent, feel the increase of his pulse and trembling of his limbs. It’s a soft sound he makes when he spills down the witcher’s throat. Geralt swallows every drop, then raises his head to check on the other man.

Hazy blue eyes stare back at him, still clouded over by lust, but sharpened to the point of coherence. Jaskier proves this when in a rough and strained voice he chokes, “Geralt?”

“Back with me?”

Jaskier blinks, looking around the room as if he doesn’t quite recognize where he is. “Yes, but not for long, I don’t think. I can feel it creeping back, like being pulled into a dream.”

That is an accurate way of describing it, Geralt supposes. “Are you alright? Are you hungry at all?”

At the mention of food, Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “No. No food. I don’t think I could stomach it.” He looks down at his body, where sweat and cum have begun to dry and grimaces. “I could use a bath though.”

“I’ll draw one,” Geralt says, and heads to the adjoining bathroom.

The room is large and clean, made from polished tile, with a large porcelain tub sporting gilded feet in the center and copper piping set to fill the sink and basin, stoppered off with valves of different sizes. There is a line running up the length of the wall that travels downwards through the tiles of the floor. Geralt pulls on it, and hears the faint sound of a bell being rung somewhere in the servants quarters, signalling for water to be heated. He waits a few minutes, and then a bell strung along the bathroom wall rings in answer.

Geralt turns the valve on the tub and steaming water comes out. As he waits for the tub to fill, he sets aside a fluffy towel from the rack, then investigates the cupboard. Inside are various herbs and soaps. He examines a few, bringing them to his nose to smell until he finds one of chamomile and meadowsweet-- perfect to relax and soothe Jaskier’s sore muscles. He adds it to the bath, as well as some floral smelling soap that fills the tub with white foam, then turns off the water and goes to retrieve Jaskier.

The bard is sprawled against the blankets, limbs stretched wide as he stares at the ceiling and absentmindedly fiddles with a tassel on one of the pillows. He rises when he sees Geralt emerge, though he stands too fast and wavers a bit before Geralt is at his side, looping an arm around his waist and pulling the boy tight to his chest. He lifts Jaskier easily-- a lithe human such as this is no burden to a witcher’s strength-- hooking his legs over one arm and supporting his back with the other, then carries him to the bathroom and places him gently into the tub.

Jaskier sighs and sinks until the water touches his neck, then cranes his head to look at Geralt. “Thank you. Now what about you?”

The witcher shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, but I do. Surely, you smell just as bad. Join me. There’s more than enough room.”

“I will bathe when you are finished.”

The omega eyes him for a moment, then repeats, in a voice that offers no room for  negotiation, “join me.”

Geralt is silent, then steps into the tub, sitting himself against the opposite side so that they’re facing each other. He hums, pleased as the heat of the water surrounds him.

“Oh yes, that’s nice,” Jaskier says, grabbing a sponge from the basket next to the tub. He dunks it in the water, then begins to scrub himself. “Somehow I feel dirtier than I have in my life.”

Geralt hums and sinks lower into the water, letting his eyes slip closed. He’ll scrub himself when he’s good and ready. He’s been covered in a lot worse than sweat and spend, and for far longer too. It’s not often that he receives the luxury of a hot bath though, save for the hot springs at Kaer Morhen they all indulge in come winter, usually it’s a hasty scrub down in an icy river. If he’s forced to have one now, he may as well enjoy it.

In front of him, the sound of Jaskier’s scrubbing stops. He breathes a laugh, the sound warm and bright. “My, my. You look like you’re melting in there.”

“Hm.”

“I imagine a man like you doesn’t receive a hot bath very often.”

“No.”

“If I weren’t in the middle of a heat, I’d wash your hair. It’s very nice by the way, is that your natural color?”

Geralt cracks one eye open. “It is now.”

“Geralt, you can’t just say things like that and not elaborate on them.”

Geralt sighs. “The trials,” he says. “Tests given to young boys that make them into witchers. Near the end is when they pump us full of mutagens that give our strength, our agility. Many boys die, but I survived and apparently responded better than most. The mages decided to put me through the mutations twice as an experiment. When I came out, my hair had turned white.”

He expects to see the deep-rooted horror on the bard’s face that he’s used to receiving, and the omega does look mildly disturbed, but stronger than that is the look of intrigue. “What color was it before?”

“Auburn.” Geralt has to think for a moment to recall the exact color. His hair had been a muddy brown, but with an undercurrent of red when it hit the light. But it’s been so many decades since he was human, he can hardly picture what he looked like before. 

Jaskier leans forward in the tub and trails his fingers through a lock of the witcher’s hair. “I can picture it,” he says, “but I confess, I’m partial to the silver. It reminds me of fallen snow.”

“Hm. I’ve never cared for it.” It was just another reason for humans to hate him.

“Shame,” Jaskier says, dunking the sponge again. “I rather like it.”

