Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier hums the beginnings of a new song while he leaves the village behind. His lute is in its case on his back, and his clothes are gratifyingly clean and dry. The town hadn’t had a bard pass through in a while, and they had been more than happy to receive him. He got a few nights in a comfortable bed, a few decent meals, his clothes washed, and more than a few coins to stash away, now softly clinking together in the pouch at his belt. 

He’d almost gotten a roll in the hay with that beautiful brunette as well. The woman had unexpectedly slid into his lap after his last performance, and he’d thought himself lucky. But, the mayor’s wife had been trying to make her husband jealous more than she’d been trying to sleep with him. It had gotten him the first hostile looks since he’d arrived in town a few days prior, and Jaskier had quickly pulled his hands away from where he’d slid them around the woman’s waist, and decided the taste of her lips wasn’t really worth getting run out of town for.

It was time for him to go anyway, and he’s happy to be on the road again. He grins and thinks about the woman’s mischievous brown eyes and knowing smile as her husband stared at him with an impressive scowl on his face. She’d known exactly what she was doing. He hopes she’s gotten a good night, regardless he’s not the one who got to enjoy it with her. The situation is highly amusing in retrospect, and he thinks that maybe, he’ll be able to make it into a song. He hums again, and thinks of the positions of his fingers on the strings as he visualises the chords that make up the melody.

The mayor says he’s not of jealous constitution

His wife disagrees, offers her contribution

She is more than happy to demonstrate

Even decent men turn reprobate

When she sits on my thighs, and tells me sweet lies, he can no longer hide his true—

Jaskier cuts off when there is a sound from the forest next to the narrow path he’s traversing. He shifts his lute to have the leather strap a little more centred on his chest, and takes a quick glance forward and behind him. The path is empty, and he hasn’t come across a fellow traveller in hours. He looks toward the forest, trying to see through the dense underbrush of trees. It’s just after midday, the sun high in the sky, but it’s relatively dark under the canopy, and he tells himself he’s not curious enough what made the noise of snapping wood to go look. 

“Okay,” he murmurs under his breath. “Time to put a little spring in my step, and keep silent while I’m at it.” 

He can’t entirely remember how long it is to the next town, but he’s pretty sure it was at least two or three days' travel on foot. It means he’s going to be sleeping out in the open tonight. Though the sound could very well have been the old branch of a dead tree breaking off, there is an uncomfortable clench in the pit of his stomach, and he knows better than to ignore it. There are hours left until sunset, and he wants to use the time to get as far away from this dark patch of forest as possible. 

He turns back in the direction he was going in, and starts walking at a quicker pace. He keeps an ear out for noises coming from the forest, but there is nothing more than the sound of leaves, quietly rustling in the wind. 

After he’s practically speed-walked for an hour his feet are getting sore, and sweat is gathering at his temples. He hasn’t heard anything since that unexpected snapping noise, and he starts to feel a little ridiculous. Still, he’s been on the road a few seasons now, and he knows to be cautious. He’ll never be the most careful man, but he knows well enough to get out when something feels dodgy. So, he walks in silence for another hour at least, until he can’t help it any longer. 

He starts humming under his breath, his voice getting louder the longer he walks without any strange noises or happenings. By the time the sun is creeping its way toward the horizon and light has gotten low, he has forgotten all about it. 

—000—

When Jaskier wakes up, the light is uncommonly bright to his eyes, and he has to squint against it. He’s not sure he remembers going to sleep the previous night, and briefly accuses himself of gulping down the bottle of Toussainti wine he’d filched from the inn, leaving a few crowns in its place. 

There is something moist and sticky around his mouth, and before he thinks better of it, he wipes it away with his sleeve. He grumbles a bit, blinking rapidly as he sits up. Now he’s going to be forced to find a stream to wash the wine out of his doublet before it stains. 

Slowly but surely the world comes into focus in the low morning light, and he realises it’s strange for it to be so blinding, seeing as he’s under the cover of trees. 

It must be the hangover. 

He rubs his hands over his face, and realises that as he does so, the strange metallic scent that hangs in the air gets stronger. When he pulls his hands away to look at his palms, he stiffens. There are red stains on the skin, some of it dried and flaking in the creases. 

It’s very definitely not wine. 

Now that he’s identified it, the scent of blood is overwhelmingly present, sharp and spicy in his nose and on his tongue. To his horror, saliva floods his mouth, and when he licks his lips the metallic tang of it is a pleasant sensation, one that has warmth rushing through his limbs.

Panicked, he slides his hands over his arms, chest and legs, trying to find the wound he’s bleeding from. All he finds is a tender spot on his lower left abdomen, and he realises if it’s his blood, he really should hurt more. He doesn’t hurt at all, in fact. 

Gone are the aches in his feet and legs from long days of walking. Gone is the dull throbbing of the bruise at his ribs where one of the mayor’s men had shoved him out of the inn a little too roughly. If this is in fact part of a hangover, the accompanying headache is strangely absent too. 

When he examines the tender spot on his belly a little more closely, he finds there is a rip in his doublet and the chemise underneath it. The edges are cut sharply, as if with a knife. Underneath it, his skin is whole, and unblemished. 

Only when he’s made sure he is, in fact, totally fine and unharmed, except maybe a little unhinged right now for enjoying the lingering taste of iron on his tongue, does he take in his surroundings.

What he sees has a strange, dual effect on him. On the one hand he wants to hurl in disgust and horror at the tableau before him. On the other, it makes him so very, very hungry.

—000—

He’s in a clearing in the forest, the remnants of a fire he doesn’t remember making in the middle of it. It’s a good place to rest, far away enough from the path it can’t be seen. He doesn’t remember picking it, but the way the fire is lined with rocks and some of his clothes are hung on branches to air out, tells him he clearly made camp here last night. 

The scene wouldn’t be different from any other morning, his camp simple, the forest as undisturbed as possible, if it weren’t for the fact there are bodies. Jaskier tries to breathe through his mouth so as not to smell the blood as he takes in the sight, but he can taste it in the air. 

There’s five of them, and they aren’t moving. Their faces are pale and lifeless, and their rib cages do not rise and fall. The one that’s closest lies face down, and the forest floor below him is dark and damp, soaked with what gave him life. One is sat against a tree, his back to it, legs stretched out in front of him, his head lolling to the side. Jaskier chokes on air a little when he sees the way the man’s jugular has been ripped open. There are dark stains all down his front, and one of his slack hands is still curled around a dagger made of some dark, shining metal. The others seem to have collapsed in random places, their bodies contorted, as if they haven’t moved after hitting the ground. As if they've been killed where they stood.  The man that has fallen closest to the edge of the clearing is the youngest of them. The ground around him is disturbed, as if there has been a struggle, and like the one at the tree, this one has his throat ripped open, eyes wide and staring upwards. 

Jaskier leans to the side and dry heaves a couple of times. How is this possible? What happened here? How can it be that there are five dead men, who by the looks of them are the rough sort, who clearly perished through horrific wounds inflicted on them, draining them of blood. How can they be dead, and it’s him still alive and unharmed?

Slowly, he lets his eyes drag over the clearing again, trying to get his panic back under control. The more he calms, the more he becomes aware of that secondary sensation that has been present all along, but momentarily overwhelmed by panic and horror. His stomach doesn’t feel empty, but still there is something gnawing inside of him, and it can only be hunger. When he looks at the closest body again, he licks his lips before he realises. 

Again, the coppery flavour bursts forth on his tongue, and that’s only possible if what he’d thought was wine around his mouth, is in fact blood. He notices something else, too. When he runs his tongue across his teeth, chasing the taste, it catches on his incisors. They are pointed, far more pronounced than Jaskier remembers them being, and the edges of them are sharp in a way only a predator’s are. 

“Well, fuck,” he says, his voice tight, finally scrabbling up from his seated position. 

The light is bright in his eyes, and his skin is paler than he remembers. Now that he considers it, his vision is sharper despite the light, his sense of smell more sensitive when he’s able to focus on something other than the tang of iron, and his hearing picks up the noise of a squirrel he realises is yards away once he swings his gaze around to spot it. He brings up a thumb to his mouth, and presses the pad of it against his sharpened teeth. 

He’s not dense. He might not remember what happened here, but he’s perfectly able to interpret the picture that’s laid out before him. 

The clearing looks like a predator raged through it, ripping five men apart who look to be a group of common bandits. They might have been pursuing him, but Jaskier knows he’s the hunter in what happened here. He just doesn’t know what made him so. 

He twirls around in the clearing, and only feels slightly guilty with relief when he spots his lute case leant against a tree, undamaged and whole. 

“There you are, my friend,” he murmurs, and picks it up, careful to not get blood smeared on the leather. 

He tries to wipe his hands with some leaves from the forest floor, and then takes a handful of ash from the fire and rubs it between his palms. He wipes his face as best he can, and rubs more ash into the dark red stains on his clothes. At least if he encounters anyone right now, they will just think he’s a bard who’s accidentally rolled around in his campfire, instead of one who’s just killed five people. 

Jaskier breathes deeply, fighting the wave of nausea that hits him, and tries to remind himself it was very likely self defense. He studiously ignores the fact he thinks he actually drank the blood of at least two of them. He gathers his hanging clothes into his pack with a minimum of ashy prints to the fabric, and looks over his shoulder as he’s about to exit the clearing. His eyes are pulled toward the man leaning against the tree. To the blade in his hand, more specifically. 

The metal glints in the light dappling through the canopy, and Jaskier thinks the weapon has to be made of some unusual material he’s never seen before. It’s so dark it’s nearly black, but the light reveals edges of crimson where it reflects. The bandit holds the blade as if he’d fought with it, but despite the red sheen, there is no blood on it. He brings his hand up to his abdomen, and sticks his fingers through the cut in his doublet and undershirt, pressing against his tender belly. 

He thinks he’s been stabbed, and he’s quite sure it was with that strange weapon. He resists the urge to just, run away and never look back, and quickly retrieves the dagger. The bandit’s hand is slack, and the blade falls out of his grip easily. Jaskier has to do his best to keep his gaze averted from the man’s torn jugular, as he stashes it away in his pack. 

As he leaves the clearing behind, he can hear someone traversing the path in the distance, telling him which direction to go. He walks toward it with an ease that reminds him he doesn’t feel any of the fatigue of travel in his body.

Maybe, if he manages to forget about what he’s leaving behind in the forest, this won’t be so bad.

Maybe. 

He realises he’s not having a normal reaction, and thinks he’s actually gone beyond panicked, leaving him numb. He decides to ignore that, too.

—000—

Jaskier takes it back. He takes everything back. He can't forget the images of that clearing and the dead within it. He can admit this is the single, most horrid thing to have ever happened to him, and every time he fails to distract himself while he walks, panic threatens.

He takes the opportunity to bathe in the first stream he encounters, opting to just walk in wearing the clothes on his back. He dunks himself and scrubs, first at his face and hands, and then his clothes. He eventually has to take them off to give them a proper clean. He thinks the blood and ash won’t come out entirely, but at least he can make it better. 

When the sun hits his bare skin while he works it doesn’t burn him, not like in the few songs and legends he knows that deal with vampires. He’d already figured that’d be the case, since he’d been perfectly fine walking around in the low morning light of the rising sun. It is midday now though, and the sun is bright and hot overhead. There is no smoke rising off him, there are no blisters forming, and it doesn’t hurt, exactly. What it does do, is sting. It’s a low grade pain, an annoyance really. Like the sting of a nettle that’s on the verge of disappearing. It’s enough to rattle him, and he lets himself sink under the water for a moment, letting the cool relief soothe him, trying his best to keep a tight grip on his rising dread. 

He resurfaces, even though he feels like he could have stayed under the water indefinitely, his urge to breathe diminished to almost nothing. He immediately knows he’s not alone anymore, and slowly turns where he’s standing in the creek. Now that he thinks of it, he supposes he’s heard the man coming for a while.

The man is in his late middle age, with a well kept salt and pepper beard. He has a large pack on his back and a hat with a wide brim to keep the sun out of his eyes. His face and forearms are tanned and the skin around his eyes wrinkles as he smiles while raising his hand in greeting. 

“That looks refreshing!” the man says. “Mind if I join you?”

There is that uncomfortable clench in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach again, warning him. This time, he’s quite sure it’s the man who needs to be warned away. Away from him. Suddenly all he can hear is the strong heartbeat that beats in the chest of the human across from him, pumping around his lifeblood. His vision seems to change somewhat, and it’s rather disconcerting to realise the man’s veins and arteries suddenly stand out in stark relief under his skin. Against his will, Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to the places blood thrums closest under the surface, ending at the man’s neck. He drags his tongue over his teeth, catching on his newly sharp incisors. 

He’d been relieved he’d left the hunger behind when he’d left the clearing. It’s back now, and it’s more insistent than it was before.

“Melitele have mercy on me,” Jaskier mutters, and sees the man’s smile slide off his face.

—000—

It’s a simple contract. The town isn’t overly large, but despite it, it has an inn, and the mayor pays well. The man has a beautiful wife who, surprisingly enough, eyes him with hesitant interest for a moment. When Geralt scowls and the mayor lays a cautioning hand on her shoulder, she quickly disappears. He looks at the handful of crowns the man offers, and raises his brows. 

“Can we count on you to take them out?”

“Mhm,” he grunts, inclining his head. 

“Good, it’s been a little over a month now, and several travellers have been accosted. It’s bad for trade,” the mayor says, nervously eyeing the black clad witcher in front of him.

“Anything else you can tell me?” Geralt asks, irritated at the lack of information. 

“They come from the woods, maybe a day’s travel from here. The next town over is three days on foot, less than one on horseback. You should be there and back in no time.”

He resists growling, smelling the anxious fear wafting off the man. It’s information, but not the kind he’s looking for. “What do they look like?” 

The mayor shrugs. “Not all have lived to tell. But it’s your job to find out, isn’t it?”

Geralt frowns, and hears the man’s heartbeat increase. The mayor is lucky some of the townspeople have been more forthcoming, or he might have passed this contract over to begin with. He’s found out enough to know that between this town and the next, there is something undead in the forest, snatching travellers off the road. It’s not something he can ignore.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he growls. “A hundred crowns is the minimum. The price doubles if there’s more than one.”

The mayor looks like he wants to protest, and Geralt just waits him out. Eventually, the man nods in agreement, and he’s on his way. 

—000—

He finds the clearing easily enough by following his nose. It’s indeed around a day’s walk away from the town, but Roach takes him there in no time. There is the smell of old blood overlaying something else, something faded he can’t immediately identify. 

Getting rid of the rotters is easy work, and he doesn’t need to delve into his stash of potions. When he takes a closer look at the clearing after he’s done, he identifies the bones of several bodies. Some of them might have been here before, the original reason for the rotters’ presence. Some of them have come after, the rotters going after travellers on the road once their easy meal had run out. 

Curiously, there is a chemise that hangs on a branch of one of the trees. It seems to have gotten stuck in a fork and it’s slightly ripped, as if someone had tried to pull it down. When Geralt steps closer, he notices sooty fingerprints, faded on the linen fabric. He flares his nostrils on an inhale, and realises the prints aren’t just made in ash, the rusted scent of blood barely detectable through it. 

The shirt itself barely smells of anything anymore, but he thinks he gets a hint of lavender and wildflowers from it. Whoever wore this likes their scented oils. Geralt pulls it from the tree and runs it between his fingers for a moment. He looks around the clearing again, and takes another deep breath. 

In the back of his mind, his instincts click. “Vampire,” he growls, baring his teeth. Judging by the fact its kill had been enough to attract rotters, a newly made one at that. 

One that’s going to be hungry, even after a month has gone by.

Chapter Text

Jaskier listens to the sounds coming from the town. He’s figured out the distance where he can hear the people talk and follow their conversations, without being able to hear their heartbeats. One of them happens to have a cut to their skin, and the scent of blood beckons him. He has to swallow against the pit of hunger in his stomach. He presses his fangs into the soft flesh of his lip, and the small pain helps him to remain in control. 

He doesn’t get closer. Getting closer isn’t safe.

He knows it’s only a matter of time before the hunger will grow to overwhelm him. He’s been hiding in the forest for quite a while now, staying away from people. The hunger and will to resist it take up most of his attention. In the rare moments it wanes, he feels very alone. 

He’s not made to be by himself. He thrives in the company of others, people he can charm and joke with, who’ll listen to his songs and demand another! Another! While cheering loudly. He’s very aware it’s a fleeting sort of connection, but it had been more than enough to sustain him while he travelled the continent. Seeing new places and meeting new people hadn’t yet lost its appeal to him, and he suspects if he hadn’t been changed that night, he would have walked the continent for seasons more before retiring to Oxenfurt. 

Now though, nothing about his existence is what it was before. He hides in the forest and his movements are mostly determined by steering clear of others. Still, sometimes he can’t resist, and he approaches enough to let himself be distracted for a moment, listening to them go about their daily lives. 

He stays in place for a few moments longer, the scent of them in the distance getting stronger to his senses, beckoning him. When he’s on the verge of giving in, he turns around, and retreats back into the forest. 

—000—

He can’t live like this. The thought is nothing new, but gets stronger with every passing day. He’d first had it when that traveller came upon him bathing and washing his clothes in the stream. 

Initially, Jaskier had seen the friendly man for what he was, a fellow traveller, eager to make a brief connection. It had taken seconds to transform him into something else entirely.

Jaskier doesn't want to see humans as prey, but he can't help it. He is hungry, and he knows that if he gives in, it would be so easy to take one of them and sate himself.

He can't live like this, because eventually he will break, and he doesn’t want to know what he'll become when that happens.

—000—

The first time he tries to kill himself is a mere week after he'd woken up in that forest clearing, surrounded by bodies. It’s right after he stumbles upon a woman gathering mushrooms in the underbrush. 

Her skirt is hiked up to prevent it getting caught on branches, and she has her hair folded in a simple kerchief to keep it out of her face. When she bends to pluck the mushrooms from the ground, the veins in her neck raise with the pressure, and Jaskier freezes, unable to turn away. 

Suddenly her heartbeat is loud in his ears, the scent of her strong in his nose, and he catches himself thinking that no one would know. No one would find out it was him who made her disappear. As he keeps looking, more and more of her veins and capillaries stand out under her skin, until the rushing sound of her blood is so loud it's almost overwhelming.

Jaskier clenches his fists at his sides and tries to resist. He remembers the way the traveller at the stream had looked at him, fear a dark shadow in his eyes, his face contorted with dread. He doesn't want to see the same expression on the woman’s face. He doesn't want her to be scared in her last moments. He doesn't want to kill her, but he is so, so hungry, and he's not sure he hasn't lingered long enough that holding back is no longer an option. 

Despite his resistance, his muscles coil, readying to spring. She isn't aware of his presence, and taking her would be so easy.

In that moment, he almost breaks without realising it. Later, Jaskier will recognise he could no longer think clearly, that bloodlust had taken him over. 

What saves the woman is the fact that as she's gathering more and more of the toadstools into her basket, she starts to hum. It's a tune Jaskier recognises, one of his own. He'd composed it his very first season, and to his utter delight it made it to the corners of the continent by the time he started his next. It's enough to shock him back into control, and he soundlessly retreats into the trees. 

The woman will never know how close she came to dying, but Jaskier does. He knows he'd almost ended an innocent life, and he can't let that happen again. 

He finds another stream, one further into the forest this time, and walks along it until he finds a deep pool with rocks at the bottom. The water is clear and sparkling in the dappled light, flashes of it bright to his sensitive eyes as it reflects off the undulating surface. He carefully shifts his lute and pack off his back, and stashes them between the forked roots of an old oak. He takes off his boots before he briefly trails his fingers over the neck of his instrument, swallowing painfully. He'd rather his lute would go to someone who'd appreciate her, but he can't risk getting close to someone. He can only hope someone might find it here, once he is gone. 

As Jaskier walks into the pool he raises his voice to sing. He sings the song he'd heard the woman hum, and closes his eyes as he slowly submerges himself. When the song ends, he finally lets himself sink to the depths of the pool, the cool, clear water closing above him. From the bottom he gathers heavy rocks, and piles them in his lap to keep him under.

He settles in to wait. This should kill him, eventually.

—000—

Dying shouldn’t take so long, should it? 

Jaskier doesn't know how long he stays on the bottom of that forest pool, but he knows that night falls, and it starts to hurt. There is a constant pain in every fibre of his body, as if the parts of him that no longer need to breathe are screaming for oxygen regardless. 

Still, he stays. When the sun rises and light reaches his eyes under the water, he stays. The pain doesn't dull, but remains as sharp and demanding as when it first started. Hours later, he has to admit he's no closer to dying than he was when he'd first walked in. He shoves the heavy rocks off his lap and propels himself back to the surface. When he gasps a few breaths of air it's a relief when the pain releases him. It is replaced by the dull ache of fear. He might not be eager to die, but it was an escape he thought he could control.

Jaskier bites back the disappointment as he pulls himself out of the water.

Drowning doesn't work.

—000—

The second time he tries to kill himself is a while later, and he tries to use the dagger he'd taken from the dead bandit to do it. He feels a strange buzz under his skin when he handles the weapon, and when he presses the point of it against the base of his throat, he's suddenly enveloped with a profound sense of revulsion at what he's doing. He doesn’t consciously decide to drop the dagger, and when it slips from his slack fingers to hit the ground, the revulsion ends as abruptly as it began. 

“What in the ever loving fuck was that?” he exlaims loudly, to no one but himself. He bends down to pick the dagger back up and studies it closely. Apart from the material it's made of, nothing about it seems out of the ordinary. He doesn’t feel anything in particular while handling it, but as soon as he presses it against his throat again, he’s hit with another wave of feeling. 

This time, the revulsion is paired with anger, and he actually feels a sharp stab of pain in his hand where he’s holding onto the blade. With a cry, he lets it drop again. It glances off of a rock, and the impact chimes with a high, clear note that seems to vibrate within him. 

Jaskier gapes at the thing, and then resolutely turns around. “Alright, different blade,” he murmurs to himself, and rummages through his pack to find the small knife he uses to prepare his dinners on the road. 

This time, when puts it against his jugular, nothing weird happens. Pressing it in is far harder than sinking to the bottom of the water was, but he makes himself do it. He grits his teeth, and lifts his face up to the sky to feel the warm sting of the sun hitting his skin. This time, he doesn’t hope anyone will find the clearing. They will not only find his lute, but a body with its throat cut. Decisively, he drags the knife across, cutting the large arteries and veins on either side of his neck. Warm liquid pours over his hand and leaks down his chest. There is pain, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as staying under the water had. Jaskier blinks as the image of the canopy above him fades. He’s out before he hits the ground, and the last thing he feels is a profound sense of relief.

Drowning himself hadn’t worked, but it seems cutting his throat has. 

—000—

He wakes up to a pounding headache, worse than any hangover he’s ever had. There are strange little snuffling noises, disconcertingly close, and a raspy tongue licking at the tender skin of his neck. He jumps to his feet with a loud screech, and can admit to himself it’s higher in tone than is strictly masculine. 

The creature that looks up at him from the ground is small. It’s similar in size to a common cat, but its legs are significantly shorter and its body is long and slender. Its length is extended by a long, slightly bushy tail, which it flicks from side to side. Its face is pointed, though not as much as a fox’s is, and its ears are adorably large and rounded. Two intelligent black eyes carefully keep Jaskier in its sights, and its reddish body is tense, ready to run at any moment. The patch of fur at its throat and chest is pale, and Jaskier thinks he recognises the type of creature from expensive fur coats sold in Oxenfurt.

When he twitches his hand against his thigh, the small animal comes out of its frozen position and bounds away with a cat-like screech. Jaskier notices the way it limps, one of its hind legs pulled up against its body.

“Wait,” he calls, and there is a strange lilt to his voice. 

The small marten freezes on the edge of the clearing. It turns back and makes a tittering noise. Jaskier brings his hand to his throat and remembers the rasp of its warm tongue. He thinks it had been lapping up his blood because it was hungry. It likely hasn't been able to hunt, not with that limp. 

Slowly, he sinks back down into a cross legged position. “You can come eat,” he says gently, the lilt now absent from his voice. The marten titters again, tilting its small head as it regards him. Jaskier just sits in still silence, waiting. Eventually, surprisingly, the little creature hobbles back over to him. Its little claws are points of gentle pressure against his thigh as it climbs him. It rears up on its hind legs, keeping the pressure off the injured one, and puts its paws against his chest. He holds carefully still as it begins to lap at his spilled blood again.

Jaskier lets it feed for as long as it wants, staring up at the darkening sky. To his surprise, the little marten doesn’t leave when it’s done. Instead, it curls up in his lap, a small, warm bundle of reddish brown fur. He carefully reaches out a hand toward it, and its ear twitches when he brushes the edge of it. It looks up at him again, and makes a snuffling noise against his hand. The slight brush tickles Jaskier’s palm, and he can’t help but smile. The marten goes back to sleep after taking in his scent, baring its sharply pointed teeth on an impressive yawn.

When Jaskier blinks, tears track over his cheeks. 

—000—

After that, Jaskier is loath to try and kill himself again. He doesn’t want to leave the little marten to fend for itself, not while it is still injured, and he can’t think of a way that would work anyway. His own hunger keeps growing steadily, but while he refuses to feed himself, at least he can make sure the marten eats. Every night, he cuts across the vein in his wrist, and lets the small creature lap up the blood.

Over the days, he thinks the strange company might be the only thing that keeps him sane.

Steadily, the marten regains the use of its back leg. When it no longer needs Jaskier to tote it around on his shoulder, but runs as fast up the trees as it races across the ground, he decides it is time. 

The marten can hunt again. It doesn’t need his blood to survive. It doesn’t need Jaskier anymore. It is time for him to search out a witcher, and be killed. 

—000—

Despite having a newly made vampire to track, Geralt still goes back to the town, the heads of two of the rotters attached to Roach’s saddle. The mayor scowls, but at least the man doesn’t argue the price and just hands over two hundred crowns. For a moment he debates spending some of it on a bath and bed in the town’s inn, but the vampire’s scent trail had been old, and will only get older. 

He ignores the relief on the townspeople’s faces when he heads back out again. 

He returns to the glade he’d cleared of rotters, and spends a little time to lock onto the scent of the creature. Interestingly enough, there’s only one vampire’s scent here. He briefly wonders how it has been sired, but decides the important thing now, is finding it. Before it kills too many people, and before it might sire new vampires of its own. 

He tracks the scent through the forest over days, and Roach snorts at him with annoyance whenever they have to push through a dense patch of it. He gentles her by scratching at her mane. He would have preferred to lead her over the open road, preventing branches from scratching at her, but apparently this vampire has avoided travelling out in the open. It’s strange. Geralt would have expected the creature to journey where it would have the opportunity to encounter prey, but apparently it hasn’t. 

He does get out of the forest to ask around in the next town over. It turns out he doesn’t even have to enquire. He’s approached by a middle aged man as soon as he sets foot in the inn. The man looks to be a seasoned traveller, and he twists his hands around the edge of a wide brimmed hat. 

“Master witcher,” the man says hesitantly, and Geralt inclines his head. “I’ve no coin to pay, especially since I've been holed up here for a while.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows at the man. He thinks he might know why an experienced wanderer would stay in place for longer than he’d like.

“A vampire has gotten my scent, master witcher. I can’t stay here for much longer, but I’d feel better knowing the thing will be tracked by one of you. For the people here, too, of course.

“Of course,” Geralt growls, and the man swallows. “Give me a description.” He listens to what the man tells him, and wonders what exactly had held back the newly made vampire from making an easy meal out of the traveller.  

—000—

A few days of traversing the woods later, the scent leads him to another clearing in the forest, a small stream cutting through it. In the middle of the open space, boulders dam the flow of water, forming a crystalline pool. The vampire’s scent is stronger here, as if it spent some time in the idyllic scenery. Roach drinks from the clear water and Geralt fills his waterskins, and takes the opportunity to bathe. 

When he continues to follow the trail, the creature’s scent suddenly gets much, much stronger. At first, he thinks he’s gaining on the vampire, until he finds the source of the increased smell. The patch of ground in the forest has been drenched with blood, and though it’s been a while, there was enough of it for the earth to still be damp. Someone other than a witcher might assume the blood to be from one of the vampire’s victims, but Geralt’s sense of smell is too good for that. 

The blood is the vampire’s own. He shakes his head, confused. For there to be this much blood, a major artery must have been cut, and he wonders what could’ve caused it. Nothing in the surrounding forest poses enough of a danger to seriously injure a vampire. Nothing but him, that is. He searches for clues, but doesn’t find any, Roach patiently munching on the forest vegetation. When he continues to follow the trail, he can’t help but look back over his shoulder. 

Something doesn’t add up. He’s just not sure what it is. 

—000—

Geralt thinks he’s getting closer, but at the same time, the trail gets confusing. It doubles back more than once, and he wonders what the vampire is doing. The trail hasn’t gotten close to the road or a town in a while now, and he thinks the creature must be getting hungry. It doesn’t bode well for the coming fight. Though a hungry vampire might not be as strong as one who’s just fed, they are often more desperate to survive, and fight viciously. He rolls his shoulders, the reassuring weight of his swords against his back, and lays a hand against the saddlebag that contains his potions. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be, but going after a vampire is never without risk. The fact that it’s a newly made, hungry one, just means it’ll be a hell of a fight.

At least he’ll have a story to tell his brothers this coming winter.

When the sun sets, he makes camp for the night, roasting a few squirrels and forest root vegetables over the fire. Despite the confusing scent trail, he still thinks he’s gaining on the creature, and instead of settling into a full sleep, he lies on his back, staring up at the stars peeking through the canopy, and meditates. 

His vigilance turns out to be pointless, as nothing happens during the night. When the sun rises, Geralt rises with it, stretching slowly, packing up his things. He kicks ash and earth over onto the still smouldering coals of his fire, just to be safe, and trails his hands over Roach’s soft nostrils for a moment. 

The vampire is smart. It has approached down wind, on silent feet. If Geralt hadn’t smelled him regardless, Roach’s ears suddenly flattening against her neck would have told him all he needed to know. He flares his nostrils, and to his surprise, the scent of vampire is intertwined with lavender and wildflowers. He thinks back to the chemise he’d found in the clearing, traces of the same scent lingering on the fabric. Again, he wonders how this vampire was created in the first place. Now that he knows to listen more closely, he can hear a slow, soft heartbeat. Its rhythm is almost on par with his own mutated one.

Geralt continues to secure his horse’s bridle, waiting for the creature to attack. It doesn’t, but it does creep ever closer, until he has no choice but to react. 

Lightning quick, Geralt pulls his silver sword from its sheath, and whirls around, the blade arcing through the air, and coming to rest against the vampire’s throat.

Chapter Text

Jaskier doesn’t exactly know how to go about finding a witcher. He knows the warriors take contracts to hunt down monsters, but if he were to encounter one that way, he’d first need to do something to have a contract put on him. He’d prefer to avoid that, if at all possible. He ends up wandering through the forest rather aimlessly, trying to come up with a plan. 

The little marten has more than gotten its health back, reddish fur sleek and shining, and doesn’t need him anymore. Still, the creature follows him around, wandering with him, and Jaskier finds he’s glad for the company. The hunger is a little less all consuming and painful when it’s around, and he starts to not only talk to it, but makes up small snippets of song while it seemingly listens. When he strums his lute and sings a ditty about field mice hiding away in the tall grass, the marten cocks its head at him, black eyes glittering, and titters softly. 

The mouse hides away in its small grass house

the walls mighty, protective and grand

If only he knew the predators rouse

And when the marten comes, those walls won’t stand

Jaskier laughs, and reaches out his hand to pet over its soft, reddish coat, before rubbing at the base of its ears. The marten makes a soft purring noise in response. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he tells it. “It’d be awfully lonely if you weren’t.” He settles down against a tree, and the small furred creature beds down into his lap immediately. He scratches over its belly, and coos softly when it turns over on its back to give him more space. “Though I think I’m spoiling you. You better remember how to hunt. What else will you do once I’m gone?” 

It seems as if the small animal knows he’s asked it a question. It tilts its head quizzically, as if it’s trying to understand. Jaskier grins and drops a kiss on its furry head. “You better go catch some birds or something, you won’t be getting any from me, tonight. Not anymore.” The marten seems to huff, and slides out of his lap, and up into the trees.

He lets his head thunk back against the trunk he’s leaning against, and closes his eyes to take in the sounds of the forest. He pulls his lute into his lap, and challenges himself to play pieces of every single melody he knows, and weave them together into one, seamless composition. 

It distracts him from the hunger only slightly. 

—000—

Jaskier thinks it’s sheer luck that on one of his wandering loops around the piece of forest he’s familiarised himself with, he encounters just what he’s looking for. Sheer luck, or a cruel twist of fate. 

He’s climbed up a tree, following his little buddy’s insistent titters, and is sitting up high on a branch, legs swinging. The tree sways gently in the mild summer wind, and he thinks even if he were to fall, the drop wouldn’t kill him anyway. He supposes there could be a nice view up this high, but in the forest it just consists of trees. 

He can gaze further than he can from the ground though, and his enhanced eyesight allows him to spot all types of forest creatures that make the canopy their home. The marten has settled across his shoulders and closes its eyes to sleep, soaking up the increased warmth of the sunlight this high up. The light stings lightly against Jaskier’s skin, but he’s gotten mostly used to it by now, and he’s enjoying the view and the warm weight against his neck too much to be bothered by it. 

He’s sat there for a good while, when he hears the noises of someone traversing the forest below. He stiffens, and the movement causes some annoyed snuffling at the back of his neck. In the next moment he relaxes again, as he realises the sounds are far away enough that the scent of whoever it is won’t be overwhelming. He searches carefully among the trunks of trees, until finally, he spots him. 

The witcher is clad in all black, the armour a light leather, strategically reinforced with steel. There are two blades at his back, the hilts reaching above his shoulder. His hair is a shock of white, long and bound back, contrasting against his attire. When he unconsciously breathes in through his nose, there is something deeply pleasant about the scent of the man. Jaskier can practically feel the muscles in his eyes contract, and his vision comes into sharp focus. He shakes his head, and has to consciously keep in the hollow laughter that wants to bubble up out of his throat. 

He’s heard tales of witchers, but he’s never seen one in the past. If he’d known they looked like this , he might have sought one out sooner. His purpose would have been an entirely different one, but still. He briefly wonders if before, he could have flirted enough to have the witcher look at him with any sort of interest. 

Jaskier keeps watching for as long as he can. Every now and again he catches a flash of intensely golden eyes when the witcher stops to look over his shoulder and listen. He can see him breathe deeply, and wonders if the man can smell him, too. He realises the warrior is actually leading his horse through the trees along the same path he himself had followed days ago. 

So, finding a witcher won’t be a problem after all. Silently, he slips out of the tree to follow. 

—000—

The sharp edge of Geralt’s silver sword rests against the vampire’s neck. He isn’t entirely sure why he stays his blade, but he doesn’t want to follow through, not yet. Maybe it’s the fact he doesn’t understand the creature’s behaviour since it has been made. Maybe it’s how there is a young man standing in front of him, smelling of lavender and wildflowers intermingled with his vampire scent, his eyes squeezed closed and his face contorted, as if he’s expecting a blow. 

As if he is fully expecting Geralt to kill him, and approached him anyway. 

Whe he doesn’t move, slowly, one scrunched up eye opens to look at him. Geralt is surprised to see it’s a bright, summer blue, rather than crimson. They stare at each other, and then the vampire blinks open his other eye as well. He carefully tilts the angle of his sword to put more pressure on the edge against the creature’s throat in a silent warning. His mind flashes back to the bodies he’d found at the clearing. It was enough of a carnage to attract rotters, and he thinks he really shouldn’t hesitate. But, the vampire doesn’t run, and it doesn’t attack. Geralt just keeps staring.

“Okaaay,” the vampire says eventually, stretching the syllables. “You do know what I am, right? And you certainly look angry enough to kill. What’s the hold up? If you don’t mind my asking. Do you need a fight before you can, you know. Perform? Because if that’s what you need, there’s no shame in it. Don’t ever let it be said I won’t help out when there’s performance issues. I’m more than willing to—”

Geralt fights the way his eyebrows want to climb up his forehead and growls low while he again puts more pressure on his blade to cut off the stream of words. The vampire in front of him is young, and unconsciously tilts his head back, blue eyes wide. There’s fear in their depths, but strangely, there’s hope as well.

When he had noticed the creature creeping closer, he knew his neck would be a target. Vampires prefer going for the jugular, especially young ones. The vampire makes no move toward him though, and Geralt notices he looks weaker than he should. He looks hungry. Starved, really. Despite it, he’s holding carefully still, and regards him with his large, blue eyes. 

When the attack on his jugular finally comes, It’s from an entirely unexpected source. He’d never thought something other than the vampire would make a move, and hasn’t smelled or heard anything to suggest it. He doesn’t know where the creature comes from, his senses focussed on the man in front of him. He supposes it jumped down from one of the branches that hang right above them. It’s light and it is fast, and before he knows it, small, sharp teeth chomp down on his neck. 

Geralt growls as sharp incisors pierce his skin, and lifts a hand to grab onto the small animal’s scruff and hurl it away from him. 

“No! No, wait!” the man exclaims, pushing forward despite Geralt’s silver blade slicing into his skin. 

And there it is. The vampire’s lilt. Geralt should’ve taken a few drops of vervain tincture. He’d  done so for the last few days, but this morning he hasn’t yet. Despite the vervain’s protection being absent, he’s still largely resistant to the creature’s lilt, but it’s enough for him to pause. 

To his surprise, the vampire doesn’t use the opportunity to strike. The man isn’t even looking at him, and isn’t even trying to step away from the weapon that threatens him. Instead, his eyes are focussed on the small ball of fur that’s still digging its teeth into him, reaching out a hand. 

“Martin! Stop that!,” and when the small animal just makes an angry tittering noise, he lilts again. “Stop, and come here!”  

Geralt feels the vibration of it all the way into his midriff, even though the lilt isn’t focussed on him, at all. The small, furred animal pulls its teeth from the junction between his neck and shoulder, and he feels the warm trickle of his blood slide down his skin, below his armour. Already this confrontation is different from anything he’s experienced before, and so fucking far from what he’d expected would happen when he finally caught up to the vampire. He clenches his jaw, and keeps his silver sword in place. There is blood on his skin, and a starving vampire in front of him, and still he isn’t attacked.

Instead, the man remains wholly concentrated on the furred thing, and the little creature jumps from Geralt’s shoulder to the vampire’s hand, and winds itself upward around his arm, its little head popping up above his shoulder to regard him with gleaming black eyes. The vampire seems more nervous now than he was before, and Geralt gets the sense that while man won’t step away from his sword for himself, if he so much as frowns at the animal clinging to him, he definitely will. 

Geralt stares. “You have a marten, named Martin,” is what comes out of his mouth despite himself.

“Ah, yeah, kind of an open door, I know. I thought it was funny though,” the vampire shrugs. 

Geralt steps back a little, but keeps his blade in place. He lets his gaze travel up and down the vampire in front of him, taking in the way he is dressed for the first time. There is the leather strap of a pack across his chest, and another strap that’s attached to what he thinks is a lute case. 

“You’re a bard,” he grunts, and it’s not really a question. 

Something pained and sad flashes in the vampire's eyes, and Martin the marten titters angrily, as if admonishing Geralt for what he’s said. “Well, I certainly was. Not anymore though, am I?”

“You’re not trying to kill me to feed,” Geralt says slowly.

“I’ve become something….dangerous. And I don’t want to be. So far I’ve managed to stay away from others, but I’d dare say you know better than I do that that’s a fight I’m gonna lose.” While he says it, the vampire's eyes are drawn to where the blood is trickling slowly from Geralt’s neck, seemingly despite himself. 

“You’re not trying to feed, but you’re not trying to get away from me, either. Why?” Geralt asks. Nothing about this vampire— nothing about this man is what he expected, and he wants to know the reason. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” the man says, and his tongue comes out to lick over his lips, and Geralt can practically see his hunger grow. “I found you, witcher, because I need you to kill me.”