He continues to scrub himself in silence, and eventually Geralt begins to do the same until Jaskier asks, “Geralt. Why don’t witchers have mates?”

He pauses at the odd question. To most people, it is obvious. “We just don’t,” Geralt says at last. “It’s not something we were made for.”

That’s what he says at least, but in truth, it’s because it would be a cruelty to tie someone to a witcher. A mating bond is for life; you live together, you die together. The dangers and cruelty of a witcher’s life isn’t meant for that.

“But you have secondaries just like everyone else. Cycles, instinct. Surely taking a mate would help with that.”

Geralt shrugs. “We are taught at an early age to suppress such things. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

For a time, there is silence, as each continues washing. Then Jaskier says, “do you ever wish things were different?”

Every day, Geralt thinks. Instead he says, “different how?”

“If witchers did have mates, would you want one? Have you ever thought about what it would be like?”

There was once a time when he did; hushed whispers with Eskel in the boys’ dorm at night, a longing deep in his bones when he pictured some faceless, nameless person with whom he could share a life, but it is long gone now. “It doesn’t matter what I think. No one would want me.”

“I think you would make a good mate.”

His words take Geralt by surprise. “Then you are the only one who does.”

They don’t talk further after that. Geralt can smell Jaskier’s heat creeping up on him once more, and the omega seems determined to make himself clean before it does. Eventually Geralt sees his eyes begin to cloud, and suddenly the look of focus on the bard’s face shifts into something else, something cunning and desperate.

He sits up, moving in the tub until he reaches Geralt and sits astride his hips, guiding the alpha’s cock into him with ease and eliciting a grunt from the other man. His movements are slow, unhurried. Soon the need will take hold of him, but right now he is warm and comfortable and has all he needs to sate his growing desires.

Water ripples around them, threatening to spill from the tub. Geralt’s hand travels the expanse of Jaskier’s back, tracing the ridges of his spine while the other grips his hips, keeping him steady. The omega’s eyes slip closed, mouth hanging open as he leans back and changes the angle to find the spot of his pleasure.

Geralt can see all of him like this, here in the morning light with no limbs or blankets to obstruct his view. His focus falls to lean muscles of Jaskier’s shoulders moving beneath his freckled skin, the dark fur of his chest that marks a path towards his navel, the dusty pink buds of his nipples. Geralt thumbs over one, slowly, and a sound rises in Jaskier’s throat. The omega’s cheeks are flushed the color of cherry wine.

Afterwards, when they sit panting and tied together, Geralt kisses those cheeks, then his lips, allowing himself the smallest amount of indulgence that he knows will be a rare opportunity. He hardly ever gets the opportunity to kiss; whores won’t do it, especially not without extra payment, and his encounters with Yennefer in the past were more about the sex itself than anything else. All that leaves are the few times when he will find a willing partner; a brave young maid, or perhaps an eager stablehand, someone with an adventurous streak who will later boast to their friends that they lay with a witcher. Those kisses are often rough and demanding, mostly tongue and teeth, seeking to claim rather than give pleasure.

With Jaskier it’s different. He kisses without hesitance, without fear or disgust. His lips are soft and inviting, moving gently and with intent against Geralt’s own. He kisses Geralt like he wants to do it. It is a very rare thing, and so Geralt lets himself get lost in it.

“Fuck,” Jaskier pants, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “A bath almost seems pointless now.” He rises on his knees, letting the alpha’s soft cock slip out, making a face as spend begins to drip out of him.

“Heats are just like that. It doesn’t have to be about getting clean, sometimes warm water is just good to help you relax.”

Jaskier hums. “Or turn you into a prune,” he remarks, glancing at the wrinkled pads of his fingers.

“Or turn you into a prune,” Geralt agrees.

The omega rises from the tub and Geralt follows, holding out a towel for him to wrap around himself. Once they’re both dry, Geralt drains the tub and follows Jaskier back into the bedroom. He offers the other man some food, only to be met once more by a wrinkled nose, then settles for giving him sips of water and broth while he has some food himself. He’ll need it, he thinks. By the look of things, Jaskier’s heat will probably need to be sated frequently throughout the day, and Geralt will need his strength.

He can see Jaskier beginning to grow impatient as he finishes his meal, going from twiddling his thumbs to bouncing his leg, to squirming and trembling as he tries so very hard to wait while Geralt eats. Halfway through, he starts touching himself. Geralt takes that as a cue to shovel the rest of the food in his mouth and put the plate aside.

Jaskier is on him immediately. “Geralt,” he whines, grabbing at the witcher’s shoulders. “It hurts.”

“Shhh,” Geralt soothes, running a hand up and down his back. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Lie down for me, yeah?”

The bard eagerly moves to do as he says, all but collapsing face first against the mattress. Geralt kneels behind him and presses a kiss to his shoulders before trailing his lips down the expanse of the omega’s body. When he reaches Jaskier’s ass he pauses and kisses the spot just above it, then spreads his cheeks in either hand.

“Geralt, what are you waiting for, I’m-- oh fuck.” Jaskier jolts, groaning loudly. He’d been waiting for the alpha’s cock to press into him, but is instead met with a tongue.

The witcher chuckles at his surprise, a deep rumbling sound, and spreads his cheeks further so that he can lick a stripe over the bard’s entrance.

“What the fuck, that feels so good.”

Geralt waits a while before he responds, enough to get in a few good swipes of his tongue, driving the muscle deeper into Jaskier’s already loosened hole. The corner of his mouth quirks when he finally pulls back. “Like that?”

Jaskier moans, as if his reaction weren’t obvious enough. “Yes.” 

Geralt licks at him again, then presses a kiss to his entrance before delving his tongue inside. He’s steadily dripping slick again-- though it’s unclear if he ever really stopped-- and Geralt’s inner alpha purrs at the opportunity to taste. The witcher works his tongue against Jaskier until he’s made the omega cum several times over, each making him shudder more than the last. Only then does he draw himself over the smaller man’s body and press his knot into him.

The rest of the day is much the same. Jaskier’s heat makes him insatiable, and Geralt does his best to quell it as it comes in waves. He fucks Jaskier on his back, on his front, lets the omega ride him until his legs give out, then rolls them on their sides and ruts into him slow and steady. Most of the time they stay in the bed. Sometimes they move to the plush chair in the corner, or to the thick rug in front of the fireplace. Once, Geralt fucks him standing up against the wall. Sometimes Jaskier is coherent enough to speak to him, other times he falls victim to the haze, the only words he utters being “alpha” and “please” and “more.” By the end of the day, both are so tired all they can do is lie there and breathe.

“I think it’s fading,” Jaskier says at last. “I can think clearer, though I’m not sure it’s over just yet. But we’re through the worst of it, I’m sure.”

“Hm. That’s good. Tomorrow will probably be the last day, might even be over by the afternoon.”

“You know,” Jaskier says, rolling over to face him, “I never thought I’d say this, but I don’t want to have sex ever again.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You’ll probably change your mind in a couple of hours.”

“Probably,” Jaskier agrees. Then, “Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“What would you have been, if you weren’t a witcher?”

Geralt is silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

Jaskier gives him a disbelieving look. “Really. You’ve never thought about it?”

“It’s hard to imagine yourself as something different from what you’ve always known.

“But surely you must have had dreams as a child. Everyone did. When I was small, I wanted to tame unicorns.”

The witcher breathes a laugh. “Unicorns aren’t real.”

“I know that, and you know that, but four-year-old Julian Alfred Pankratz was none the wiser.” He grins, reaching out a hand to caress the back of his knuckles along the curve of Geralt’s face. His blue eyes are alight with mischief.

“What?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier’s grin only widens. “You’re smiling,” he replies in a sing-song voice.

Geralt’s smile immediately falls and he turns his face away, cheeks hot. “No I’m not.” He tries to roll over, but Jaskier stops him, throwing a leg over his hips and pinning his shoulders to the bed. Geralt could throw him off easily if he wanted to, but for some reason he lets it happen.

“Yes you are,” the omega coos, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And it’s just as beautiful as I knew it would be.”

It’s a lie. It must be. Geralt’s smile unnerves people; too wide, showing too many teeth and sharp canines. It’s an ugly smile, one that he uses to repel overcurious townspeople and pushy omega bards. Only Jaskier would use a word such as “beautiful” to describe it, though he is a strange man indeed. Geralt is beginning to realize that the more time they spend together.

Mercifully, Jaskier doesn’t talk about it further. He releases Geralt’s shoulders, and slots their bodies together, his head pillowed on the witcher’s chest. “But really,” he says, stifling a yawn, “what did you want to be? I know it must have been something.”

Geralt has to think far back, to hazy memories from the time before Kaer Morhen that feel more like a dream than a part of his life. “A knight,” he says at last. To his young mind it had seemed a grand idea; to be brave and daring, helping others and winning the hand of a fair maiden. He did not know of the dangers that came with it, that he’d be given a hard life, sent to war and condemned to serve one corrupt king after the other.

“A knight,” Jaskier repeats, as if weighing the words in his mind. “It suits you.”

“At least it’s better than tamer of unicorns.”

“I wasn’t joking, Geralt.”

“I’m not cut out to be a knight.”

“Sure you are. A knight is close enough to a witcher. You both are brave, you both save people.”

“People like knights. They loathe witchers. Knights are respected, written about in songs and poems. No one would write a song about a witcher.”

“Then perhaps I shall be the first,” Jaskier says, lifting his head enough to look Geralt in the eye. “I aim to be a famous bard one day, and every bard needs a muse.”

Geralt grunts. “I am no one’s muse.”