“Hmh, no. I found you.”

The man smirks, and it briefly highlights the sharpness of his incisors. “Keep telling yourself that. I’ve been following you for days now.”

Before Geralt can argue, the man stretches out a hand toward a tree branch. “Go,” he lilts, and the marten makes a small, sad, screeching noise, but removes itself from his shoulder, and climbs up the tree. When it’s gone, the man drops his pack and lute from his back.

He is expecting it when the vampire attacks.

He thinks the man hasn’t fed, not since he’s been made. The vampire is right, he is going to give in, eventually. Geralt thinks back to that puddle of blood, soaked into the forest floor. He now guesses the vampire had tried to kill himself to prevent hurting others. It’s what he’s doing now, too. He’s attacking, in the hope the witcher will finally put his silver blade to use. 

Geralt finds he’d rather not.

—000—

Jaskier has held out as long as possible. Especially with the scent of the witcher’s blood so close to him. If only the warrior had immediately killed him, he wouldn’t have to do this, but the witcher is strangely hesitant. At least Martin is safe, up in the trees somewhere. His eyes are focussed on the red liquid, stark against the warrior’s skin, and everything inside him wants to tell the man to hold still . He suspects there’s something in his voice that compels, and he bites his fangs into his lip to keep in the words. He wants the witcher to kill him, after all, and not the other way around. 

He has never seen a witcher before, let alone seen one fight. He thinks he can be forgiven for severely underestimating what the warrior can do, despite all the things he’s heard. He knows they have superior strength and reflexes. He knows their eyesight is better, their hearing, their sense of smell. But so is his. He expects the altercation to be at least somewhat equal, forcing the witcher to finally end this misery. He almost feels guilty, making the warrior do this. But it’s not that he hasn’t tried himself, and witchers have been made to kill monsters, after all. 

He twists away from the sword and jumps forward, using all the coiled strength of his thighs to propel himself. He expects the witcher to step aside and swing his silver sword. It’s what he wants. He wants the blade to end this, before his hunger overwhelms him. The warrior does step aside, but instead of the sharp edge of his weapon, Jaskier just gets a push with the butt of it, the witcher easily diverting the energy of his attack. 

He rolls with the momentum and springs to his feet in a way he knows he never would have managed a month ago, and turns to face the witcher again. The man has whirled around to face him. There is a frown between his white brows, but the expression in his golden eyes is hard to read. 

“Why are you holding back?” Jaskier hisses. “Don’t make this longer than it has to be. Get it over with.” He doesn’t wait for the other man to answer, but springs again. The fight heightens his senses even further than usual, and he becomes aware of the slow beat of the witcher’s heart. He hadn’t realised before how it’s so much slower than a human’s, but at least as attractive to his bloodlust. He can hear the man’s lifeblood rushing just under the surface of his skin, and he wants to bite .

When he charges again, his teeth are bared, and the witcher doesn’t step out of his way. He lets Jaskier get close. Much closer than he feels comfortable being, actually, and he has to fight against himself to keep his jaw clenched shut. The warrior catches him, holding onto his sword awkwardly while also gripping him, keeping him in place. Jaskier freezes in terror. Even though the witcher’s grip prevents him from getting closer to his jugular, he’s not pushing him away either. There is a surge of hunger, telling him he wants to close his incisors over those veins, and rip.

“What are you doing?” he hisses again, fear and fury fighting for territory in his voice. 

“You can fight it,” the witcher growls. “Prove that you can.”

“I can’t,” Jaskier says. “Believe me, I do not have a problem being stubborn. Some would say it’s one of my better, or worse, qualities, depending who you ask. I’m all out of resolve, witcher. I have nothing left to give.”

He tries to rip free from the warrior’s grip, and he struggles hard enough he actually unbalances the witcher, who despite it, keeps holding onto him. They go down together, and Jaskier lets out a harsh breath on impact. The witcher has managed to turn them so he’s on his back on the forest floor, the larger, armoured warrior above him, caging him in. 

“Please, just kill me,” he says, trying not to breathe in the scent of the witcher’s blood up close. It takes everything he has to keep his jaws locked together, and anything he says is spoken through gritted teeth. 

The witcher stares down at him, and some of his snow white hair slips forward to tickle over Jaskier’s face. His large, muscular body is rather heavy, even with his vampire enhanced constitution. Distantly he thinks that he was right in thinking the man is beautiful, when he first saw him from afar. 

He’s begged, but the witcher doesn’t seem inclined to give him what he wants, and his frustration grows. Finally, he decides to use the voice. “Don’t you want to do as I ask?,” he lilts, making sure to have his voice come out soft and sweet, tempting. 

To his satisfaction, he sees a flicker of something in the witcher’s gaze, a muscle feathering in that strong jaw. One of the warrior’s hands is clenched around his upper arm while the one that holds onto his sword is wrapped around Jaskier’s wrist, holding it down. 

“Darling, don’t you want to give me what I want?” he lilts again, and sees the witcher actually close his eyes for a moment, as if it takes everything he has to resist. Other than that, the man doesn’t react. “Please,” he says, using his regular voice again, trying to convey all the terror he holds of what will happen if the witcher will allow him to live. 

“No,” the warrior growls, eyes snapping open. “Fight it!”

“I can’t, I can’t,” Jaskier babbles, eyes going back to the blood at the witcher’s neck. The flow of it has ceased, but it’s still there, and the scent increasingly consumes his thoughts, until it will be all he can think about, until he won’t be able to fight it anymore, and he will give in. “I can’t,” he repeats, desperately looking up into golden eyes. “For Melitele’s mercy, please!,” he implores. 

“Don’t give up. Prove that you can fight it,” the witcher repeats, and Jaskier only sees one way out. 

He gathers all of his fear and determination to his core, and speaks. When he lilts this time, he lays in it everything he has left. “Kill me,” he says, and sees the words hit the witcher like a physical blow. 

The warrior groans as if in pain, and his golden eyes flash. His grip where he’s holding onto Jaskier tightens viciously, and he knows there would be dark bruises there if he was still human. The witcher’s entire body is tense, poised to strike. But when Jaskier looks into his eyes, he knows he’s refusing, even before he opens his mouth. 

“I won’t,” he growls. “Not if you resist.”

Jaskier briefly wonders why this witcher seems to have so much faith in him, misplaced though it might be. The raging hunger in the pit of his stomach rears its ugly head, and he decides if the warrior doesn’t believe him, he has no choice but to show him. 

He’s held down by a wrist and an upper arm, the witcher’s bulk pinning the rest of him. To hold him down, it requires the warrior to be close, and Jaskier’s head is not restrained. That bloodied neck is so very close, and all he needs to do is lift up his head and unclench his jaw. Saliva floods his mouth at the thought of it, and he can no longer tear away his eyes from the crimson droplets. 

Slowly, giving the witcher ample time to stop him, Jaskier lifts his head off the ground toward the warrior’s neck. His heart is suddenly pounding and his muscles are straining. All he wants is to sink his fangs into the flesh before him, and bite down. He’s barely aware enough that he doesn’t want to kill the witcher. Not really. He just wants to prove his point. He leans forward and opens his mouth. 

Very carefully, keeping his fangs away from the skin, he licks the blood off the witcher’s neck.

—000—

Geralt inhales deeply, rumbling in his chest, and cups the back of the man’s head. He now knows he was right about this one. He’s felt no teeth, nothing but a warm, wet tongue, sliding across his throat. He pets through the soft locks soothingly, and is rewarded by large blue eyes blinking up at him in surprise. The crimson that had been briefly there when the vampire had put all his power into his lilt, has thankfully faded. 

“If you think that counts as drinking my blood, bard, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Chapter Text

The witcher does nothing to stop him. In fact, the warrior goes so far as to cup the back of his head, supporting him, keeping his face close to where he’s just licked the blood off his skin. There is a low rumble coming from his broad chest, and Jaskier can feel the thrum of the man’s pulse against his lips. Metallic flavour bursts onto his tongue and warms him all the way from his crown to his toes. He rears back as far as the witcher’s grip lets him, and blinks up at the warrior in utter bafflement. 

“If you think that counts as drinking my blood, bard, you’re sorely mistaken” the witcher says, and Jaskier feels his mouth fall open. The warrior’s reaction is surprising enough that it distracts him from both the hunger and the divine taste of the man’s blood.

“What do you mean it doesn’t count!?” he says indignantly, narrowing his eyes at the witcher still hovering above him. “Your blood is in my mouth, and granted, there’s not enough of it to actually call it a drink, but what more could you need?” 

The corners of the witcher’s eyes crinkle slightly, as if he’s amused, and Jaskier is suddenly achingly aware of the body pressed against his, and the calloused fingers sliding through his hair. He swallows and presses the tip of his tongue to a sharply pointed incisor.

“Hmh,” the witcher hums at the back of his throat, eyes tracking over his face. “The use of those fangs for their intended purpose, first of all,” he says, and Jaskier shuts his jaw with enough force there’s an audible clack. The witcher raises one white brow at him. 

Jaskier wants to retort, but he doesn’t get the chance before the warrior is suddenly off him and upright, sliding his silver sword back into its sheath. He remains on the ground, looking up. He drags his tongue across the front of his teeth, and tastes the last remnants of that small lick of blood. His surprise and indignation overshadowed his hunger for a moment, but it returns in force. Now that he’s had a taste of the witcher’s blood, he wants more. 

“You can’t leave me here like this,” he says. “ You might be able to hold me off, but others won’t be. Why can’t you just do your witchery thing and kill me?”

“I’m not leaving you. You’re coming with me,” the witcher answers with his back to him, doing something complicated to his horse’s tack. 

And that— that has Jaskier sitting suddenly upright. “What?” he says unintelligently.

The witcher glances at him over his shoulder. “I’m not leaving you here. Hungry as you are, you might well eat the next human you encounter.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes again. “I might well eat the next human I encounter whether you’re there or not. Hells, I might well eat you! ”

The warrior raises another eyebrow at him and then turns back to his horse, as if to show him he’s utterly unbothered about a hungry vampire admitting he wants to drink his blood. 

“You could try,” the witcher rumbles, and Jaskier flails and gapes at the audacity.

—000—

In the end, when the witcher has packed up his camp and looks over his shoulder expectantly, Jaskier follows. He really doesn’t have much of a choice.

He calls Martin back down from the canopy, and the marten titters and crawls all over him in excitement at his permitted return. He reaches up and scratches behind the soft, rounded ears, and coos gently.

“Don’t let it bite me again,” the witcher says without looking at him, walking in front. 

Jaskier snorts. “That's who you’re worried about biting you?” he gripes. “I’m pretty sure you have enough blood in you you’d survive, even if Martin tried to make a meal out of you.” He gets an unreadable look from golden eyes, and has to resist the entirely childish urge to stick out his tongue. 

As they walk, he’s ever aware of the witcher’s heartbeat, the hunger in the pit of his stomach seemingly waxing and waning in sync. On every breath he smells the blood the warrior hasn’t cleaned up, and it seems to pull him closer and closer. When he gets a little too close though, it's not the witcher who checks him. He hasn’t really consciously noticed the distance between them shrinking until suddenly, the warrior’s horse whickers and side steps, and he doesn’t see it coming. She’s large enough her bulk bowls him over easily, and he squawks as he barely avoids landing on his lute, sprawling onto the soft, mossy forest floor instead. 

“What’s wrong with your darn horse? That was definitely on purpose!” he grumbles, leaning back on his hands. Martin does his best to add his little voice to Jaskier’s indignation, and jumps onto him, climbing up to perch on his head while tittering up at the mare angrily. 

The witcher stops and turns toward him, and then dares to give his mare a scratch behind her ears in reward. “Your Martin isn’t the only protective companion,” the warrior says, tilting his head while he looks at Jaskier still splayed out on the ground, eyes slowly tracking up to the marten on his head. “You got too close. Roach looks out for me, just as he does for you.” 

Jaskier grouses under his breath as he hoists himself up, brushing dirt off his clothes and lute. When he follows, it’s at a bit more distance. 

“Roach?” he asks eventually. “Your mare’s name is Roach , and you dare say something about Martin.” He can see the corner of the witcher’s mouth tick up, and though the expression is only the smallest sign of amusement, it suddenly has a laugh bubbling up out of his throat. It’s startling, and it feels so, so incredibly good. He thinks it’s the first time he’s felt alive since the morning he woke up in that clearing. He lets it die out slowly, and pets over Martin’s little head. 

—000—

The bard’s name is Jaskier, he plays the lute and sings, he has a marten named Martin, and has travelled the continent for several seasons, wintering in Oxenfurt where he’d originally studied. The man is ridiculous, and speaks more words than Geralt can be expected to keep up with. Strangely, it’s charming just as much as it is irritating. Maybe more so.

He’s offered his own name and seen the flash of recognition in the vampire’s eyes, and expects at least a hundred questions. Paradoxically, it’s one of the few moments the man is actually silent as they walk. Predictably, the quiet only lasts so long before Jaskier launches into yet another tale, seemingly without any connection to what he’d been speaking about before.

When they make camp, Jaskier actually turns out to be sort of useful, starting a fire and gathering rocks into a modestly sized ring around it. He does it while Geralt untacks Roach and surreptitiously reaches into his saddlebags for a vial, taking a few drops of vervain. He hasn’t heard the vampire lilt since the request to kill him, and though he thinks he has a reasonably accurate measure of the man, he’s not taking any chances. 

Jaskier is lucky that the lick of blood he’d gotten off Geralt’s neck was before there was any vervain in his bloodstream. 

—000—

They have travelled together just over a week, sticking to the forest, and Jaskier sits in front of the fire with Martin the marten in his lap, long, slender fingers stroking over the creature’s smooth fur. The marten has its eyes partly closed, and emits a sort of catlike purring noise. Behind him, Geralt hears Roach snort softly. 

He could hunt for dinner, but he doesn’t want to leave the newly made vampire by himself, even if they’re far out into the woods, away from the human population. Instead, he fills a pot with water from his skins like he did the previous nights, and adds roots and dried strips of meat from his stores. It will take a while for it to boil into an edible stew, and he settles down across the fire. Jaskier looks at him thoughtfully, and Geralt knows the question is finally coming. 

“So,” the bard says briskly. “Any particular reason you absolutely refuse to chop off my head?”

“Chopping off your head won’t kill you.”

Unsurprisingly, Jaskier gapes at him, the glinting points of his fangs dipping just below the edges of his soft lips for Geralt to see. “What,” he says tonelessly, before continuing with feeling. “What do you mean decapitating me won’t kill me. Decapitation kills people, Geralt. I’m pretty sure even vampires can’t live without their heads.”

Geralt hums low in consideration, and takes a guess. “How did cutting your own throat go?”

Jaskier grows still for a moment, his hand pausing in its path along Martin’s back until the little marten snuffles against his palm and he continues. “Seeing as I’m here, I’d say it’s pretty clear how that went. How do you know about that anyway?”

“You know I followed your trail. That amount of blood is from cutting a major artery.”

Jaskier huffs, and reaches toward the stew to stir through it with a spoon. Though he doesn’t need to eat the food per say, seeing as it’s not the thing that sustains him, they have found the vampire actually enjoys the taste of it, and it gives him a sense of normalcy. Geralt doesn’t mind sharing, since the bard hardly ever takes more than a few bites. 

“So if you did want to kill me and decapitation is apparently strangely ineffective - I still doubt that, mind you -  How would you do it?”

Geralt slowly raises an eyebrow at Jaskier, and watches the way the bard presses one of his fangs into his lip. “I’m not telling you,” he answers. Jaskier flails a little, and Geralt can smell his affront. 

“Why ever not? I am a curious person, Geralt. You can’t just tell me decapitation is an ineffective method and not expect me to wonder what strange technique is needed to end a vampire’s life instead.”

Geralt says nothing, and just raises his other eyebrow to join the first. Jaskier stares at him with his arms crossed for a moment, before deflating and pulling Martin from his lap to lie across his shoulders. 

“Yeah, okay. Fair,” the bard says, stirring the stew again, causing fragrant steam to rise. 

Jaskier is silent for a while, and Geralt knows there’s something important the vampire wants to say. He’s found it’s often like this. Jaskier will talk and talk, he’ll gripe and joke, he’ll sing and hum, but when there’s something he’s actually worried or unsure about, he turns inward, and the loud, boisterous bard is suddenly quiet. Geralt is used to not talking much, so it’s not hard to wait until Jaskier has found his words.

“Killing me would be easier for you, if you’re unwilling to leave me behind,” the vampire murmurs eventually, blue eyes fixed on where he’s stirring their food as if it’s something infinitely interesting. “I'm a burden.”

“I’m not killing someone who does not deserve it.”

“Don’t I? You— You must have seen what I did. That’s how you picked up my trail, isn’t it? I’ve killed five people, Geralt. Five!”

“You told me you have no memory of that.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t do it.”

“Jaskier,” he growls, and the vampire finally looks up from the stew to make eye contact. “Even if you did, it wasn’t your fault.” He holds up his hand when the bard opens his mouth to retort, and for once, Jaskier swallows his words. “Since then, you have gone out of your way to not harm anyone. More than I have ever seen anyone do. Believe me when I say that I won’t kill you, because you deserve to live.” 

Jaskier shifts from side to side, and it makes Martin lose balance and slide off his shoulder. The little marten titters sleepily, and stretches out in front of the fire instead. 

“What if I become too dangerous, Geralt? I know you’ve been keeping an eye on me this week, but how long do you think you can keep that up? I know you know I’m hungry, and it won’t get better, it’ll only get worse.”

Geralt knows what Jaskier is saying is true, and he hadn’t really thought that far ahead when he’d decided not to kill the vampire and take him along. Before he can say anything, the bard continues.

“I want— I want you to promise me something,” Jaskier says softly, and Geralt tenses as large blue eyes pin him in place. There is a knot in his stomach, and he thinks he knows where the bard is going with this. “Promise me, that when I can’t stop myself anymore and become so unsafe that you are not able to stop me either, you won’t let me bite someone. Please. Don’t let me kill innocent people.”

Geralt clenches his jaw. Jaskier hasn’t said it in so many words, but they both know that by that point the only way for Geralt to stop the vampire, will be to kill him, even if he doesn’t want to. He is silent for a long time, and Jaskier just keeps stirring their food. Eventually he nods. “I promise.”

—000—

Travelling with the witcher wouldn’t have been so bad if it wasn’t for the constant hunger. Jaskier thinks it would have been nice, even. Geralt is quiet, and kind of growly whenever he does speak, but the witcher doesn't seem to mind how much he talks, or the way he keeps incessantly repeating melodies as they walk. More than that, when Geralt feels like it he actively engages Jaskier, even if he does use as little words as possible to do it. There is a sense of humour there, and it’s more than once that Jaskier only belatedly realises he's being teased, Geralt's tone of voice giving away absolutely nothing.

The witcher is— kind, more than anything, in a sort of strangely stunted way. Every time he dares to make so much as a mention of it, he’s rewarded with an impressive scowl sliding over Geralt’s face. He thinks it’s not something the witcher hears a lot, and he decides to make it his mission to mention it for as long as they travel together. For as long as Jaskier can hold on. 

The hunger is steadily growing, and Jaskier doesn’t know if it is harder or easier to be in Geralt’s company. He’s less lonely with their little group of four, the witcher and his horse, him and Martin. It provides a welcome distraction, and there are moments when he can’t quite forget about the hunger, but he can divert his attention elsewhere. Then there are the moments he can do nothing but stare at the witcher, the scent of him strong in his nose, his slow heartbeat loud in his ears, his eyes focussed on the pulse in his neck. 

—000—

They’re coming up on the end of their second week of travel when every now and again, the forest makes way for patches of open ground. Jaskier wants to walk right through the first of them, but the witcher grabs onto the collar of his doublet and hauls him back. There is a loud, slurping sound as his boots are pulled out of the boggy surface, barely remaining on his feet.

“Watch your step,” Geralt growls, and guides him toward the more solid edge of the area. Roach snorts next to him, sounding particularly unimpressed, and Jaskier makes a face at her. 

“How was I supposed to know it was going to suck me up?” he tells her. “It’s not like I’m used to travelling across the wilderness. I’ll have you know I was perfectly fine sticking to the roads and paths—before.”

Roach and Geralt both ignore him, but Martin titters as if he understands, and Jaskier feels like he has an ally at least. Until the marten jumps off his shoulder and onto Roach’s back, that is. Little traitor. Roach bends her head back to snuffle at him for a moment, and Jaskier prepares to jump and grab Martin away from her. Roach does nothing though, and just turns back and continues on her path, letting Martin curl up on the saddle. Jaskier can’t help but grin, and catches up to Geralt. 

“Aww, look! They’re friends! Do you think Roach will let me pet her now?” he asks, and gets nothing more than a noncommittal grunt. 

That evening when Geralt has untacked Roach, he hands Jaskier a slice of dried apple, and points at his horse. He smiles at the witcher as he takes it. 

“Thank you darling,” he says, and has to suppress his laughter at the ever predictable scowl. Roach takes the treat from his hand, and allows him to trail his fingers over the soft velvet of her nose.

—000—

Jaskier knows that witchers take contracts. He knows they spend the warmer season walking the path to hunt. Geralt hasn’t taken a contract since he’s met him, and it was bound to become necessary at some point. 

They both smell it at the same time, though Jaskier doesn’t actually know what he’s smelling. He wrinkles his nose, and when he opens his mouth he actually coughs at the acrid quality he can taste on the air. 

“What in all Melitele holds dear is that? ” He sputters, and gets an eye roll from golden irises. 

“It’s not that bad,” Geralt grunts. 

“Not that bad? If this isn’t that bad I don’t really want to know what you’d consider a bad smell, Geralt. Or do I? Maybe I do. You know what, tell me about it sometime, I bet I could make it into a song–”

“It’s bloedzuigers,” Geralt interrupts him, and that doesn’t help at all. He is pretty sure the witcher means it’s some type of creature Jaskier would personally rather avoid, but he has absolutely no idea what kind.

“Bloodzuugs,” he repeats, inviting elaboration, but Geralt just grunts and keeps walking. “Do— do you need to do something about these bloodzuugs?” he asks tentatively. 

The witcher looks back at him over his shoulder. “Bloedzuigers. Ideally, yes.”

“So they’re dangerous to people. What do they do?”

Geralt sighs and stops walking, turning to him. “They lie in wait in swamps until they sense warmblooded prey. Preferably humans. Once they grab on, they suck them dry. They use acid to help them.”

Jaskier blinks slowly. “Well, that sounds…. Like I’d rather not meet one, actually.” Then he swallows carefully, fidgeting with the leather straps across his chest. “So they suck blood? They’re like—”

“No,” Geralt growls. “They’re not like you. You’re not like them.”

He says it with such unwavering confidence that Jaskier almost believes him.

—000—

As Geralt suspected, there is a town not too far off. It makes sense, the bloodzuigers wouldn’t be here if there was no prey to be had. They’re on the outskirts of the forest now, looking over the flat, swampy territory, toward the town in the distance. The wind is blowing from that direction, and he can smell the scents of human population in the air. He knows that Jaskier can, too. Vampire senses are not always as acute as a witcher’s, but when it comes to locating prey when they’re hungry, they might just have the upper hand. 

He looks the bard standing next to him over carefully, taking in the tension in his shoulders. When Jaskier looks up at him, the edges of his blue irises are tinged crimson, and he licks his lips. “I can skip going to the town,” he tells him.

The bard shakes his head, a stubborn look appearing on his face. “No, absolutely not. You deserve to get paid for what you do. You deserve compensation for saving others by putting your life at risk. You’re already not getting anything for keeping them safe from a vampire,” he laughs hollowly as he spreads his hands, indicating himself. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

“It’ll be fine, Geralt. Go and get your contract. I’ll just, retreat to the swampy area and make sure my nose is hanging over that bloodzuug smell the entire time you’re gone.”

“Bloedzuiger.”

Jaskier pets his shoulder. “Whatever you say. Me and Martin will hang back. You and Roach go do your thing, and then you can tell me all about it once you’re done.”

Geralt can feel the frown on his face, but Jaskier sounds so sure, and he does really need to take another contract. The last one had been for those Rotters who’d lead him to the bard in the first place, and though he hasn’t spent any of the two hundred crowns he got for it, his stores are about to run dry. The town needs him to get rid of those bloedzuigers, and he needs the town to buy new supplies. 

He nods slowly. “Do you need anything?” he asks. “From the town?” He knows it’s coming even before Jaskier responds.

“Oh darling, aren’t you sweet,” the bard coos at him, and just as every time before, Geralt doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just frowns. “Maybe some oil for my lute, if they have it,” Jaskier says with a smile, and Geralt is grateful to notice the crimson tinge in his eyes has lessened significantly.

—000—

Geralt leaves Jaskier and Martin behind on the edge of swamp and forest, hidden by a copse of tall, pale barked trees. There is a bog close by that still smells strongly of bloedzuiger even though it’s empty, and he sees the vampire press his lips together and wrinkle his nose. Jaskier doesn’t complain though, but settles down with his back against the trees and his lute in his lap. Martin is high up in the branches, seemingly having located a bird’s nest, and is loudly snacking on the eggs. 

“I’ll be quick,” he grunts, and Jaskier nods at him while softly strumming his instrument. 

Geralt settles himself onto Roach’s back, and keeps listening to the music until it disappears from his range of hearing as he rides into town. As soon as he does, a few of the townsfolk recognise him for what he is, and he’s directed to the alderman’s house without delay for once. The pay for getting rid of the bloedzuigers is decent enough, and there is even the offer of a night in the town’s inn. It’s something he’s rarely presented with so readily, and declining feels strange. He can see the suspicion mingled with relief on the Alderman’s face, and quickly takes his leave to spend the crowns he already has on new supplies. 

When he’s gotten everything he needs to stock back up, he stops at a small apothecary shop. There is a plump woman behind the counter with her hair piled in a tangle on the top of her head, and a monocle squeezed over her right eye. 

“Witcher,” she greets him. “I’m not in the business of counting chickens before they hatch. Bring me bloedzuiger blood, and then we’ll talk price.”

Geralt hums noncommittally to cover his irritation. “I’m looking to buy,” he says. “What oils do you have?”

The woman peers at him through her monocle with narrowed eyes, until he hefts the pouch with crowns in his hand. There’s considerably less than before, but they clink together loudly enough to be heard. The scepticism slides off her face to be replaced by a smile Geralt can tell is false from a mile away, and she pulls out a large drawer to reveal a multitude of glass vials containing various oils. 

“What are you looking for? We’re an out of the way town, anything exotic will cost you,” she says, unable to keep from eyeing the pouch of crowns Geralt has deposited on the counter. 

He looks at the small vials. “A simple wood oil,” he grunts, and then looks at the ones with little symbols of flowers on their corks. “How much are your scented ones?”

The apothecary smiles up at him, sliding her fingers over the vials, and Geralt knows he’s going to get severely shortchanged. He ends up buying three vials anyway. A larger one that contains a neutral oil of good quality, and two smaller, scented ones. Their corks bear a miniature of the flowers that gave them their scent. One has a sprig of lavender, the other several small, detailed wildflowers. 

Geralt isn’t going to tell Jaskier it cost him thirty crowns.

—000—

When Geralt returns from the town, twilight is setting in. He listens for Jaskier’s music, and can admit he feels uneasy when he doesn’t hear it. Gently, he spurs Roach on, quickening into a trot. The sooner he’s back where he left the vampire, the better.

He already knows the bard isn’t there before he reaches the copse of trees he left him at. A growl erupts from his chest, and his senses suddenly throw the world around him in stark relief. There is no trace of either Jaskier or Martin, but the bard’s pack and lute are tucked away between the roots of the trees, and he knows only Jaskier would put his things away with care like that. 

He inhales deeply through his nose, and gets a strong hit of acrid bloedzuiger odour. Underneath, there is the barest hint of the bard. Everything is quiet for a few seconds, and then there’s sudden splashing in the distance, and Jaskier is loudly yelling his name.

Chapter Text

Bloedzuigers really do stink. A lot. 

Jaskier doesn’t know which is worse, breathing through his nose and getting the full force of the smell every time he inhales, or breathing through his mouth and actually tasting it. He doesn’t move though. Geralt will come back here to find him once he is done, and the smell is strong enough he can’t actually scent the humans living in the town anymore. He’ll take some stink over the tempting smell of their blood any day. He knows that Geralt saw him react to the town, and thinks the witcher leaving him behind - temporary though it is - shows he has faith in Jaskier’s ability to— well. To just stay put.

He tilts his head back against the tree, looking up, and is met with Martin’s shiny black eyes. The marten is high up in the branches, but as soon as he sees Jaskier looking the little creature hurtles down the trunk, head first. He quickly extends a hand, and Martin basically falls into it, fully expecting Jaskier to catch him. He pulls the marten into his lap where he stretches out languidly, and laughs at the sudden roundness of his normally slender, elongated belly. 

“Exactly how many eggs did you eat?” he murmurs, and Martin just purrs as Jaskier starts petting over his ears. He can’t play his lute with Martin in his lap, but he can sing, and the time will go faster if he’s able to distract himself from the fact there’s food nearby.

The wolf carries death, carefully sheathed 

The gift of his blade is not blindly bestowed

You can beg, cry, and plead, but the end isn’t owed

When he breathes to hum the melody while he thinks of more words, it’s not just bloedzuiger scent that floods his senses. He freezes, his fingers stilling where they’d been scratching Martin behind the ears. Suddenly, it’s like he’s aware of absolutely everything. He can hear everything, from Martin’s little heart to the ruffling feathers of the hawk that soars somewhere high above. He can see every minute detail, like the tiny little hairs around the marten’s eyes. To his sense of smell, the bloedzuiger scent is overwhelmed by something that is far, far more delicious. 

It’s the scent of a human. The scent of blood. 

—000—

“No, nope, absolutely not,” he murmurs to himself, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. His mouth floods with saliva, and he starts shaking his head, clenching his hands around the roots of the tree he’s leaning against. “I’m staying here until Geralt comes back. Yes. Just, staying put, breathing in some nice old bloedzuiger scent. Oh Melitele, why does it have to smell so good?”

He lets go of the roots and scoops Martin from his lap, burying his face in the soft, reddish fur. The marten titters as if he's confused, but lets himself be draped like a blanket over Jaskier’s face without much protest. Breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent makes it a little easier to ignore what is beckoning him, but not by much. He presses his fangs into his lip, desperately clinging onto his resolve to stay put. 

When a scream rends the air, it’s high and terrified, and Jaskier jerks his face out of Martin’s fur. In his hunger, he didn’t think about it for one single moment. He’s not the only predator out here.

“Oh. Oh, fuck,”  he says through gritted teeth. He knows investigating that scream will lead him closer to the human he is smelling. He sits there for a moment, frozen in indecision. Whatever it was that made that person scream - bloedzuiger-  his mind provides helpfully, he can’t be sure he won’t actually be more of a danger to them if he tries to help. 

When a fearful call for aid reaches his ears, accompanied by the sound of water splashing in the distance, Jaskier knows he can’t just sit there and listen to someone die out in the swamp. He quickly stuffs his pack and lute between the trees, somewhat hidden out of sight, and surges to his feet. Martin hooks his claws in the fabric of his trousers and climbs him until he’s settled on his shoulder.

“You,” Jaskier says very seriously, pointing at his little black nose. “You stay safely away from any bloedzuiger coming your way, is that clear? Hide away in a tree if you have to, and wait for Geralt to come.” The marten titters, and licks its rough tongue over the pad of his finger. 

Jaskier tenses when there’s more splashing in the distance, and chances a last look in the direction of the town. There’s no sign of the witcher yet, and he doesn’t think he can wait. At the last moment he rummages through his pack, and curls his fingers around the hilt of the strange dagger he has kept hidden away in there. 

Another scream sounds, and he runs.

—000—

He had imagined bloedzuigers to look suitably horrible to match the awfulness of their smell. What they actually are, is so, so much worse than anything he could have come up with. It was a young woman who screamed, and the thing has her.

Jaskier follows his nose and the sounds of splashing, darting between the clusters of vegetation, somehow managing to avoid getting sucked down into the marshy ground. When he finally reaches a pond-like patch, the surface of the water is disturbed by a creature with a large, segmented body. He can only see half of it, the other half still hidden below the surface, but what he sees is quite enough to have him wanting to turn right back around and run away, if it weren’t for the woman’s desperate eyes, meeting him across the pond. 

She opens her mouth and screams again, and Jaskier’s gaze is drawn to the way blood leaks out of her where the bloedzuiger has jammed its spiked forelimbs into her torso. The hunger inside him surges, and he stands there looking at the red liquid trickling down over her skin. All he can think about is that he’s ravenous. All he can hear is the adrenaline fueled racing of her heart, quickening the flow of blood from her wounds. He can no longer smell the bloedzuiger. All he smells is her, and all he can think about is how hungry he is.

It’s only when Martin titters, his little nose snuffling against Jaskier’s ear, that he suddenly remembers the utter terror in her eyes, and the way she had called for help. 

He firms his grip around the dagger in his hand and launches himself toward the creature, splashing through the water. “Geralt!” he yells at the top of his lungs, hoping the witcher will at least be close enough to hear him. He reaches the bloedzuiger, but before he can stab it with the dagger, the thing pulls its spiked limbs free from the woman’s body, and swipes at him. The weapon is knocked out of his hand, and suddenly he is faced with a huge, wide open maw, round and filled with razor sharp teeth. 

“Oh, shit!” he says, backing away. “Please don’t bite me with that. That looks like it will—” The bloedzuiger makes a slow, gurgling noise like something with mass is being sucked into the swamp, and strikes at him with its sharp spikes. When Jaskier stumbles back, his foot catches on something underneath the water and he loses his balance. “Geralt!” he yells again, just before he falls back, dipping under the murky surface

—000—

Geralt is just in time to see Jaskier take a backward tumble into the water. The bloedzuiger is large and well fed, and it swings its eyeless head in his direction, making another wet, bubbling sound. It would probably not have attacked the vampire, if the bard hadn’t disturbed it during its meal. 

Behind it, a wounded woman has managed to half drag herself out of the bloedzuiger’s pond. She’s pale with blood loss and with pain, but she’s alive. If Jaskier hadn’t been there to distract it, she would have made an easy meal. She’s still bleeding though, and he wonders how deep the wounds along her sides penetrate. 

“Stay back!” he growls at her, pulling his silver sword from his back, and she doesn’t respond, but keeps pulling herself further away from the water. Geralt is glad there is only one of the monsters hidden in this particular pond, since half his attention is on the vampire surfacing behind him. Jaskier sputters and coughs wildly, and he can actually hear him hack up the water from his lungs. 

“You good?” he growls, without looking back at the bard. 

“Good?” Jaskier repeats, sounding slightly hysterical. “You could have warned me this is what bloodzuugs look like! I might have been more prepared. I’m so far from good I don’t think I’ve ever been less—”

“Jaskier!” Geralt snaps. “There is a bleeding human. Are you good?”

“Oh. Oh no. Geralt! I’m not good. I’m bad. Very, very bad. Oh, this has got to be a cruel joke, I think I can actually taste it in the water. Geralt!” 

Jaskier sounds increasingly panicked as he talks, and he can see the woman’s eyes grow ever larger with fear. The only consolation is that she’s not looking at the vampire behind him, but at the bloedzuiger he’s facing off against. 

He lets instinct take over, his system flooding with adrenaline and urgency to take out the monster in front of him. It’s probably the fastest he’s ever killed a bloedzuiger, and he does it without potions in his bloodstream. He blasts it with a powerful igni, and when it rears up to get away from the heat of the flames, he moves in close and stabs his sword into its belly before dragging it up, cleaving its head in two. He’s only barely quick enough to avoid the explosion of acid as it dies, using his blade to quickly drag the corpse back under the water so the corrosive content of its stomach won’t fly through the air. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says tightly behind him. 

He spares one look at the woman whose life doesn’t seem to be in immediate danger - from her wounds, at least- and turns around to face the bard. Jaskier isn’t looking at him, but at the human on the edge of the water, and he’s gulping in deep, full breaths. Geralt himself can smell the scent of the woman’s blood through the acrid odour of the bloedzuiger, and knows it must be so much stronger to the vampire. When he looks at Jaskier’s eyes, the clear blue of them has been eclipsed. Instead, his irises are entirely crimson, bright as the blood he hungers for. 

—000—

With a supreme force of will, he manages to drag his eyes away from the woman’s blood. He’s grateful she’s not looking at him, but seems preoccupied with binding her wounds, now that the bloedzuiger is dead. He doesn't want her to be plagued with dark dreams. Dreams in which he's the one that hurts her. He might still have a nightmare or two of it himself though.

He looks at Geralt instead, and keeps his voice low. “I don’t want to eat her, Geralt. I don’t want to, but I don’t think I can stop myself.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what he expects Geralt to do, - honour his promise, maybe - but it certainly isn't this. 

The witcher sheathes his silver sword and steps forward, his gloved hand landing on the nape of his neck. Geralt pulls him in with a strong grip, and keeps pulling even though his mouth is already terrifyingly close to the witcher’s neck. Jaskier lands face first in the hollow under Geralt’s jaw, and immediately folds his lips inward tightly, covering his fangs. 

“Hmmhm hhmhn hm,” he mumbles without words, trying to ask Geralt which idiotic part of his witcher brain thought it was a good idea to pull Jaskier into his neck right now. He thinks his tone goes a long way in conveying the sentiment.

“Just breathe, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles, and eventually, he does. 

Geralt smells like leather, horse, and sword oil, overlying the scent that is uniquely his own. It’s a scent Jaskier knew he liked the moment he smelled it from high up in the tree, the first time he saw the witcher. Without conscious thought, he curls his lips outward again, and opens his mouth to press his fangs against Geralt’s skin, just over the thrum of his carotid.

The hand on his nape winds into his hair and grabs on tightly, causing slight pricks of pain to erupt over his scalp. Geralt rumbles low in his chest, and when he speaks, the hair on the back of Jaskier’s neck stands on end. 

“I know you have more control than this, bard,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier can’t help but shiver in his grip.

Slowly, he closes his mouth.

—000—

Jaskier is back at the copse of pale trees while Geralt brings the woman back to town. He can still smell traces of the human and her blood in the swamp, and curls his hands back over the tree’s roots like he did before. Night has fallen now, and he stares up at the thousands of twinkling stars high above him. He’s changed into a dry set of clothes, and Martin is draped across his shoulders. It’s the height of summer, and the night’s temperature is mild, but he shivers regardless. 

He’d gotten much too close to losing control. If Geralt hadn’t been there he’s sure the woman would have found her death, either by bloedzuiger, or by him. Maybe more likely by bloedzuiger if he’s perfectly honest. He might be stronger and his senses more acute, but the confrontation has proved he’s a far cry from being able to hold his own against something like that . Geralt had killed the bloedzuiger with a single blow of his sword where Jaskier had just— splashed around. If he still had been human, he might even have successfully drowned himself. 

He hears Geralt and Roach coming long before they arrive, and uses some of the rare, dry wood he’s found to stoke the fire, and adds some more of the witcher’s herbs to the pot he’s kept at a simmer. 

Geralt’s golden eyes glint in the firelight as the witcher looks at him before he starts to untack Roach. Jaskier shifts uneasily, chattering away to distract himself from remembering his mouth on the witcher’s neck all too vividly. He’s relieved when Geralt sits and scoops stew into a bowl, and leans across to offer him the first bite. He enjoys the flavour and talks about Martin finding another bird’s nest, and maybe using him to find eggs to boil, as the witcher eats quietly. When Geralt is done, those golden eyes come back to rest on him, and the words dry up in his throat. 

“You haven’t been honest with me,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier stills, confused. 

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he answers slowly when Geralt doesn’t continue. “I say a lot of things. And granted, not all of them might be entirely true, but I am a bard, Geralt. I tell stories, and some of those need to be embellished to be worth telling. I promise I have not lied outright. Not to deceive you.”

“Haven’t you?” the witcher growls.