“But you could be.” Jaskier walks his fingers up the length of the witcher’s arm, giving him a half smile. “My final year at Oxenfurt is almost complete. Perhaps when all this is done I could come with you and write songs about your adventures.”

“Hm.” Geralt gives him a long searching look. Jaskier may say this now, but he’s overtired and his heat is influencing his mind. Once it ends tomorrow and he wakes to a witcher in his bed, he will change his mind.

“Just go to sleep, bard,” he says.

----------------------------

Voices in the hall bring Geralt out of his slumber. They’re muffled by the walls, nothing more than the hushed chattering of servants, not loud enough to be detected by the omega in his arms, but with his witcher hearing Geralt able to make out what they’re saying.

…terrible, really. The Earl is lucky he holds favor with the king, otherwise the family would surely never overcome the shame.

The king’s favor only goes so far though, people have already begun to talk…

Yes, I have heard. And poor master Julian! How will he ever cope with it all; his late presentation, his first heat given to a beast, and now the scandal to go with it.

I do not know how they plan to make a match for him now, sullied like this. His ruination is one thing, but to have it be a witcher? I doubt any of the noble families would take him, no matter the dowry.

Yes, I imagine his lordship will have to grease many pockets to find even the lowest of matches for his son.

It is a shame. Julian could have received such high prospects. Now he will have no choice but someone lowborn or aging.

Perhaps Lord Pankratz should have thought twice before offering The Law of Surprise.

Indeed.

I just pity the boy. Did you hear his cries yesterday? Poor thing. I can only hope the witcher doesn’t hurt him too badly.

A pause. Then in a sharp whisper. You mean you didn’t know?

Know what?

That’s the Butcher he lies with.

A hushed gasp. Gods rest his soul.

Feeling himself sink, Geralt looks down at Jaskier. The omega is sleeping peacefully, cheek pressed against the witcher’s chest, sighing soft breathes. Geralt reluctantly removes his arms from around him and shifts himself to the far edge of the mattress with his back towards the other man. 

He ignores the quiet sound that the bard makes as he reaches blindly for the now empty space beside him.

Chapter Text

When Geralt wakes next, it’s around mid morning. There’s a hand on his chest, and another on his arm, gently tracing the pale scars that wind down it.

“You can ask,” he says, not opening his eyes. The hand stops suddenly, its owner now aware that Geralt is awake. “Everyone does.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

Geralt cracks an eye open to see Jaskier leaning over him, blues eyes wide and hair mussed with sleep. “I was already waking up anyway.”

Jaskier hums and slowly, his fingers resume tracing over the scars again. “So you’ll tell me how you got this one then?”

“Noonwraith. Got me with its claws when I was blinded.”

The hand moves up his arm to his shoulder where a long thin scar wraps around from front to back. “How about this one?”

“Echinops. Snuck up on me in the swamp when I was busy fighting drowners.”

“And this?” A slender finger traces the circle of five small scars over Geralt’s heart.

The witcher sighs. “Succubus. Tried to carve my heart out when I refused to bed her.”

“Hmmm. And these?” Jaskier runs his knuckles over the twin marks on his neck.

“Fleder.”

“Wow, you really remember all of these, huh?”

Geralt shrugs. “Remembering helps me not to make the same mistakes.”

Jaskier leans in closer, until his face hovers inches from the witcher’s. “Remember how you got this one then?” He thumbs over a small scar on the left side of Geralt’s upper lip, then he traces it with his own lips before tilting his head for a proper kiss. When he pulls back, he’s smiling.

“Would you believe me if I said I cut myself shaving?”

That makes Jaskier’s smile widen. “You are an intriguing man, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Hm. So I’ve been told.”

Jaskier kisses him again, hands travelling slowly down the length of Geralt’s body. His breath hitches as those slender fingers wrap around his length. “And you have a truly magnificent dick,” Jaskier says against his lips. As he speaks, he tightens his grip and Geralt begins to harden in his hand. “And talented fingers. You should use them, I think.”

The witcher rolls his eyes at the not-at-all-subtle suggestion, but compiles without complaint, sliding a hand between Jaskier’s thighs. He’s able to fit two fingers inside him almost immediately and Jaskier makes a breathy sound as he gently thrusts his fingers in and out a few times before adding a third and seeking out the spot of his pleasure.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Geralt asks as he stretches him.

Jaskier bites his lower lip, rocking his hips down onto the witcher’s hand with each movement of his fingers. “Like I want to get fucked,” he replies. “But better. I think today will be the last of it.”

“Hm.”

Eventually, Jaskier grows impatient and swats Geralt’s hand away. “Enough. Just do it, I can’t wait any longer.” He climbs off the witcher and lies down next to him on his back, opening his legs and giving Geralt an expecting look.

He moans as Geralt pushes inside him, throwing his head back, wrapping his legs around the other man, urging him to give more. He’s eager still, rocking back with each of Geralt’s thrusts, kissing his neck, though it appears the symptoms of his heat have diminished considerably. A fast pace seems to be what he likes today, and Geralt does his best to please the other man, driving him steadily towards climax until he shudders and quakes.

“Gods,” Jaskier groans afterwards, while Geralt makes him take sips of water. “I feel like I’ve wasted so many years. I had no idea how good this felt.”

The witcher raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were-- what was it?-- I believe ‘a bit of a tart’ were the words you used.”

“Oh I was darling, don’t get me wrong. Except I was usually the one doing the fucking. With men it was strictly hands or mouth. I was rather nervous, you see. But if I’d known, gods, I would’ve been expelled for indecency rather than just receiving a warning.”

“Hm. Got in trouble a lot, did you?”

“Not nearly as much as I should have,” Jaskier replies with a wink. “I fucked in a lot of classrooms.”

Geralt pauses, considering his next words before he speaks them. “I don’t suppose…you would be interested in exercising that skillset?”

“...fucking in classrooms?” Jaskier asks. Then after a beat, his eyes widen. ‘Oh! Oh, Geralt, do you mean fucking you?”

The witcher shrugs and watches as the bard’s jaw drops when he says, “if you’re interested.”

 “You…you would actually let me?”

“Sure. Like you said, it feels good.”

Geralt knows how this must come across. In most societies an alpha is supposed to be dominant in all ways, the ones to take and claim and protect. No self respecting alpha would be caught dead admitting that they enjoy giving as well as receiving; but then again, Geralt has never cared about the petty rules of men. When one lives as long as he does, it doesn’t make sense to limit the few indulgences life has to offer. Sex of all kinds is good and he’s not going to apologize for enjoying what he does. Normally he’d only trust Eskel to fuck him, but Jaskier seems harmless enough, and well, Geralt might be growing attached to him just a bit.

The scent of arousal spikes in the air. From the look on Jaskier’s face, Geralt would say he’s near-drooling.

“And you’ve done this before?” he asks.

The witcher nods. “I have a close friend from my School, Eskel. He’s an alpha as well, but we like to help each other with our cycles.”

“Then yes,” Jaskier replies, voice almost dreamy, “yes, I would be very interested.”

“In that case, do you have any oil?”

--------------------------

Jaskier does, in fact, keep quite the selection on the top shelf at the very back of his wardrobe. He lists them off as he shows them to Geralt; oil for his lute, for keeping his skin smooth, for the bath, (cooking oil?) for massages, and five or so that he doesn’t specify the purpose of but Geralt quickly concludes are meant for sex. (Jaskier may have never taken more than fingers inside himself before this, but it seems those fingers were certainly busy )

In the end, Geralt selects Chamomile because it’s the only one that doesn’t assault his senses with heavy perfumes and is reliable enough to be safe for use. As he returns to the bed, Jaskier hovers around him, looking hopeful.

“May I?” He asks, extending a hand towards the witcher.

Geralt hands him the oil, then makes himself comfortable on his hands and knees. Behind him, he hears Jaskier’s breath hitch, followed by the scent of fresh slick. A hand rests on the small of his back.

“You know,” Geralt drawls, “most people wouldn’t be aroused by the sight of an alpha presenting.”

A kiss is pressed to his shoulder. He hears the stopper removed from the bottle and chamomile fills the air. “Can’t imagine why. You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

Geralt feels his cheeks heat at the compliment. The feeling only intensifies at the first press of oil-slicked fingers against his entrance, when Jaskier coos and pets him, gently easing the tip of his index finger past the tight furl of muscle.

It’s been a long while since he’s experienced this. The burn is familiar but foreign at the same time; his body only retaining the memory of the last time someone-- Eskel-- touched him there. Life on the path provides little opportunity for Geralt to pleasure himself the way that he likes; slow and drawn out until he’s aching. Normally he can only look forward to a quick wank in the woods, not willing to risk the chance of getting caught belly-up by whatever lurks in the wilderness that should happen to stumble upon his camp.

He takes a deep, measured breath as Jaskier pushes in a second finger; willing his muscles to relax and give way for the intrusion. The omega slides them in and out smoothly, then curls them to rub against his prostate. Geralt lets out a shaky breath.

“There?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier hums, then rubs his fingers against it again, slower this time, and Geralt wonders vaguely if the omega means to torture him this way.

“Aren’t you a sight to behold,” Jaskier murmurs above him, spreading his fingers and scissoring him a few times before adding a third. “Just utterly magnificent.” A kiss is pressed to Geralt’s spine.

“You gonna keep me here all day?” the witcher grunts.

Jaskier rubs against his prostate again. “I might, if you continue to tempt me.”

“Try it and I’ll get up there and take what I want myself.”

The bard breathes a laugh. “You say that as if it could possibly be anything but an otherworldly experience-- but,” he sighs, sliding his fingers out of Geralt, “I've had my fun I suppose, and I admit, my tolerance for waiting is nearly gone.”