Jaskier honestly has no idea what he’s talking about. He shrugs and spreads his fingers in a confused gesture. “Want to use a couple more words and enlighten me? Because my brain is still a little too stressed to puzzle out what you’re asking me exactly.” Geralt frowns at him, and Jaskier presses a fang into his lip. He thinks Geralt is actually upset with him, and he doesn’t know why. “What did I do wrong?” he asks. “I can’t imagine you’re talking about me leaving to stop that bloodzuug–” 

“Bloedzuiger,” 

“Yeah, what you said. I can’t believe it’s about me trying to save that woman and severely overestimating my ability to do so, is it? I couldn’t just sit there and not do anything.”

Geralt shakes his head, and actually loses some to the tension around his mouth. “It’s not about that. You tried to help. That’s more than many would do.”

“Then what are you asking me?”

Slowly, the witcher reaches into one of the saddlebags he’s taken off Roach. “How did you get this knife?” he growls, and holds up the dagger Jaskier had hastily grabbed from his pack. 

The sharp edges of the blade glint in the light of the fire, the red tinge to the metal drawing his eyes. He had dropped it into the water when the bloodzuiger had attacked him. It’s the blade that he thinks has been stabbed into his belly, that night. The one that hadn’t let him use it to cut his own throat.

Jaskier feels blood rushing to his face. “Me? How did you get it?”

“I fished it out of the water when I went back to harvest the bloedzuiger’s blood. Now answer the question, Jaskier.”

He shifts in his seat a bit, pinned by Geralt's gaze, and licks his lips. He realises he doesn’t know why he hadn’t told him about the dagger, but there is something in him that’s suddenly very relieved the witcher knows. “I got it from one— one of the men I killed. When I woke up that morning, I couldn’t remember what had happened but there was a tender spot on my belly where I think it stabbed me. There wasn’t a wound, mind you, but I’m quite sure. One of them held it in his hand, and I took it.”

“You did not tell me this. Why?”

“Okay, I realise how this is going to sound, but I think it didn’t let me tell you.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Do you want it back?” he asks.

Jaskier realises it’s a test at the same time a surge of desire to have the blade in his hands fills him. A surge he can’t explain. He struggles to be honest, forcing himself to slowly nod his head. “I do. But I don’t know why. I— I don’t think the urge to have it back is my own,” he says tightly, and Geralt nods. 

He holds himself rigidly as Geralt gets a cloth from his pack, and opens a different saddlebag to reveal a multitude of vials containing coloured liquids. He fishes one out that seems to be filled with black, viscous stuff, and quickly drenches the fabric. When the vial is empty, he winds the cloth around the dagger. 

Jaskier hisses a breath through his teeth. The low grade headache he thought was part of his hunger, is suddenly gone. “What is that, and why did it work?” he asks. 

Geralt tracks his eyes over him and nods as if he’s just confirmed something. “Black blood. We drink it sometimes if we might get bitten by vampires, or other things that feed on us. I’m guessing it worked because this blade has something to do with why you turned.”

“You think it turned me? How?” Jaskier asks, half afraid of the answer. 

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I’ll need to ask Vesemir about it.”

“Who’s Vesemir?”

“We’ll talk about that later. First we need to discuss what we’re doing about your hunger.”

“We already know what we’re doing about my hunger,” Jaskier answers, a little miffed to not get answers now that he suddenly has so many more questions to ask. “I get hungrier and keep holding off for as long as I can. Once I can’t anymore, you’ll kill me.” When Geralt gives him a look, it’s Jaskier’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You promised. And no pulling me into your neck like you did today either. That’s bound to go wrong, at some point,” he says, wagging his finger and sliding his tongue over his incisors at the memory.

“Hm,” Geralt responds. “Had you bitten me, it wouldn’t have ended well for you,” he says, and Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest indignantly.

“You keep saying that, but It’ll be your neck that’s ripped open. So I don’t see how you can keep insisting I’ll be the one with the problem if it happens. Unless you count going on a raging bloodlusty rampage a problem. Which it so obviously would be, now that you mention it. So let’s not let me bite you, okay?” 

Geralt seems utterly unimpressed by Jaskier’s very sensible - if he does say so himself - tirade.

“I’ve been taking vervain. It’s something that’ll make you sick if you drink my blood. You wouldn’t get the chance to go on a rampage. You wouldn’t even be able to get away from me.”

Jaskier sputters in surprise, and then grouses something under his breath about keeping secrets and not being honest. He knows full well the witcher can hear his words loud and clear, no matter how softly he speaks, but he doesn’t care. Geralt hums, and the look in his eyes makes Jaskier bite back the rest of his griping.

“I’m not taking it tonight,” the witcher says. “By tomorrow, It’ll be out of my bloodstream.”

Jaskier uncrosses his arms from his chest, his fingers unconsciously fidgeting as he stares at him across the flames. “What are you saying?” he asks.

Geralt raises a white brow, as if he’s admonishing him for being slow. “Tomorrow, you’ll feed from me,” he answers, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. As if they’re discussing something so mundane as the weather.

Chapter Text

Jaskier’s fidgeting fingers still in his lap as the bard stares at him. Geralt can smell his incredulity at what he’s just proposed.

“What.” Jaskier says flatly, his voice utterly toneless compared to its normal rich inflection.

Geralt just gives him an impassive look. 

“You promised you wouldn’t let me feed.”

“I did not,” he answers the bard, and gets a whole body flail in response.

“Yes, yes you did, witcher. I distinctly remember the words coming out of your mouth, sounding all growly, as you do. I even remember your lips shaping them. You can’t go back on a promise like that, Geralt,” Jaskier says a little desperately.

“I’m not going back on it. But that is not what I promised you.”

“What?” The bard looks confused now, his blue eyes large and concerned, reflecting the light from their campfire. His little marten slithers down from around his neck to his lap, and Jaskier’s hands begin petting the smooth fur almost unconsciously.

“I promised not to let you hurt innocent people. I never promised not to let you feed,” Geralt clarifies, and Jaskier chokes on air. 

“That’s— semantics, Geralt! It’s about the spirit of the promise.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “In the spirit of the promise, I’m feeding you so as to make you less hungry, and less likely to attack innocent humans.” He can’t help but feel slightly amused at the way the vampire gapes at him.

“You know that’s not how I meant it,” Jaskier says weakly. 

He inclines his head to the bard. “I know, Jaskier,” he says softly. “But it’s alright. This is the only solution.”

—000—

Jaskier doesn’t really sleep that night, and neither does Geralt. He can tell the witcher meditates though, his breathing falling into a pattern he recognises by now. Geralt is far more alert and aware of his surroundings than he would be if he were asleep, but not entirely as much as he is while awake. It allows Jaskier to  surreptitiously look at him from under his lashes. Time and again, his eyes are drawn back to Geralt’s neck. He tries to avoid looking for a while, but as soon as he is slightly less vigilant, he finds himself staring again. 

He remembers the feel of his fangs pressing against Geralt’s skin, and his pulse against his lips, the bloodlust surging through him. But he also remembers the way the witcher had gripped his hair, and the thrill that had gone through him at having his rumbling voice speak so very close to his ear. His body warms a little at those thoughts in a way he recognises, and he shies away from them quickly. When he chances a glance at Geralt’s face, golden irises are looking straight at him, and Jaskier squeaks softly in the back of his throat, quickly turning around to face away from the witcher. 

He still doesn’t manage to sleep, and eventually he pulls Martin close against him, using his warm, reassuringly animal smell to try and distract himself from Geralt’s scent. By the time the sun is starting to rise, the slight sting of it hitting Jaskier’s skin, Geralt’s scent has changed somewhat. 

Where it had been deeply pleasant to him before, now it’s absolutely mouthwatering. 

—000—

They’re standing, facing each other, and Jaskier is practically vibrating out of his skin with nerves. Now that he knows that Geralt has been taking vervain, he thinks he can smell the absence of it. That, or his hunger and the idea he might finally get to still some of it are making the witcher smell especially good to him. 

If Geralt is nervous about letting Jaskier bite him at all, there’s nothing in his demeanour that betrays any of it. He wrings his hands together, and tries to take a deep breath to calm himself. It doesn’t work. Obviously. He should have known better. He’s standing very close to the witcher, and from this distance, the hit of Geralt’s scent makes him almost dizzy with hunger. 

The witcher hums low. “I guess you’re hungry.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose and looks up at him. “Whatever makes you say that? It’s not like I haven’t eaten for a month and a half. Hungry, me? That’s a stretch, surely.”

Geralt puts a hand on his shoulder, and Jaskier stops talking. “It’s your eyes,” he says. 

“My eyes?”

“Hmh. They turn crimson when you’re closest to giving into your instincts.”

Jaskier brings a hand up to touch just below one of his eyes. “Red?’’ He asks. “How does it look? Does it look unnatural? nightmarish?” He thinks he himself would recoil if he ever saw someone with crimson eyes.

Geralt tilts his head. “Not nightmarish. Different. The colour suits you. Not as much as blue though.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, blinking slowly. He thinks some of the original colour must have returned to his eyes, since the corner of Geralt's mouth ticks up. He squares his shoulders. “Alright, so how is this going to go?”

“Seeing as it’s your first time— while consciously aware,”  he amends after a look from Jaskier, “we’ll take some precautions.”

Jaskier nods. “What are those?” 

“Put your hands behind your back,” the witcher orders, and he obeys without questioning it. Slowly, Geralt reaches around him, and wraps a large hand around both of his wrists. “As soon as you shift your hands, it stops. As soon as you don’t respond to me, it stops. That clear?”

The hold and the words are suggestive to Jaskier, and he has to fight the rush of blood that wants to rise to his face, and other places he doesn’t want to consider while Geralt is so close to him and can probably smell exactly where his thoughts went. He nervously licks his lips, and just nods to show he’s understood.

“Good,” Geralt says, his voice a low rumble, and Jaskier curses his traitorous libido for jumping to attention. 

Geralt is doing this to help him. To save him from having to experience his control shattering and the inevitable guilt of hurting others. He’s not doing this because he wants to, and he’s certainly not doing this to have Jaskier think dirty, lascivious thoughts about him. He grits his teeth, studiously staring at a point near Geralt’s shoulder, and nods again.

“When you need to stop, you’ll let me know,” the witcher says firmly.

“I’m worried about not wanting to stop at all,” Jaskier makes himself say, still staring at that same fixed point.

“Jaskier. I won’t let you hurt me. It’ll be okay.”

He drags his eyes away from Geralt’s shoulder to look into his slitted, golden eyes. “You promise?” he asks, and tries to ignore the way his voice sounds small. 

“I promise,” Geralt says, and lays a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in, just like he had the day before. 

—000—

Geralt can admit to breathing in a little more deeply when he pulls Jaskier into his neck, one hand wrapped firmly around his wrists, the other gripping his nape. The scent of the vampire’s hunger is strong in his nose, but it’s accompanied by the softer, almost delicate smell of his arousal. It had briefly waned when the bard had admitted his worry of being unable to stop, but when he firms his hands on the vampire, it returns in force. 

He tilts his head to the side slightly and keeps pulling until Jaskier’s face settles against him, tucked just into the hollow under his jaw. On his next breath there’s more of the vampire’s hunger in the air, but the bard’s arousal is getting stronger, too. Jaskier is holding perfectly still in his grasp, wrists unmoving in his hand, panting breaths hitting his skin. There’s no sharpness of teeth though, and Geralt suspects the vampire needs more.

“Go on,” he tells him, and feels the shiver that travels down Jaskier’s spine. 

A witcher can deal with many an injury without letting it become a distraction. The mutations not only enhance their ability to heal, they also allow them to keep going through pain that would stop others in their tracks. Geralt is used to taking damage every now and again while he’s out on the path. Even though he’s fast, none of them are fast enough to avoid getting hurt altogether. 

A simple bite is nothing compared to what he’s lived through before.

It’s why he expected not to be bothered in the slightest by something as simple and as minor as Jaskier feeding from him. It’s why he’s wholly caught off guard, his hands grasping onto the bard more firmly, when he’s hit with a bone deep wave of arousal as soon as the vampire’s fangs slide into his skin, and Jaskier’s lips press against him. He’d expected a slight sting. He’d not expected this .

Geralt disguises his groan of want as a growl, and feels the vibration of an answering sound pressed against his throat. When there is the unmistakable slide of a tongue against him, lapping at where the vampire’s incisors cut into him, he uses the hand around Jaskier’s wrists to pull his body in further, until they’re pressed against each other from thighs to chest. The bard makes a sound that’s a strange mix between something hungry and a squeak of embarrassed surprise, and on his next inhale Geralt smells the slightly bitter tinge of shame to his arousal. 

Jaskier is hungry and feeding, and he’s turned on by it, just like Geralt is. He should have known, really. The act of feeding or being fed upon like this is intimate, and he’d been aware of his own appreciation of Jaskier’s loveliness. The difference is that where he decides he isn’t surprised after all and accepts the desire coursing through him, the bard’s shame keeps growing at the same rate his arousal does. 

Geralt shifts his hips and moves one of his thighs slightly,  just enough to press firmly against Jaskier’s groin. The bard’s breath hitches, and he’s hit with another equally strong wave of the vampire’s pleasure and embarrassment. He doesn’t stop feeding though, and Geralt decides to press a little more firmly when his tongue glides over his skin, a heady contrast to the sharpness of his fangs. It’s unmistakable, Jaskier is hard against his thigh, and the bard shifts his hips ever so slightly at the pressure, rubbing himself against him. 

—000—

Jaskier can’t help it. He really, really can’t. He knows he might be a little easier to rev up than the average person, but he’d dare anyone to be pressed close to Geralt like this and not have at least some sort of reaction. 

That his reaction is to have his hunger quickly equalled by lustful desire is not something that should come as a shock. Geralt is easy on the eyes, but more than that he’s someone Jaskier genuinely admires. He feels guilty and ashamed for the way he responds. Not only is he imposing on Geralt to keep him away from vulnerable humans and to feed him with his own lifeblood, now he’s forcing him to do it while subjected to his desire. He knows the witcher will be able to smell it on him, and when Geralt shifts so Jaskier’s erection is pressed against his thigh, he knows he’ll be able to feel it too.

Jaskier shakes a little with the onslaught of emotion. It’s a combination of finally having his hunger met, the intensity of his arousal, and the shame he feels at either of them. It makes him pull against the witcher’s grip on his wrists subconsciously, and he feels as much as he hears Geralt’s responding growl. 

Predictably, the witcher’s large hand slides from his nape up into his hair, gripping onto him, and Jaskier follows the pull obediently. Geralt had warned him that if he didn’t play by the rules it would all stop. So he isn’t surprised. When his fangs slide out of Geralt’s neck though, he can’t help but lave his tongue over the small, deep cuts he leaves behind. 

He holds himself still in the witcher’s grip, hands behind his back, but he can’t look Geralt in the face. He knows he’s panting, and with every breath the iron that’s still on his tongue bursts with flavour. The effects of Geralt’s blood in his system are unequivocal, warming him from his toes to his crown, and he bites back on a groan when it only serves to make him harder, to make him want more . 

It takes Geralt shaking his head by his hair gently a few times for Jaskier to realise the witcher is speaking to him. 

“Jaskier. Are you with me?” 

He keeps his eyes on the ground, willing his body to calm down, but finds it impossible. Eventually he just nods, face hot with embarrassment. 

“Look at me,” Geralt rumbles. 

He grimaces a little, dreading the expression he might find on the witcher’s face. His voice doesn’t sound particularly angry though. Growly, yes, but more in the way Geralt sometimes uses in gentle admonishment. When there is a short, sharp tug on his hair, he finally lifts his gaze to find Geralt’s usually slitted pupils are expanded, swallowing part of his golden irises. 

“If feeding is all you want, that’s alright. It’s alright if that’s not all, too.”

“I didn’t know this would happen. I’m so, so sorry Geralt. I mean, obviously it’s not totally out of left field. I have eyes after all, and I know you’ve seen me look. you’ve been kind enough to ignore whatever you’ve been able to smell coming off me so far, and I really appreciate that. I’m just really sorry you have to deal with all of this, I never meant to—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt cuts him off. “I’m offering.”

Jaskier shakes his head wildly. “No, no. You shouldn’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to.” Geralt growls, an impressive scowl on his face. “I want to.”

He shakes his head again, not quite able to believe what the witcher is saying. “You’ve already done so much for me. I can’t ask more of you. Least of all this. Consent is important, always, and I won’t take that away from you, not ever.”

He wants to say more, but there’s another loud growl rumbling from Geralt’s chest, and the hand in his hair jerks him forward. Suddenly there are lips on his, warm and insistent, and a tongue is licking along the seam of them. When his mouth falls open in surprise, Geralt uses his grip to tilt his head, and Jaskier can’t help the desperate moan that leaves his throat as the witcher licks inside, seemingly heedless of the sharp incisors that had been buried in his neck only moments ago. Jaskier knows Geralt will likely be able to taste his own blood in his mouth, but the witcher doesn’t seem to care one bit. All he seems to want is to kiss Jaskier until he’s absolutely reeling with it. 

When Geralt finally lets him go, Jaskier knows he’s probably looking rather dazed. He slowly licks his lips, and sees golden eyes drop to the movement and stay there, before slowly dragging back up to his own. 

“Believe me when I say it would be as much for me, as it would be for you,” Geralt says. 

“I don’t— I don’t understand,” Jaskier stammers. 

“Use those senses for more than smelling food, vampire.”

It’s the first time Geralt has called him that, but it’s not said unkindly. He inhales deeply, and realises what’s under the mouthwatering smell of the witcher’s blood. A warm, spiced scent, that he thinks can only mean one thing. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, you— do you?”

Geralt pulls him back in, and there’s a thigh against his cock again, the pressure shooting sparks of pleasure up his spine. Jaskier looks up at him, and knows his eyes are wide. This time, there’s an answering hardness against his hip.

Chapter Text

Now that Jaskier is able to distinguish the notes of Geralt’s desire from the rest of his scent, he thinks he’s smelled it before. It’s the thing that makes him give in. It’s what makes him trust it’s not just his feeding from Geralt that has the witcher hot-blooded and offering.

“Yeah, yes, okay,” he breathes, and pulls against the grip in his hair to tilt his head up and meet the witcher’s lips with his again. This time, he’s a more active participant in the kiss, and can’t help but smile into it when Geralt releases an appreciative groan and presses against him more firmly. He gently tugs against the hold on his hands, and the witcher pulls back to look at him. “You can let me go, darling. I’m quite interested in other things than drinking your blood right now.”

Geralt doesn’t release him, but shifts the hand from his hair to touch a finger below one of his eyes. “Still red,” he murmurs, and Jaskier shrugs.

“Not like I can consciously control it, I think. I mean, I didn’t even realise they changed colour to begin with.”

He doesn’t get a chance to say more, as Geralt suddenly dips his head to press his mouth against a spot on Jaskier’s neck that mirrors where he’d bitten the witcher. It has heat shooting through him more surely than even the first taste of Geralt’s blood had, and Jaskier lets his head fall backward on a moan. 

He can feel Geralt grin against him, and then there’s teeth there, biting down on the muscle at the same time the witcher’s free hand slides into his trousers to cup him. The noise he makes is one of surprised pleasure, and he jerks against the touch. It is gone almost as soon as he thinks to roll his hips into it, and then he is firmly herded toward his bedroll. 

Geralt finally releases his wrists when he presses him down onto his back. Jaskier immediately uses the opportunity to slide his hands under the witcher’s clothing, along the warm, naked skin of his back, and pull him in. He might as well be pulling on a block of granite for how much Geralt moves. Instead of letting himself be pulled down, the witcher sits back on his knees and looks down at Jaskier. Heat coils low in his belly at the lustful expression on Geralt’s face, and he can’t help but reach and trail his fingers over the parts of him he can get to.

“Get undressed,” the witcher rumbles, eyes trailing down his body to where he’s hard between his legs. 

Jaskier laughs, breathless and excited. “Why don’t you help me?” he asks, and is surprised to find he can both smell and hear the spike in Geralt’s arousal. The spiced scent gets stronger, and the witcher’s usually slow heartbeat picks up. 

There is something heated and amused in Geralt’s gaze at his retort. “I want to watch,” he says. 

Jaskier can’t help the moan that spills from his throat, and scrabbles to pull off his clothing. The ties on his trousers are already undone, but he struggles a bit to pull them off his legs without kicking Geralt in the groin - because that would put a stop to things sooner than he’d want, surely - and then all his clothes are off, thrown haphazardly to the side. 

There’s a hungry growl spilling from the witcher looming above him, and Jaskier can’t even find the will to be embarrassed at the fact he’s lying there naked, spread out like a feast and clearly begging with the way he parts his legs, while Geralt is still fully clothed. 

“What about you?” he asks. Geralt slides a hand from his knee along the inside of his thigh, stopping just short of his hard, flushed cock, and Jaskier can’t help but dig his nails into his palms at the surge of arousal. “Somehow, I didn’t think you’d be a tease,” he says breathlessly, and gets a grin that bares all of Geralt’s teeth. 

“Somehow, I’m not surprised you’re impatient,”  Geralt retorts, and Jaskier makes an undignified sound somewhere at the back of his throat. 

“You know, I’m all for putting on a show, darling. But I do have to say I’m eager for you to join. Or maybe just put your hand just a little–”

Geralt’s hand squeezes in admonishment where it’s gripping onto his thigh, and even that small change in pressure is enough to have Jaskier tilting his head back and cursing softly. When he looks back at the witcher, he is staring at him with heat, and lets go of his leg.

Geralt makes quick work of getting rid of his own clothes, and suddenly Jaskier doesn’t mind at all that they hadn’t undressed at the same time. It gives him the opportunity to lie back and take in the view as Geralt’s body is revealed. Of course he’d been able to guess at what was under that armour and those clothes. Of course he’d gotten more than a glimpse whenever they bathed, but he’d kept himself from overtly staring. Now, he can look as much as he wants, and thinks he’s never seen someone as beautiful as Geralt before, and he isn’t likely to ever again. Before he knows it, he’s saying as much, babbling incoherent words of appreciation, and gets another feral smile as Geralt settles over him.

“Knew you’d keep talking,” the witcher rumbles, and when Jaskier opens his mouth to retort something about humming and growling instead, he is silenced with a kiss. 

Geralt settles heavily between his thighs, and Jaskier winds his hands into his long, white hair. He shudders at the pressure of him where he wants it most, and opens his mouth to further deepen their kiss. When he rolls his hips to slide their erections together he gets a sharp nip of Geralt’s teeth and a hand clenching on his hip, holding him still effortlessly. 

Jaskier breaks the kiss to look up at him with raised eyebrows, and Geralt leans on one of his forearms, hand winding into his hair, and touches the thumb of his other hand to one of his incisors.

“So hungry,” the witcher rumbles, low and warm.

Jaskier tries to ignore the heat he can feel burning in his cheeks and across his chest, and is slightly gratified when Geralt’s eyes track the flush of colour, his pupils expanding. “Yeah. We’ve established that. Now will you do something about it?” he challenges. 

Instead of giving him what he so desperately wants, Geralt touches a finger below his eye again, and shakes his head. “No. Not until I see some blue.”

Jaskier takes a moment to stare at him incredulously, and then lets his head thunk back against the bedroll. “You can’t be serious,” he says, but thinks that the witcher must be, because for all that he can feel the hot pressure of Geralt’s cock against him, the man doesn’t move an inch. “Oh, Melitele have mercy, Geralt. I don’t know how?” 

Geralt tilts his head to the side as if he’s considering something, and then rolls his hips down in a slow, strong slide. Even if Jaskier possibly could have, there’s not a fibre of his being that considers biting back the low keen of pleasure. It’s all he gets though, before Geralt stills again and leans forward to  murmur directly into his ear.

“Try.”

Jaskier lies there underneath him, his cock twitching, betraying just how much Geralt’s every action excites him, despite not getting what he wants. He can still taste the blood on his tongue. He can still smell the iron of it in the air, and he can still feel the pit of hunger that might have lessened, but isn’t entirely gone. He swallows, and thinks that right there, might be the answer to the challenge Geralt has posed him. He inhales deeply, and focuses on a different smell wafting from the witcher. Different, but no less appealing. He focuses on the scent of Geralt’s lust, on the taste of his skin instead of his blood, and on the way his large, heavy body is pressing him into the bedroll. He focuses on the hard, insistent heat of him against where he’s hard himself.

He hadn’t realised he’d been staring into golden eyes while he did it, but he can tell when the red fades away by the pleased hum in the back of Geralt’s throat. 

“Good,” the witcher says. “It goes both ways. Lust can drive you toward instinct, and instinct can drive you toward lust. Connection can pull you back.”

“Is that what sex is to you? Connection?”

“What is it to you, bard?” Geralt rumbles, raising a white brow.

Jaskier is at an uncharacteristic loss for words, and surges upward instead. Geralt lets him lick into his mouth hotly and he can’t help the inviting tilt to his hips, his legs wrapping around Geralt’s body where they’re pressed together. “Connection is good,” he says breathlessly, and gets a slow curve of the witcher’s mouth.

And then Geralt starts to roll his hips in earnest, and Jaskier can do no more than throw his head back on moans of pleasure, and feel. 

—000—

“I still have to take care of the bloedzuigers,” Geralt tells Jaskier, pulling his swords back into place along his spine. The vampire looks more sleepy than he’s ever seen him, and he thinks the blood and sex have gone a long way in easing some of the continuous tension the bard carried, probably ever since he’d turned.

Jaskier rolls onto his side on the bedroll, blinking up at him slowly. His eyes are summer blue, bright in the sunlight. “There’s more?” he asks.

Geralt nods. “There’s never just one.”

Jaskier tries to discreetly cover a yawn but is spectacularly unsuccessful at it, and looks up at him sheepishly. “Do you need me to come with you?” he asks. 

He shakes his head and goes down on one knee next to the bedroll. Jaskier curls a hand around his ankle and he touches a knuckle just below one of the bard’s eyes. “You just sleep,” he says. “And call for me if there’s trouble.”

Jaskier smiles up at him, and yawns again. “Thank you, darling,” he says, voice sleepy and warm.

As Geralt makes his way deeper into the swamp, he listens to Jaskier’s breathing until he recognises the deep pattern of sleep. He thinks about the bard curled up in slumber, Martin cradled against him, and decides to make it quick. A couple of bloedzuigers really shouldn’t take him long.

—000—

There are too damn many of them. 

A couple really wouldn't have given him any trouble at all, but he finds a bog that’s absolutely laden with them, and unfortunately they decide to swarm. Not all are as big as the one that had attacked the woman, but the smaller ones are faster, and Geralt practically needs eyes in the back of his head to avoid getting speared by their spikes.

He briefly wonders how the town has a population left, and considers how easily the alderman had agreed to his price, and how he’d even offered a night in the inn. They really  had been desperate for a witcher to come along, and this is why. 

Though it takes him a while, he still manages to kill every last one of them, making sure the small ones don’t get to flee to any nearby ponds and start the bloedzuiger population here anew. He makes an unfortunate mistake with one of the last ones he kills, not realising that the water he’s standing in is too shallow to drag the corpse under to avoid the explosion of corrosive acid. 

It hits him in the upper arm and eats through his leather armour and undershirt in no time, biting into his flesh painfully. He curses and quickly scoops up water to rinse the acid away. At least his blood spilling draws out the few remaining bloedzuigers, and he kills them without too much trouble. His arm hurts though, and fighting for so long has put a strain on him. When he looks at the sun’s position to gauge the time, it’s already late afternoon.

—000—

When Geralt rides Roach into town, a waterskin filled with bloedzuiger blood in tow, the townspeople move in a wide berth around him. He’s wet and filthy with swamp water and bloedzuiger gore, and there are trails of blood drying along his left arm, originating from the corrosive burn below his shoulder. 

He grits his teeth and ignores the whispers and stares, and tries to think about the way Jaskier smells just before he peaks to distract himself from the stink of fear and suspicion. The image of the bard lying below him, eyes fanned closed and mouth softly open as Geralt moves against him is a pleasant one.

When he reaches the alderman’s house he’s met outside the door, the lawman clearly having been apprised of his arrival and the state he’s in, not wanting a witcher to drag swamp filth inside. Geralt hefts the waterskin filled with blood as proof, letting some of it dribble out onto the street to show what’s inside. Bloedzuiger blood is near black, and has a distinct, acrid scent to it. 

The alderman wrinkles his nose and looks back up at him. “What price did we agree upon again?” He asks, and Geralt can already feel his ire rise. This is how it usually starts, when they want to renege on the agreed upon charge for the contract. 

“Three hundred,” he bites out.

The alderman raises his eyebrows as if he’s surprised. Geralt can smell the lie on him, and even if he couldn’t, the man isn’t a great actor. “Surely not, witcher.”

“Three hundred was the contract,” he repeats, his voice lowering in anger. The wound on his arm is still burning quite a bit, and he doesn’t want to spend time arguing with the alderman, leaving Jaskier alone. Granted, it’s not like the bard can fall in another bloedzuiger pond now that they’re all dead, but still. 

“Seeing as there are two of you and the job was therefore easier, we really ought to halve the price,” alderman says. 

It’s a testament to much energy the fight took out of him that he doesn’t immediately realise who the lawman is referring to. “Two?”

The alderman smirks. “Figured we wouldn’t find out? Yes, two. Charla told us there was another.”

Geralt figures Charla was the woman they’d saved, and briefly spares a thought to how she’s doing. Those wounds had been deep, but apparently she’s well enough to tattle about Jaskier’s presence. 

“He’s not a witcher,” he growls, and takes a step closer to loom over the alderman. “And even if he was, that would increase the price by a third, not halve it. Be glad it’s three hundred and not four.”

The lawman raises a sceptical eyebrow. “If he’s not a witcher, what is he doing travelling with one?”

At that exact moment there is the sound of a lute strumming close behind him, and Geralt closes his eyes in apprehension. 

“I’m a travelling bard, of course,” Jaskier’s voice reaches them, and somehow he manages to sound both jovial and contemptuous. “My dear witcher here has saved me from a monster, and has been so kind as to let me accompany him. I think I might even write a song of his exploits here, after all, killing so many, many bloodzuugs is quite a feat.” 

“Bloedzuigers,” Geralt growls low, turning to look at Jaskier.

The bard smiles up at him, and he’s relieved to find his eyes are still blue. When Jaskier continues to talk, Geralt notices that the way he moves his lips only barely reveals the points of his fangs. They don’t draw attention, not unless you’re looking for them. Martin sits on his shoulder and he has his lute swung in front of him, his fingers poised over the strings as if he’s about to play. The luggage not stashed into Roach’s saddlebags is swung in heavy packs across his back. 

“Yes, darling. That’s what I said. Bloodzuugs.”

Geralt just rolls his eyes. 

Jaskier turns back to address the alderman again. “Now, I’d think that a lawman in a town such as this would be grateful to be rid of this particular infestation, especially if a bard might sing a song on the witcher’s exploits, spreading word that it’s safe travelling here once more?”

Geralt watches as the alderman considers, looking between him and the bard, before reluctantly nodding. “Alright. Three hundred crowns,” he concedes.

Jaskier smiles, and Geralt notices the way his incisors peek out a little more. “Three hundred crowns, a night in your inn with stabling for the horse. Oh,” he says, quickly dragging his eyes over Geralt’s attire. “And a bath would be much appreciated.”

The alderman looks like he’s swallowed something incredibly sour, but concedes. He hands over the crowns and directs them to the inn. When Jaskier grabs his hand, Geralt grabs onto Roach’s reins, and follows him.

—000—

“I thought I told you to wait,” he grumbles after Jaskier has jovially argued with the innkeep and secured them a room and a bath on the alderman’s promise.

The bard looks back at him over his shoulder,  and Geralt can smell the concern wafting off him. It's unnecessary, really. Yes, he is tired. Yes, he is sore. Yes, there is an acid wound in his left upper arm that should've really stopped bleeding by now - and fuck, why hasn't it? - but there’s no cause for concern. He'll be alright come morning. He just needs to rest for a bit. Meditate, maybe.

“Yeah…” Jaskier says slowly. “I was going to wait, but by the time I woke up you really should've been back. And— and then I smelled the scent of your blood coming from somewhere in the swamp. It's easier for me to separate from other smells and pick out it's you now. Somehow. It was rather strong, so I thought you must have bled a lot.”

“You didn't find me in the swamp.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and pulls him inside, shutting the door behind them and dumping their packs onto the bed.

“No, but I am perfectly capable of tracking you. That's how I found you in the first place, remember?”

“I found you ,” Geralt retorts, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to sag into the steaming tub he spots in the corner of the room.

Jaskier looks at him, concern heavier in his scent and tight around his mouth. “Yes, love. That you did,” he says softly, pulling him toward the bath.

Jaskier helps him undress, his long, nimble fingers making quick work of the buckles on Geralt's armour. Once he’s undressed he sinks gratefully into the hot water, leaning his head back against the lip of the tub. When he lays his arms along the edge of it, Jaskier hisses between his teeth.

“You're wounded!” The bard exclaims, his voice suddenly two whole octaves higher. Geralt briefly wonders what his actual range is.

He hums low. “It’s nothing, Jaskier. It's minor. It'll heal.”

“It'll heal!?  It looks like someone held a hot poker to your skin, and for fuck's sake, it's still bleeding! I should have known. I can smell it. You said you hardly ever bleed much— why are you still bleeding?”

Geralt just grunts and shrugs his shoulders.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and he can hear the panic in the bard’s voice. He turns his head to look at him and is hit with a strong waft of Jaskier's fear. 

“Hm?” He responds, unable to muster the energy for anything more than that.

“After I fed from you, the bite to your neck scabbed over, didn't it?”

Geralt blinks slowly, and manages a nod.

“It's bleeding” Jaskier says, horrified, and Geralt lifts a heavy hand to the place the vampire's fangs had slid into him. 

His fingers come away with crimson.

“Get out! Out of the bath and on the bed. Where are your potions?” Jaskier asks him, frantic. 

Geralt finds he doesn't have the energy to respond, or move.

“ Geralt, get out and on the bed!” Jaskier repeats.

He hasn’t taken vervain, and he's exhausted and hurt and bleeding for some reason. Jaskier is panicked, trying to help, and the lilt hits Geralt hard.

Chapter Text

He’s said the words in that tone without being consciously aware of it. He can hear the odd vibration in his voice as he speaks, and he can see it hit home. Back when they met in the forest he’d used it to try and get Geralt to kill him, and the witcher had resisted without too much trouble. But now Geralt is hurt and bleeding, and something is very, very wrong, and Jaskier really didn’t mean to pile more on top of that. 

Geralt’s face contorts into a grimace, his jaw clenched and his teeth bared. Jaskier wants to ramble out an apology, horrified that he’d inadvertently hurt the witcher even more, but before he can, Geralt rises from the water. There are rivulets of blood sliding down his arm, and the crimson drops dripping from his neck gather in the hollow above his collarbone, before spilling over and across his chest. 

Jaskier is frozen as Geralt steps over the edge of the tub and moves to the bed to lie down. He’s not entirely stable as he does it, and he collapses onto the mattress more than anything. That Geralt isn’t strong enough to resist that tone of voice, scares Jaskier more than the fact the bathwater has a pink tinge to it. 

“Shit,” he curses, and scrambles toward the witcher lying prone on the bed, half on top of the packs Jaskier dumped there earlier. “Shit, Geralt. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. Can you turn around?” he asks, very carefully monitoring the way his voice comes out. 

Geralt makes an unintelligible grunting noise and turns his head to meet his eyes. All the while, his wounds are still leaking. “Is alright,” he mumbles after a moment, lifting his hand to touch Jaskier’s cheekbone. “Still blue. Stay blue.” His hand drops back to the bed, seemingly too weak to hold its position.

“Right, yes, I will,” Jaskier says, his voice shaking. He takes a deep breath of Geralt’s scent and focuses on the parts of it that aren’t copper and iron. “I’m just gonna turn you, okay?” He doesn’t wait for Geralt to respond, just pulls the packs out from under him and shifts the witcher onto his back. 

Geralt groans a bit as he’s moved, but lets himself be settled against the pillows. Jaskier takes a short moment to inspect the wounds. The surface area of them really isn’t big, and they shouldn’t bleed so much. He thinks whatever is causing it must be progressive, since the wounds at Geralt’s neck only just started bleeding after being scabbed over before. That’s not a good scenario though. It means if they can’t figure out how to stop it, it will just keep going and it will just get worse. He’s pretty sure Geralt can hold on much longer than the average human, but even witchers won’t survive being drained of all their blood. 

In his panic, he grabs onto Geralt’s hand. “I don’t know how to fix this. Do we need a healer? Do we need a mage? Will your potions help? If this is because of my bite, maybe it’ll get better if I’m gone.” He says gone , and not dead , but apparently Geralt knows exactly what he means, because suddenly his golden eyes fly open and his hand squeezes harshly around Jaskier’s. 

“Potions,” is all he growls, and Jaskier all but slumps in relief at the fact the witcher is still lucid. 

He scrambles toward the saddlebag that contains Geralt’s various concoctions, and hauls it to where the witcher can see. “Which one?” he asks, scanning the various colours and consistencies. “Should you take black blood? like the one you wrapped the dagger in?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Won’t work. Golden Oriole,” he says through gritted teeth, and Jaskier presses his fangs into his lip sharply to keep down the rising panic at the strain in Geralt’s voice. 

He slides his fingers along the small, corked vials and pulls one out that seems to contain something Jaskier can only describe as liquid sunlight. There are swirls of something that seem to move on their own even if he holds it still, and he thinks he can actually feel a sting against his fingers that reminds him of the sting of the sun when it hits his skin. He holds it up toward Geralt. 

“Is this the one?” he asks, but the witcher doesn’t respond. His eyes are closed, and his head has sagged to the side.

Jaskier cries out and vaults himself onto the bed, settling astride Geralt in his haste. “No, no, no! Please, darling, please wake up,” he stammers, pressing his hands against the sides of Geralt’s neck, his fingers sliding in the blood covering one side. When he feels Geralt’s pulse against his fingers he realises he can hear it too, like he always can. It’s slower than usual though, and the pauses between beats are long enough that it has fear clenching in his stomach. He shakes Geralt a little, but the witcher doesn’t respond. He looks at the vial still clenched in his hand. 

He’s not entirely sure it’s the right one, but if he had to pick one to be golden oriole, this would certainly be it. Geralt can’t tell him if he’s right anymore, and he has to do something . With shaking hands, Jaskier tilts Geralt’s head back, opening his mouth. He pulls the cork out of the vial with his teeth, and the small drop of potion that hits his tongue burns like acid. It makes him slightly more confident it’s the right one. He’s convinced it’s his bite that did this, and if the potion harms him, it might be likely to help Geralt. 

Slowly, he tips the liquid sunlight into Geralt’s mouth, careful of the witcher choking. “Love, can you swallow? Please, this will help. It has to. ” When he feels the movement of Geralt’s throat he sags in relief, leaning forward until his forehead is pressed against the witcher’s. He doesn’t know if he imagines it, but it seems Geralt’s heartbeat immediately gets a little stronger, a little closer to its usual slow but steady rhythm. 

Jaskier presses his fingers back to Geralt’s neck again, just to confirm what he’s hearing. Unconsciously he slides them across the punctures of his bite, and that’s how he feels the beginnings of a scab already forming. 

“Yes,” he breathes, “oh, thank Melitele for weird witcher potions.” 

Geralt doesn’t wake up, and though Jaskier does keep an ear out for the beat of his heart and his slow breaths, he dares to lift himself off the witcher, rummaging through the rest of the saddlebags until he finds what Geralt had indicated to be a general cure-all salve for most wounds and abrasions, and some bandaging. 

The acid wound on Geralt’s left shoulder has thankfully stopped bleeding as well, and Jaskier covers it with a generous layer of the ointment, before carefully wrapping it. He considers treating the punctures at Geralt’s neck too, but they are small, and scabbed over in a way he thinks the salve will add little to. He tidies the salve, bandages and vials of potions away, and gently wipes away all traces of blood with a moist cloth, before covering Geralt with a blanket. Thankfully the witcher had sluiced the bloedzuiger gore off of him before he’d started bleeding in earnest, so he’s clean.