A hand braces itself on Geralt’s lower back, followed by the sound of Jaskier slicking up his cock and something blunt nudging at his entrance. He fights the urge to groan as the omega slowly breaches him; senses overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness, the smell of chamomile and arousal, the calloused fingers petting over his back and sides.

“Shhh, that’s it.” Jaskier’s body blankets over him, the omega’s furred chest pressing against the witcher’s back, rocking his hips with slow and measured thrusts until he’s fully seated inside him. 

Geralt moans lowly in response. Jaskier kisses his neck, breath shallow as he restrains himself.

“You can move,” Geralt tells him.

He starts slow, the ever considerate man that he is, giving the alpha plenty of time to adjust as he grinds their hips together. Geralt can sense the other man’s arousal bubbling within him. The urgent need and instinct to find release brewing like a pot with a lid, threatening to overflow as the pressure of restraint builds. Then, the dam breaks, and the bard can no longer hold back.

“Geralt I--”

“It’s okay,” the witcher says quickly. “Just let go, Jaskier. You won’t hurt me.” He spreads his legs wider, encouraging, and Jaskier more confidently starts to move.

He sets a quick, but not overly rough pace, moaning softly as he ruts into the alpha. Geralt can do nothing but bury his face in the pillows and take it, each sure thrust hitting that bundle of nerves inside him that makes pleasure pool in his core.

It’s different than getting fucked by Eskel; Jaskier’s cock is different for one. Where Eskel’s is massive, with a knot the size of his fist (he got the nickname Dragon of Kaer Morhen for a reason), Jaskier is smaller and less girthy, though substantial in his own right, but gods does he know how to use it. Jaskier is also impossibly considerate; as if afraid Geralt will break if he’s too rough-- an almost laughable fear considering he’s both alpha and witcher.

“Fuck, Geralt,” the omega groans in his ear, “you feel so good. This is just what I needed, gods, thank you for letting me have this.” He’s peppering kisses over the witcher’s neck and shoulders now, sliding a hand around to Geralt’s front, taking his cock in hand. “Cum for me, darling. I wanna see you fall apart.”

Geralt moans, canting his hips back into each of Jaskier’s thrusts. The hand on his dick is warm and slippery with oil, knowing just the right pressure, just the right rhythm that he needs. For a moment, he drifts, caught between the pleasure of Jaskier’s hand on him, the cock inside him, the lips and teeth on his neck. It’s been too long, far too long, and the raw pleasure hits him full force.

And then Jaskier changes the angle just so and squeezes Geralt’s steadily swelling knot, and the witcher cums with a cry into his hand. The omega follows almost immediately, hips thrusting hard and grinding into the witcher’s slick heat as he moans. There’s a sharp pain in Geralt’s neck, then Jaskier collapses on top of him.

Once they both come down from their high, he hears Jaskier make a mournful sound as he climbs off of Geralt. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I bit you.”

“Did you?” The witcher lifts his head as if to see, bringing a hand up to the throbbing mark on his neck, just below his scent gland. In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t quite processed where the pain had come from. “S’ okay. You didn’t break the skin.”

Jaskier runs a hand down his face, glancing at the mark. “Yeah but I didn’t want to hurt you-- gods, it’s already bruising. I don’t know what came over me, I’ve never done something like that with a partner before.”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. Witchers heal fast.”

Luckily, Jaskier doesn’t have an alpha’s sharper teeth, the canines meant for claiming, but the thought still sits heavy in Geralt’s chest at the…implications of the bite. It’s not a mating bite, it’s in the wrong place and didn’t break the skin. But the fact that it happened could mean that Jaskier’s instincts are starting to think of Geralt as a mate, which is…not something they want to be dealing with.

Jaskier’s voice brings him out of his thoughts. “You have a freckle,” he murmurs, drawing his finger over the top of the witcher’s left buttcheek, just where it begins to curve from his hip. “Right here. Did you know?”

Geralt shivers at the feather-light touch. “I did not,” he replies. “But I used to have many more before the trials.”

Jaskier hums. “I used to have some on my face as a kid. They were always more noticeable in the summer. My cousin Priscilla once used an ink pen to turn them into constellations.”

The image of a younger, round faced Jaskier covered in ink flashes through his mind. “And how long did it take to wash that off?”

Jaskier chuckles. “Oh my face was stained for days, even a week later it was tinted blue. Priss and I were grounded for a month.”

“Hm. Eskel and I used to get in trouble for tons of stuff like that.”

Jaskier’s hand travels up Geralt’s back, fingers meandering over stray freckles and scars as they make their slow ascent to the witcher’s hair and bury themselves in it. “Eskel. He’s the other witcher from your school. The alpha, right?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me if it’s rude to ask, but how did you end up with such an…arrangement with another alpha? Are there no omega witchers?”

“Sure there are, Eskel and I have just always been close. He was in the same year as me-- only one of my yearmates that’s still alive as far as I know. We’ve been friends since childhood. As for our arrangement, well, there’s not many of us left. Eventually Eskel and I got tired going through our cycles alone and decided to help each other.”

“And you are..” the omega’s voice is hesitant, gaze flickering between Geralt and the wall, a tinge of pink dusting his features. He waves a hand, “romantically involved?” 

“Me and Eskel? Not really, we’re more friends than anything.” Just friends that occasionally fuck.

“Oh. Well, uh, good.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Good?” 

Jaskier’s face turns red as an apple. “I mean not good!” he says quickly. “Just that it would have been sad, if you were, since witchers travel alone all year. I bet you would miss him.”

“I still do,” Geralt admits. “And Lambert-- he’s another witcher from our school, an omega, actually.”

He watches as the bard’s mouth rounds into an “o” shape. “Is that why you know so much about omegas?”

“Partially. But they taught us about all designations growing up.”

“Huh. I wish someone had taught me like that.”

“To be honest I actually tuned out most of the lessons,” Geralt says. He remembers giggling with Eskel over the stoic way Remus and Vesemir had presented their anatomy lesson.The clinical way they phrased things had almost been enough for the group of horny trainees to be turned off from sex completely. Almost. “Most of what I know comes from a hundred years of experience.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen. He jolts, leaning towards Geralt. “Wait, did you say one hundred? Geralt, you’re not telling me you are one hundred years old. ”

He shrugs. “More or less.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. You’re fucking with me, right? There is no way you’re actually that old.”

“I am, actually.”

“But you don’t-- you’re not-- how? ”

“The mutagens changed us in many ways. Witchers don’t age the same way that humans do.”

“Shit,” Jaskier says. “How long do you live?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not sure. Never met a witcher who died from old age.”

Jaskier stares at him for a long time, the words sinking in. “Wow,” he says quietly. “I can’t even imagine living that long.”

For some reason, Geralt can’t meet his eyes. “Neither can I.”

--------------------------------

As the hours go by, Jaskier’s heat begins to fade. They have sex a few more times, though it’s lazy and unhurried-- the desperate need that the omega has felt the past two days is slipping away steadily, until he’s more or less feeling like his regular self. By late afternoon, his appetite has returned and he and Geralt finish the last of the bread and meat that had been left for them, then share a pint over a game of gwent.

He will miss Jaskier, Geralt thinks. This omega is so unlike the others; sharp, witty, and crass, yet unapologetically kind and gentle, and completely unafraid of the witcher whose company he keeps. It’s so rare for Geralt to find someone like him; individuals like Jaskier come around once in a lifetime. It will be difficult to return to the life he knows after three days spent like this. Perhaps they’ll run into each other again someday and Geralt can see if he finally became the bard he dreamed of being. (Or a unicorn tamer.)

Sometime in the evening, Jaskier’s heat finally breaks. They take the opportunity to open the window and air out the room, then indulge in a nice long bath where Jaskier insists on scrubbing every inch of his body as well as Geralt’s, until their skin is pink and glistening and each of them smells of chamomile and rose petals. They change the sheets on the bed, abandoning the old ones in the laundry hamper along with their soiled clothes from the first day. Geralt’s inner alpha silently mourns the loss. The mixture of sweat, spend, and slick coating their sheets had felt pleasing. He wanted to roll in it. It smelled of Jaskier, it smelled of them, and the heavy musk of heat and sex was like a warm blanket around his shoulders, a sign that his mate was happy and cared for.

Wait.

Mate? No. Not mate. Jaskier. Jaskier. Not his mate. Witchers don’t have mates, and even if they did, Jaskier doesn’t want him, not really. The hold his instincts had on him almost made Geralt forget that.

Finally, fresh and clean, (and with Jaskier no longer smelling like he belongs to Geralt) they settle into the new sheets for a night of much needed sleep. Jaskier cuddles into the witcher’s side and presses a lingering kiss to his lips.

Something in Geralt’s chest aches that night. A certain feeling weighing him down that he can’t quite identify. He spares on last look to Jaskier, asleep on his chest and runs a hand through the omega’s hair until sleep comes for him as well.

------------------------------

Geralt wakes holding Jaskier in his arms, nose buried in the chestnut locks of his hair. Since his heat dissipated the omega’s scent is softer; like the subtle scents of dew on the morning grass and orange blossoms on the breeze rather than the heavy perfume it had been yesterday. Geralt closes his eyes and allows himself a few deep breaths before reluctantly pulling away from Jaskier, careful not to disturb his slumber.

To his surprise, he finds his armor has been laid out on the table and quickly dresses himself, cheeks heating at the prospect of servants coming into Jaskier’s rooms while they slept and seeing them bare and tangled together. Once he’s dressed, he collects the remains of his things, then pays one final glance to Jaskier before he slips out of the room and into the hall.