Jaskier considers the rest of the room, and his eyes catch on Geralt’s filthy armour, still next to the bath where Jaskier had dropped it after helping him take it off. He sets about meticulously cleaning it, focusing on the task to keep himself distracted from the guilt that builds inside him. 

He’d bitten Geralt to sate his hunger. Then when the witcher was at his weakest, he’d used that voice on him, and forced Geralt to comply. He feels disgusted with himself, and with the way the strong scent of Geralt’s blood permeates the room, and calls to him.

—000—

When Geralt wakes, he feels better than expected, though he’s weaker than he’d like. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, but judging by the twilight outside the window, it hasn’t been too long. A couple of hours at most. There is someone in the room with him, muttering, and when he smells Jaskier, he relaxes back into the pillows. 

The vampire has his back to him, and hasn’t seemed to notice he’s woken up. Jaskier’s shoulders are a bunched up mess of tension, and he seems to be grumbling low admonishments to himself. When Geralt takes a closer look he sees the bard is frantically scrubbing his armour, though by the looks of it, it has been clean for a while. 

“Jaskier,” he rumbles softly, and the bard immediately drops the leather pauldron he’d been scrubbing to the ground and whirls around. His blue eyes dart all over him, and his scent is a confused jumble of relief, fear, and guilt, when it hits Geralt’s nose.

They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them speaking, and then Jaskier moves to kneel next to the bed. “I thought I killed you,” he says, and as soon as the words are out, his face contorts in misery. 

Geralt doesn’t need to think about it. He leans down to close a hand around Jaskier’s shoulder, and hauls him up and into him, his arms closing around him. “Hmh. Shhh, bard. I’m here. You’re alright. I’m alright. I’m here.”

Jaskier just clings to him harder, and shakes apart as Geralt holds him. 

—000—

Jaskier has gone down to get him a plate of food accompanied with crusty bread and a tankard of ale, and now they’re settled on the bed together, leaning against the headboard as Geralt eats. He’s absolutely ravenous. He’s got rather a lot of blood to replenish, after all. Still, every now and then he offers a small bite to Jaskier for taste, and doesn’t continue until the bard takes it. 

“How are you handling being so close to humans?” he asks after the meal is finished.

Jaskier bites his lip, considering. “Surprisingly well, actually. I noticed it when I was tracking you and the trail led me closer to town. I just wanted to find you . I mean, I can smell them of course, and they kind of call to me? But it’s negligible, really.”

“Hmh. It’s because you fed.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose, not looking at him. “More than that happened because I fed .” He says, and there’s another spike of guilt in his scent. 

“Not your fault,” Geralt rumbles. “I should have considered it.”

“Let's just agree to disagree on fault here,” Jaskier answers, and Geralt can see the way the vampire presses a fang into his lip.

“I should have considered this would happen, since you didn’t get made conventionally,” he rumbles. 

That finally has the bard looking at him. “How do vampires conventionally get made? I thought they just, bred, or something? It’s the dagger that did it to me, right? Oh for fuck’s sake, please tell me that getting vampirism through a bite is indeed nothing more than folklore? You’re not going to tell me you suddenly feel an urge to suck blood too, are you? I think the continent could really do without witcher-vampire hybrids, honestly. What would we even call you? Witchire ?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, and finally Jaskier stops his rambling. “I won’t turn into a - witchire - if that’s the name you’re going with. You’re right, transmission through bites is folklore.”

“So what exactly is the conventional way for new vampires to get made?”

“You’re partially correct. Vampires have offspring. But humans can sometimes be turned by being fed vampire blood. Not all though. I think that’s the mechanism that turned you, except it was the dagger that did it.”

“But if it’s the dagger, why would it be the same?” Jaskier asks, confused. 

Geralt sighs. “When vampires get made through blood, the new ones have a similar skill set to the one that fed them, but weaker. Your skillset, it’s— specific. It’s a good indication that the dagger is somehow linked to blood from a particular vampire line.”

“My skill set?” Jaskiers asks, and Geralt is grateful to have the scent of curiosity take over some of the guilt.

“Yes,” he rumbles. “Some things like relative invulnerability, strength, and enhanced senses are common. You have some things that aren’t.”

Jaskier’s mouth has fallen open as he’s attentively listening, and the points of his fangs peek out from under his lips. “What are those?” he asks.

“You retain your natural eye colour, most of the time. Sunlight only bothers you a little, and you have a rather powerful lilt, though most vampires have that in some measure.”

Jaskier rubs his hands over his eyes, and shakes his head. “So. Many. Questions. I have so many questions, Geralt! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I wasn’t sure, before.”

“How are you sure now?”

“Because of the bleeding. It’s another skill. One that’s far more rare than the others, and isn’t usually transferred when humans are turned.”

“What is it?”

“I’m guessing you have a blood thrall. It ensures your prey won’t get away. It’s an anticoagulant poison in your saliva that’s proximity based. As soon as I got far enough away from you, it activated, ensuring I bled and left a trail for you to follow.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes, and his expression becomes pinched with regret. “So it really was my bite that did it. And if I had gone with you instead of sleeping, none of this would have happened.”

Geralt curls his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck, squeezing softly. “If we hadn’t found out now, we would have run into its effects later.’

Jaskier nods slowly. “If you get far away from me now, will you start bleeding again?” he asks worriedly. 

“No. Golden Oriole clears me from all poison. Including yours.”

“Oh, okay. That’s good. I must remember that. Liquid sunlight will clear you of poison.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at Jaskier’s name for it, but the bard just shrugs. 

“So, what vampire line made that dagger that made me?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m not sure. That dagger is— troubling. The library at Kaer Morhen might tell us.”

“Kaer Morhen?” 

“Yes. It’s my home during the cold season. You’re coming with me this winter.”

—000—

Geralt sleeps like a log for the entire night after their conversation, and stubbornly sticks to the conviction he’s up to travelling. Jaskier wants to argue, but the memory of his voice forcing the witcher to comply with what he wanted is still fresh in the back of his mind, and he doesn’t want to risk it. Geralt told him his lilt is more powerful than most, and while the witcher is still recovering, Jaskier would rather stay quiet than accidentally use it on him. It means he capitulates rather easily, but all in all, Jaskier is more than glad to leave the town and the swamp behind them.

It doesn’t mean he holds his tongue entirely though, and he manages to badger the witcher into riding Roach for the first part of the day at least. He walks next to the horse, and sometimes behind when there’s only a small strip of solid ground for them to traverse between the boggy parts of the swamp. Martin alternately settles on his shoulder, his head, and the back of Roach’s saddle. One time he goes so far as to climb Geralt to try and sit on the witcher’s head instead. Geralt just gently grabs the little marten by the scruff of his neck, and deposits him back onto Jaskier’s shoulder under loudly tittered protests. 

When they break for lunch Jaskier plays a gentle melody while Geralt eats, and only notices after a while that the witcher has finished and is looking at him. 

“That’s a rather sad melody,” Geralt comments eventually.

“You think so? They say it’s good for the soul though, to make space for melancholy every once in a while.”

“Most of your songs are happy. You’ve been quiet.”

Jaskier sighs and sets his lute to the side. He hugs his knees to himself and rests his cheek on them, looking at Geralt. It squishes Martin between his legs and his stomach, and he produces a soft growling noise, but the marten doesn’t move. 

“I feel like I should apologise again,” he says eventually, watching the predictable frown slide over Geralt’s face. 

“No. You couldn’t have known about the blood thrall.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about you being vulnerable and needing help, and the fact I used that voice.”

“Did you do it on purpose?”

“What? No! Of course not. I was afraid you’d pass out in the bath and you’d inhale water on top of everything. I think I would have managed to get you out if necessary, but I didn’t want to risk it. You didn’t respond and I panicked, it just came out.”

“So you did it unconsciously, and you did it to help,” Geralt shrugs, and seems to think that’s the end of it. 

“It hurt you, Geralt. That’s the last thing I wanted to happen. You were already hurt, and I hurt you more. Aren’t you angry with me?”

Golden eyes flick up to his again, and the frown between Geralt’s white brows deepens. Then, lightning quick, the witcher grabs him by the back of the neck, and pulls him into a surprisingly soft kiss. Jaskier makes a startled noise and stiffens for a moment, before melting into it. When Geralt lets him go, he blinks up at him dazedly.

“No. I’m not angry with you.”

Jaskier licks his lips slowly, noting the way Geralt’s eyes drop to the movement for a moment. “Okay,” he says. “I’m still sorry though.”

Geralt nods, and that seems to be the end of it. 

—000—

That evening, after Geralt has eaten and they’re resting by the fire, the witcher gives him a small packet wrapped in brown paper. 

“What’s this?” Jaskier asks, surprised. 

“You asked for oil, remember?”

“Oh, Yes! I totally forgot about that,” he smiles, enthusiastically unwrapping the paper. Out of the packet rolls not one, but three vials of oil. One is larger and contains a rich, honey coloured oil that’s a perfect match for the wood of his lute. The other two are slightly tinged with colour. 

“Is this your way of telling me I smell? Do I need to wash more?” he teases.

“Hmh. No. I thought you might like them. If not, give them back.”

It’s said so frankly it startles a laugh out of him, and he sees the answering crinkles around Geralt’s eyes. “What are you going to do with them? You don’t seem like the type to want scented oils,” he says warmly, and looks down at the small flowers that have been carved into the corks. One of them has several wildflowers, the other a sprig of lavender. It’s the scents he prefers, the ones he hasn’t worn since he turned. He looks back up at the witcher with wide eyes. “How did you know?”

Geralt shrugs. “You still smelled faintly of them when we met.”

It’s thoughtful, and kind, and just—so like Geralt , that Jaskier can’t help but lean forward and press his lips to the witcher’s. Geralt hums in response, and squeezes the back of his neck before letting go. 

Jaskier carefully uncorks the small vials, and puts a tiny drop of each in his hands and rubs them together. He inhales carefully and is glad to find the scent is as pleasant as ever to him, and not at all overwhelming in the small quantity he’s used it. He drags his fingers through his hair, and smiles at the way he can see Geralt’s nostrils flare slightly. 

He freezes when a sudden thought occurs to him. “Wait, Geralt. Do vampires have a smell? Dear deities above, you better tell me I don’t smell like one of those bloodzuugs?!”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. “Bloedzuigers,” is all he says, dragging the word out slowly.

Jaskier flails, careful to keep the small vials of oil safe in his lap. “Priorities, Geralt, please. Do I smell like them?” He lifts the collar of his doublet to smell himself cautiously.

“Hmh,” the witcher rumbles, inhaling deeply in a way Jaskier thinks is only half for show. “Why don’t you come here, bard? So I can smell you better,” he says, and Jaskier flushes hotly.

Chapter Text

Jaskier knows an invitation when he hears one, but he feels slightly unsure as he moves a little closer to Geralt, until the witcher wraps a hand around his upper arm and pulls him in the rest of the way. This time, it’s not Jaskier’s face in Geralt’s neck, but the other way around. Geralt trails his nose up behind his ear, into his hair, and inhales deeply. When he feels the gentle scrape of teeth, he curses softly under his breath, and gets a low chuckle from the witcher. 

“Not like bloedzuiger at all,” Geralt rumbles right next to his ear, and Jaskier decides to resolutely ignore his embarrassment at the fact it takes so little from the witcher to have him wanting and at attention. 

“Then what do I smell like?” he asks breathlessly. 

“Hmh,” Geralt hums, maneuvering him until Jaskier is straddling his lap, the witcher’s large hands slipping up under his doublet to grasp onto his waist and hold him still. Geralt looks up at him, and his smile is sharp. “You smell like you’d let me do anything to you, and you’d still beg me for more.”

The words have liquid heat shooting through Jaskier’s belly, pooling in his groin, and he presses a fang into his lip to keep in the moan that wants to spill free. “So what if I would?” he challenges, and sees Geralt’s pupils expand. When the witcher pulls him down, the sizeable erection that presses against his ass is hard to miss. 

“Careful, you might bite off more than you can chew,” Geralt says, and Jaskier bares his sharp incisors in retort. 

“See these? Made for biting, or so I’ve been told.” The reminder serves to dampen his arousal somewhat, and when he leans back, Geralt slightly slackens his grip to accommodate him. “I’m not biting you. Not again,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Are you hungry?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier purses his mouth. “I’m always hungry. But it’s much less than before. More like a slight ache in my stomach. It’s easy to ignore.”

“Then don’t bite me,” the witcher says simply.

“So— so then you might not want to—?” Jaskier stammers, slightly at a loss and leaning back further. 

Geralt growls and pulls him down firmly, hands shifting to grab onto his cheeks and rubbing himself against the cleft of Jaskier’s ass. “Does that feel like I don’t?” he rumbles.

Jaskier surges forward, winding his hands into long, pale strands, and kisses him, careful to keep his fangs from scraping over the witcher’s lips. One of Geralt’s hands shifts up to cup the back of his head in turn, and then suddenly Jaskier is on his back below the witcher and there’s far, far too many clothes between them. 

Geralt breaks the kiss after Jaskier feels practically breathless with it, and leans on his forearms to hover over him. “What do you want, bard?” he asks.

Geralt’s hard cock is still pressed against his ass, and the way Jaskier has been moving his hips to rub against him isn’t exactly subtle. He rolls his eyes and grins up at the witcher. “And here I am, thinking I’m being rather obvious. You need a literal invitation? I’m happy to provide one, of course. Please, fuck me , Geralt.”

The witcher inhales slowly and deeply, eyes tracking over Jaskier’s face, and winds his hand back into his hair. Slowly, inexorably, Geralt pulls his head back to expose his throat, until Jaskier is a long, stretched out line of want beneath him. He shakes and feels his mouth fall open as his eyes close. 

“Mouthy,” Geralt rumbles. “But look at you, I guess you can be quiet, after all.” As if to immediately refute that statement, an embarrassingly wanton moan spills from Jaskier’s lips. 

When they finally get rid of their clothes, Jaskier watches the way firelight throws shadows over Geralt’s muscular form, and laughs with incredulous delight. He’d never thought he’d get to see someone like Geralt like this, not when he was still nothing more than a bard, and certainly not after. Geralt pauses where he’s been rummaging in his saddlebags to look at him with a raised brow. 

“It’s just— so many song lyrics are coming to me right this moment, and I have no way of remembering them all without writing them down.”

Geralt grins sharply at him before he kneels between his spread thighs. “Lyrics? About this?” he rumbles. “I don’t need a reason to fuck you until you forget your own name, but that one will do.”

There is a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue, but then Geralt’s oil slick fingers press between his cheeks, the blunt tip of one circling him before pressing in. Jaskier wanted to say sex has never made him forget anything, but the sensation of Geralt immediately finding that spot inside him and rubbing it makes him entirely sure that with Geralt, it just might. His back bows at the sensation, and he presses himself down firmly while begging for more. 

Geralt leans back over him while pressing another finger inside, and Jaskier tenses slightly at the stretch of it. “Mouthy,” the witcher repeats, “impatient.” He says it right next to Jaskier’s ear, his lips tickling the shell of it. “And so, so pretty, Jaskier,” he rumbles, taking the skin behind it between his teeth and biting down gently while pressing up against that spot inside him at the same time.

There is white exploding behind his eyelids, and though he knows he isn’t ready yet, he can’t help begging Geralt to get on with it and take him. The witcher kisses him silent, and never speeds up the pace of his stretching, forcing Jaskier to take his time to relax into it, until he’s ready to take more. When Geralt has three fingers inside him and he’s practically delirious with want, he begs again. 

He gets a sharp bite to his nipple this time, but Geralt does pull out his fingers, and replaces them with his cock. Jaskier forces himself to keep his eyes open and look at the man above him, as he slowly presses inside. Geralt’s moonlight hair falls over his shoulders to where a few strands tickle his face, and he’s reminded of the very first time he laid below the witcher like this, albeit fully clothed. It seems a lifetime ago. Geralt is hot and hard, and thicker than Jaskier expects, despite having seen the witcher’s size. He’s been carefully prepared though, and there’s only a slight sting to the stretch, which just serves to heighten the overwhelming pleasure of it. When Geralt’s hips finally meet Jaskier’s ass he growls, low and pleased, and Jaskier shivers.

“Gods, Geralt,” he starts, but then the witcher pulls out of him and thrusts back in, and whatever he meant to say transforms into a high whine of pleasure. His legs are slung around Geralt’s hips, and every time the witcher hits that spot of blinding bliss inside of him, he can’t help but tighten them around him and release breathless moans. He has a distant thought that it’s best they’re out in the wilderness somewhere. If they had been at an inn, they’d surely be keeping up the other guests. As it is, there is no one around to hear them, and he can be as loud as he wants. 

When Geralt pulls his legs higher around his hips Jaskier’s pelvis tilts, and on the next thrust the witcher’s cock doesn’t just hit the bundle of nerves that has him seeing stars, but drags the entire length over it, and Jaskier makes a sound that can only be described as a keening sob. He can see the way Geralt’s eyes are riveted on him, and briefly wonders at the picture he makes. 

He doesn’t have to wonder long, as the witcher looms over him, muscles bunching and releasing as he moves, and growls a few words. “So. Fucking. Pretty, Jaskier. I wonder, will you get even more lovely as you come on my cock?” Geralt drags down one of Jaskier’s hands as he says it, pressing his own hand to his leaking erection, and curling his fingers around it. “Show me, bard,” the witcher orders, and Jaskier for the life of him can’t do anything but comply. 

He strokes himself as Geralt fucks him, keeping the exact same angle that had him crying out in the first place. The look in his golden irises is intense, and Jaskier can feel his climax hurtling toward him. He knows he’s clenching around Geralt more tightly on every thrust and drag inside him, but the witcher is unchangingly steady in the rhythm he keeps. The waves of ecstasy keep cresting higher and higher, until finally, they overflow and set his entire body aflame. He spills wetly between them, and is utterly incapable of keeping his sounds to himself. He cries out his pleasure to the dark sky and the surrounding wilderness, and is only half aware of Geralt’s deep, answering growl as the witcher thrusts harder, and finally follows, spilling hotly inside him. 

They sleep on the same bedroll that night, Geralt curled around him, Jaskier’s head cushioned on his firm bicep. The witcher’s other arm is slung around his waist, holding him close. 

“You still haven’t told me what I smell like,” Jaskier murmurs, his fingers playing with Geralt’s calloused ones. 

“Hmh,” Geralt responds, and there is a distinct satisfaction to the tone as he slides his nose through Jaskier’s hair. “Right now, you smell like lavender and wildflowers.”

Jaskier waits for more, and is rewarded when the witcher inhales again, and presses his lips to his nape. “You smell good,” he rumbles. “Better than when we met. You smell relaxed. Like sex. You smell happy.”

“What does happy smell like?” he asks softly.

“Hard to describe,” Geralt replies. “With you, it smells— warm. Like cinnamon and nutmeg. Like reds and oranges, and those low, full notes you play on your lute.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches, and he pulls Geralt’s hand up to press a kiss to the palm. “You smell like pine and leather,” he says softly. “Like kindness and strength.” He swallows tightly, wondering just what he’s playing at, and decides to lighten the mood. “And rather a lot like sex, of course,” he adds, his tone teasing.

Geralt chuckles behind him, briefly tightening his arm around his waist. “Sleep, Jaskier,” he says, and it only takes a few slow breaths for him to do just that. 

—000—

It takes a few days of walking for them to leave the swampy area behind them. Jaskier keeps insisting he rides Roach, no matter how many times Geralt tells him he’s fully recovered. He doesn’t attribute much weight to the bard’s increasingly ridiculous arguments, but he does to the scent of guilt that still wafts off him whenever either one of them so much as mentions the blood thrall and the way it made Geralt bleed. 

It’s thankfully lessening though, and the melodies Jaskier plays as he walks along behind or beside Roach with Martin on his shoulder, are mostly joyful. Geralt is grateful the vampire hasn’t gone right back to his original demand that he kill him. Jaskier had made him promise that he’d not let it come so far as to let the bard harm innocents in his hunger, and he’d acquiesced. As the days go by however, Geralt is increasingly sure that if it were to come to that point, he might be unable to fulfill his promise. Just the thought of seeing the life fading from those vibrant blue eyes leaves him irritable and grumpy.

It has him being a little shorter than usual, and when he shakes his head at the bard’s raised brows, Jaskier seems willing to let it be for now. Instead he just switches his songs to more quiet, softer melodies. It’s only when Martin tries to climb onto his head again that Geralt goes a little too far. He grabs the little marten by the scruff, and deposits him onto Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“Control your animal,” he growls, “or I’ll have to twist his neck.”

He sees the smile slide off Jaskier’s face, and Martin titters, twisting behind the bard’s shoulder and down his arm, as if to hide from him. Jaskier reaches up toward Roach’s reins, and it only adds to Geralt’s irritation when his horse complies, and halts. 

“Geralt, what was that?” Jaskier asks him, and his usually warm voice is rather cold. 

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. So what made you say it?”

When he doesn’t answer, Jaskier tucks his lute away in its case, hand coming up to scratch Martin behind the ears reassuringly. He looks around them, and then points to a willow in the bend of a stream, some of the branches horizontal and low enough to make for an easy resting place. 

“Lets break,” Jaskier says, and Geralt knows that break in this case is just another word for talk. Still, he doesn’t protest and guides Roach to follow Jaskier off the path, quickly untacking part of her gear to let her graze. Meanwhile, Jaskier has settled on a branch, Martin curled in his lap, and is waiting for him patiently. 

Geralt expects Jaskier to start asking questions as soon as he settles down, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just leans against his shoulder and sighs softly, the marten making low purring noises in his lap. When Geralt raises a hand to gently scratch under Martin’s chin, the bard smiles softly at him. 

“There is a town, close by,” he says, letting the words settle over the silence. 

“Oh, good! That’s good isn’t it? I’m guessing it might have a contract for you, and it would be nice to have a bed, and warm water that won’t turn into a literal bloodbath”

“Hmh,” Geralt responds. “There will be humans there, and if I hunt I’d be leaving you behind.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Jaskier asks, blue eyes flitting across his face. “Last time I went without feeding for weeks , Geralt. It’s only been days. "I'll be fine.”

“I want you to feed from me before we reach it,” he says, and the vampire already starts shaking his head before the words are fully out of his mouth. 

“Did I not just say it’d be nice to have a bath that isn’t filled with blood? Your blood, specifically? Why would you want a repeat of last time? I mean, feeding me and then going on a hunt, that’s just asking for that blood-thrall thing to happen again, and let me tell you, I did not enjoy that, Geralt.”

He grips the back of Jaskier’s neck, and the bard falls silent, large blue eyes looking up at him. “I just don’t want you in that town while you’re hungry,” he rumbles. Jaskier looks sad all of a sudden, and a wave of it hits Geralt’s nose. He doesn’t know what he’s said wrong to have it happen.

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly. “You— you don’t trust me to control myself?” 

Geralt curses low, and squeezes the back of the vampire’s neck. “That’s not it,” he growls. 

Jaskier shrugs. “That’s what it seems like to me. But seeing as you were so convinced I could hold out before, I don’t quite understand what changed.”

He growls in frustration. “What changed is that you’ve had me promise to kill you, should you lose control!” he bites out. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and his expression softens along with his scent. “Oh, love, you should have said,” he murmurs, and leans forward to kiss him. 

He hauls the bard in with an arm around his waist until they’re pressed close on the branch, Martin releasing a distressed squeak from where he’s squished between them. He tightens his hand in Jaskier’s hair and controls the angle of the kiss, and the vampire lets him. 

When they part, Geralt rests his forehead onto Jaskier’s. “Feed from me,” he says, and Jaskier licks his lips slowly. 

“I can’t, not if it’ll hurt you. I know you don’t have enough liquid sunshine for it to be sustainable, and you might need it for other things, too.”

“We can try another way of getting my blood to you,” Geralt says, and waits for the vampire’s nod. 

Jaskier's gaze follows him as he searches through his pack. He comes back with a small metal cup, and a wickedly sharp hunting knife. The bard eyes him carefully, a frown on his face. Before Jaskier can ask, Geralt makes a quick, shallow cut along his wrist, and carefully slides the cup in place to catch the viscous red liquid. 

“Darling,” Jaskier breathes, and when Geralt looks up, the vampire is staring at where his blood wells to the surface, the blue of his eyes nearly eclipsed by crimson. “I know I said I wasn’t that hungry yet, but you really should have warned me.”

Geralt sees him pull in deep, slow breaths, and knows the scent of his blood is largely responsible for Jaskier’s instincts suddenly coming to the fore. “I trust you to control yourself,” is all he says, and Jaskier tears his eyes away from his wrist to look at him. Slowly, the red recedes, leaving behind bright blue. 

He nods slowly, and when he smiles, the sharp edges of his teeth glint in the sunlight. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

—000—

Drinking Geralt’s blood from a cup isn’t the same. It does slightly satiate the hunger he feels, but it’s nowhere near the rush of warmth and strength he had gotten after biting him, and drinking directly from his bloodstream. He doesn’t understand why it should be different, and decides not to tell the witcher. He worries that if Geralt knows, he’d insist on periodically feeding jaskier directly, regardless of the consequences. 

Despite the blood not having the same effects, Jaskier feels confident that staying in the town’s inn won’t be a problem. He even considers performing, and plays snippets of several songs in quick succession, asking Geralt which he would prefer in a set together. The witcher tries to give his opinion, but it ends up being that he likes all of them, and it makes Jaskier laugh. 

They reach the town just as the sun ends its track across the sky and dips behind the horizon. There are still people out on the streets, and Jaskier thinks that asking one of them for the inn’s location will be easy enough. He’s surprised therefore, that the smiles slide off people’s faces as soon as they lay eyes on them, and they avert their gazes before he can approach. It’s not a reaction he’s used to. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

“What’s going on?” he murmurs, after the umpteenth person he waves at returns his smile, only to take a few steps back and turn around directly afterward. 

Next to him, Geralt growls low in the back of his throat. “You walk beside a witcher,” he says, not looking down at him from his elevated position on Roach’s back. 

Jaskier gapes up at him. “What? Can’t be. You’re here to help get rid of monsters — if there are any.”

Geralt grimaces at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a witcher’s reputation, bard. I didn’t take you to be that naive.” 

He shakes his head. “Of course I’ve heard. It’s not good , I know. I just— I didn’t think it would be this bad?”

Geralt just shrugs.

“Right,” Jaskier says, and when a woman with grey streaking through her blonde hair walks past carrying a basket full of linen, he puts on his most charming smile, and does what he does best. 

The woman ends up being charmed despite the careful looks she keeps shooting Geralt’s way. Jaskier carefully bites down on the instinct to give her a firm admonishment about being needlessly judgy, and manages to finagle the inn’s location out of her. 

“Come hear me play tonight, my lady,” he says, flourishing a bow, and the woman blushes as she nods and moves to continue on her way. Geralt has dismounted Roach in the meantime, and Jaskier bounds back over to him, smiling.

“Hmh, you sure you only got the lilt after you turned?” he says, raising an eyebrow. It’s said almost without inflection, and makes him sound so serious that Jaskier can’t help but laugh.

“Believe me, if I’d had that lilt in my youth, it would not have been pretty. I had a whole lot less sense than I do now, and a conscience slippery enough that hardly anything would stick.”

“Less sense you say?” Geralt rumbles, the corner of his mouth ticking up. 

Jaskier just grins at him and slaps his shoulder before grabbing onto his hand and pulling the witcher along behind him, in the direction of the inn. 

—000—

The innkeeper agrees to give them a room and to have Jaskier play in exchange for their meal and drinks readily enough. Still, the man eyes Geralt warily, and Jaskier elbows the witcher behind him. 

“Maybe it would help if you didn’t glower so much. Honestly, this kind of feels like I have an extremely grumpy shadow following me around,” he stage whispers, and then takes a sudden step to the right. Geralt’s frown just increases as Jaskier turns to the proprietor and shakes his head. “Clearly not my shadow,” he grins, and is gratified when he gets a cautious smile in return. 

Geralt keeps scowling, but it lessens when the innkeeper serves them their meals accompanied by a slice of warm apple pie as dessert. It’s not something they’d agreed upon in their exchange for music, and the innkeeper just waves him away when Jaskier thanks him profusely. 

“See what you get when you smile, Geralt?” he says. Though he knows it’s not as easy as that. The witcher could probably smile all he wants, but without Jaskier here to soften perceptions he would have been lucky to get room and board for his coin. He opens his mouth to say as much, but is distracted by Geralt taking a bite of apple pie, his eyes closed and an expression of bliss on his face Jaskier has only seen when— well, when the witcher was balls deep inside him, honestly. 

“Oh, sweet Melitele, I wish I’d known this before, but I am so glad to know it now," he says gleefully. Geralt frowns a little as he opens his eyes, and Jaskier leans his chin in the palm of his hand and smiles at him. “Geralt,” he purrs. “You should have told me you have a sweet tooth.”

The scowl is back on his witcher’s face, but it lacks in strength, especially once Jaskier takes a tiny nibble from his own pie for taste, and then slides it over for Geralt to eat. 

—000—

The common room of the inn gets steadily more crowded as Geralt finishes their dinner, and he knows the fact that a bard is present to provide entertainment is largely responsible for it. That said bard is accompanied by a witcher— well, Jaskier is certain it doesn’t hurt. People are fascinated by that which they don’t know, especially in towns like these, and especially when what they’ve come to see is slightly frightening. 

He doesn’t like the way people are staring at Geralt though, whispering words behind their hands both he and Geralt can hear clearly. Some of the things they say aren’t so bad, but some are plainly insulting, and Jaskier feels his ire rise. When he undoes the buckles of his lute case and flips it open rather aggressively, Geralt lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. 

“Deep breaths, bard,” the witcher rumbles low enough for just him to hear. 

“Yeah, I know,” he gestures vaguely at his face. “I’m keeping them blue, don’t worry about it. It’s more anger than hunger I’m feeling right now.”

Geralt nods at him. “Just remember that hunger and anger can be just as close together as hunger and lust can.”

Jaskier suddenly vividly remembers when Geralt first said that to him. It had been while their naked bodies pressed together, the witcher demanding to see the blue of his eyes before giving him what he wanted. He can feel the flush rush into his cheeks, and sees the way Geralt’s nostrils flare on an inhale, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

He shrugs. “It’s just assholish. Don’t they know you can hear?” 

Geralt tilts his head. “It’s kinder to think they don’t know.”

Jaskier curses softly. It might be kinder to think that, but he’s not always a kind man, and right now, he’s quite angry that Geralt has to sit here and listen to the things said about him. “You don’t have to stay,” he says, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself. 

“You’re playing. I’ll be here,” Geralt says, and Jaskier sighs deeply as he swings his lute in front of him, and makes his way to the centre of the common room.

—000—

Playing helps to settle his emotions, as it always does. And it’s been so, so very long since Jaskier has played for an audience. He might be angry with part of them, but not all have whispered insults about the witcher looming in a dark corner. Most of them have come for a pleasant evening, to drink, hear music, and to sing along to the songs they know. 

The further he gets in his performance, the more he can let his anger go and enjoy himself. After all, this is something he thought he’d lost along with his life, the moment he woke up in that clearing. That he’s here, doing what he loves in front of an audience cheering him on enthusiastically, is solely because of Geralt. More than once, Jaskier glances over toward the corner where Geralt keeps himself secluded, and finds the witcher’s golden eyes meeting his, every time. 

His set goes quite well, for all that he hasn’t performed in weeks. His older songs are received with raucous cheers, and his newer ones largely have people laughing in the right places, and listening attentively to the stories he tells. 

When he sings about a white haired witcher taking on a veritable pack of bloedzuigers and saving the population of an entire town, he can see Geralt’s eyebrows rise all the way to his hairline. He grins as he blows a kiss the witcher’s way, and winks as several people catcall them loudly. 

The performance makes him deliriously happy. It’s been too long since he was able to, and to perform not only in front of a crowd, but in front of Geralt , has Jaskier buoyed on waves of euphoria.

Geralt had warned him. It’s not only lust and anger that are close to his instincts and therefore his hunger. Apparently bursting with happiness makes him vulnerable to that, too. 

What happens is sheer, dumb, unfortunate luck, and Jaskier thought by now, he’d had enough of that to last him several lifetimes. 

The barmaid has a serving tray full of empty glasses she’s carrying back, and one of the patrons turns, just as she’s passing him by. She manages to stay upright, but one of the glasses falls, and the patron in question tries to snatch it out of the air. 

If only the glass wasn’t so fucking fragile. 

It shatters in the man’s hand, large shards cutting the skin of his palm and wrist. The man laughs. He is drunk and doesn’t feel the pain, and the injury is nothing major. Nothing he won’t survive.

If only there wasn’t a vampire in the very same room with him.

Chapter Text

Geralt doesn’t know what to expect from Jaskier’s performance. Sure, he’s heard the bard play his lute and sing, but that’d been while they were travelling, or resting next to the fire in the evenings. He knows the music distracts him from the constant hunger, and how he plays is a good indicator for his mood. It makes him easier to read than he already is. 

Now though, Jaskier is at his most vibrant, and Geralt can’t look away. His voice is melodious and clear, his smile quick and easy, and his nimble fingers dance over the strings as he twirls around the common room. The way the bard moves is endlessly fascinating to him, the movements of his body seemingly changing to accompany the music. 

Every time their eyes meet, he feels like Jaskier might be performing for the patrons of the inn, but part of him at least, is playing for Geralt. 

When Jaskier sings a song about bloedzuigers accosting a town and a white haired witcher who exterminates them, he is surprised. He’s heard the bard play this particular melody a few times since they left the swamp behind, but this is the first time he’s hearing the words. Jaskier smiles at him from across the warmly lit space, and true to form, blows him an exaggerated kiss.

With the way he can smell Jaskier’s joy even through the scent of gathered people between them, he doesn’t even really mind the resulting catcalls. 

When the barmaid gets a slight shove into her side that makes her stumble, something in Geralt’s chest tightens. Witcher instincts somehow go beyond what their sensory input tells them, and as he watches it happen, he already knows something will go wrong. It’s quite a useful ability to have, one that has saved his life on the path more than once. No one knows exactly what it is, but none of them question it when it happens. He’s already risen from his seat and moved around the table when the drunk man who’d bumped into the barmaid makes a grab for the glass, and cuts himself on the shards when it shatters. 

The man laughs, and the barmaid curses him out loudly. It’s enough to draw the other patrons’ attention, and there are some jests and calls for bandages. Geralt’s eyes are focussed elsewhere though, on the bard going rigid on the other side of the room.

Jaskier’s mouth has fallen open slightly and he takes quick breaths. His hands are slack on his lute, and he’s staring at the drunk man’s wrist. There is a definite red hue to his eyes, and Geralt is glad most people’s attention is elsewhere, and that the light in the inn would make it hard for them to see. He thinks that none of them would notice there is a vampire in their midst until it’d be too late. 

He moves quickly through the mass of people, and is glad their attention is pulled to him as they move out of his way, slight fear tinging their scents. If they’re looking at him, they won’t be looking at the bard, still frozen in place. 

“Jaskier!” he bites out, and observes how the vampire slowly manages to drag his gaze away from the bleeding man, until he finally looks at him. Jaskier visibly startles, and his eyes widen for a moment before they quickly flit across the crowded room. On his next breath, he squeezes them shut and curls his lips inward, covering his fangs. 

Geralt recognises the signs of Jaskier working hard to hold himself back, and is relieved to see the signs of control. If anyone looks at the bard now, they’ll just assume he’s squeamish at the sight of blood. If any of the humans actually had seen Jaskier’s eyes or fangs and drawn the right conclusion, there would have been calls for the witcher in their midst to act. Geralt would have been unable to do so, and— and a vampire bard travelling the continent with a witcher is a rumour that would have spread fast .

It seems an eternity before he finally reaches Jaskier, but in all reality it’s only a few heartbeats, and most of the patrons are still focussed on the bleeding man behind him, who’s now yelling at the sight of his own blood, providing a useful distraction. He steps in front of Jaskier, and carefully takes the lute out of the bard’s clenching hands, leaning it back against the wall.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, eyes still squeezed shut and his voice strangled. 

To his surprise, the vampire reaches for him, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his armour, trying to pull him forward. He steps closer and makes a soothing rumble in his chest. “Shhh, Jaskier,” he says. “I’m here.”

Jaskier leans forward, and tucks his face into his neck, inhaling deeply. Geralt can feel the press of his lips against his skin, soft, the sharpness of his fangs absent. He gently cups the back of the bard’s head. “Let’s head upstairs,” he says.

—000—

Geralt takes him to their room, and Jaskier is infinitely grateful to be at least a little further away from so many people. He can still smell the drunken man’s blood, but he’s able to focus on the witcher’s scent, and the call of it lessens dramatically. 

As soon as they enter the room there’s an excited screech, and Martin is all over them. He climbs his way up Jaskier’s leg and settles on his shoulder, snuffling all over his face, releasing soft little purring noises. It makes him laugh, and some of the residual tension releases its hold on him. When Martin jumps over onto Geralt’s shoulder, and gives the witcher the exact same treatment, the expression on Geralt’s face is one of surprised irritation, and Jaskier just laughs harder. He knows it’s largely the relief that nothing has happened bubbling up and spilling out of him. 

There is a tub with mostly cooled water in the corner of the room, but he ignores it to settle on the bed with Martin in his lap, and watches as the witcher goes about pulling off his armour. Geralt always does it in the same, methodical way, checking over each piece and wiping it clean if necessary. By now Jaskier knows the order in which he does it. First the vambraces, then the pauldrons, and so on. He’s quiet as he watches, contemplating. When the witcher is down to a dark linen chemise, he settles down across him on the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought I’d be fine. I was feeling so joyful while performing. I know you said strong emotions are likely to trigger my instincts and hunger. I didn’t consider this might too. And then the blood, it was so unexpected. It caught me off guard and I hungered for it before I even realised. I guess performing is— something to avoid.” He has to swallow harshly against the lump in his throat to get the words out. 

Geralt slowly shakes his head. “You’re allowed to feel joy, Jaskier. You’re allowed to feel anger, peace, sadness, excitement, and more.”

Suddenly there are tears in his eyes, and he rubs his hands over his face with rough movements, willing them not to fall. “But how can I?” he asks. “How can I feel when it leads to this? ”

“And what exactly do you mean by this ?” Geralt counters. 

He releases a hollow laugh and waves his hands through the air as if to encompass the entire evening. “You know. Smelling a little blood and immediately being out of control. Immediately seeing nothing more than a meal, ignoring the fact that there’s a person who bleeds. Someone with a life. Someone who loves and is loved, with hopes and dreams—none of which include the nightmare of suddenly being prey.”

“Is that what happened?”

Jaskier stares at the witcher. “You were there. You know what happened,” he says, his voice tight with irritation. 

“Hmh. You’re right. Standing in place with your eyes closed and your lips pressed together. Very dangerous.” 

Jaskier gapes and sputters while Geralt just looks at him calmly. “That— that’s one way of looking at it,” he manages to say weakly after thinking it over. 

“You’re still getting used to what you are. This was the first time you performed since you changed. We’ll have you do it again in the next town we visit.”

“You think I should perform again, even after this?” Jaskier asks uncertainly.

“I do. Music is part of what keeps you human. Besides,” Geralt says, shooting him a predatory look. “It would be a shame to not see you like that again.”

Jaskier feels pleased heat rush to his face, his lips curling in a surprised smile. Geralt is right. Nothing had actually happened, and when he was having a hard time, Geralt had been right there. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll play again.”

—000—

Originally, they had planned for Jaskier to stay behind while Geralt went after what he’d told him is likely to be an archespore. With what happened last night though, Jaskier isn’t comfortable with being left in the town without Geralt’s presence. He tells him so at breakfast, and Geralt frowns spectacularly, but in the end doesn’t really protest all that much. 

“Besides,” he says to the witcher cheerfully. “If the alderman here tries to shortchange you like the last one did, I’m sure I can threaten to write another song that’ll have them paying what you deserve.”

Geralt rubs his fingers over his forehead and hums. “As long as you do as I say, and stay back.”

“Of course, darling,” Jaskier says smiling, throwing Martin up into the air to elicit his excited titters before deftly catching the little marten and scratching his ears. “I think my bath with the bloodzuug was unfortunate, and I’m not keen to repeat such an experience any time soon.”

Geralt stops walking and turns to him. “I know you know it’s bloedzuiger. You said it correctly in your song.”

Jaskier grins up at him. “Ah, so you really were listening. Not too distracted by the view?” he teases, and Geralt just rolls his eyes. 

When they get Roach from where she’s stabled, Martin jumps over onto her withers and screeches softly in greeting, getting a snort in return. Geralt presses two slices of dried apple into his hand, and Jaskier coos and scratches Roach’s mane as he feeds her the treats while the witcher carefully tacks her. 

—000—

Several hours later, Jaskier is entirely bored. He wishes he hadn’t left his lute behind with the rest of their packs at the inn, but he hadn’t wanted to risk damaging it. 

“Geraaalt,” he whines, fully aware that he’s being a bother and grating on the witcher’s nerves. “When is something going to happen? Honestly, I didn’t think going on a hunt with you would just mean more walking behind while you ride Roach. I thought you said archespore are plants? How hard can it be to find a plant, they don’t move!”

“I’m going to tie you to a tree and leave you behind if you don’t stop complaining,” the witcher growls, and Jaskier gasps in affront.

“You wouldn’t!” he says, and sees Geralt’s golden eyes slide over to him.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Jaskier sniffs haughtily, but manages to hold his tongue for the next several minutes, until the witcher suddenly halts Roach and slides off. 

“What’s happening, have we finally found them?”

“Not yet. But you and Roach are staying here. We’re close.”

“Stay— I don’t want to stay here,” Jaskier protests. “All that walking and then I don’t even get to see what those things are?”

“You can see them once they’re dead,” Geralt answers, and turns without another word, fully expecting Jaskier to comply. It isn’t long before he can’t see the witcher through the trees anymore. 

He grumbles and leans against Roach, petting her soft nose when she presses it against his hand, searching for more apple slices. “See them once they’re dead,” he grumbles. “I bet that’s not the same. The stupid bloodzuug wasn’t the same once it was dead either. How am I supposed to know the song it could be if I can’t see the fight?” Roach just blows air and bends her head down to nibble at the sparse blades of grass that creep up between the leaves on the forest floor. 

He waits a few more minutes, but he quickly reaches the end of his - admittedly limited - patience. “Right. Roach, you be a good horse and stay here. I suppose Geralt leaves you behind all the time without trouble, so I’m guessing you’re good.” Roach presses her face against him, giving him a slight shove and an entirely unimpressed snort in response. When he holds his hand out to Martin, his little ball of fur jumps up easily and climbs to settle on his shoulder. “Let's see if we can track a witcher,” Jaskier murmurs to him under his breath. 

—000—

Geralt should have known Jaskier wouldn’t stay behind. Even though the bard had promised to do so before they set out, when Geralt had explained more to him about archespore, his scent had become overwhelmingly filled with curiosity. Sure, the vampire had been bored rather quickly afterward, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still wanting to actually see the creatures. 

He’s just dodging a spray of poison that mists through the air from a large, green specimen, and is blasting it with igni, when he hears the snap of a branch somewhere behind him. His instincts rightfully alert him to something potentially attacking from behind, but he knows what caused the sound. Being unaware of things like this is a surefire way to get injured or die while out on the path. He jumps back out of range of another archespore as it snaps at him, the leaves edged with razor sharp tooth-like points missing his face by inches. He tilts his head and listens.

Jaskier has done a good job of sneaking up on him, the snapping branch the only thing Geralt noticed up until now. Now that he’s alerted though, he can hear the beat of the bard’s heart, and scent his nervous excitement through the sour smell of archespore poison. 

“Jaskier!” he growls, keeping his attention focussed on the collection of deadly plants in front of him. There is a soft squeak of surprise somewhere behind him, and then he hears the little marten titter. 

“Sorry! I just wanted to see,” the vampire stammers, and Geralt curses when the bard is actually foolish enough to step forward, just into striking range of the largest, purple coloured archespore. 

He runs and dives, his fingers forming the sign for igni to direct fire at the plant closest to the vampire. It only deters the monster slightly, but it buys Geralt time enough to reach him and haul Jaskier out of the way by the collar of his doublet. He presses him back against a tree, hand splayed on his chest. 

“Stay here. Don’t move. I mean it, bard.”

Jaskier quickly nods up at him, his blue eyes wide. Behind them there is the sound of another archespore spitting toxins, and Geralt blindly directs an aard that way, trusting the shockwave to blow the poisonous gas away from them. 

He makes sure the rest of the fight doesn’t take longer than it has to, methodically burning the archespore to the ground. Thankfully, Jaskier listens, and remains with his back glued to the tree, out of range from the sharp leaved monsters. Every now and again Geralt can hear him gasp or squawk, or notices him holding his breath as one of the archespore comes particularly close to striking him. 

When it’s finally done, he turns around to face the bard, and growls low in the back of his throat. He sees the furious heat rise to Jaskier’s cheeks and can smell his guilty embarrassment. Martin makes a cat-like screech from where he’s perched on the vampire’s shoulder, and when Geralt advances, the little marten skitters up the tree, leaving his master behind. 

“You! You’re guilty as well!” Jaskier exclaims, tilting his head back to look up the trunk as Martin abandons him. 

“What were you thinking,” Geralt growls, pulling the vampire’s attention back to him. Jaskier gulps and tries backing up a step, impossible, since he’s already pressed against the rough bark.

“It’s not like they could kill me, right? And you could have needed my help. What if something happened and I was all the way back there with Roach?” Jaskier says defensively, and Geralt has had enough. 

“I don’t want excuses. I am angry with you!” he snaps. “You said you would stay behind. If you were going to follow me anyway I would have rather had you be upfront about it.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen at his tone, and he bites his fangs into his lip. For all the world he looks like he’s genuinely contrite and regretting his choices. It hardly dampens Geralt’s anger, and he grabs the bard by the back of the neck firmly, shaking him. “You might not have died from it, but it still would have hurt!”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says softly, placatingly, and infuriatingly enough, it goes a long way to dampen the rage he feels. The bard leans up and into him, and presses a soft kiss against his jaw. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t think. I won’t do it again. I just wanted to see, and I should’ve been honest.”

“Yes. You should have” Geralt growls back, firming his grip and hearing the bard’s breathing hitch. And suddenly the way Jaskier is pressing against him serves an entirely different purpose. “Jaskier,” he warns low, and the vampire shivers in his grip. 

There is a flush high in the bard’s cheeks, and when Geralt checks, the contrast with the colour of his still blue eyes is exceedingly lovely. Apparently right now, so soon after the fight, it’s him whose urges and instinct are intermingling, even though it’s Jaskier who’s instigating. 

“Let me apologise,” the vampire whispers, pressing another kiss against his jaw on the other side. 

Geralt leans back from him a little, breathing in the scent of his arousal. He slowly swipes the thumb of his other hand against the bard’s bottom lip, watching as Jaskier easily parts them. “You already apologised,” he murmurs, avidly watching the pink tip of the bard’s tongue come out to lightly touch against his thumb.

“I know. But I bet I can show you better, how truly regretful I am,” Jaskier says. The smell of his arousal envelopes Geralt, and his smile is suggestive. 

There’s still adrenaline in his system. Together with lust and the remaining tendrils of his anger, it makes for a heady combination. He lets his hand slide to Jaskier’s shoulder, and when he pushes the bard down to his knees in front of the tree, he goes willingly. 

Jaskier’s nimble fingers waste no time getting the close to his trousers undone, and then his hands are on Geralt’s already hard cock, stroking him. He leans forward to brace his palms against the bark and hisses between his teeth. He lets his head fall forward, enjoying the pleasurable sensations raging through him. He can hear the excitement in Jaskier’s heartbeat, and takes deep breaths of the bard’s scent, evidencing just how much enjoyment Jaskier is getting out of this himself. When he looks back down at him, he’s met with bright blue eyes, the pupils large and blown, and a rosy, pretty mouth smiling up at him. He reaches forward and presses his thumb against Jaskier’s chin. 

“Open up, bard,” he growls low, and sees Jaskier shiver, his eyes fanning closed as he lets his lips part. 

Geralt has to grit his teeth and remind himself to press in slowly, to first see how much of him Jaskier can take before he chokes. It’s rather difficult. He wants nothing more than to slide all the way inside and watch as the bard’s eyes water. There is just something about him on his knees in front of him, lips stretched around his cock, looking up with his eyes half lidded, barely revealing their colour. The fact that he can just see the points of Jaskier’s fangs has arousal raging through him, and Geralt wonders when wanting those incisors so close to his cock became an acceptable thing. 

A glance between Jaskier’s legs and his appreciative moans reveal Geralt is doing nothing he doesn’t like, and when he presses in deeper, Jaskier makes a soft gagging noise.  

He groans in response, and softly drags his fingers through the bard’s hair, swiping it back from his forehead. “Jaskier,” he says, and blue eyes blink up at him in question. Jaskier can’t pull back, the tree behind him limiting his movement, and Geralt very slowly pulls himself out of his mouth. His lips had been rosy before, but now they’re red and slightly swollen, and so lovely he has to hold himself back from pressing back in immediately. 

“You’ll tell me?” he growls, holding himself still very carefully.

“Please, love, keep going” Jaskier says, and it’s answer enough.

When he slides back into Jaskier’s mouth he pushes until there’s that soft, gagging noise again, and then he starts to thrust. Jaskier’s slight choking is interspersed with his moans, and his hands come up to rest on Geralt’s thighs. He’s not pushing or squeezing, and he knows that it’s Jaskier’s way of letting him know he’s good, telling him he’ll act if it’s too much. It allows Geralt to finally let go, chasing his pleasure while never taking his eyes from the man kneeling before him. 

When Jaskier takes away one of his hands to slide into his own pants Geralt growls and grips the bard’s hair. “Yes,” he says. “Show me just how much you enjoy this.”

It has a sudden flare of arousal bursting into the air, and he inhales greedily as he presses deeper to briefly slide into Jaskier’s throat. Their groans intermingle, and then there is the unmistakable scent of Jaskier spilling in his trousers.

The bard’s hand returns to his thigh, and his posture slackens somewhat, the grip on his hair the only thing keeping him in place for Geralt’s thrusts. When the movement of Jaskier’s hand attracts his attention, he realises the vampire has wiped some of his release onto him, effectively marking him with his scent. 

When he looks back at Jaskier’s face he is met with mischievous blue eyes, glinting in challenge. He knows his smile is sharp as he returns the look. He keeps thrusting, careful to not choke the bard too much, lest he ruin his singing voice for more than a few hours. He feels Jaskier’s clever hand creep up the inside of his thigh, and when his fingers press firmly just behind his balls, he’s expecting it. 

The pleasure crests just as he pulls out from between those soft red lips, and he keeps Jaskier facing up with the grip on his hair as he strokes himself. He peaks with a growl, his release striping over the bard’s face and throat, pearl droplets of it landing on his still open mouth. 

When Jaskier darts out his tongue to taste him, Geralt goes to his knees as well, cupping the bard’s face and hauling him into a filthy kiss. 

—000—

They’re about half a day out of town and Jaskier is working on a humorous song that details the dangers of plants, when he becomes aware Geralt is looking at him. 

“Something on your mind, darling?” he says, swinging his lute to his back as he walks. 

“It’s time to circle back north, toward the blue mountains,” Geralt says. 

“Ah, so that’s where Kaer Morhen is,” Jaskier answers, smiling up at him. “How long will it take us to get there?

“We’re not going directly. We still have three to four months. We only need to make sure we go up the killer before the true start of winter.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “I guess I don’t need to ask why it is named the killer. And yes please, if what I’ve heard of the blue mountains is true, let us please get up there before it snows.”

“You don’t mind?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier stops walking.

“It’s your home, love. You—”  he licks his lips and shakes his head, searching for the words to adequately express to the witcher what he feels. “It was the cruellest twist of fate, that had that dagger find me,” he says softly. “But lately I’ve been thinking that the universe is trying to make it up to me by having me find you. ”

“Hmh,” Geralt responds, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I found you, vampire. Remember that,” he says, and ducks deftly out of the way when Jaskier tries to slap his shoulder. 

—000—

Jaskier is seated between his legs and is leaning back against his chest in front of their fire, and Geralt can’t quite contain his satisfied rumble as he cards his fingers through the silky brown strands of his hair. Every now and again Jaskier smiles up at him softly. 

“I should take more contracts on the way back. I’ve not done as much this season,” he murmurs, pressing his nose behind the bard’s ear.

“Oh. That’s my fault, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I guess you’ve not been able to do as much with me tagging along.”

“It’s alright. I was just thinking that if you’re coming on hunts because you’re curious , you should learn how to defend yourself.”

That has Jaskier sitting upright and twisting around to face him. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of defending myself,” he says confidently, gesturing at his torso as if he’s not wearing an elaborately brocaded doublet more suitable for court than for traversing the continent. 

Geralt snorts in amusement. “Right. Because you did not go swimming with bloedzuigers or nearly had an archespore blow its poison directly up your nose.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes a few times, before he grumbles and crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, fair. I’m not the most coordinated when it comes to monster fights. But I’m not a witcher, Geralt, and I’d never seen those things before. No one reasonable would compare my skills to yours.”

“Hmh. You’re a vampire though. With vampire speed, strength, and vampire senses. You’re just not using them.”

Jaskier bites his lip, his gaze dropping to his fidgeting hands. “I don’t really want to. I’m afraid it’ll make me more hungry.”

Geralt nods at him. He can understand Jaskier’s apprehension, but it doesn’t mean he thinks it’s rational. “It’s better to know and be aware of when you have to hold back, than to have it surprise and overwhelm you.” 

Jaskier lets his head fall forward to thunk against his shoulder, and Geralt softly squeezes his neck in comfort. “Why do you have to make so much sense?” the bard whines. 

It makes him chuckle, and the sound has Jaskier looking up at him with the beginnings of a smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll have you practise first.”

“Practise?” Jaskier asks. “How?”

“By fighting me, of course,” he answers. 

When the full body flail comes, he’s expecting it, and he uses the movement to pull Jaskier back into his chest, hooking his chin over the bard’s shoulder. 

Chapter Text

The breath rushes out of him with the impact of landing flat on his back, and Jaskier groans as he tries to get his ribcage to cooperate and expand again. He manages to shift himself to a sitting position, and as he does so, steel is pressed against his jugular from behind.

“Too slow,” Geralt says, and Jaskier lifts a hand and shoves the blade out of the way, heedless of the sharply honed edge. Geralt lets him.

“Maybe if you used your silver sword, I’d actually be motivated to dodge,” he snarks, scrambling to his feet and turning to face Geralt again. 

The witcher raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier grumbles, adopting a ready stance the way Geralt taught him. They’ve been sparring for a week now, but progress is so slow it seems nearly non existent to him. He thinks he’s just not made for fighting, and has loudly told the witcher, many, many times now. Geralt still insists on teaching him, and they take a few hours before they set out every day to have Jaskier evade him as he attacks over and over again. 

He thinks he sees the feint as Geralt strikes at him again, and tries to dodge in the opposite direction. He yells in frustration when it turns out the feint was to keep his attention on the witcher’s sword-hand, and now his other is fisted in the front of his chemise while Geralt sweeps his feet out from under him, and he’s on his back once again, the witcher hovering over him. 

“Really, love. What’s the point of all this?” he says. “I’m not getting any better, and there are so many more pleasant things we could be doing that involve me on my back.”

“You saw the feint,” Geralt answers, retreating. “You’re getting better.” 

Jaskier sighs deeply, and hoists himself up and back into his ready stance. “I saw the feint, and the fucking feint was a feint. How is that better? I still ended up on the ground.”

“Patience, Jaskier. You’re starting to see the patterns. The rest will come.”

—000—

Though Jaskier is frustrated with his progress, Geralt is quite the opposite. It’s true that the bard hardly ever manages to land a strike, even when he lets him, but the number of times there is a laughably easy opening for Geralt to land a killing blow has reduced dramatically after a few weeks. That he doesn’t get in many hits has more to do with the bard’s unwillingness to do so, as opposed to his inability.

This time, they’re sparring without using any weapons, and the instructions he gave the vampire are to keep himself out of his grasp for as long as possible. He starts easy, gradually increasing his speed, and nods approvingly as Jaskier follows along.

“Good,” he rumbles, when the bard manages to dart away just in time, the tips of his fingers barely brushing his chemise, unable to get a grasp. He gets a quick grin, and then Jaskier twirls around him fast enough that he has to let himself respond without thinking about it. 

He almost gets the bard again, but Jaskier suddenly jumps up high and his tackle misses his waist entirely. He gets a hand wrapped loosely around his ankle though, and hears the adrenaline fueled laugh as Jaskier just barely manages to wriggle away. 

When they’ve been going at it for a while, Geralt allows himself to increasingly rely on his own instincts, and eventually, he manages to grab onto the vampire. Jaskier struggles to get free and he can feel how he’s using the full force of his strength, so different compared to how painstakingly he held it back before. He twists him around, back to his chest, and when he unbalances the bard he makes sure to brace him from impact as they land on the ground. 

Jaskier is on his belly under him, panting against the grass and still doing his utmost to squirm out from under him. Geralt presses his hips down against the curve of his buttocks, and the vampire stills abruptly. 

“Caught you,” he murmurs into Jaskier’s ear, covering the bard’s hands with his and stretching him out under him as he rolls his hips. 

“Oh, Melitele, yes. Yes, you’ve won. Who’s surprised about it, really? Not me. Gods, if this is losing I don’t think your training is going to keep me safe, Geralt.”

Geralt sucks a bruise into the side of his neck, shifting one hand to pull the fabric of Jaskier’s pants down over the swell of his ass. He can hear the soft, breathy moans the bard lets out in anticipation, and grins against his skin. 

“Hmh. If you win, you might get a different reward,” he tells him, and Jaskier cranes his neck to look up at him in surprise, a definite red tinge to the blue. Geralt shoves down his own clothes and presses against the warm body beneath him, holding still until the vampire takes a few deep breaths, and the crimson in his irises retreats. 

Jaskier babbles nonsense, alternating with softly breathed curses, wondering where he has gotten the oil and if he’s had it all along, as he slowly presses his fingers inside. It’s so easy to have him fall apart, the smell of his arousal strong and heady. Geralt is fascinated with the way he arches and mewls with the merest brush to that spot inside of him, and he sits up to watch, a hand pressing between the bard’s shoulderblades to keep him in place. He keeps stroking over that bundle of nerves, intermittently increasing the pressure, until Jaskier is panting and shaking and begging. 

When he finally presses inside the slide is smooth, and he groans at the slick heat of him. Jaskier seems unable to do anything more than grab onto his hands and gasp as Geralt takes him. Just before the bard comes he grasps onto his chin, turning Jaskiers head toward him for a kiss.

—000—

The first time Geralt actually willingly takes him along is on a cockatrice hunt. 

Jaskier is performing in the inn of the nearby village the night before, and he feels slightly euphoric at the fact that this time, everything goes off without a hitch, and there is no bleeding and therefore no danger of him snacking on his audience whatsoever. 

After his performance he’s regaled by one of the patrons with tales of the half scaled, half feathered monster that has the townspeople in a tizzy. When the woman tells him that the creature’s gaze would turn anyone who meets it to stone, he looks over her shoulder at Geralt, and sees the witcher grimace and shake his head. He can’t help but grin at Geralt’s irritation because of the people’s superstition, and encourages the woman to tell him more, curious to see if there’s a limit to how much the witcher’s eyebrows can draw together. 

A cockatrice turns out to be an ugly thing that’s some sort of mix between a rather slimy lizard and a rooster - except it’s the size of a small horse - and Jaskier has a few seconds to think it doesn’t look particularly dangerous before it screeches, unfolds it’s wings, and dives straight for him , bypassing the witcher with his bared swords altogether. It seems the cockatrice decided he is the easier target of the two, and he really can’t fault it for that. 

He’s ready for it though, his weight balanced and his muscles relaxed, prepared to spring out of the way. When it dives, avoiding the strike is easier than avoiding one of Geralt’s when they spar, and he’s more than fast enough to get around the creature and run toward the witcher, drawing the cockatrice close. 

After a short, quick fight Geralt beheads it with one fell swoop, and Jaskier cheers boisterously, getting an answering titter from Martin hiding in some of the tall grass, sticking his russet head up above blades to look at them. From a little farther off, even Roach whinneys loudly, as if she’s letting them know she wants to join the celebration. 

Geralt doesn’t cheer, wiping his sword on a cloth before he resheaths it, but there is a definite smile on his face.

When they return to town, Jaskier is more than happy to let Geralt carry the cockatrice head in a burlap sack as evidence for the alderman, opting to carry the bundle of the creature’s feathers instead. He didn’t like picking them out of the thing’s tail, but at least it wasn’t hacking off a head with a sword, and at least his spoils aren’t leaking the dark ichorous substance that is cockatrice blood. 

The alderman predictably tries to shortchange Geralt, but the man isn’t very bright, and it takes only a few words from Jaskier - hinting that the witcher might direct the severed head’s gaze at him -  to have the lawman pay the agreed upon price. 

They sell the feathers at the next town’s apothecary, fetching a decent price for them, and together with Jaskier’s earnings from his performances they have more than enough crowns to spring for another night in a bed, preceded by a hot bath. 

He lets Geralt go first. The witcher enjoys his bathwater most when it is absolutely scalding, and Jaskier sits on the bed trying out some new melodies while he waits for it to cool. When he eventually joins Geralt in the bath, the witcher pulls him close, and he is glad to be facing away, leaning back against his strong chest.

It’s getting harder again to keep his eyes blue, his hunger growing stronger with every passing day, despite the fact that Geralt feeds him his blood from the small metal cup. 

—000—

Jaskier is debating telling Geralt about his growing hunger when they reach a slightly larger town that has an actual fortifying wall built around it. It’s cradled within the fork of a river, and they need to cross a bridge to reach it. There is a bridge house in the middle, and he swings his lute to his front to start the melody of one of his better known songs, hoping it will help in letting them pass unchallenged. Geralt dismounts Roach, leading her by the reins, and Martin jumps from his shoulder to settle on the horse’s withers. 

The guards stop them despite it, eyeing Geralt wearily. “Unless you’re here for a contract, you better move on, witcher,” one of the men says, and his tone is ugly.

“I’m unaware if there is one,” Geralt responds stoically.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, but Geralt lays a hand on his shoulder, and he bites back the caustic words that reside so close to the surface every time anyone speaks to his witcher like that. 

The other guard elbows the one that had spoken in the side. “There is, actually.” He pulls a sheet of paper from a pocket, and hands it to Geralt. 

The witcher frowns, scanning over the contract quickly, and Jaskier tries to arch his neck to be able to see. “Werewolf, most likely,” Geralt rumbles. 

“Then come back on the full moon,” the guard who’d spoken first says snidely, and Jaskier can’t hold his tongue. 

“Are you so dense you don’t realise there’s a full moon tomorrow? Really. There’s a werewolf that’s—” and he glances at the paper again, his eyes widening. “That’s been picking off people for nearly half a year, and you’re going to turn away someone who’s actually able to help you? Though my good witcher here would be more than justified to just leave you to deal with it yourselves, after this welcome.” He’s sure to make his voice as disapproving as he’s able to, and thinks he can scent Geralt’s amused surprise on the air. 

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head at the two guards. “Now if you’d direct us to the alderman and the inn, I’m sure he’ll consider helping this town despite the incompetence of its guards.” 

The dimwitted guard grimaces and looks about a second away from wanting to sock Jaskier, but his companion nods and steps out of their path. “No alderman, but you’ll find the mayor’s office just off the market square. We have two inns, the one with a stable is toward the other end of town, close to the second bridge.”

When they are out of earshot, Geralt regards him from the corner of his eyes, gold glinting in the light. “Is it wise to be picking fights, bard?”

Jaskier snorts and shrugs. “That man was just asking for it, Geralt. Really. They have a werewolf problem and they don’t know to track the moon and they turn away a witcher? It’s like they want people to get eaten!” He realises something and turns on his companion. “Unless the full moon is another folklore thing and you’re secretly laughing at me right now?”

Geralt chuckles. “You’re half right, again. Those with werewolf parents can shift at will. Those bitten or cursed can only do so on the full moon, and cannot stop the change. Those are the ones who go feral and attack humans. It’s likely to be the kind we’re dealing with.” 

Jaskier nods and shivers a little in discomfort. The ones bitten or cursed change against their will. That makes them not so very different from him. 

—000—

He plays for their meal the first evening, but on the second he’s too nervous, instead idly strumming his lute. There’s several patrons who request his songs, but he smiles at them and shakes his head. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” he says, and feels Geralt’s eyes on him.

When it’s pitch black outside, Geralt unsheathes his silver sword, and treats it with the content from one of his many vials.

“What’s that?” Jaskier asks, curious despite the nerves.

“Cursed oil,” Geralt answers, eyes briefly flicking up to him before focussing on what he’s doing.

“That’s going to help? It rather sounds like it’d make you into something ill-fated.”

“Chances are high the werewolf was made through a bite or curse . It’s vulnerable to silver, when treated with the oil even more so,” Geralt responds, and Jaskier fidgets. 

“So they’re dangerous,” he says softly.

Geralt tucks away the oil and the blade, and looks at him. “Yes, Jask, they’re dangerous.”

“Are— aren’t they dangerous just like I’m dangerous? They’re still people, right?” 

The witcher sighs and looks at his hands, his fingers rubbing some of the oil’s residue between their tips. “They are still people. But not when there’s a full moon. They become feral. They lose their human half.  They will keep killing, moon after moon, until they’re stopped.”

“Can’t we talk to them about it?”

“Hmh. We could. But the person who’s changing won’t remember during the day. You think it’d be a kindness to let them know what they’ve been doing? Potentially killing loved ones?”

Jaskier makes a strangled noise and shakes his head. “No. I guess not. There’s really no other way?”

Geralt pulls him forward by the back of the neck, their foreheads resting together. “There isn’t,” he says firmly. “If they haven’t yet killed, they can sometimes be cured. But that’s not the case here.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and swallows, nodding.

“Do you want to stay behind?” Geralt asks him. 

“No,” he says firmly. “No, I’ll come.”

—000—

Jaskier can feel Martin’s little claws through the fabric of his doublet, and he’s glad for the marten’s grounding presence. He’s following Geralt as closely and as silently as he can. The witcher has described the smell of the werewolf to him, but Jaskier just smells Geralt and a whole lot of humans in the town they left behind. He knows his hunger makes it so those are the scents that stand out to him most, and he’s not surprised he can’t distinguish what Geralt can. 

They’re outside of the city walls now, across the other bridge and on the opposite side of the river from the one they arrived on. The area is lightly forested, the trees far enough apart that they should be able to see someone coming from a reasonable distance, or that someone will be able to spot them . To Jaskier the darkness doesn't make much difference, and this is the first time he’s so acutely aware that he’s able to see just as well at night, as he is in the light of day. 

He glances up at the sky, his eyes drawn to the luminous fullness of the moon far above them, and he bites his fangs into his lip. His heart is beating uncharacteristically fast, and he almost regrets not staying at the inn. As if Martin knows, the little creature presses his whiskered nose just below his ear for a moment. 

After a few more minutes Geralt halts, and he has to fight against the stressed sound that wants to leave him, tension coiling in his gut. 

“Alright?” the witcher asks him, and Jaskier gives a tight nod. 

Geralt’s golden eyes rest on him for long moments before he nods back, and then he takes out a few vials and downs them. Apparently they don’t taste very good, since he grimaces and briefly bares his teeth. 

The change that comes over him is fascinating. His skin pales, and from his temples a fine network of blackened veins spiders toward his eyes. When the gold slowly makes way for pitch black, Jaskier has to swallow, and the tightness in his stomach increases. Geralt doesn’t smell the same anymore. The scent of him that’s leather and pine, coupled with the warm notes of his blood that call to Jaskier, make way for something slate-like and cold. When those black eyes come to rest on him, he takes an involuntary step back. 

“Alright?” Geralt asks again, and it’s the way his voice sounds a little softer that gives him the courage to step back toward him.

“Yes,” he whispers as quietly as he can.

Geralt nods at him. “Stay back. Don’t engage if it gets close. Just create distance.”

They find the werewolf before it’s fully changed, and Jaskier thinks his heart simultaneously wants to freeze and beat out of his chest. The man is in transition between human and wolf, fur sprouting and retreating along the skin of his forearms, chest and shoulders. His face is just starting to elongate, long, sharp canines growing and reflecting the light of the moon, saliva dripping off them. 

Jaskier can still recognise him, and he can’t help the tremble of his hands. He pulls Martin from his shoulder and gently throws him onto the trunk of a tree, hearing the little marten skitter upward quickly. 

It’s the guard who’d halted them at the bridgehouse. The one who’d tried to turn them away. Jaskier can’t help but wonder if part of him had known, deep down, and had been trying to get the witcher to leave. 

The man releases an inhuman sound and falls forward onto all fours briefly, more fur sprouting along his back as his muscles bulge, ripping his clothes. Geralt’s black eyes briefly glance back at him, and Jaskier retreats as Geralt steps forward, pulling his silver sword from its sheath. 

Fully transformed, the werewolf rears back, its claws curling as it howls up at the moon. 

—000—

Jaskier retreats into the shadows, and Martin is safely up a tree somewhere. Geralt feels the thrum of toxins in his blood, and the way his usually slow beating heart speeds up, preparing for the fight. He too recognises the man, and regrets not insisting the bard stay behind in the inn. It’s too late now. 

The werewolf howls, and when it bends back down, its pale orange eyes land unerringly on the witcher stepping out into the moonlight, silver sword in hand. The growl it releases is deep and reverberates through the ground. In the distance, there is the sound of wildlife scattering in response. 

Geralt carefully circles it, looking at the tension in its hind legs. The creature drags its claws along the ground, scraping along rock and cutting through roots. It roars in his direction, maw gaping wide, tongue curling out to lick across its canines. It is distracted while it makes a display of intimidation, and Geralt quickly directs the sign of Yrden to the ground in front of him, laying a trap. 

When the werewolf roars again, he directs an Igni its way. The smell of singed hair is sharp and acrid in his nose, and the monster springs. Geralt sees it coming, and deflects with his blade, sharp teeth on silver ringing through the air as if it were steel on steel. He twists and ducks under the creature’s claws, the points of them draggin long furrows along his pauldron, but not piercing the thick, reinforced leather. 

The glancing blow is still enough to fling him backward, and he makes sure to roll over the Yrden before he springs back up to his feet. The werewolf predictably follows him, and the magical trap activates with a sudden silvery glow, reminiscent of the moonlight responsible for the creature’s savagery. It howls as it realises its movements are limited, and swipes at Geralt with its claws as he draws in close. He catches one of its arms on his blade at the wrist, severing tendons and blood vessels. Blood drips and bitter smelling steam rises from the wound, the result of the cursed oil coating the silver. 

With a few last flickers of light, the Yrden shimmers and extinguishes. Geralt has already brought up his sword in a wide arc, and he strikes true, drawing his blade in a long slice along the werewolf’s back, a large wound opening up, skin and muscles separating under the silver. It’s a weakening blow, and as the fight progresses, he manages to keep cutting the creature, chipping away at its regenerative ability by working the cursed oil into its bloodstream.

After another blow that cuts across its muzzle, the werewolf howls in pain and then suddenly swings its head away from Geralt. He knows its attention is not on Jaskier either, the vampire hanging back behind the cover of trees in the opposite direction. 

The monster crouches and uses its powerful hind legs to jump away from him, barely missing another magical trap he’d laid down before. There is blood pouring from its muzzle and from every wound Geralt has dealt, and he grits his teeth, ready to pursue if it tries fleeing. 

It doesn’t flee though. Instead, it lands on the trunk of one of the larger trees, digging into the bark, and claws its way upward.

First Geralt doesn’t understand, but then there is a sound rending the air that’s unmistakable, even if he’s never heard it before. It’s the loud, shrill screech of a marten in pain. 

“ NO! Stop moving! Let go!”  

The lilt is powerful and deep, vibrating through the air even more strongly than the werewolf’s roar had. It holds enough brute force that it not only freezes the monster up in the tree, but it halts Geralt in his tracks, silver sword dropping to the ground.

Chapter Text

Geralt knows he’ll eventually be able to resist the lilt and move, but right now he just stands there, frozen. Where he has been forced by the command to drop his sword, the werewolf groans and opens its maw, and lets go of Martin’s long, slender body. The little marten drops to the ground between the roots of the tree and releases a high, whimpering noise. It isn’t good, but it’s better than the absence of any sound from the little creature. 

From the corner of his eyes he can see Jaskier’s approaching silhouette. The vampire moves faster than Geralt has ever seen, and he’s not sure if his peripheral vision is playing tricks on him, or if Jaskier actually seems to blur before phasing in and out of the visible spectrum. It’s like he’s there one moment, only to appear metres ahead the next. 

The vampire leaps when he’s still behind him, briefly disappearing from sight before he lands at the base of the tree and scales it in an instant. The leaves and branches cover what exactly happens from sight, but Geralt can hear Jaskier hiss between his teeth, and smell his rage and fear. 

There is the sound of bones cracking and flesh rending, and when the werewolf howls it sounds raspy and wet, as if there’s blood in the creature's lungs and throat. Geralt manages to clench his fist against his thigh, but his legs remain uncooperative. Leaves and broken branches rain down from the tree, and suddenly the werewolf is forcefully hurled from its crown, smashing into another trunk with a resounding crack, before sliding down. 

Geralt can hear the monster’s laboured breathing and smell the scent of its blood intermingled with the cursed oil. Its claws scrabble over the earth and it manages to half right itself, baring its elongated canines and roaring. It’s bleeding from the multiple wounds he dealt it, and its breathing is strained. Geralt knows the creature is likely haemorrhaging on the inside. The crack of bone he heard must have been Jaskier breaking its ribs, the shards piercing the lungs, effectively slowly drowning it in its own blood. 

Werewolves are amazingly robust, their ability to regenerate making them hard to kill. But, with so much cursed oil in it, the monster can’t heal itself. When the vampire lands lightly in front of it, the werewolf tries to rear up, but only manages a weak snapping of its jaws as Jaskier’s hand presses over its throat, pinning it back against the tree trunk. 

The werewolf will die. Even if Jaskier doesn’t do anything. It will bleed out, both inside and out. Geralt thinks the bard is too far gone to realise it, and sees him bare his teeth, incisors gleaming under the light of the moon. He struggles against the power holding him in place, and takes two laboured steps.

“Jaskier!” he manages to grind out, pushing through the lilt’s influence. “Don’t bite him. There’s cursed oil in his bloodstream.”

Slowly, Jaskier turns to look at him, and Geralt curses when he realises there’s not a shred of blue to be found. His irises are a crimson so vibrant they seem to glow in the dark of night. The vampire touches his tongue to his fangs before he turns back to the werewolf he’s pinning in place. Geralt wants to call out to him again, but it’s too late. 

The vampire darts forward, and rips out the werewolf’s throat. 

—000—

The blood in his mouth doesn’t taste right. It flows over Jaskier’s tongue, and with every beat of the werewolf’s heart the warm pulse of it diminishes. 

What was it that Geralt said? There is cursed oil in his bloodstream.  

Distantly, he knows the witcher is warning him, and knows he should care. He decides not to swallow, letting the creature’s lifeblood flow out of his mouth to drip onto the ground between them. When the werewolf’s heartbeat finally ceases, there is still anger, fear, and overwhelming bloodthirst, and he hasn’t been sated. 

He wipes his mouth, heedless of the rusted stains that will be left on his doublet. In death, the werewolf is stuck somewhere between its wolf and human shape, and Jaskier thinks he should care more about the fact he can recognise the guard’s features again. He breathes slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. There is something important he needs to do, but he is so very hungry, and the only way to still it is the witcher standing mere metres away.

Jaskier turns slowly, beckoned by the beat of Geralt’s heart. The witcher seems to be struggling against something, and takes a laboured step toward him. Somewhere behind him his silver sword glints in the moonlight. His eyes are drawn to the pulse in Geralt’s throat, and he hears the rushing sound of his blood. He knows he doesn’t want to bite Geralt, he knows he doesn’t want to hurt him, but everything inside him is screaming at him to leap at the witcher and slice his fangs into the exposed skin at his neck.

Geralt takes another step forward, and Jaskier tries to hold his breath, taking a corresponding step back. 

“I— I don’t think you should get any closer,” he says tightly. 

Geralt does the exact opposite and approaches him, every step seemingly costing him less effort. Jaskier stands there, frozen, desperately trying to ignore the instincts telling him he could so easily sate his hunger. 

When Geralt is right in front of him, rough, calloused hands cup his cheeks. Jaskier tries to ignore the thrum of blood at his wrists as he looks up to meet his gaze. He distantly thinks about the fact that the both of them don’t look like they usually do. Geralt’s eyes are still pitch black, and he’s entirely certain his own are crimson. One of the witcher’s thumbs presses just below his right eye.

“Come on Jask,” Geralt murmurs. “None of this. Martin needs you right now.”

—000—

Jaskier goes absolutely still in his grip, and he makes a high, panicked noise, hands wrapping around Geralt’s wrists. He can practically see the remembrance of just what had made him snap slam into the bard, and the red bleeds out of his eyes. 

“Where?  Where is he, Geralt?” Jaskier asks him in a desperate voice, while his gaze already finds the base of the tree where Martin’s little body dropped. Very faintly, he can still hear the quick patter of the marten’s heart. 

Jaskier rips out of his grip, and this time Geralt is treated to an unobstructed view when the vampire blurs, seems to disappear, and appears where Martin is lying on the ground. 

“No!” Jaskier cries out, his voice heartrendingly pained and scared, and the bard falls to his knees, trembling hands cupping a small, russet body, drenched in blood. “No, Martin, please. Please, please, please ,” he begs, pulling the marten into his lap and bending his head to press kisses over the small, furred head. 

Geralt approaches them, and kneels next to Jaskier. The bard looks at him, blue eyes wide and terrified. When he glances at the furred creature in Jaskier’s lap, he is surprised Martin is even still alive. There are deep punctures and furrows in his little body where the werewolf’s teeth had gotten hold of him and crunched down. With the way he lies there limply, at an odd angle, Geralt suspects there are broken bones, maybe a severed spine. 

“What do we do, Geralt?” Jaskier asks him, and his heart clenches painfully. 

“I don’t know, Jask,” he says softly, cupping his hand around Jaskier’s where it cradles Martin’s head. 

Jaskier looks stricken, and then he tips his head back, roaring his pain up at the sky. The sound is inhuman and filled with grief. Tears track down his face as he looks back at Martin lying still in his lap, barely breathing. He drags his fingertip over the marten’s forehead softly, between his eyes and to the tip of his nose. His tears cling to the edge of his jaw before falling and mingling with the blood in Martin’s soaked fur. There is a soft, sorrowful tittering sound, weak and barely there, and then Martin’s tongue comes out to give a small lick across the tip of Jaskier’s finger. 

Geralt holds onto him tighter, and feels him tremble. Jaskier starts shaking his head, and he winds his fingers through the bard’s soft hair, trying to give him something to cling to in the onslaught of horror and grief and denial. 

“No. No, I am not going to let this happen,” Jaskier says softly, tears leaking down his nose, and Geralt doesn’t know what to say. “No!” the vampire reiterates, and the lilt is at least equally powerful to the one that had Geralt freeze in his tracks. He has to catch his breath, going rigid for a moment under its influence. It’s not a command though, and the reverberation dissipates a moment later. 