The halls of Lettenhove manor are long and twisting, the house something akin to an ornate maze of rooms and doors, carpets and wallpaper. He wanders aimlessly through the building, relying on what hazy memory he can recall of where he’d been led when he arrived. Finally, Geralt comes across a pair of important looking doors and pushes them open to find a dining room with a large table where Jaskier’s father sits, eating breakfast.

He drops his fork when he sees Geralt, quickly dabbing at his shirt with a napkin where bits of egg have fallen. “Ah, witcher,” he says nervously. “I see you’re up and about. Is it finished?” 

Geralt nods. “Jas-- Julian’s heat ended last night.”

“Excellent. And my son, is he…”

Geralt’s stomach churns at the look of dread on the Earl’s face. “He is unharmed,” Geralt says firmly. “And resting.”

The Earl seems visibly relieved. “Yes, of course. I shall send some servants to check on him and bring some breakfast. I trust you’ll be leaving now?”

“Yes,” Geralt replies, ignoring how flat his voice sounds. “Just point me in the direction of the stables and I’ll be on my way.”

Ten minutes later, he’s in the stables, tacking up Roach. 

“I missed you,” Geralt murmurs, feeding her a piece of dried apple from his travel bags. He’s pleased to see that she’s been well taken care of in his absence, given a spacious stall and what looks to be a recent grooming.

He’s leading her out of the stall when a voice cuts through the stables.

“So you’re just going to leave? ”

Jaskier is standing in the doorway, looking frazzled and out of breath. He’s dressed in a red and blue doublet that’s buttoned wrong, as if he threw it on in a hurry, and has a lute strapped to his back. His blue eyes glare at Geralt from across the room.

“Jaskier.”

“Don’t you Jaskier me,” the bard snaps, stomping over to him. “Where are you going?”

Geralt freezes. For a moment he’s worried that Jaskier hates him for what he’s done now that he’s out of the haze of his heat. Perhaps he will have Geralt beheaded after all. Except…he looks more sad than angry.

“I’m going back to the path,” Geralt says carefully. “Your heat is over.”

“So you leave without even saying goodbye? After everything that happened? I thought we were friends, Geralt!” His voice cracks and he covers his face with his hands. “Did I really mean nothing to you?”

Fuck.  

“Jaskier.” He steps towards the other man, gently pulling his hands away from his face. Teary blue eyes stare back at him. “You do mean something to me. But I didn’t think you would want to see me after what I did to you.” What I forced you to do, he doesn’t say.

“What you-- Geralt what are you talking about?”

“Your heat,” the witcher says bitterly. “It’s because of my mistake that you were forced to spend it with me.”

Jaskier shakes his head, frowning. “You didn’t force me to do anything. If you hadn’t been there then my father would've hired another alpha to help me through it. Someone who probably would not have been as considerate or kind as you were.”

He…hadn’t thought about that. But that doesn’t change the fact that Geralt’s very presence in Jaskier’s life could have very well ruined his future.

“I thought it would be best for both of us if I just left.”

“But--” Jaskier’s voice wavers-- “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I have to. The people of the continent need me.”

“But I need you.”

Something like hope flickers in Geralt’s chest, but he pushes it down. “You don’t need me, Jaskier,” he says gently. “You have your whole life ahead of you; your final semester at Oxenfurt, your career as a bard. You don’t want a witcher holding you back.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You wouldn’t hold me back. I could come with you, write songs about your adventures! I like you, Geralt. And you like me, I know you do. I’ve loved getting to know you these past few days, and I want to know you better.”

“Jaskier…”

“Please, Geralt.”

“The path is too dangerous. You could get hurt.”

“I won’t. You’ll protect me.”

“People don’t like witchers. If you travel with me, they’ll hate you too.”

“No they won’t,” the omega says, placing his hands on his hips, “because my music is going to change everyone’s mind.”

Geralt sighs. “You’re not going to see reason, are you?”

“Nope!” Jaskier replies proudly. “If you won’t let me come, then I’ll just follow you. We’re bound by destiny now. Just try and get rid of me.”

Geralt stares at him. Jaskier stares back, unwavering.

“If you come with me,” Geralt warns, “it won’t be easy.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ll have to sleep outside; on the ground, in the cold, in the rain.”

The bard bats his eyelashes. “You’ll keep me warm, won’t you?”

Geralt takes a long, slow breath. “Fine. But you’ll have to pull your own weight.”

The bard’s face lights up and he leaps forward, wrapping his arms around the witcher. “Of course!”

“And Jaskier. Witchers don't have mates.”

The omega cocks his head to the side, a smile tugging at his lips. He thumbs over the fading bruise on the alpha’s neck and Geralt feels himself shiver. He leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the witcher’s mouth. When he pulls back, his eyes are half lidded, his voice a smooth purr. “Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”