Jaskier looks at him, and threads their fingers together where they’re still supporting Martin’s head. He closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them, the irises are tinged red, the colour increasing with every beat of his heart and every breath, until they’re intensely crimson once more. 

He doesn’t know what Jaskier means to do, and it’s almost as if the vampire is in a trance. Every time Jaskier’s eyes are red, Geralt can sense his hunger. This time, the only thing he can sense is purpose. 

When Jaskier brings his own wrist up to his mouth and bares his fangs, part of him wants to tighten his hold on the vampire’s hair and pull him away. Instead, he holds himself back, and lets it happen. 

The scent of Jaskier’s blood is rich and coppery as he rips into the vulnerable veins on the inside of the joint. His own blood overlays the rusted stains already around his mouth, and drips down to intermingle with Martin’s blood and the salt of his own tears. 

“ Please, ” Jaskier murmurs, “hold on just a little longer.” 

The blood from his wrist dribbles onto Martin’s snout, and at first the marten just makes a soft gurgling noise through the wetness that’s suddenly covering his airway. Then his tongue comes out again to lick his nose clean, leaving it black, and Jaskier dribbles more blood. 

Geralt just sits and stares. This isn’t something he’s ever heard of, and together with the phasing Jaskier demonstrated tonight, he wonders just exactly which vampire line made that dagger. 

Right now, it’s not important. The only thing that matters now is that with every drop of blood and with every slow lick, Martin’s heartbeat gains in strength. 

—000—

By the time they get back to the town’s inn, Jaskier isn’t sure he can remain upright for much longer. The innkeep regards them with wide eyes, gaze sliding over their blood stained clothes and the way Jaskier cradles Martin against his chest. He stumbles a bit when crossing the doorstep, and it’s only Geralt’s strong hand on his waist that keeps him from taking a tumble. His mind is rather foggy, and he realises that for the first time since he changed, he not only feels hungry, but weak with it. 

He bites his fangs into his lip, and tries to tell himself all he needs to do is keep holding onto Martin, make it up the stairs, and curl up under the blankets of their rented bed. He prepares to do just that, willing himself to put one foot in front of the other, when the innkeeper raises a halting hand. 

“Animals are welcome in the stables. Not in the rooms.”

Jaskier stares at the man, and his instincts urge him to bare his fangs at him and hiss. Geralt’s hand presses against him a little more firmly. 

“Everything has a price,” the witcher growls darkly enough that the innkeeper takes a careful step back. 

The man hems and haws for a moment, eyes flitting between Martin and Jaskier, before returning to the witcher standing behind them and swallowing. He nods, and Jaskier forces himself to take that step. 

Geralt has to support him up the stairs, and he feels rather dizzy. He unconsciously firms his grip, and Martin titters softly in his arms. He hiccups on a painful sob when he realises his legs feel heavy, and he can’t make himself heave his body onto the next stair. 

“Jask?” Geralt asks from behind him, and there is distinct worry in his tone. 

“I can’t move. I have to get Martin upstairs, I have to get him to safety. I have to— but I can’t move!”

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then Jaskier feels strong arms around him, one behind his shoulders, one under his knees, and he’s being carried up the rest of the way toward their room. 

Geralt gently places him on the bed, and Jaskier turns on his side, curling his body around Martin protectively, rubbing his finger over his forehead and nose repeatedly. The marten makes a soft purring noise in response, and if he wasn’t feeling so weak already, the relief would surely make it so. 

He doesn’t really notice when Geralt takes off his armour, but he does notice when the witcher kneels in front of the bed with a warm, wet cloth, and slowly starts cleaning his skin. He begins with his face, carefully wiping around his mouth, across his chin and part of his throat and collarbones. He rinses the cloth and then takes each of his hands, gently wiping across his palms and between his fingers. Geralt pulls off Jaskier’s ruined clothes, and he doesn’t even protest when he throws them out into the hallway.

When next he comes back, Geralt sets down a small basin of lukewarm water, and carefully lifts Martin from within Jaskier’s embrace. The little marten does nothing more than snuffle against the witcher’s palm, and lets himself be cleaned. Geralt dries him carefully, his russet fur back to its normal colour, no longer caked with blood. When he finishes, Jaskier stretches his hands out to take Martin from him, and presses his little friend to his chest. 

The witcher cleans himself of whatever remnants of blood are still on him, and pulls off his own clothes, before sliding into the bed behind Jaskier. He pulls a blanket over the three of them. 

“How are you doing?” he asks, and Jaskier presses back against his chest to feel the heat of him, and shudders.

“I don’t know. I feel weak. I don’t know why.”

“Hmh,” Geralt hums low against his ear. “Weak and hungry?”

Jaskier swallows, and nods his head. 

“The blood from the cup. It’s not the same,” Geralt says, and it’s not a question.

“No. I wish it was. I can’t understand why it isn’t. It helps, but despite it the hunger gets worse. And after tonight I— I feel so weak. I couldn’t even get up the stairs. And I have to— I have to keep Martin safe.”

“You are keeping him safe. And I’ll help.” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, a single tear tracking down his nose. 

He feels Geralt reach an arm around him, and then there is soft, warm skin pressed against his lips, the witcher’s strong pulse suddenly loud in his ears. 

“Drink, Jaskier. It’ll be alright. I still have Golden Oriole, and it will last until we reach the blue mountains.”

Jaskier can’t find the strength to protest. All he knows is that he is still so very scared, hungry, and weak. Geralt feels safe to him, a wall of muscle and heat behind him, and Geralt is offering. He bares his fangs, and lets his tongue come out to lick over the witcher’s skin in warning. 

His incisors easily pierce the vulnerable skin, and the warm flood of blood across his tongue has strength rushing through him. He feels Geralt's lips pressing just behind his ear, murmuring soft reassurances.

—000—

The first few days after hunting the werewolf Jaskier has a very hard time keeping his eyes blue whenever he doesn’t have a direct line of sight on Martin, Geralt, or Roach. It gets better though, and it helps that Martin is back to racing along tree branches and jumping from shoulders to withers and back. 

The next hunt on their path is for a couple of drowners, and though Jaskier would like to see the creatures, both he and Geralt agree he should stay behind this time. He fidgets and paces the entire time the witcher is gone, so much so that Martin titters at him angrily and jumps off his shoulder onto Roach’s back. He looks at both animals and shrugs his shoulders. 

“I can’t help it, so don’t look at me like that.”

Martin tilts his small head at him, and Roach lips gently at his hand for a moment, before she goes back to grazing. 

Jaskier is beyond relieved when Geralt finally returns. He immediately rushes toward him when he sees the slight limp, and Geralt explains he has a nasty gash on his calf he’s already stitched closed. Jaskier can smell the residual blood, but his feeding after the werewolf hunt has gone a long way in sating him, and he badgers the witcher until he lets him salve the wound and wrap it up with bandages. When he looks up at Geralt after he’s finished, there’s something soft in those golden eyes as the witcher looks at him. 

After two weeks, Geralt tells him they’re going to pick back up with their sparring every morning, and Jaskier doesn’t protest. It’s only after he’s panting in exertion, laughing as he vaults over Geralt’s shoulder to get away from him, that he realises he’s been holding onto residual tension. It feels good to get back to something that brought them joy before. Less like the horrible thing that happened is still haunting them, and more like they survived. Geralt laughs with him, and when the witcher finally catches him, Jaskier winds his hands into his moonlight hair to pull him down, and kisses him resoundingly. 

He’d already gotten used to exploiting more of his vampire strength and speed, and he’s continuously learning how to interpret the information his stronger senses provide him, but he’s still hesitant to use his phasing ability, as Geralt calls it. He doesn’t really understand what happens, to him it just feels like he’s putting on an extra burst of speed. He’s able to do it easily enough, but he notices it leaves him more hungry afterward, and he doesn’t want to drink from Geralt more than necessary. 

Then there is his lilt. Geralt offers him the opportunity to practise, but Jaskier declines every time. He tells the witcher it reminds him of the two most awful things that have happened since he turned. Geralt almost bleeding out in the bathtub, and Martin being mauled by the werewolf. Geralt just grabs the back of his neck and briefly presses their foreheads together, and doesn’t offer again. 

Eventually Jaskier accompanies the witcher on hunts again, and though he tries to have his attention on whatever monster Geralt is fighting, part of him is listening for heartbeats. The loud, heavy thump of Roach’s great horse-heart, the quick, light patter of Martin’s little one, and the slow, steady rhythm that beats in Geralt’s chest. 

They fall into an easy routine where they play-fight and spar every morning, Jaskier performs in every town they pass, and Geralt fulfils his purpose as a witcher. They hunt together, but Jaskier mostly watches the effortless elegance that is the witcher fighting, and makes use of his set of vampire skills to help where he can. 

On their quiet evenings by the fire Jaskier composes new songs, most of which involve a white haired witcher helping the people of the continent. Geralt never fails to raise his eyebrows and grumble at the more inventive parts of his lyrics, but he doesn’t protest, and when Jaskier performs, he invariably sits quietly in a corner and listens. 

—000—

Jaskier is walking behind Roach, strumming his lute with Martin perched on his shoulder. When he sings softly to test out a few lines, his breath crystallises into white clouds. In front of him he can see the same type of fog expelled from Roach’s nostrils with every breath. 

There is a biting cold in the air, and the start of winter is not too far off. The surrounding forest has already lost most of its leaves, a few still clinging onto branches and hinting at the vibrance of autumn. 

He’s so focussed on composing his song, that he almost bumps into Roach when the Witcher halts her and jumps off her back. When he looks up, he gasps. In the distance there is the silhouette of a great mountain range, far away, but closer than Jaskier expected. The high peaks are capped with glittering snow, reflecting the pale sunlight. The lower slopes are rocky, and from this distance, they appear blue-grey.

Geralt comes to stand behind him and points toward what Jaskier thinks is a pass, his vampire eyesight able to make out details even from so far away. 

“Look,” the witcher rumbles in his ear, his breath warm against the chilled cartilage. “That’s where we’ll go up to reach Kaer Morhen.”

Chapter Text

The town they’re staying in before they start their trek up into the mountains is settled just in its foothills. They’re up in the room they rented, and there’s a myriad of stuff spread out on the bed. Jaskier is carefully reorganising his pack to make room for the warmer clothes he and Geralt bought him, though he’ll be wearing the most voluminous ones on their trek up to Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt is repacking Roach’s saddle bags and pack as well, though what the witcher has bought are mostly food provisions in the form of dried fruits, candied dates, nuts, and jars of honey. Geralt told him the keep is likely already well stocked by Vesemir; the witchers’ former trainer turned mentor using the warmer summer months to make supply runs. The extra money they made during their travels back toward the blue mountains allowed him to buy some luxury foodstuffs however, not something they usually get to enjoy. 

Jaskier sees him eyeing the candied dates as he carefully stows them away, and shakes his head at Geralt’s unwillingness to take some for himself. He knows the witcher has a sweet tooth, and thinks he shouldn’t deny himself so much. He grins as he carefully pulls out the surprise he’s wrapped in waxed paper, bruised twigs of rosemary threaded through the twine that keeps it closed, to mask the smell. 

He knows Geralt would have caught on immediately regardless, if it weren’t for the fact that when they’d bought the candied fruits and nuts, Jaskier had managed to bump into a display and get powdered sugar on the cuffs of his doublet. He knows he smells like a bakery, and that the actual baked goods he bought when Geralt was buying a new whetstone, have so far escaped the witcher’s notice. 

“Catch,” he calls out gleefully, and doesn’t wait for the witcher to respond, but immediately throws the bundle at him. Of course, Geralt’s reflexes have him snatching it out of the air with no trouble at all, and Jaskier can’t help but smile excitedly when his nostrils flare on an inhale. Martin titters with interest, and Jaskier hauls him into his lap before the little marten gets the idea to run and sneak a bite of what isn’t meant for him. 

“What’s this?” Geralt rumbles, fingers sliding over the rosemary, releasing another burst of its herby scent. 

“It’s for you,” Jaskier answers. “I saw you looking without buying, and I thought it was a shame if you didn’t get to try them. So when you were in the smithy I sneaked back to the baker's shop”

Geralt blinks golden eyes at him, and then looks back to the bundle in his lap, carefully pulling the string. The waxed paper falls away to reveal an apple filled pastry with sparkling sugar on top, and six glazed honey cakes of the type that will keep well for a few days. 

“You bought this for me?” Geralt asks, his voice gruff. 

Jaskier tilts his head while he looks at the witcher, and lets his smile soften. “Yes, darling. I wanted you to have something sweet.”

Geralt eats the pastry, and carefully wraps the honey cakes back up, tucking the packet into a saddlebag. When he pulls Jaskier to him, his mouth tastes like apple and sugar. 

—000—

Jaskier is so very glad Geralt made him buy the thick, wool lined overcoat. He shivers despite it as the cold wind stings the skin of his cheeks. He has the top two buttons undone to make room for Martin, who’s curled up against his chest, a little bundle of fur hiding from the cold. His pack and his lute lie heavy against his back, and you’d think that trudging up a mountain carrying your worldly possessions would leave you warmer, but no. Not in the blue mountains where the witchers make their home and where it's colder than Jaskier has ever experienced.

He grumbles, muttering something about witchers purposely denying themselves nice things being one thing, it being another altogether when they purposely seek out suffering through cold. 

Geralt rolls his eyes at him. “Don’t exhaust your complaining, wait for the real cold at midwinter.” 

“They better have fires in this keep of yours, or I’m gonna be heading straight back down,” Jaskier gripes. 

The corners of Geralt’s mouth tick up in what he now recognises is a smug sort of way. “We have something better.”

“Something better than a blazing hearth to ward off the cold? Like what?”

“Just wait and see, bard.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and decides to grumble some more, about witchers keeping secrets this time.

—000—

Early morning the next day they pass a particularly shaped rock formation, and Jaskier thinks he recognises the shape of it from when Geralt pointed out the pass to him from a distance. 

“Hey! We’re close to the pass aren’t we? Does this mean we’re nearly there?” he asks hopefully. 

Geralt looks back at him and raises his brows. “The pass is about an hour’s walk from here. That’s where the killer starts.”

Jaskier promptly stops walking, making indignant sputtering noises loudly enough for the witcher to halt and turn around to face him. “Geralt, please tell me I did not just hear you say that the pass is where the killer starts ,” he says, dreading the answer.

Geralt manages to convey by the mere twitch of his brows that he’s confused at the question. 

Jaskier throws his hands up in the air, and points at the path they followed up here, back down the mountain. “You mean to tell me that what we’ve traversed so far isn’t in fact the killer, and that it’s going to get worse?! ” Geralt looks at him impassively, and Roach snorts in that way she has that lets Jaskier know she's thoroughly unimpressed with him. 

“The killer was designed to be traversable by witchers only. I told you this.”

Jaskier thunks the palm of his hand against his own forehead. “Yeah— you did. Guess it’s on me for thinking that might be an exaggeration to ward off unwanted visitors. So if it’s witcher only, how am I going to get up there?”

“Hmh. You’re with me,” Geralt answers, and turns back around to continue on their path. 

—000—

They reach the cave Geralt had mentioned as their overnight stop on the killer after the fall of darkness, and Jaskier has never in his life been so glad to lay his eyes upon something so dark and barren. The cave isn’t much larger than a good sized bedroom, but its opening to the outside is narrow, barely wide enough to let Roach pass through, and it winds around a corner before opening up into the vaulted cavern. It very effectively blocks out the howling winds, and Jaskier is grateful that the heat he generates is no longer immediately blown away from his skin. 

If it weren’t for Geralt, he never would have found the shelter, and he thinks those that don’t, would very likely confirm the treacherous trail they’ve traversed in its name. 

It had started snowing halfway through the afternoon, and Jaskier tells Geralt he’s frozen to the core. Realistically he knows he isn’t, or he wouldn’t be able to move, but he is a bard, and what is a bard without some dramatics every now and again. 

The witcher hums at him, and pulls off his gloves, pressing his palms against Jaskier’s cheeks. The heat of him is a startling contrast, and it feels so damn good to have something warm pressed against his frozen face. He snuggles deeper into the palms of Geralt’s hands and looks up at him. It’s strange to realise that though the cave is practically devoid of light, the two of them are still able to see each other. 

“Take out the bedrolls. I’ll make a fire,” Geralt says, and lets him go. 

Jaskier onrolls and heaps them so they can huddle under their combined blankets for added warmth, and settles down as Geralt gets wood from somewhere and sets up the logs for a fire. When he looks up at the cave ceiling there is a soot stained hole, and he’s glad to know they’ll be able to keep warm without filling the cave with smoke, suffocating them. 

He opens his coat a little to free Martin, but the little marten just titters at him and curls up tighter, before sticking just his head out of the opening to keep an eye on things, soft, rounded ears brushing against the bottom of his jaw. 

After Geralt cooks and eats, he carefully takes out the packet of honey cakes to share one with Jaskier, just like he did the previous evenings. He doesn’t need it, but he takes a little nibble before handing it back to the witcher, the consideration warming him just as much as the fire does.

—000—

Jaskier shivers in their combined bedroll. He’s lying on his side, facing the fire, and Geralt is settled at his back, a barrier between him and the outside.

“Hmh,” Geralt murmurs, pulling him a little closer. “You cold, bard?”

Jaskier answers by snuggling back against the witcher's heat more firmly. “Could be worse,” he says. “It’s warm enough in here, but I think I still have to regain some of the heat I lost outside.

When Geralt nuzzles behind his ear and inhales deeply, goosebumps break out over his skin. “I could warm you up,” he rumbles, warm fingers curling over his hip under the blankets. 

Jaskier shivers again. This time, it’s with something entirely different than the cold. He wonders what it says about him that just those words in Geralt’s low voice are enough to have his cock hardening between his legs. He bares his throat for the witcher to nip at the vulnerable skin and press hungry lips against the bottom of his jaw. 

“I could be warmer,” he breathes on a soft moan when Geralt’s hand briefly cups him through his trousers. 

“Could you now?” the witcher answers, and Jaskier can hear the amusement in his tone. 

When Geralt pulls his hand away, it’s to slide it under the fabric of his doublet, and his fingers are hot against the still chilled skin of his torso.

“I think you’re right,”  the witcher says, and there’s the quick scrape of teeth against the join between his neck and shoulder. 

Jaskier turns his head back as far as he can to wordlessly ask for a kiss, and Geralt leans over him, hand splayed on his chest to press him back against him as their mouths slide together. When Geralt’s roughened fingertips rub over his nipple, Jaskier opens his mouth on a gasp while he arches his back to press his ass against Geralt’s groin more firmly. The witcher growls in response and takes the opportunity to lick inside his mouth. Geralt catches his nipple between his fingers, rolling the soft bud until it firms with blood and has him whimpering muffled sounds.

“Hmh,” Geralt hums, breaking the kiss to look into his eyes. “Lets see if I can have you make that noise again,” he rumbles, and Jaskier thinks it’s supremely unfair the witcher can say things like that with utter confidence, while he himself feels blood rushing to his face just hearing it. 

Geralt circles his other nipple slowly, and Jaskier is panting with it. He knows he’s moving his hips in a way that has him rubbing suggestively against Geralt’s erection, but he finds himself utterly unable to stop. What’s more, he doesn’t want to stop, not when the witcher’s cock presses firmly against his ass and twitches whenever he lets out a particularly breathy moan. 

“Geralt, please,” he begs when those fingers do nothing more than to keep circling. 

“I wonder if you’d become more patient if I made you wait for it,” Geralt responds, and there’s a definite growl in his voice. 

Jaskier shakes a little and presses his chest forward into Geralt’s hand, silently pleading with the witcher not to make him wait. When Geralt finally rubs his nipple firmly before giving it a slight pinch, he releases another soft keen at the back of his throat.

“I thought you were going to warm me up, not just play to amuse yourself ” he challenges, his voice going up an octave on the last words as Geralt pinches him more firmly. It has bolts of white hot pleasure shooting through him, and there’s a thing he didn’t know he enjoyed. It leaves his nipple pleasantly sore, the continued sensation even after Geralt releases him serving to have him more wound up than he expected was possible in such a short amount of time. 

Geralt’s broad palm slides down from his chest, over his belly, and dips below the waist of his trousers. His strong fingers wrap around Jaskier’s hard cock and give him a single stroke. “I think you’re plenty hot for me,” he growls, and Jaskier can do no more than helplessly spread his legs to give the witcher space, and beg some more. 

And then begins the single most pleasurably torturous experience of his life so far. Geralt has his arms wrapped around him from behind, one going below Jaskier, his hand reaching to rub his nipples, the other slung over his hip, hand wrapped around his leaking cock, slowly stroking. The hold his firm enough he’s practically unable to move, and whenever Geralt’s cock rubs against his behind, it’s because the witcher chooses to do so. 

Geralt keeps stroking him until Jaskier feels the pleasure building at the base of his spine. His breaths get quicker and his moans a little more desperate. The witcher pinches his nipples again, and there are noises he didn’t know he could make. Just when he thinks he only needs a little more to be pushed over that precipice, Geralt stops. 

“Wha— What?” he asks hoarsely, brain too flooded with pleasure and then the sudden lack of it to form a more comprehensible response. 

Geralt holds him still, one hand splayed against his chest, the other tight on his hip, keeping him from moving. He gently kisses behind his ear, and Jaskier’s cock twitches, smearing precome on his belly. At least Geralt had pulled his trousers down and rucked his chemise up, so he’s not dirtying his clothes. 

“Just seeing if patience can be cultivated,” the witcher rumbles against his ear. 

And oh, oh no. Jaskier’s got a feeling about what the witcher means to do, and he’s not sure if he should protest, or thank Melitele for Geralt’s hands and mouth. When the witcher starts stroking him again, teeth scraping against his nape, he loudly does the latter.

Geralt brings him to the edge five times, backing off before Jaskier comes with startling precision. He briefly wonders if Geralt can smell when he’s about to climax, and babbles out the question before he can stop himself. 

“Yes,” Geralt growls, stroking him again, and Jaskier is gratified to hear his voice is not as stoic as it usually is. At least the witcher shows some sign he’s affected, besides the blood-hot length of his cock that’s pressed increasingly firmly against his ass. Here he is, shaking and falling apart, so it’s the least Geralt could do to show he’s not left unmoved by having Jaskier beg for him like this. 

“Yes, Jaskier, I can smell you. I can hear in the beat of your heart how close you are, how desperate. I can see it in the flush on your pretty skin. Even if you’d lose the ability to beg as sweetly as you do, I’d know.”

Geralt’s words have a pleasurable shiver travel down his spine like the drip of warm honey, and all Jaskier can feel is the witcher surrounding him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying in response, all he knows is that he’s pleading with Geralt to keep touching him, to not stop this time. 

When Geralt growls and strokes him more firmly, Jaskier somehow can’t let go of his pleasure, not until the words are whispered in his ear from Geralt’s mouth. 

“You’ve been perfect, Jask. Now come.”

It’s all he needs, and he cries out hoarsely as he peaks. The pleasure of it seems endless, and he’s distantly aware his eyes are wet with moisture. Geralt murmurs soft words behind him, but he’s too out of it to register what the witcher is saying. All he can feel is wave after wave of ecstasy, leaving him absolutely wrung out when it finally ebbs. He trembles slightly, and is grateful for Geralt’s strong arms, still holding on to him. 

It takes long moments for Jaskier to come back to himself, and when he does, he becomes aware that while he came, Geralt’s erection is still pressed against him, hard and hot as ever. He arches his back to give the witcher a little more pressure, and Geralt’s hand closes on his hip to hold him still. 

“It’s alright,” Geralt rumbles. “Just sleep.”

Jaskier snorts and shakes his head. He might be feeling like his orgasm was so intense it sapped his will to do anything but be pliant for the next few hours, but this is something he won’t compromise on. Not when they have time, when they are ensconced in this cave that seems to be the only safe place on the killer, and not when Geralt deserves all the pleasure Jaskier can give him.

He grabs the hand on his hip and pulls while he rolls over. His grip is strong enough to have Geralt half draped over his back as he settles on his belly, and then he looks back to meet the witcher’s blown-black eyes. He presses the hand still held in his down, against the warm curve of his backside.

“Come on, witcher, it smells like me in here. Make it smell like us ,” he challenges. 

Geralt’s golden eyes flash, and Jaskier knows he’s said just the right thing when he bares his teeth and growls. He’d noticed all the way back during the archespore hunt the way Geralt reacted to him putting his scent on him, and he’s glad to see he wasn’t mistaken in thinking it was something that riles him up. 

Geralt rolls fully over him, the blankets still covering them, and Jaskier feels the movements of his hand against his lower back as the witcher unfastens his pants. He stretches out a little, still feeling rather boneless, and when Geralt spits in his hand to stroke himself before pressing his hot, saliva-wet cock against his cleft, he makes no effort to hold in the soft moan.

“The way you sound,” Geralt says almost reverently as he thrusts between Jaskier’s cheeks, the saliva leaving the slide a little rough, though it’s soon smoothed out by the addition of precome. “Gods Jaskier,” and he thinks the witcher actually sounds a little breathless, “the way you smell. ”

“Is that why you keep me? It’s those oils you gave me, darling,” Jaskier teases, and feels one of Geralt’s hands curl over his shoulder, the other winding in the strands of his hair, holding him down without any real force. 

Geralt thrusts harder, and Jaskier gasps when every now and again the head of his cock catches slightly on his rim. He has half a mind to ask Geralt to fuck him, but he’s still so oversensitive from his drawn out orgasm he’s afraid a mere brush against his prostate will be too much. 

“Not the oils. Just you. You smell so damn good there’s only one thing that could make it better.”

Jaskier manages to release a groan that sounds vaguely questioning in response.

“When you smell like mine,” Geralt growls, and grazes his teeth over the back of Jaskier's neck hard enough that if he were still human, he'd have a set of dark bruises there come morning.

When Geralt comes, it’s all over the exposed skin of his ass and back, and he knows he’ll be arriving at the keep thoroughly drenched in Geralt’s scent. He has a brief flash of thought that he might need to be nervous about it. One he decides to firmly ignore, as he is pulled under the blanket of sleep. 

—000—

When Geralt leads Jaskier into the stables of Kaer Morhen there are three horses settled in the stalls. Roach whinneys loudly in greeting, and he winces a little. Even if Vesemir and his brothers hadn’t heard him coming, they’re sure to know he’s here now. 

The grey Gelding is Vesemir’s, the chestnut mare is Lambert’s, and the dappled mare is Aiden’s. Only Scorpion isn’t here yet. He’d hoped to be the first of his brothers to arrive. He’d wanted to explain bringing Jaskier to Vesemir without any of the others present. He suspects telling them all at once will likely not go well, and he wants to have them hear him out before they actually see the vampire. 

He turns back to the bard who’s just dropped his pack and his lute against the wall of Roach’s stall, and is unbuttoning his coat to let Martin’s little head pop out. Geralt trails gentle fingers over his mare’s nose, silently thanking her for another season of accompanying him on the path. 

“Could you untack Roach and give her a brush down?” he asks, and sees the surprise on Jaskier’s face. He always makes sure Roach is taken care of before anything else, but his mare trusts the bard, and he really needs to keep Jaskier out of sight until he’s been able to explain to the others that he’s not a threat, that he’s not dangerous, and that he’s in control. 

Jaskier smiles at him knowingly, nodding, but his scent betrays that he's nervous. “I’m guessing you want to go inside without me first to give the others a heads up? Great idea! I know we started off with me asking to be killed, but as things stand I’ve quite changed my mind, and it would be a shame if that decapitation happened after all.”

“Hmh. It won't,” Geralt answers. 

Jaskier nods sagely. “Yes. Go tell them that.”

—000—

Geralt hears Vesemir working in the kitchen and enters the warm, comfortable space to the sight of his mentor kneading dough. 

“Wolf,” Vesemir greets him. “Glad you made it up through that storm. Roach settled yet?”

“Hmh, she’s settling,” Geralt says, approaching as his mentor forms the dough into a large ball, scoops it into a bowl, and covers it with a cloth. 

The old witcher wipes his hands on another towel and steps forward to embrace him. Geralt knows the exact moment Vesemir gets a whiff of Jaskier’s scent. The old wolf goes rigid and pulls away to hold him at arm's length. His nostrils flare, and then he quickly gets a firm hold on Geralt’s chin, tilting his head this way and that to inspect the sides of his neck. 

“Had an altercation with a vampire, so close to the keep? Fucking things . How the hell did it get up here.”

“Not an altercation,” Geralt answers, and sees his mentor’s eyes narrow. 

“Don’t tell me you fell for it’s lilt and you let it go. I taught you better than that.”

Geralt slowly shakes his head. “Where are Lambert and Aiden?” he asks. 

Vesemir steps back from him and heaves a great cast-iron pot from the counter to hang it onto a hook over the fire. “Went out hunting for game just before the storm yesterday. I expect they’ll be back tomorrow.”

Geralt sighs. There’s really no good way to say this, and the sooner he starts the sooner it'll be done. 

“I didn’t let the vampire go, but I didn’t kill him, either,” he says slowly. He looks at the old wolf, and sees grey eyebrows slowly climb toward his hairline, his nostrils flaring again.

“When did you encounter this vampire?” Vesemir asks, and Geralt knows that his mentor already suspects. Jaskier’s scent on him is unmistakably recent, but now that he’s had some time to take in the smells, he’s bound to notice there’s layers of it intertwined with his own. Layers that only intermingle like that through intensive, repeated contact. 

“Around the middle of spring,” he answers. 

To his credit, Vesemir just pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Of all the things,” he mutters. “First your brother with a damn cat, and now this?” He looks back up at Geralt after a moment of regaining his equilibrium. “You better tell me the entire story before those two dolts get back,” he orders firmly. “If I get the slightest inkling of compulsion on you, it’s dead, is that clear?”

Geralt folds his arms over his chest and scowls. 

The old wolf pinches his nose again. “Where's the white gull when I need it,” he  mutters. 

“No gull before dinner,” Geralt says.

“That’s my own damn rule, boy. Don’t use it against me,” Vesemir growls at him. “Now tell me how you’ve lost your mind and brought a bloodsucking monster to my keep.”

Geralt frowns and has to suppress the urge to growl at his old mentor. “His name is Jaskier,” he says.

Chapter Text

Jaskier carefully untacks Roach and takes off her saddlebags. When he pulls the coarse haired brush over her coat she nickers in appreciation, and Martin jumps from his shoulder onto her back, trying to scratch at the brush with his little claws whenever it comes close to him. It devolves into a game between them, Roach patiently lending her back to their play, only flicking her ears back every now and again when Martin scrabbles along her spine. The marten finally manages to get the edge of the brush in his teeth, and Jaskier laughs. 

The game is distracting, and he has no reason to worry besides that. Geralt is inside to talk to the other witchers and will come get him once he has explained that Jaskier would rather not die by their silver swords, thank you. Not anymore, anyway. 

If Geralt manages to use his words well enough they can all have a round of polite introductions, and can finally start looking into the spooky dagger that stabbed him into the existence of a vampire. He can’t wait. 

He shakes his hand a little, pulling Martin along with the movement, and the little marten makes a growling sort of noise he supposes would be threatening if you’re the size of a field mouse. 

Jaskier only hears their heartbeats when they’re already inside the stables, and the door slams behind them. He whirls around, letting go of the brush to let Martin have it, placing himself between the animals and the two witchers who have entered. 

The redhead is similar in size to Geralt, though he’s a bit shorter, and the one with tan skin and dark hair is of lighter build. Both of them have positioned themselves in front of an exit, and have their silver blades in hand. 

There’s nowhere for him to go. He really should have noticed them sneaking up on him, but the scent of horse and hay is everywhere, and he’d been playing, and he’s still not good at always paying attention to what his strengthened senses tell him.

Two sets of slitted eyes are trained on him, one pair yellow, one green, and he gets the sense that if he makes one false move, all hell will break loose. 

“Uh, Hello?” He tries, making his voice as friendly as he possibly can, while carefully raising his hands to show the palms. “You must be Ger—”

He doesn’t get to finish his assumption that these two are the brothers Geralt spoke of, as the redheaded witcher strikes. Jaskier sees the shift of his weight and the clench of his fingers around the hilt of his sword, and his body reacts before he’s even processed it’s a move he’s seen many times before. It’s a direct attack, simple and straightforward, and it’s something he’d learned to evade very early on in his sparring with Geralt. 

He does so automatically, springing out of the way. He has half a moment of being relieved when the witcher pulls the attack to avoid striking Roach, before he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes and has to duck to avoid the second silver blade coming his way. It misses him by a hair’s breadth, and the redhead curses loudly. Jaskier rolls under the second swipe of his sword and manages to fling himself to the other side of the space. 

He’s grateful that untacking and brushing Roach had left him warm enough to take off his thickly lined overcoat, giving him speed and full range of motion, but he wonders how long that will last him against two witchers. Especially since the both of them are now advancing on him in concert, trying to press him into a corner. 

He tries again to raise his palms and to speak, but as soon as he opens his mouth a blade flies from the hand of the green-eyed one, and all he can do is squeak and duck out of the way before he’s hit in the face. Instead, the small dagger embeds itself into the stone behind him, before there’s an increasingly desperate series of dodges he performs to stay clear of their weapons.

“Don’t let it lilt!” The redhead growls, “take out its voicebox.”

“You do it if it's so easy, Lamb. Fuck, see the way it dodges? If you think I can get a dagger in its throat, think again.”

“Fucking fuck! Just try!” 

“You always attack without provocation?!” Jaskier manages to finally screech at them as he jumps up and kicks off the edge of a stall to sail over their heads in an effort to get out of the corner they’ve backed him into. He lands behind them, and both witchers whirl, their eyes briefly meeting before looking at Jaskier again. 

“You’re in our keep, leech. That’s all the provocation we need,” the redhead growls, while the one with green eyes tilts his head and looks at him curiously. 

The witchers advance again, and Jaskier carefully takes in the way they move to see any hint as to how he’ll be able to evade them, when there’s a loud whinny and angry tittering. Suddenly Roach’s bulk pushes between him and the two witchers, pressing him back until he’s with his back against the wall, Geralt’s mare a firm barrier in front of him, an angry Marten rearing up on her withers. 

It’s almost comical the way twin expressions of surprise momentarily replace the anger on the witchers’ faces, as the animal duo places themselves between them. So much so that Jaskier can’t help the amused snort that leaves him. 

“What the fuck?” the redhead says. “You think it lilted Roach?”

“Is that even possible?” the other one says. 

Roach whinnys loudly again, and Jaskier sincerely hopes that wherever Geralt went in the giant stone keep, it’s loud enough for him to hear. 

“You should really consider having a conversation before you bare steel. Or– you know. Silver, in this case,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual and his breathing steady. It helps to keep his eyes blue. He thinks that to have them turn crimson right now won’t be doing anyone any favours. He takes comfort in the familiar smell of Martin and Roach, and trails appreciative fingers over the horse’s neck. 

The redhead snarls, but the other witcher actually smiles a little, as if he’s amused. “You want to talk, leechy?” the latter says. “How about you start by telling us where Geralt is.”

Jaskier isn’t sure if he wants to answer that question or vehemently protest at being called leechy, but he doesn’t get the chance to do either of those things as the door that leads to the rest of the keep opens, and there’s suddenly two more witchers in the stables. There has to be a song in there somewhere, he thinks. Four witchers and a vampire.

—000—

When Geralt enters the stables with Vesemir following closely behind, Jaskier is pressed between Roach and a wall, and Aiden and Lambert look hostile and confused in equal measure. Both of them have their silver swords in hand, and Aiden is holding a smaller blade between his fingers, ready to hurl it in Jaskier’s direction. He thinks if it weren’t for Roach between them, the cat would have already let it fly.

Jaskier’s eyes are wide when they meet his, but they’re bright blue, and Geralt breathes a little easier. “Alright?” He asks the bard, and gets a nod in return. 

He can hear Vesemir inhale deeply next to him, and scent his shocked surprise on the air. He knows what the old wolf is smelling. Where Jaskier’s scent on him is layered, the bard positively reeks of him. 

“What the fuck?” Lambert growls, never taking his eyes off the vampire sheltered by Roach’s body. “We thought the leeching fucker got one over on you. How come you didn’t kill it? ”

Aiden abruptly laughs, stashes the small blade in his hand and slides his sword back into its sheath. “Take another smell, Lamb,” the cat says, smirking in Geralt’s direction. 

“The hell? I know what a leech smells like, I don’t need to—” he breaks off, his nostrils flaring, and gapes. His eyes quickly flick between Geralt and Jaskier a few times, before settling on the vampire. “It— what— It’s yours, wolf?” Lambert manages to stammer out eventually. 

“What’s he smell like to you?” Geralt growls, and steps forward to guide Roach away from Jaskier with gentle fingers, back into her stall. Martin jumps from her back onto Jaskier’s shoulder, and the bard raises his hand to scratch under the marten’s chin. Geralt thinks it’s as much for his own comfort as it is to settle Martin. 

Aiden laughs again. “It smells like you’ve made damn sure none of us could miss he’s been invited here by you.”

Geralt briefly bares his teeth. “And still you drew on him.”

“In all freaking reasonable scenarios we could think of, you bringing a leech to the keep wasn’t one of them. Have you lost your mind? Has the fucker made you lose your mind? Vesemir, think he could be compelled by its lilt?” Lambert bitches.

Vesemir crosses his corded arms over his chest, face impassive as he regards the vampire who’s shifted slightly closer to Geralt, still rhythmically petting the marten on his shoulder. “It’s a concern,” he says. “One we’ll test.”

Slowly, Lambert lowers his sword. “There’s a leech here, and we’re not killing it. How come I’m the only one that fucking sees sense?!”

“You brought a cat! - no offense, Aiden -  And we afforded him welcome on your word, Lamb,” Geralt argues.

“Non taken,” Aiden says, reaching forward to push Lambert’s sword down even further. “As long as it doesn’t lilt or bite any of us, I’m good.”

“You keep calling me it, and now you’re comparing me to a cat?” Jaskier says, speaking for the first time. “I am not some sort of pet.” 

Aiden smirks. “That’d be me, leechy,” he says, tapping the medallion on his chest. “These growly assholes are wolves. My school is that of the cat.”

“Damn it, Aiden!” Lambert growls, “Don’t make friends with the leech!” Aiden just shrugs, and Geralt is grateful to see the cat send a smile Jaskier’s way.

“Oh,” Jaskier says slowly. “Well. Still not an it. And apparently I smell? Which would be news to me, let me tell you. Geralt, you told me I smelled good. Did you lie?”

There’s a short silence before Aiden laughs again, and even Vesemir looks slightly amused. Lambert just glowers. 

“You smell like him, vampire,” Vesemir says, jerking his head in Geralt’s direction. 

He sees the moment Jaskier understands what it is exactly the others are smelling, and as if on cue, blood rushes to his face. 

“Oh gods, I knew I should have washed,” Jaskier says, briefly covering his face with his hands. 

This time, Aiden’s laugh is joined by a short bark of amusement from their mentor, and Geralt feels part of the tension in his shoulders dissipate. It seems two of them are at least willing to listen. He raises an eyebrow at his brother, and Lambert clenches his hand around his sword, before he slides it back into place along his back. 

“I don’t fucking like it,” the redhead growls. 

“He’s your brother’s, you don’t have to like it. Now go to the kitchen,” Vesemir orders. “Talking is easier on a satisfied stomach.”

Lambert grumbles but moves to follow Vesemir, though he keeps his eyes on Jaskier and points his finger at him. “If there’s any sign of him lilting, I’m gonna kill that rat on his shoulder and ask questions later.”

Geralt moves to a position between his brother and Jaskier. Of all the things Lambert could have said, this is the exact wrong thing. Jaskier looks at him very briefly, a stubborn set to his mouth. Then he steps around him, too quickly for Geralt to intercept, and stands directly in front of Lambert. He very slowly bares his fangs, and his eyes tinge crimson.

“Touch him and see what happens, witcher,” he challenges.

“Jaskier!” Geralt growls.

Jaskier shrugs, his eyes back to blue and his lips hiding away the sharply pointed edges of his incisors. “What. He started it,” he says matter of factly. 

“Boys! Enough.” Vesemir orders, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Dinner. Now.” 

When Vesemir steps back out of the stables, Jaskier is the first to follow him, Martin on his shoulder. 

—000—

Dinner is… awkward. To say the least. Lambert just scowls at him, and every other word out of the witcher’s mouth is a curse. Vesemir sits stoically at the head of the table and only speaks when it’s to admonish one of the others, or ask Jaskier sharply pointed questions. Aiden just keeps smirking and seems highly amused at the entire situation, and Geralt— well. Geralt isn’t much of a help explaining to be perfectly truthful. He does growl at his brother whenever Lambert’s remarks hit a little too close to home though.

Jaskier doesn’t eat, of course, but the habit of receiving little bites of whatever Geralt is having for taste is so ingrained by now, that when the witcher offers him his spoon he blows on the steaming food before taking it. The flavour bursts on his tongue, more spiced than what he is used to, and more interesting than he expected. 

“It’s good,” he murmurs softly, and feels heat burning in his cheeks when he realises that the three other witchers around the table are openly staring at them. “I can still taste,” he says defensively. “And it’s delicious. What’s in there that’s spicy?”

“Hmh,” Vesemir says. “I grow a small chilli variant that does well in colder weather.”

When Geralt offers him another bite, the others are still staring. 

After the food is gone, he tells them the same he told Geralt. He tells them about waking up in the clearing without a memory of how he got there, about living in the forest to avoid people, and about finding and tracking a witcher. 

“I tracked you, bard,” Geralt rumbles at that, and Jaskier rolls his eyes and grins a little. 

“Why would you track a witcher, you have a death wish?” Lambert grunts before taking a swig of ale, yellow eyes never leaving Jaskier, regarding him over the rim of his cup. 

There is the distinct thump of a boot hitting a shin under the table, followed by Lambert scowling, and jaskier thinks it might have been Aiden trying to admonish the other witcher for the question. 

“Well– yeah, actually,” he says. “Seeing as I tried and failed to end my own life, I thought there must be some special trick to it, and I’d figured a witcher would know.” Under the table, Geralt’s hand lands on his thigh and gives him a squeeze.

“You tried to kill yourself?” Vesemir asks, yellow eyes intense in a way that reminds him of Geralt. 

Jaskier shrugs uncomfortably. “You have to understand, I— I woke up in that clearing and saw what I did. It didn’t just disgust me. It made me hungry . You know what that’s like? To wake up and have every sense suddenly amplified to overwhelming levels? And to have them tell you that what you really want is more of the blood that you see spilled around you?”

“Yeah,” Lambert says gruffly, looking uncomfortable for a moment. “Not the blood thing. But the other thing. We know what it’s like, leech.” Jaskier stares at him, and the witcher breaks eye contact first. 

“Anyway. I didn’t want to harm anyone to get blood, so I decided I wouldn’t. It got harder as time went by though, and I— I knew I’d eventually be unable to hold out. So I tried to drown myself and cut my own throat, but it didn’t work.”

“It wouldn’t,” Lambert says. “You’d need to—”

Geralt’s growl cuts him off before he can tell Jaskier the answer. “I don’t want him to know,” the witcher grits through his teeth. 

Jaskier curls his fingers over Geralt’s hand, ignoring the way it draws the other’s eyes. “Ah, darling. You’re not still worried I’d take my own life?”

Geralt frowns at him. “Less so than before.”

Jaskier nods slowly, shooting Lambert a look from the corner of his eyes. The redhead now has his arms crossed over his chest, and looks like he wants to tell him anyway, but both Vesemir and Aiden shake their heads, and the witcher holds his tongue. 

“So you killed five people the moment you turned,” Vesemir says, and Jaskier can’t help the slight flinch. “Any after that?” 

Jaskier licks his lips nervously. He knows they'll be able to tell when he doesn’t speak the truth. He pulls Martin from his shoulder and into his lap, stroking the marten’s belly until he purrs. “One more,” he says. 

Geralt frowns next to him. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. The guardsman, remember?”

Geralt’s hand lands on the back of his neck, giving him a firm squeeze. “He was a werewolf. He would have kept killing. And he hurt Martin.”

“Martin?” Aiden asks curiously, and the little marten titters from his position in Jaskier’s lap, as if he’s responding to the sound of his name.

“The rat,” Lambert says in understanding. “The werewolf hurt your rat, and you killed him.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “I can’t tell if you’re being deliberately obtuse, or if you’re actually too dumb to know Martin is a marten.” He tilts his head and smiles sweetly. “Which is it, Lambert?” 

He gets a spectacular scowl and growl from the redheaded witcher, and feels Geralt’s fingers squeeze his neck more firmly. Aiden laughs though, and even Vesemir seems amused at the way he stands up to Lambert’s belligerence. 

“Hmh. Five when you turned, one whose death was necessary,” Vesemir says. “So how are you in control? You say you turned at the beginning of spring. What have you been eating?”

Jaskier swallows and flicks his gaze toward Geralt. Suddenly three pairs of slitted eyes focus on him like a pack of predators focusses on their prey. He thinks this is what a fawn must feel like when faced with a pack of wolves— and a cat.

“I— uhm. Geralt has fed me?” he says, cursing himself for letting it come out as a question.

“What. The. Fuck.” Lambert says, and Jaskier sees the twitch of his hand, as if he wants to reach back for his silver sword. 

“Wolf,” Vesemir growls. “Is this true?”

—000—

Jaskier sits next to him, smelling of nervous apprehension as they’re waiting for Lambert to get back from the labs with a concoction of potions. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier babbles. “I didn’t want to do it, but I was just so hungry, and as a witcher Geralt would be able to stop me if I went too far, and—”

“Quiet, vampire,” Vesemir growls, and Jaskier’s jaw clicks shut. 

“Vesemir,” Geralt begins, but one look from his old mentor has him gritting his teeth and swallowing down the words. Aiden looks sympathetic at least, though the cat does keep his hand close to a pocket on his thigh, the hilt of a dagger just barely peeking out the top.

“You let a vampire feed from you, and that means you’re not taking vervain. There’s no way of knowing you’re not under his compulsion until we test it, so we’re testing it,” Vesemir says.

Next to him, Jaskier smells of utter misery. Geralt shakes his head. “There is no reason to.”

Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “You can’t be sure. If this was any of us, what would you do?”

Geralt clenches his jaw. “I’d make you take the potion,” he grits through his teeth.

“Exactly,” Vesemir says, eyes sliding over to look at Jaskier’s hands, nervously skittering over Martin’s fur. “Vampire,” he addresses him. “To the best of your knowledge, will this potion affect change in Geralt?”

Jaskier bites a fang into his lip, shaking his head. “If you’re asking if I think I’ve compelled him into anything, I— I haven’t.  There’s been one accident where…” he trails off as the expression on Vesemir’s face turns thunderous for a moment.

“You’ve used your lilt on him?”

Jaskier flushes hotly. “Only when we met, and then after, only once. He— he was bleeding out in the tub, and I needed to get him out. I used the voice without meaning to, I swear.”

“Why were you bleeding, wolf?” Vesemir asks, his voice dangerously low. 

Jaskier makes a distressed squeaking noise in the back of his throat, and Martin rears up on his lap to press his little head against the bottom of his jaw in comfort.

“Bloedzuiger,” Geralt answers, holding his mentor’s gaze.

“Is that so?” Vesemir says slowly, and Geralt just nods. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says miserably, and Geralt thinks the bard is close to tears with the way his voice wavers. 

“Hmh,” Vesemir considers. “Hold your apologies, vampire. We’ll do the test, see what happens, and go from there.”

Geralt recognises it for the reassurance it’s meant as, and shoots the old wolf a grateful look. Jaskier remains tense at his side though, and he gently squeezes his neck in comfort. 

“Even if something changes, leechy, I’m sure you didn’t mean to compel Geralt,” Aiden adds from across the table. The words are friendly, but they just serve to have Jaskier hunch his shoulders around his ears. 

Lambert enters and snorts, a vial with a light blue liquid in his hand. “Didn’t mean to, my ass. Don’t tell me I’m going to need to administer this potion to all of you.”

Geralt growls and holds out his hand. “Just give it here, Lamb,” he says, taking the vial from him and pulling out the cork with his teeth. He’s just about to down it when Jaskier’s slender fingers close around his wrist. 

“Wait,” the bard says, blue eyes big and panicked. “Wait,” he repeats. “What if I did it without realising it? What if this changes everything? Will you hate me?” 

Geralt pulls him in to rest their foreheads together, resolutely ignoring the others’ reactions. Lambert growls threateningly, but Jaskier clings to him regardless.

“It’ll be okay, Jask. You didn’t, so nothing will change. And even if it did, I couldn’t hate you.”

Jaskier closes his eyes, his expression pained. “If I did compel you, you should hate me. I wouldn’t blame you,” he says softly, and uncurls his fingers from his wrist, scooting back to give him space. “You should take the potion,” he says.

“Never thought I’d see the day I’d agree with a fuckin leech,” Lambert grumbles, and this time Aiden doesn’t kick him under the table, but elbows him in the ribs in plain sight. “Ow! The hell Aiden? What’s that for?” 

“Shut up, Lamb.”

“Pups, hold your tongues,” Vesemir growls, and Geralt ignores them all. 

He looks at Jaskier, at how tense and afraid the bard seems that him swallowing this potion will change everything between them. He knows it won’t. He puts the vial to his lips, tips his head backwards, and downs the entire thing.

Chapter Text

Jaskier watches with baited breath as Geralt swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He hadn’t once thought that he could have been influencing the witcher without knowing it, but now that it’s been mentioned, he can’t be entirely sure. He knows too little about his vampire powers to be certain he hasn’t . It’s not at all reassuring that the time he’d lilted Geralt in the bath, it had been without him consciously deciding to do so.

He bites his fangs into his lip, and waits. Geralt puts the vial back down on the table and looks at him, the corner of his mouth ticking up. 

“How do we know if it worked?” Jaskier asks. “How can we tell if anything is different?”

“I made it, so it works,” Lambert growls, yellow eyes carefully tracking Geralt. 

“Don’t worry, leechy,” Aiden says. If anything is different, Geralt will be able to tell us.” 

Geralt reaches a hand toward him, and Jaskier can’t help the nervous shake of his own as he grasps onto the witcher’s fingers. “Love? How do you feel?”

He’s pulled into Geralt’s firm chest, one of his arms winding around his waist, Martin pressed between them. Geralt’s other hand lets go of him to wind into the hair at the back of his head, and then the witcher kisses him as soundly as he ever has. 

Jaskier parts his lips on a surprised noise, and Geralt deepens the kiss immediately. There is a blush creeping into his cheeks, and he knows the others will be able to see the way he can’t help but melt. His eyes flutter closed as Geralt’s teeth gently scrape over his bottom lip, and when he hears Lambert curse loudly it’s as if it comes from a great distance. When they break the kiss, Jaskier dazedly blinks up into golden eyes before trying to extract himself.

“Geralt!” he hisses between his teeth, conscious of the fact that everyone present is in possession of acutely heightened senses.

“I feel just the same, Jask,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier sags as if his strings have been cut.

“Oh. That’s good. I do too. I mean, I know I haven’t taken a potion so why would I feel any different, right?” he babbles, leaning back a little to give Martin more space between them. 

When he shoots a careful glance at the other witchers, Vesemir has his arms crossed over his chest, but there is something about his expression that feels somehow indulgent instead of wary now. Lambert has a thunderous expression on his face, thick red brows drawn together as he picks up the now empty glass vial and sniffs it. Aiden has leant his chin in his hand and is openly staring at Jaskier, a smirk on his face. 

“Well,” the cat witcher says. “I can’t deny I see the appeal, because that was very pretty indeed.” He winks at him, and if his face hadn’t already been red, it would sure be flaming now. 

When the warning growls come, it’s from both Geralt and Lambert, and Jaskier is relieved that the redhead’s yellow eyes have finally left him, and his attention seems to be focussed on Aiden. The cat just grins, raising an eyebrow in challenge, first at Geralt and then at Lambert seated next to him.

Jaskier might not be perfect at distinguishing different scents yet, but he knows enough to know that what he smells coming from Lambert is jealousy, and that Aiden likes it. He just hopes it doesn’t serve to have Lambert hate him even more. 

—000—

Geralt accompanies Jaskier to get settled in his room, casting a quick igni at the prepared hearth to warm the space. The bard is thankful for it, immediately dropping down on the rug in front of the fire with Martin in his lap, soaking up the heat. 

“You want to come, or stay here until I get back?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier looks at him over his shoulder, eyes drifting down to the wrapped dagger in his hand. The black blood has dried, leaving the cloth darkly stained, and as soon as the bard sees what he’s holding the blue of his eyes tinges slightly crimson. 

He quickly shakes his head, eyes glued to the wrapped blade. “I don’t think I should come. Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely curious to see what Vesemir makes of that thing, but I feel like as soon as it gets unwrapped it will— I don’t know, try to get me again?”

Geralt nods. “Maybe don’t explore without me for a few days.”

Jaskier laughs and pulls his lute case toward himself. “No worries. For now, I have absolutely no desire to run into Lambert all by myself.”

“He won’t hurt you,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier raises a sceptical brow, flipping open the case to pull out his instrument. 

“Are you sure about that? Cause I swear if Roach hadn’t placed herself between us he would have tried his darndest to end me. More so than Aiden, I think.”

“Hmh. He knows you’re mine now.”

Jaskier laughs, his fingers plucking a quick melody. “About that. Is that what you had in mind when you— you know, marked me the way you did in that cave?”

Geralt just shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt,” he says simply. 

Suddenly Jaskier looks uncertain, hands abandoning the melody into random notes while he looks down at his fingers. “Am I though?” he asks. “Yours?” 

“If you want to be.”

Jaskier smiles uncharacteristically shyly, and Geralt recognises the relief on the bard’s face, the discordant notes becoming harmonious again. “Yes,” he breathes, “yes, okay.” Then he grins up at Geralt from his position on the floor. “I want a trade though. I’ll be yours, if you’ll be mine, darling.”

Geralt swallows, fingers clenching around the hilt of the dagger as he looks at the bard comfortably seated in his room, in front of the fire he made. Though the space has been empty for the entire season, it’s already starting to smell like Jaskier, and he thinks it’s better for it. He nods, and the melody turns quick and lively for a moment, Jaskier’s scent suddenly bursting with warm notes of cinnamon and nutmeg. 

He leaves him behind to find Vesemir. He wishes he’d managed to tell the bard, he’s been his for a while now.

—000—

“Come in, wolf,” Vesemir calls to him as he knocks on the door to the lab. He can smell that both Lambert and Aiden are there as well, as expected. He settles down next to his brother, feeling the need for closeness after an entire season on the path. A closeness they haven’t yet been able to indulge in, in all the consternation. 

Lambert grumbles a little, but immediately takes the opportunity to lean his shoulder against him, letting him take a large part of his weight. Geralt rumbles low in his chest in contentment, and after a moment of silence, his brother rumbles back at him. 

“Cute,” Aiden smirks from across the table, and Lambert briefly bares his teeth at the cat.

“You know you want in,” his brother gripes, and within a fraction of a second Aiden has vaulted over the table and settles in on Geralt’s other side, his rumble more like a purr than anything. 

Vesemir shakes his head at them, but Geralt can smell the satisfaction wafting off the old wolf at seeing them take comfort in each other. It’s taken them long enough to get here, after all. Their mentor briefly rises from his seat to cup each of their faces in turn, rough palm leaving his scent behind on stubbled cheeks.

When their scents are intermingled in a way that settles something restless deep inside Geralt’s chest, he pulls the dagger out, and lays it on the table. 

“That’s the dagger that made him?” Vesemir asks. 

Geralt nods. “He didn’t tell me about it at first. When I found out, he said it didn’t let him .”

Lambert snorts next to him. “That’s convenient,” he says, but holds his tongue otherwise.

“When I wrapped it in black blood a thread of pain disappeared from his scent. I think neither of us realised it was there before.”

“Unwrap it,” Vesemir orders, and Geralt carefully unwinds the cloth from the blade. The metal is dark and shimmering, sharp as the day he’d tucked it away. Where the light reflects off it, it colours crimson, giving the impression it has been dipped in blood.

“That looks incredibly freaky,” Aiden murmurs. “He got stabbed with that thing? Is there still blood on it?”

“No,” Geralt answers. “No blood, it just shimmers crimson like that.”

“What’s your theory, wolf?” Vesemir asks. 

“I think somehow, there’s vampire blood embedded in the blade itself. I think when it stabs someone, if that person is susceptible to the change, it works as if they’ve been fed the blood, and turns them.”

“Hmh. Plausible,” the old wolf murmurs, scratching his chin. “Any idea which line we’re dealing with?”

Geralt sighs. “Not a clue. But, Jaskier’s skills are—specific.”

Lambert grunts. “It’s a dodgy little fucker alright. Managed to evade two of us quite well. Saw no other skills though.”

“I don’t think he wanted to fight us, Lamb,” Aiden says. “I mean, he didn’t even lilt at us, and he could have. What specific skills does he have?”

Geralt rubs a hand over his face. He’d really rather not tell them about the blood thrall, especially now they know he lets Jaskier feed from him, but if he wants them to be able to help, he has to be honest. 

“He’s got basic vampire speed, strength, and invulnerability. His senses are more acute as well. He’s very sensitive to the scent of blood, even more so to mine, I think.”

Vesemir nods. “Nothing out of the ordinary there. If he’s been feeding from you exclusively, that might explain why he’s more attuned to your blood than others’.”

Lambert grumbles under his breath, and leans a little more of his weight against him. “So what are the things that set it apart?” his brother asks. 

“You’ve seen he retains his own eye colour. It only changes when he lets his instincts come to the surface.”

“Hmh. I guess it really didn’t like me threatening the rat,” Lambert says, and Geralt frowns at him in warning. 

“Don’t do that again,” he growls, before continuing. “Sunlight doesn’t bother him much, and you haven’t heard his lilt, but it’s damn powerful.”

“How powerful?” Vesemir asks. 

“Strong enough to have me up and out of a tub within seconds, even with half my blood gone. Strong enough to make me halt and drop my sword in the middle of a fight when the lilt wasn’t even directed at me, but at the werewolf who had Martin in its jaws.”

“Damn,” Aiden whistles low. “Kinda glad he didn’t use it on us then.”

“He doesn’t really like to use it,” Geralt says. “If he’d practise, even vervain might not dull the effects sufficiently.”

“Hmh,” Vesemir hums thoughtfully. “That is rather unusual, but still not very specific. What else?”

Geralt clenches his fists on the table. “Two more things. When he wants to be fast he sometimes phases in and out of the visible spectrum, adding speed, “ he pauses before continuing, the words dragging over his tongue. “He also has a blood thrall.”

“What?” Lambert exclaims, “those are very specific, how many vampire lines could possibly have a combination of those things?”

Geralt waits for them to realise, slowly registering the change in their scents. Lambert, of course, curses up a storm once the penny drops.

“It has a fucking blood thrall and you still let it feed off you?!”

“Quiet, pup,” Vesemir growls, before looking at Geralt with a frown on his face. “You said it was a bloedzuiger that made you bleed out in the tub.”

Geralt clenches his jaw and shakes his head. 

“That fucking leech!” Lambert growls, “it could have killed you!”

“He didn’t know,” Geralt says, his voice steady, holding Vesemir’s gaze with his own. 

“He didn’t, but now he does, and he still feeds from you,” the old wolf states. 

“Hmh. He refused to for weeks after it happened. It was only after the werewolf, when he realised he was too weak to get Martin to a safe place, that he drank from me for the second time. And then only after I assured him I had enough Golden Oriole to cancel out the thrall.”

“Golden Oriole works? Good to know,” Vesemir says slowly, eyes sliding over to Lambert. “Think you can make a couple extra batches of it, pup?”

Lambert sits upright and looks between them. “You mean to have me make it so the thing can keep leeching?”

“Keep talking about him like that, and we’re going to have a problem, Lamb,” Geralt growls low. “He is not a thing, or a leech.”

“Well, he’s not fucking human either, now is he?”

“Neither are we,” Geralt snaps. “He didn’t choose this, just as much as we didn’t. You think it is easy on him? He hasn’t killed anyone innocent. Are you sure you can say the same?” He knows he sounds angry, and he knows it’s a low blow, but if Lambert refers to Jaskier as it one more time, Geralt is going to suggest he leave, or put him outside himself. 

There’s a complicated mix of emotions flitting over Lambert’s face and echoing in his scent, until he settles on a formidable scowl. “Fine,” he grits out. “I’ll make some extra Golden Oriole.” 

From Lambert, it’s as good as an apology. 

“What about Martin?” Aiden asks thoughtfully, reaching out a hand to squeeze Lambert’s shoulder. 

“What about him?” Geralt says.

“Well, it’s unusual, don’t you think? Most of the time animals stay away from - uh, sorry, for lack of a better word - from monsters. But those two are close, and it seemed like the marten was fully prepared to attack either of us in his defence.”

“Hmh. He actually did attack me, when I first found Jaskier,” Geralt says thoughtfully. “I expected teeth at my throat, just not a marten’s instead of a vampire’s.”

Aiden laughs. “He bit you? Impressive, for such a little thing.”

“We’ll look into it,” Vesemir says. “It might be nothing, since Roach likes him too. We’ve got enough specifics. The lilt, the phasing, the thrall, the animal companion, and the dagger itself, of course. We can always have one of the sorceresses look at it if we turn up nothing.” 

“Hmh.” Geralt considers. “Maybe Triss, rather than Yen.”

—000—

When Geralt leaves, he is stopped by Lambert’s hand on his shoulder. The younger wolf doesn’t look at him, and seems to take his time to weigh his words.

“You trust him, wolf?”

“Yeah, Lamb. I do.”

“Hmh. I don’t.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“There’s not so many of us left,” Lambert says slowly. “And Eskel isn’t even here yet.”

Geralt lays his own hand on Lambert’s shoulder, mirroring him. “Eskel is fine. He’s always late, you know this.”

Lambert nods, and presses something into his palm before he turns around to head to the room he shares with Aiden. Geralt curls his fingers around the vial of Golden Oriole carefully, and heads back to Jaskier.

—000— 

Towering are the walls of the stern stone keep

Armour against prejudice and ire

Among the peaks where winds howl, scream, weep

Lit at its core, warmed with hearts of fire

Jaskier sings softly, listening to Geralt’s footsteps getting closer. He keeps playing and singing, facing the hearth, and only when the song ends does he look back. Geralt is leaning against the doorpost, his golden irises reflecting the firelight. 

He puts his lute back into its case, and leans back on his hands. “How did it go?”

“Well enough,” Geralt answers him, and settles next to him in front of the flames.

“Ah, darling. I’m sorry. I did not consider your brothers’ reactions before coming here. That’s more what I expected when I first set out to find a witcher to— you know. I guess things would have been different, if it hadn’t been you. Though if it was Lambert I’d guess Martin biting would have been the same.” He smiles, looking back at the marten lying curled up in front of the fire, fast asleep. 

“Hmh. I’m glad it was me,” Geralt says, pulling him in to let him lean back against his chest. 

“Me too, love,” Jaskier responds. “Now tell me, what did they think of the dagger?”

“They support my theory that it holds vampire blood somehow, blood that turned you. We’ll see if we can find out what line made it. If we find nothing, we have a few acquaintances we can ask.”

"Acquaintances?"

“We’re on good terms with a couple of mages,” the witcher rumbles behind him. 

“Oh. Are you sure they’ll want to help? I’d think that they’re not a huge fan of vampires either. Though surpassing Lambert in his dislike seems quite impossible.”

Geralt drags his nose up behind his ear and inhales deeply, causing goosebumps to form all along Jaskier’s skin, despite the heat. “Hmh. He’ll come around, Jask. Don’t worry.”

Jaskier wants to believe him, but it’s hard. Lambert’s glare and caustic words touched something fragile and insecure he’s kept hidden inside himself, something that deep down, isn’t so sure the redheaded witcher isn’t right about him. 

—000—

They’re sat in front of the fire for a while, enjoying the warmth. Jaskier has sung a couple more songs without his lute’s accompaniment, changing the lyrics every now and again, and Geralt enjoys listening to him. 

Eventually, the bard sighs and lets his head roll back against his shoulder. Geralt can tell he’s tired, and thinks about how cold Jaskier had been on the way up the killer. He’s glad he has the vampire safely indoors and in front of a fire. He knows that it’s largely the lack of blood that made the trek up the mountain in freezing weather so hard on him. 

“You hungry, Jask?” he rumbles softly, and sees the bard wrinkle his nose. 

“A little, but it’s fine. I can hold out for longer. I should let them get used to me more before rubbing in their faces that I’m doing my vampire thing by taking blood from you. Maybe— maybe I shouldn’t do it at all while I’m here. They don’t like it. I don’t want to make them uncomfortable in their own home.”

“You think you can go the entire winter without feeding?” Geralt asks him, shaking his head. 

Jaskier tilts his head back further, looking at him upside down. “Probably not. But biting you on my first day here might be a bit much, don’t you think?”

Geralt holds out the vial of Golden Oriole to him. “Lambert gave me this,” he rumbles. 

Jaskier sits bolt upright and twists around to face him. “What? Your vitriolic brother who calls me a leech and would gladly chop my head off - mine and Martin’s mind you - gave you a vial of liquid sunlight?!  He does know what we use it for, doesn’t he?” he asks, a bewildered look on his face. 

“Yes, bard. He knows. It’s his way of apologising.” Jaskier tilts his head, and Geralt watches the way his eyes are pulled to the pulse in his throat despite himself.

“They won’t be angry about it?”

He raises an eyebrow while swirling the Golden Oriole around. Jaskier licks his lips and nods slowly. The fact that he gives in so easily means he’s hungrier than he’s let on, and Geralt silently sends Lambert his thanks for the vial in his hand. He pulls the bard into his lap, Jaskier’s thighs spread over his hips, and carefully puts the potion to the side. 

“Same rules,” he says. “What are they?”

Jaskier needs to drag his eyes up from his pulse to look at him. “Hands behind my back,” he says, adjusting his position immediately. “If I shift my hands, it stops. If I don’t respond to you, it stops.”

“Good,” Geralt rumbles, eyeing the way Jaskier’s cheeks are already starting to get rosy. “What else?”

“When I need to stop, I let you know,” Jaskier answers diligently, and when Geralt rumbles in approval, he sees a measure of his blue irises get swallowed by the black of his pupils. 

“Good,” he repeats, and reaches around to wrap his fingers around Jaskier’s wrists. His other hand covers the back of his neck, pulling him in. Just before the bard’s face is hidden from view, he sees the blue bleed over into crimson. 

As it is every time it happens, the slide of Jaskier’s fangs into the skin of his neck is accompanied by the soft brush of his tongue, and the tender press of his lips. Geralt growls low in his throat as the familiar arousal flows through him in response to the action, and he feels the vampire shiver in his lap. 

Jaskier doesn’t pull against his hold, but he does shift forward, pressing their groins together as he drinks. Geralt tilts his head back a little to give the bard more space, and presses him forward even more by increasing the pressure on his wrists, held behind him at his lower back. The soft moan Jaskier lets out has him squeezing his fingers around the bard’s nape gently, waiting for him to have some more before pressing in more firmly, signalling him to stop. 

“You’re done, Jaskier,” he rumbles when the bard doesn’t immediately retreat, and he feels the sharp slide of his incisors pulling out of his flesh, a warm tongue carefully lapping over the puncture wounds. “Good, you did well,” he murmurs, and gets another full body shudder against him, Jaskier’s erection pressing insistently against his lower abdomen. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps against his neck, his breath hot and spreading the scent of iron through the air. “Can I? Can you? Please?” 

“What do you want, bard?” Geralt asks, sliding his fingers from Jaskier’s neck into his hair to pull his head back so he can look at him. 

Jaskier’s tongue comes out to slide over the sharp edge of his incisors. “Take me, please?” he asks, and Geralt can’t help but thrust up against the firm roundness of his ass. 

“You know what you need to do,” he says, and sees dark lashes blink over crimson eyes a few times as Jaskier takes deep, careful breaths. When finally his irises show nothing but blue, Geralt lets him go. 

“Get undressed,” he says, and watches avidly as the bard rises from his position astride him to take off his clothes. He is backlit by the fire, pale skin slightly flushed with colour and warmth, the reddish glow from the flames picking up notes of honey in his brown hair. He is indescribably beautiful, and Geralt can’t pull his eyes away to look at anything else. He divests himself of his own attire, and when Jaskier kneels over him again they’re skin to skin, and his hands find soft, firm flesh. 

Jaskier flashes him a cheeky smile, and he brings his arms behind himself, raising an eyebrow. Slowly, Geralt reaches behind him to wrap his hand back around slender wrists, and holds the bard still once more. He can’t suppress the hungry growl that reverberates in his chest, and leans forward to bring his mouth to one of Jaskier’s nipples, scraping it with his teeth. The bard jerks in his grip, the scent of his arousal permeating the air, and he minutely tightens his hold, just to see what happens. 

Jaskier moans as if it’s punched out of him and jerks again, testing the strength of his hold. “This okay, Jask?” he asks, desire making his voice drop low. 

Jaskier releases a startled laugh at the question. “More than, love. If it’s not, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Geralt scrapes his teeth over a puffy pink nipple again, and watches as Jaskier throws his head back and pants. His strong thighs are spread over his own bulk, giving him a lovely view, and he pulls on the bard’s wrists a little to have him arch his back, his body a long line of want, there for Geralt to do with as he pleases. 

When he coats the fingers of his unoccupied hand with oil and slides them down behind Jaskier’s balls, the bard moans loudly, before questioning how he always seems to have oil stashed somewhere. Geralt grins ferally, and whispers in his ear. 

“Maybe I keep it on me, just in case you’re asking for it,” he says, and groans when Jaskier grinds down against his fingers, making the tips of two of them slip into his tight heat. It has the bard whining in his lap, hips moving in aborted little circles. Geralt presses his fingers in deeper, and lets his thumb slip forward, applying firm pressure against his perineum. 

“Shit!” Jaskier curses, head dropping forward now to rest on his shoulder. “Shit,” he repeats, “If you keep doing that this isn’t going to last long.”

“Hmh. That’d be a shame, wouldn’t it?” Geralt responds, lightly digging his teeth into the side of Jaskier’s neck while pressing against that bump of pleasure inside him, just to hear the bard keen.

“Please,” Jaskier moans on his next breath. “Please, make me take it before I come.” His eyes are closed as he says it, but the burning heat in his face is hard to miss, and Geralt pulls him firmly against himself, stretching him more quickly than he usually would, taking care to avoid brushing his prostate. He has a moment to wonder if he’s being too rough, but then the scent of Jaskier’s lust spikes in the air, and the bard’s cock jumps and leaks onto his abdomen, leaving a sticky trail. 

When he pulls his fingers out of him, he cups Jaskier’s face for a moment, and gets a sliver of blue between his fluttering eyelids. He guides him up with a firm hand on his hip, the other still holding his arms behind his back. When the tip of his cock breaches him, Geralt keeps him still until the bard opens his eyes, mouth soft and panting, sharp fangs just peeking out. Then he thrusts up, while at the same time pulling Jaskier down with the grip on his wrists, making him seat himself firmly onto his cock. The bard shudders and cries out, the flush on his face spreading downward to cover his chest and abdomen. His thighs shake, and Geralt thinks he might not have the strength to lift himself back up again. 

He leans forward to press kisses all over Jaskier’s chest, and when the bard begs him sweetly, he kisses that soft, red mouth until he’s whining with it, clenching around where they’re joined. 

Geralt doesn’t move, waiting for Jaskier to adjust. He licks into the bard’s mouth, reveling in the taste of him and the soft, whimpering sounds he makes. Only when Jaskier manages to lift himself up a little before sliding back down, does he break the kiss.

“Keep your hands behind your back, Jask,” he growls, and waits for the nod before he lets him go to grab onto his hips, helping him rise up on shaking thighs, then pulling him back down while snapping his hips up. Jaskier’s eyes fly wide at the strength of his thrust, and Geralt checks in again. “Alright?” he asks, getting a stream of affirmative though incoherent babbling in response. 

Then he starts to fuck his bard in earnest, slightly tilting Jaskier’s pelvis until on the next thrust he makes a sound that’s high and desperate and broken. Geralt grins and holds him firm in that position, shifting a hand back to his wrists to pull him down as he plants his feet and thrusts . 

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier’s breathing to hitch, and when Geralt growls for him to come, he does after only a few more thrusts, his release striping over his abdomen and chest. He rolls them over before the bard finishes coming, his ass squeezing around him, and presses Jaskier’s wrists down next to his head as he fucks him until his own orgasm hits him with force. He presses in as deeply as he can, spilling inside, and tucks his face into the bard’s neck to lick the sweat off his skin. 

—000—

When Geralt helps him up Jaskier’s legs wobble under him unsteadily. The witcher pulls him against him, body warm and slightly slick with a mixture of sweat, oil and spend. He’s deposited on the bed with firm, gentle hands, and murmurs something even he himself can hardly understand, let alone Geralt.

The next thing he knows there is a warm, moist cloth wiping him down, carefully cleaning between his legs. He curls onto his side to be able to follow the witcher with his gaze as he moves away, pulling the warm blankets up to his chin. He sees Geralt clean himself with perfunctory movements, before the witcher grabs the small glass vial. The liquid sunshine inside is golden and shimmering, but pales in comparison to Geralt’s eyes reflecting the firelight. He thinks he might have said so out loud, because Geralt smiles at him, before downing the potion. 

When the witcher tucks himself behind Jaskier while rumbling softly in his chest, he sighs contentedly, and drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Jaskier thinks Aiden and Vesemir like him well enough. Aiden is more than willing to laugh and joke with him, seemingly even more so when Lambert is actually present to scowl at the two of them. Vesemir seems strangely indulgent of him, and actually develops quite the adorable understanding with Martin. 

The first time Martin prances out of the large kitchen pantry with a mouse in his jaws Vesemir just nods in approval, but the second time he actually bends down to scratch the little marten under his chin, bleeding carcass still between his teeth as he purrs. Jaskier laughs when Martin comes to him for praise whenever he catches something, and then goes to the old witcher immediately afterward, doubling down on scratches. He thinks it’s absolutely adorable, and when he says so, Vesemir just huffs and grumbles, but the slight smile on his face is clear for everyone to see. 

Lambert— remains a problem. If Jaskier had thought the vial of Golden Oriole was a gesture of goodwill, or an apology as Geralt had insisted, he’s quickly convinced otherwise. The witcher keeps looking at him like he’ll turn around and bite them at any given moment, yellow eyes following as he moves around the keep. More than once there’s a chill that travels up his spine, only for him to turn and find Lambert watching him. It’s disconcerting, and he’s almost glad when the witcher is outright hostile instead. At least then he can defend himself with words, and it has the added benefit of Vesemir admonishing Lambert like he’s an unruly teenager, Aiden digging his elbow into the redhead’s ribs, or Geralt growling and pulling him in to kiss just below his ear, resulting in angry yellow eyes and a clenched jaw. 

Lambert doesn’t trust him, that much is clear. Still, Jaskier didn’t think he’d take it as far as he does. 

—000—

Jaskier is visiting Roach in the stables while Geralt is doing some strange and frankly terrifying experiments on the spooky dagger together with Vesemir, about a week after arriving at Kaer Morhen. The wind is howling just outside the stables, carrying fat flakes of snow with it, and he’s glad to be inside. 

The stables might be attached to the outside of the keep, but its walls are thick and fortified, and the horses give off enough warmth to have the space be - not exactly comfortable -  but certainly not bitingly cold. The smell of hay and horse is comfortingly familiar, and Jaskier hums a soft melody under his breath, pulling a brush along Roach’s coat while Martin lounges on her hindquarters. Every now and again Geralt’s mare bends her long neck backward to either lip at Martin’s ears or at Jaskier’s shoulder, as if she’s letting them know she appreciates their visit. 

Like last time, Lambert is already in the stables and closing the door by the time Jaskier notices him. It’s Roach’s soft nicker that alerts him to the witcher’s presence, and he carefully puts the brush away and steps out of her stall to face the redhead. 

Lambert’s yellow eyes look between him and Roach. “Never saw a horse trusting a leech before. Let alone Roach.”

Jaskier sighs and rubs his eyes. “Seriously? Leech again? you might want to consider coming up with a different insult, or I’ll have to conclude you’re just not very imaginative.” His words are sharp, but he hears the way his voice is more tired than anything, and sees Lambert’s russet brows draw together. 

The witcher steps forward, and Jaskier shoots a glance at Roach. Geralt’s mare is patiently munching on hay, one ear back, the other turned forward in their direction. She seems relaxed enough, so he thinks he’s not in any immediate danger. Martin does jump over onto his shoulder though, making a soft growling noise in Lambert’s direction. 

“You’re probably getting hungry again. It’s been a week since you drank from Geralt.”

Jaskier feels a shameful flush rise to his cheeks, but tries to shrug off the words. “I can go longer than a week,” he says. 

“Maybe you can. Geralt says you have control. But I don’t think he’s very objective when it comes to you.”

Jaskier snorts. “And you are?” he shoots back. 

Lambert shrugs. “At least I’m not fucking you.”

Jaskier makes a strangled noise before he briefly bares his teeth at the witcher, anger starting to swirl in his stomach. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“It wouldn’t be, but it is my business when there’s a vampire in the keep who’s control we’re supposed to trust on the word of a witcher getting a little extra between said vampire’s legs.”

“Melitele’s tits, you really are a fucking asshole,” Jaskier bites out. “Is your opinion of your brother that low? Geralt deserves better.”

Lambert grimaces at that, and pulls a dagger from a sheath at his thigh. Jaskier tenses, and angles himself in a way that breaks the direct line from the witcher to Martin, but doesn’t otherwise move. 

“Geralt is a better man than I am. I’ve always known that. Which is why he won’t do what I’m going to.”

Jaskier takes an involuntary step backward, eyeing the dagger in Lambert’s hand. He ponders screaming for Geralt, but he’s likely still in the labs and won’t be able to hear. If nothing else, Lambert picked his moment right. Jaskier wouldn’t have wanted Geralt to hear any of his brother’s words, and he thinks Lambert wouldn’t either. “And what is it you’re going to do?” he asks slowly. Somehow, he doesn’t think Lambert will go so far as to try and kill him outright. 

“They are my family,” Lambert says, and Jaskier is confused for a moment. “My only family. You can call me an asshole all you want, and yeah, you wouldn’t be wrong. Maybe I’m being unfair to you, but I’ll damn well do anything I can to protect them. Including testing your control,” he growls. 

Before Jaskier can stop him, Lambert pulls back the sleeve of his shirt and draws the dagger in a long, deep line along the veins of his forearm. 

Crimson liquid wells up in the cut immediately, the scent of the witcher’s blood rich and tempting. Jaskier can’t help but inhale, and notes the marked absence of vervain. It seems like Lambert really does want to test him, the offending smell nowhere to be found. What remains is— tempting, he’ll admit. It has the pit of hunger inside him roaring to life, and he tracks the thick red drips of Lambert’s blood as they slide over his skin and dribble down onto the floor. He takes a few deep breaths, focussing on the scent of Martin on his shoulder, of Roach in the stall behind him, listening to their steady heartbeats. He thinks of the way Geralt is so cautious with him whenever he feeds, and of the rules he’s convinced the witcher put in place more for his peace of mind than Geralt’s own. 

Lambert is right. Geralt wouldn’t do this, because Geralt wants to keep him away from the edges of his control, where Lambert wants to know exactly where they are. Both of them, so very protective, just in very different ways. 

He swallows and blinks a couple of times until he can feel the call of his instincts recede into the background. Then he raises his gaze to make eye contact with Lambert, knowing the witcher will be met by cornflower blue. 

“So,” he says. “How long am I going to have to stand here and smell you bleeding before you’re convinced?”

—000—

“Ow, fucking fuck! How come you can’t be more careful with those pretty fucking hands of yours?” 

Geralt feels his eyebrows rise as he hears Lambert’s growl through the kitchen door. The scent of his brother’s blood reaches his nose as he opens it, and he stiffens before his brain has the chance to interpret what it actually is he’s seeing. 

“Don’t be a big baby, Lamb,” Jaskier says. “If you’re not holding still, you can’t blame me for having to redo some of the stitches. I’m not letting you gain another weirdly crooked scar if we can prevent it.”

The two of them are sitting at a corner of the kitchen table, Lambert’s shirt rolled back to expose his left forearm, while Jaskier places surprisingly neat stitches in the skin to pull it closed. The wound is deep and straight, and doesn’t look accidental. 

The two of them look up at him with wide eyes when he clears his throat, freezing as if they’ve been caught stealing Vesemir’s favourite ginger cookies he hardly ever makes. Geralt leans against the door jamb and crosses his arms over his chest, looking between his brother and the bard. 

“Do I want to know what happened?” he rumbles. To his surprise, Lambert looks supremely uncomfortable, while Jaskier just shrugs and grins.

“Ah, love, nothing more than an unfortunate accident. It seems Lambert here should be more careful with his daggers,” he wags his finger in Lambert’s face while he says it, and his brother looks thunderous, but he stays put, and does no more than growl at Jaskier. 

“Hmh. He always was a clumsy one, weren’t you, little Lamb?” Geralt murmurs, settling across from them. 

“Fuck you, wolf, I was not,” Lambert grits at him, reaching over in an attempt to punch him in the shoulder while carefully keeping his wounded forearm on the table for Jaskier to place the next stitch. 

Jaskier looks up, a grin curling his lips in a way that has his fangs peeking out. “Little Lamb? Really?” he asks, practically crowing with glee. “That’s such a cute nickname for someone so very growly.”

As if to prove Jaskier’s point, Lambert growls again. “Fuck you too, leech. The both of you.”

“Well, dear, since we’re already fucking each other, whe hardly need you to do it for us.”

Lambert folds his good arm on the table and thunks his head down onto it. “Don’t tell me! Hearing it was bad enough, I don’t actually want to know!” he groans.

“But I do!” Aiden says, bounding inside and settling next to Lambert, leaning into him while leering at Jaskier. “Really, if you’re gonna talk about it, you’re more than welcome to—” His voice is cut off when Lambert slaps his good hand over Aiden’s mouth, and his green eyes sparkle.

Jaskier laughs, though Geralt can see the slight flush of embarrassment in his cheeks. He extends his leg under the table, rubbing his shin along the bard’s in comfort.

“Oh and what happened here, by the way?” Aiden asks once he’s peeled Lambert’s hand away from his face. He raises his eyebrows at the cut Jaskier has nearly finished closing. 

“Little Lamb was playing with daggers,” Geralt says dryly, and Lambert promptly thunks his head back down again. 

When Jaskier finishes bandaging the cut, Lambert extends and flexes his fingers before rolling his sleeve back down. “Thanks, leech,” he says, and Geralt is fully prepared to grab him by the back of the neck and throw him out of the kitchen. So is Aiden, by the looks of him. 

Jaskier just grins and tilts his head. “If I hadn’t been there I might just think it was your head that got injured instead of your arm. Having trouble remembering names? No worries, I’ll help. JAS-KIER. Now say it with me, JASKIER. It’s okay if it takes time, we can’t all have the memory of a bard, after all,” he says, while petting Lambert on the shoulder with a smirk. 

Lambert grumbles. “Fuck you, Jaskier,” he says, rising from his seat. “Thanks.”

—000—

A few days later they’re all sent out on different chores by Vesemir. Jaskier is on the side of the keep where the stables are, to air out the horse’s blankets. He’s hitting them with some sort of carpet beater, dislodging an ungodly amount of dust and hair until both him and Martin are violently sneezing. 

He’s wearing his thickly lined winter coat again, and Martin is curled up against his chest, his head peaking out above the collar. He rubs his chin back and forth over Martin’s soft ears a couple of times, before gearing up for another round of beating a whole damn horse of material out of the blankets. 

Just when he wants to swing, he freezes. There is a scent on the crisp, wintery air, one that immediately has his mouth watering. 

Blood.

It’s very, very faint, but it’s unmistakable, and he inhales deeply through his nose, pulling more of it in. When he realises it’s not the scent of any of his witchers, but someone he doesn’t recognise, he exhales in relief. 

He cups his hands around his mouth and calls for the others. If there’s someone bleeding on the mountain, they’ll want to know. He doesn’t get any answer though, the wind blowing the sound of his voice in the opposite direction he wants it to go. They won’t be able to hear him, and he doesn’t know exactly where Geralt, Aiden, and Lambert are repairing the outer wall, as Vesemir had ordered. What’s more, with the wind slightly turning, the scent of blood is getting weaker, and soon he won’t be able to smell it at all. 

Decision made, Jaskier quickly sticks the carpet beater between two stones so it won’t go anywhere, and leaves the heavy blankets to air out. He runs partway down the slope, hoping to catch another whiff of scent, Martin burrowing against his chest as they round one of the stone walls only to be buffeted by ice cold air. 

He doesn’t immediately smell it, and tilts his head up into the frosty gale. When he catches it, he knows for certain. There’s not just someone bleeding on the mountain. 

Whoever it is, they’re dying. 

—000—

Jaskier runs, following the faint traces of blood that keep blowing his way. He doesn’t make the conscious decision to do so, but when he seems to skip entire stretches of blank snow where the path is nigh invisible, only to continue where the grey rock is blown bare by the wind, he knows he’s phasing. Using that ability costs him, and it will deepen his hunger, but he’s filled with a sense of urgency he can’t ignore. He can’t slow down, or he’ll be too late. 

He’s already a quarter of the way down the killer when he realises exactly where the scent of blood is beckoning him. He keeps running, inhaling deeply to make sure he stays on track. He keeps an eye out for landmarks at the same time, looking for things that will tell him if he’s anywhere near the cave he and Geralt took shelter in, that night they spent on the killer. 

Despite his sharply focussed attention, he passes the cave by without noticing. It’s only the fact that the scent of blood is suddenly so much stronger and coming from behind him, that tells him he’s gone too far. He slows down considerably and stops phasing altogether. On his next inhale he doesn’t only pull air in through his nose, but opens his mouth to taste as well. 

The blood is strong enough on the air now that he not only smells it, but can detect traces of it on his tongue. He briefly ducks his face down into the collar of his coat to take a deep breath from between Martin’s ears, solidifying his hold on his control. Then he follows the smell of hot iron and copper until finally, he sees the hidden opening in the wall of rock. 

—000—

As soon as he enters the cave Jaskier realises how much the cold winter wind had actually done to blow away the scent of blood and make it nearly impossible to follow. He thinks it’s a small miracle he scented it, all the way up at Kaer Morhen. 

The cave though, is an entirely different story. Because of the corner in its entrance there is not a whole lot of airflow, and as soon as he enters he is hit in the face with air that’s positively saturated with the smell of blood. It is rich, warm, and so appealing he has to close his eyes and hold his breath for a second. He listens to Martin’s heartbeat, finds the thread of the marten’s scent through all the iron, and hums a soft melody under his breath. When he feels like he’s back in control and not in immediate danger of falling upon whoever is bleeding out in the cave, he opens his eyes. 

What he sees has him gritting his teeth, his heart hammering in his chest. 

The witcher is deathly pale, and he’s actively bleeding. He’s bleeding so much in fact, that Jaskier wonders how there can be any blood left inside of him. For one frightening moment he thinks the witcher might be dead already, but then he hears the painfully slow beat of his heart, so much weaker than it should be. 

He really should be healing. Jaskier has seen Geralt take a couple of truly horrific wounds and not bleed this much, and as far as he can tell, the witcher on the floor of the cavern only has a few small cuts and a slightly larger slash to his abdomen. They’re all continuously leaking though, in a way he’s only seen a witcher bleed once before.

Jaskier can’t be certain, but he feels he knows exactly why the witcher is losing blood at the rate he is. Blood Thrall.

Images of Geralt bleeding out in the tub flash before his mind’s eye, and he feels echoes of old panic overlaid by entirely new terror that this witcher will bleed to death down here in this cave, with Jaskier just standing there, unable to do anything about it. 

He spurs himself forward, falling to his knees next to the motionless body, and pulls the witcher’s pack toward himself. He briefly wonders how come the unconscious man doesn’t have a horse when he realises the scent of horse is indeed present. When he looks up to take a critical look around the cave for the first time, he spots the midnight black stallion, standing just on the witcher’s other side.

He freezes for a moment, but the horse doesn’t move, and Jaskier silently thanks Vesemir for making him beat those blankets. It means he smells thoroughly of Roach and the other horses, scents that are likely familiar and safe to the black stallion, despite not knowing Jaskier.

“Right,” he murmurs, scrabbling to open the pack and saddlebags in search for the witcher’s stash of potion-filled vials. “Liquid sunshine, please have some liquid sunshine, where are you?”

He finds the vials, and for lack of time, shakes them out onto the floor of the cave, careful not to break any. Many of them are empty, and others are filled with liquids of various consistencies and colours. None of them are shimmering gold. 

“Fuck!” he exclaims loudly, his panicked voice echoing off the cavern walls. Martin adds his soft, tittering sound, and Jaskier ducks his face down to receive the rough lick of the marten’s tongue over his chin. “Shit, Martin, what do I do? What can I do?” he says, voice tight with fear.

He looks at the witcher’s pale face, and notes the crescent scar etched into one side of it. He knows who this is, and he knows he can’t let him die. He thinks back carefully on what Geralt told him of the blood thrall. An anticoagulant poison that activates based on distance, leaving a blood trail for the predator to follow. 

He bites his lip, panicked thoughts racing through his mind. He has an idea, but he’s not sure it will work. With how slow and weak the witcher’s heartbeat is though, he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

In nature there is often competition between predators. If a blood thrall ensures that the predator doesn’t lose its prey, it would make sense that if another predator bites that same prey, their blood thrall superimposes over the one that was already there. And since Jaskier is in close proximity to the witcher right now, it would mean the proximity based anticoagulant would remain dormant.

He clenches his hands into fists on his thighs, digging his nails into his palms to stop himself from shaking. He’s really quite unsure it will work. After all, Geralt hadn’t stopped bleeding once Jaskier was close to him again. Then again, he hadn’t re-bitten the witcher, so there’s no way of knowing if that would have done anything. There’d been no need, since there’d been Golden Oriole in Geralt’s stash. 

He quickly scans the vials again, making sure there is absolutely no liquid sunshine he’s somehow missed the first time he looked. 

When Martin titters, he suddenly remembers ripping open his own wrist and feeding the marten his blood. Martin drank from him in the forest that first time, and again after the werewolf fight. Both times, the little marten had healed. Jaskier looks at the inside of his own wrist, and then back at the witcher. He slowly shakes his head. He can’t feed the witcher his blood. Not if that is how humans turn into vampires. He’s not sure witchers could turn, really, but Jaskier can’t take that chance. He won’t subject someone to his fate, not even if it means letting them die.

He slowly reaches forward to take the witcher’s hand in his own, shocked at how cold his fingers feel, and brings his wrist up to his mouth. He takes another deep breath of Martin’s scent, focussing on the purpose of the bite. All he wants to do is impose his blood thrall over the one that’s already there. He doesn’t want to take any of the witcher’s blood. Not a drop. Melitele knows he needs all he has left. 

Heart pounding in his chest, he carefully curls his lips away from his fangs, and bites down. As soon as he does, he thinks he can taste the presence of the vampire that bit the witcher before him, and he lays all his focus and will into the bite. 

Mine, is the thought that reverberates through him. 

Chapter Text

When he pulls his fangs from the witcher’s wrist he carefully laves his tongue over the punctures. His bite isn’t bleeding. He looks at the cuts along the witcher’s arms and the one on his abdomen. The trickle of blood has slowed, and as he watches, it stops. For a few agonising seconds he’s convinced the witcher is no longer bleeding because his heart has ceased to beat. Then there is another thump, stronger than those before, and Jaskier sags in relief. 

It worked. The bloodthrall that had the witcher dying is gone, and now all Jaskier needs to do is remain close enough for his own to keep from activating, at least until he can get him to the keep to have some liquid sunshine.

He bends forward, intent on the largest gash in the witcher’s abdomen, wondering if he should stitch the wound closed before attempting to move him. The witcher’s next heartbeat follows the previous much more quickly. It could have been a warning, and Jaskier really should have learned to pay attention to such things by now. But, he’s distracted by thoughts of lugging an unconscious body all the way up the killer, wondering if the horse will let him get close enough to let it carry the weight. He trails his fingers over his bite on the witcher’s wrist, lingering over the strengthening pulse, checking to make sure it’s scabbing over.

The fingers in his twitch, and before he can respond they pull out of his grip and shoot forward to wrap themselves securely around his throat. The hand squeezes, palm and fingers large enough to reach the back of his neck. 

A strangled noise is punched out of him, pressure on his larynx making the sound hoarse and wheezing. He scrabbles against the strong grip and his eyes fly up to meet burning amber irises, hot like fire. 

Predictably, Martin darts forward out of the neck opening of his thick winter coat, intent on biting the limb just above him. The witcher is quicker though. He sits up, and his other hand shoots forward to grab Martin by the scruff, the little marten screeching and scrabbling as he pulls him from his warm spot against Jaskier’s chest. 

He wraps both hands around the witcher’s wrist, using all his strength to barely diminish the pressure of his palm against his throat. There’s the fleeting thought of using his lilt, but he thinks that wouldn’t convince him he’s here to help, at all. 

“Don’t,” he wheezes instead. “Don’t hurt him!” He lets his hands drop away, and shows his palms, hoping to convey he means no harm. 

Amber eyes flit between him and Martin, and when the witcher’s nostrils flare, his dark brows climb toward his hairline. He seems to consider Jaskier for a moment, taking him in. “I’m going to let you go,” he rumbles, voice as deep as Geralt’s. “But know I have no qualms about burning you. Or him,” he says, jerking his head toward Martin.

Jaskier nods quickly, and when the witcher unwraps his hand from his throat it hurts to swallow. He tries to suppress coughing painfully, reaching out his hands for Martin. “Give him to me,” he says, and hears the edge of steel in his tone, even if the words come out hoarse.

Martin is hanging from the witcher’s hand by the scruff, still twisting and screeching, and Jaskier can’t help but make a slightly pained noise. Amber eyes widen a little at that, and he gets Martin dropped into his hands. He carefully pulls him against him, tucking him back into his coat. Martin curls up against his chest, but pops his head back out of the collar to make a hissing sort of growl in the witcher’s direction. Jaskier ducks his head over him, hiding him from that intense, burning gaze. 

“If you try to cast igni at him I will leave you here to die,” he hisses between his teeth, and Martin adds another growl.

“Feral things, both of you.” It’s not said meanly, more curious than anything, and when Jaskier meets his eyes Eskel flares his nostrils on another inhale. “Now, why do you smell like I’m not the first witcher you’ve met?” he rumbles, and Jaskier wishes he could stop blushing every time someone mentions he smells like Geralt’s.

—000—

The fire is crackling between them, and not once has Eskel looked away from him. Martin seems determined to do the same, the little marten’s head resting just above his collar, shining black eyes following the witcher’s every move. Every now and again Martin releases a growling hiss when it seems like Eskel is reaching out a hand to him. Jaskier dips his chin down, gently rubbing between his ears. 

He has explained the situation as best he can, but he has no idea if Eskel believes any of it. The witcher has quietly listened to him, periodically pulling in another breath through his nose as if he wants to check, before shaking his head a little. 

“So you met Geralt in spring, you travelled together, and he brought you here,” Eskel murmurs. “And you so happen to have a blood thrall that you managed to superimpose over the one inflicted on me.”

Jaskier fidgets a little. “About that. I understand a blood thrall is not a super common thing in vampires. It seems rather a large coincidence you got bit by one that has the exact same ability, the exact winter I’m here.”

“Hmh. Too much of a coincidence,” Eskel answers. 

Jaskier scrapes a fang over his lip in thought, the witcher’s intense amber eyes following the movement. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I think that means if I hadn’t been here, this wouldn’t have happened to you.”

“It also seems like it’s not a thing you’d have any control over. So an apology isn’t necessary. Especially not after you kept me from bleeding out. Because that is what you were doing, isn’t it?” Eskel says with a raised brow.

“I— yeah. The blood thrall takes effect through the bite. I saw no other way of stopping the bleeding, so I thought I’d try.”

The witcher nods slowly. “I’m glad it worked. Thank you,” he says. Then he tilts his head. “You were unsure it would though?”

Jaskier fidgets again. “Not like I’ve ever tried it before, so no. I wasn’t sure.”

“Hmh. You took quite a risk then.”

“How so?”

“They’ll be able to smell your bite on me. If I had kept bleeding and died, it would not have ended well for you.”

Jaskier stiffens a little, and thinks about the other witchers up in the keep. He hopes Geralt at least would have believed him, even if Eskel had died. The fact that he’s not entirely sure is more painful than he’d like to admit. 

“Your control is good. It would have been easy to take some of my blood, but you didn’t. Has Geralt been feeding you?”

There’s none of the anger or suspicion in his tone that had been present in Lambert’s, and Jaskier nods hesitantly. “Don’t worry,” he says. “He’s not under my blood thrall, liquid sunshine cancels it out. You just didn’t have any, so that wasn’t an option.”

“Liquid sunshine?”

“Oh, uhm. Golden Oriole. It just kinda looks like liquid sunshine so that’s what I call it.” Eskel looks at him, and for the first time, he smiles. It’s an amused, friendly thing, and it makes him a whole lot less intimidating. Jaskier feels some of the tension he didn’t know he held leave his shoulders. 

Eskel gestures at the wounds on his arms and abdomen, no longer bleeding, and the frozen puddles of blood on the cavern floor. “So you’re not too bothered, not too hungry?” he asks. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “If you’re asking if you’re in any danger of being bitten again, you aren’t. I wouldn’t bite to take your blood without permission.” He immediately clacks his teeth back together, heat rushing to his face. He wonders what on earth possessed him to say that . He’s never so much as hinted at taking blood from any of them other than Geralt, after all. 

“Good to know,” Eskel says simply, and starts rummaging through his pack, eventually pulling out a suturing kit and extending it to him. “You know how to suture?” he asks, and Jaskier shuffles closer slowly, muttering reassuring words at Martin when the marten titters in concern. 

Eskel holds carefully still as Jaskier pulls the needle and thread through the skin of his abdomen. He’s reminded of how he stitched the gash on Lambert’s forearm just a couple of days ago. Lambert had bitched about it, but Jaskier has learned that if nothing else, the redhead can be fairly dramatic about certain things. Eskel on the other hand seems utterly unbothered by the pain of the suturing. He knows they endure much worse out on the path, but the fact he doesn’t even blink at something like this is rather disheartening. He looks up at him from under his lashes, and finds the witcher studying him intently. 

“So how did you get bitten in the first place?” he asks, putting in another careful stitch.

“I was heading home, so I wasn’t paying enough attention. Got jumped,” Eskel answers, and Jaskier gets the feeling the witcher doesn’t want to tell him everything. 

“And the vampire, are they— still alive?” he asks tentatively while frowning down at the wound.

Rough fingers tilt up his chin, and he’s glad to notice they’re already much warmer than they’d been when Jaskier had first found him. He shifts a little under Eskel’s gaze.

“Why do you want to know, Jaskier?” the witcher says slowly. “You didn’t call it here, did you?”

His mouth falls open in surprise. “What? Eskel— no. No, I didn’t.” He doesn’t know what else to add to make the witcher believe him, so he says no more. Eskel looks at him, amber eyes shifting over his face before nodding and letting him go. 

“Alright,” he rumbles, and lets Jaskier finish his stitching. 

When all of Eskel’s wounds are wrapped, Jaskier leans back. Martin had hidden below his coat while he was close to the witcher, but now pops his head back out.

“I’m sorry if I scared your little creature. And you,” Eskel rumbles. 

“Ah, no, that’s quite alright,” Jaskier answers quickly. “I understand. You wake up and the first thing you notice is a vampire hanging over you after just being jumped and bitten by one. I shouldn’t have been surprised, and I should have kept a little more distance.”

“Hmh. Is your throat okay? I know I squeezed— quite firmly.”

When Jaskier looks at him, he thinks Eskel looks guilty. Uncomfortable at the fact he might have hurt him. He shakes his head and smiles at the witcher. “It’s fine,” he says, carefully not mentioning the fact it still hurts when he swallows. “I do have a question though. You said you’d burn us.” And there it is again. Definite discomfort in the witcher’s expression, as if he regrets the threat. Jaskier ploughs on. “Is fire something that’d kill a vampire?” he asks. 

Eskel’s eyes narrow. “I think you’re aware by now I’m not likely to burn you, unless you do something extremely foolish. So why do you want to know?” he asks. 

He debates lying, but shrugs and spills the truth. “It’s why I went looking for a witcher, and how I found Geralt. I thought one of you would be able to kill me. Geralt won’t tell me how you kill vampires.”

There is understanding on Eskel’s face. “I’m not telling you either,” he says, and Jaskier nods. Eskel doesn’t have to tell him, the fact he won’t is answer enough. 

—000—

Eskel manages to hoist himself up but sways slightly, and Jaskier quickly inserts himself under  the witcher’s arm. Warm amber eyes gaze down at him for a moment. When Martin makes a soft, startled noise, Eskel slowly reaches out his hand toward the little marten. Jaskier can feel Martin wanting to duck back into his coat, and makes a gentle, soothing noise in the back of his throat which, to his surprise, is quickly picked up by Eskel. Martin titters questioningly, and Jaskier reaches his own fingers forward to stroke over the witcher’s, to show it’s okay. When Martin eventually cautiously snuffles against Eskel’s fingers, Jaskier spots the slight curve of the man’s mouth, and can’t help but grin back. 

Outside the cave, the wind howls, and the light that falls through the smoke hole in the ceiling indicates it’s just past midday. Jaskier scents snow on the air and looks doubtfully between the witcher and his horse. 

“Don’t you think we should take time to have you become a little stronger, and wait out the storm before heading up?” he asks.

Eskel shakes his head. “I’m already recovering. If we don’t go up now, we won’t make it up at all before first thaw. I cut it close this year.” His expression shifts from determined over into something gentle. “If you hadn’t come down, I would have died here, and they would have found me in spring.”

There is something dark and painful that turns over in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach at those words, and he shakes his head in denial. “Let’s not talk about things that could have happened. I smelled you, I came down, you didn’t burn me into a crispy piece of vampire ash. All good. But you’re sure? We can’t wait it out?”

“It’ll be difficult enough to get up now,” Eskel says. “The killer will be untraversable soon. We should go.”

Jaskier listens to the howling of the wind again, and hopes they won’t get blown off the mountain and end up in a ravine somewhere. “At least we can’t be followed then,” he murmurs, and feels the witcher stiffen against him.

“Yes,” Eskel says. “At least there’s that.”

—000—

Eskel walks in front, guiding his large black stallion who apparently goes by Scorpion. Jaskier wonders what it is with witchers naming their horses after bugs. Scorpion is a beautiful horse with a shining black coat, and he thinks he almost looks like a smooth, shimmering shadow, contrasting starkly against the white of the snow. He closes the line formed by the four of them, Martin tucked safely against him, hiding from the icy conditions. 

The longer they walk, the more he lags behind. He’s so, so cold, and he thinks that despite feeding from Geralt not two weeks ago, the phasing down the mountain cost him too much energy. 

Eskel looks at him over his shoulder a couple of times before pausing, waiting for Jaskier to catch up. When he reaches scorpion, the witcher takes his cold hand in his, and curls his fingers around the leather strap of the horse’s tack. 

“Don’t let go,” Eskel says, yelling to be heard over the storm. It’s loud enough to nearly drown out his voice, and makes it hard to understand, even with enhanced senses. 

Jaskier nods, and when they start back up again, he tries to keep pace without much success. He suspects Scorpion is actually taking a large part of his weight, half dragging him along. The horse doesn’t seem to mind though, and he just focuses on clinging onto the stallion.

He has to admit Eskel was right. The storm is raging all around them and shows no signs of letting up whatsoever. If the witchers are to be believed, once the gales start they don’t back down again until spring. Had they waited, they would’ve been stuck in that cave for the rest of winter. 

He squeezes his eyes against the large cold flakes that pelt against his face. He’s always thought that snow was soft, but the cold wind whips it into a frenzy, and it almost feels like they’re turned into frozen pellets, cutting into the skin of his cheeks. If it wasn’t for Scorpion’s dark colouring, the world around them would be startlingly low in contrast. It’s hard to tell where they’re going, and he’s having a little trouble telling what’s up and what’s down.

As it is, Jaskier is glad to be guided, trusting Eskel and Scorpion to know the way up to Kaer Morhen. His feet slip every now and again, his hold on the horse’s tack the only thing that keeps him from falling. It has him worried, afraid that if he falls without a firm enough grip, he won’t even be able to see if he’s in danger of tumbling down a drop. He remembers from walking up the mountain with Geralt that there is more than one sheer cliff they have to cross on their way. 

When Eskel stops walking after what seems like hours, Jaskier feels frozen to his very core. The only warm spot on him seems to be where Martin is curled up, just over his heart. 

“Are you doing okay?” Eskel yells back at him. 

He tries to keep his teeth from chattering as he yells back, leaning against the stallion. “I’m alright. It’s not me who was bleeding out only recently. Let’s keep going.” 

Eskel frowns at him, the scar on his face reddish with the cold. Jaskier doesn’t have time to react before the witcher is suddenly next to him. He’s lifted up, Eskel’s large, hot hands closing around his waist under the winter coat, and gently deposited in Scorpion’s saddle. He shivers violently, and gratefully retracts his arms into the main body of his coat. Martin’s tongue feels like the lick of fire against the cold skin of his fingers.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long it takes for them to get up the rest of the way. He thinks he might just miss some time here and there, and he’s not quite sure when it got dark. Suddenly the howling of the wind sounds more distant and the air around him is significantly warmer, saturated with the scent of horses. 

There is a loud whinny that might just be Roach’s, but he’s too tired and too cold to open his eyes.

Chapter Text

Jaskier isn’t there when they break for lunch. Vesemir has set up the meal for them, but the old wolf is off doing some repairs himself. The bard was set to work in the stables, while the three of them are repairing bits and pieces of the outer wall. Geralt debates going out to get Jaskier, but the bard doesn’t actually need to eat, and will come in if he needs either a break or warmth. 

They head out again, and make quite some headway. While they’re working it gets steadily colder, and Geralt hopes the vampire has finished his chores with the horses, and is curled up in front of the fire with Martin. 

“Fucking gale’s picking up,” Lambert grouses, pausing with a heavy boulder in hand to look up at the clouds darkening the sky. “Eskel better hurry his ass up the killer, I’m not going down there to drag him up.”

Aiden pauses next to him and smacks a kiss to Lambert’s cheek. His brother tries to twist his head to catch the cat’s lips, but Aiden laughs and dodges away from him. “You’d so go down to get him if you had to,” Aiden says, and Geralt chuckles. 

“It’s enough to let Eskel haul himself up the trail. Don’t make it so he’ll have to lug Lambert back up too,” he says.

Lambert scowls at him and deposits his boulder into the right place, if only to have his hands free to make a rude gesture in his direction. “Just for that, you’re the one getting him if he gets stuck,” his brother grouses.

“Let’s get this finished so we can go in and warm up,” Geralt says. He sees Lambert take in the way Aiden nods gratefully at the suggestion, and if he works a little harder because of it, bitching all the while, Geralt won’t be the one to call him out. After all, he’s working just as hard himself, hoping to warm up in front of the fire with Jaskier leaning against him. 

They work until a little after dark, and when they’re done, both Lambert and Aiden head inside. Geralt decides to quickly visit Roach before resting, and makes his way along the outer wall toward the stables. The gale is a full blown winter storm now, and in the dark with large snowflakes raging all around him, he keeps his fingers on the wall as he walks, despite his enhanced vision. 

When he reaches the stables he hears something flapping in the wind, and turns in that direction, frowning. Dark silhouettes of horse’s blankets ripple in the gale where they’re slung over a sturdy rope. He rolls his eyes. Jaskier probably left them to air out, unfamiliar with the weather up in the blue mountains and the fact that once it starts storming, it will take a long time for it to stop. 

He gathers the blankets over his arm, looking down in the direction of the killer. Eskel is always late, but he hasn’t ever cut it this close. Lambert might be right. They might really have to go down and see if he’s stuck somewhere. Not until morning though. Right now it’s too dark and too cold to head out. 

Roach is rather cranky when she greets him, lipping at his forearms, using her teeth to get through the thick cloth until she manages to pinch his skin. 

“Roach,” he rumbles. “Jaskier not give you enough apples?” He makes his way over to one of the sturdy jute bags in a corner and gets her one of the dried fruits. When he offers it to her, she just bumps her face into his hand and whinnys loudly. He shakes his head and drops it into her manger before heading inside.

He’s grateful for the fire’s warmth that pervades the kitchen, and his eyes are automatically drawn to the thick woollen rug in front of it. It’s one of Jaskier’s favourite spots. The bard often sits and plays there after dinner, basking in the heat of the flames. It’s empty though, and there’s no music to be heard. 

“Didn't you bring the bard with you?” Vesemir asks, setting a large iron pot filled with a hearty soup on the table. “Tell him to come inside. It wasn’t meant to take him this long.”

“Stables better be spotless if he’s still going at it,” Lambert grunts.

Geralt shakes his head. “He’s not in the stables.”

The others freeze, and all of them tilt their heads as one, listening for the bard’s presence somewhere in the keep. 

“He could be exploring somewhere?” Aiden suggests. “Labs, library, one of the towers maybe?”

“Hmh. He wouldn’t go to the labs. He doesn’t want to get close to the dagger. Explore is something he’d do, but—”

“What is it, wolf?” Vesemir asks. 

“The horse’s blankets were still outside. And he didn’t come in at midday.” He inhales deeply. The scent of Jaskier lingers around his favourite spot in front of the hearth and his seat at the table. But it’s old. No more recent than this morning. The bard hasn’t come back in after going to complete his chores. Geralt is sure of it. “He’s not here,” he grits, and the others rise.

“Check inside first,” Vesemir orders. “Lambert, labs. Aiden, towers. Geralt, library. I’ll get torches ready in the meantime to place outside. His eyes are sensitive to light, it might help him find his way back.” 

“Did he get any blood after your first evening here?” Aiden asks, looking at Geralt. 

He shakes his head.

“Fuck. Leechy is gonna get cold fast then,” Lambert grumbles. “I’ll get Golden Oriole from the labs while I’m down there.”

In the stables Roach neighs loudly, and there’s the sound of a door slamming closed. 

—000—

At first, Geralt doesn’t know what to make of what he sees and smells when he storms into the stables. He is fully prepared to scold Jaskier for wandering off like that, fear of the bard being lost on the wintery mountain driving his anger. 

Jaskier’s scent is accompanied by Eskel’s and Scorpion’s though, and he’s hit with bone deep relief that at least the foolish bard managed to get himself found and brought back to the keep. When he finally looks at Jaskier, he curses. 

The bard is pale and has his eyes closed, looking like he’s barely conscious where he’s seated on Scorpion’s back. Eskel looks weaker than he should too, and there is something about his brother that smells, not unpleasant, but slightly— different. 

With a start he realises what it is. The scent of Jaskier’s bite is on him, and he has a moment of apprehension as he wonders if Eskel is cold because Jaskier has taken his blood. But no, if that were the case the bard should be warmer than he is, awake and talking at least. Of course, behind him the others smell the same. 

“I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but that’s really fucking hard right now,” Lambert growls. “Esk, he bit you?”

Eskel nods slowly, reaching up to get Jaskier from the saddle. Lambert curses, but remains in place, Aiden’s hand on his shoulder. When Geralt looks at Vesemir there is a frown between his brows, and the old wolf has his arms crossed over his chest. Whatever happened, if jaskier bit Eskel, the bard has some explaining to do. He struggles a little with the surge of protective anger that rages through him, half of it for his brother, half for Jaskier. 

The bard doesn’t open his eyes and hardly responds to being moved off Scorpion’s back. Geralt is sure that if Eskel let him go, he’d crumple to the ground. He steps toward them, reaching for him. 

“He’s yours isn’t he, wolf?” Eskel asks. 

Geralt curls his hand over the bare skin at Jaskier’s nape, and feels how cold he is. “He’s mine,” he confirms. “What happened?”

“Saved me,” Eskel says firmly, looking over Geralt’s shoulder at the others. “Smelled my blood from all the way up here, went down the killer, and kept me from bleeding out. Cost him though. He’s too cold. He became too cold a while ago.”

“We’ll need more explanations. Later,” Vesemir orders from his place by the door. “Get him inside, and get him warm.”

Geralt scoops Jaskier up, holding him against his chest. Martin pops his head out of the bard’s collar, snuffling against his chin, making a concerned chirping noise. 

—000—

Jaskier can’t think of anything but being cold. He’s vaguely aware he’s being moved and that there are voices, before he loses some more time. When he manages to become aware of his surroundings next, he’s intensely grateful to be a little warmer. He’s pressed against a wall of heat, strong arms slung around him, his face pressed against the firm plane of a muscled chest, only a thin layer of cotton separating him from skin.

He inhales deeply, and when he smells Geralt’s familiar scent he lets himself sag into the witcher’s heat more firmly. He tries to speak, but his words come out slightly slurred.

“Shh, Jask,” Geralt murmurs against his ear, carding fingers through the hair at his temple. “Get warm first.”

Jaskier wants to listen to him, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. Something vital. He was out in the storm, on the killer, but he wasn’t alone. Martin was with him, and so were Eskel and Scorpion. He grabs onto Geralt’s shirt, the grip of his fingers weaker than he’d like. His eyes are still closed, and he just can’t seem to open them. 

“The— the others,” he manages to force out, fighting against the cold inside him trying to pull him back under. There’s a soft rumble coming from behind him, and he suddenly realises that while he’s pressed against Geralt’s front, there’s a firm, equally hot body settled all along his back. 

“We’re fine, bard,” another voice murmurs, breath hitting the back of his neck, and he feels goosebumps erupt all along his skin. He shivers, and both bodies press a little closer.

“Eskel?” he asks hopefully.

“Right here,” the witcher answers. “Scorpion is safely in the stables, happy to see Roach again, and Martin is doing fine. I never thought I'd see it, but I think Vesemir has actually caught him a mouse.”

Jaskier manages a weak chuckle, before he lets himself relax and drift back into an exhausted sleep. 

The next time he wakes up he actually manages to open his eyes. He blinks a few times, and sees Geralt’s golden irises stare down at him, concern etched between his brows.

He shifts a little, and realises that he’s still sandwiched between the two witchers. They’re lying on the rug in front of the kitchen fire, and when he lifts his head he can see he’s in a nest of them. Geralt is against his front, Eskel against his back, and behind each of them lie Aiden and Lambert. When he looks around he spots Vesemir sitting in a comfortable chair just off to the side, Martin curled up on the old witcher’s chest, purring every now and again when Vesemir scratches him. 

“Oh,” he says softly. “I figured you’d all be angry with me, but I guess you aren’t? Not that I think you should be” he says quickly. 

“Hmh, not angry about you biting Eskel. He explained,” Geralt says. 

“I was really fucking angry for a second there,” Lambert admits in his gruff voice. “We could tell Esk lost a lot of blood. Should have known it wasn’t you.” 

Jaskier blinks a few more times, meeting Lambert’s yellow eyes before smiling. “Aw, Lamb? Does this mean you trust me?” he says teasingly. 

Lambert snorts. “You’re warm enough if you can say sentimental shit like that again,” he says, extracting himself from behind Geralt to stand up. It’s only when he does that Jaskier realises the warm hand on his hip had been his. 

Aiden laughs, another hand pulling away from his side as the cat jumps up to punch Lambert in the arm. A punch that is quickly caught in the redheaded witcher’s palm. “Yeah, leechy,” Aiden says. “This is him apologising for jumping to conclusions. He’s more sentimental than any of us. He just pretends not to be.”

This time, it’s Lambert who cuffs Aiden on the back of the head, and Jaskier chuckles. “Thanks,” he says. When Vesemir clears his throat he cranes his neck to meet his gaze. The old witcher is looking at him intently. 

“Eskel says he would have died on the killer if it hadn’t been for you. We’re all grateful you’re here, bard,” the old wolf says, fingers scratching Martin under the chin.

Jaskier feels himself flush and ducks his head. “I—” he begins. “You shouldn’t be though, he might have only gotten hurt because I’m here,” he says uncertainly, forcing himself to speak. 

Geralt growls low in his chest, fingers tightening slightly in his hair. “You only control your own actions. You can’t take responsibility for the deeds of others,” he says firmly, pulling Jaskier’s head back a little to make him look at him. He swallows under the intensity of Geralt’s golden gaze, managing a slight nod. 

“Listen to him, Jaskier. Witchers know a thing or two about trying to carry the weight of the world in responsibilities,” Aiden says. “Especially wolves. Now cats? No such compulsion. Not that we’re better for it,” he trails off, green eyes suddenly staring off into the distance. It takes Lambert slinging his arms around his waist and pulling him back against his chest to shake him out of it. 

Vesemir rises from his seat, gently dropping Martin into Jaskier’s outstretched hands. “We’ll speak more on that tomorrow. Nothing is coming through that storm for the foreseeable future. Any later and you four might not have made it back up. Time for bed. Geralt, maybe you take your bard to the springs for that last bit of heat?” he says, turning and leaving the kitchen. 

—000—

Jaskier gasps and slaps his hand into Geralt’s shoulder. “Dearest witcher of mine,” he says. “I’ve been here two whole entire weeks and you’ve so far neglected to take me here? Hot springs are definitely better than mere fires!”

“Hmh. I wanted it to be a surprise. Wanted to have you settled first.”

Jaskier grins at him, leaning against Geralt’s bulk. “That’s sweet, love,” he says, looking at the cavernous space filled with steam. There’s quite a few baths with whitish blue water, clearly saturated with minerals. “Why so many pools?” he asks. 

“Different temperatures. Hot to cold,” Geralt answers, jerking his head in the direction of the basins.

There is something in his voice that makes Jaskier twist around in his arms. “Darling?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” He sniffs carefully and thinks he gets a mixture of frustration, anger, and fear. “I— I thought you said you weren’t angry with me. If you are, I’d rather know. I mean, I don’t understand it, even Lambert isn’t angry with me for biting Eskel, and Lambert is— well, Lambert.”

Geralt growls. “I’m not angry because you bit Eskel.”

Jaskier thinks he hears what the witcher means in what he doesn’t say. “So you are angry with me,” he murmurs, and raises his hands at Geralt in a confused gesture. “Why?”

“Jaskier,” the witcher says, and suddenly the smell of his anger is overwhelmed by the scent of his fear. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this was? I am beyond grateful you saved Eskel. But did you even stop to think how I would—  What if Eskel killed you? I would have found you, both of you, dead in that cave come spring.” He briefly bares his teeth as he talks, looking away from him as if he can hide the emotion Jaskier sees in his golden eyes.  

“Oh, love,” Jaskier says. “I’m sorry to have scared you. But I’m not sorry I went. I might have gotten one of you, but I didn’t think there was any time.”

Geralt presses his large palms against his cheeks, cradling his face, his gaze intense. “Just promise me you weren’t reckless with yourself because you still want to die,” he growls. 

Jaskier shakes his head, curling his fingers around Geralt’s wrists. “No, love. I promise.”

He carefully doesn’t say anything about the fact that if he did still want to, he now knows how to do it.

—000—

Geralt carefully takes in Jaskier’s face, heartbeat and scent. There’s nothing about the bard that betrays it as a lie, and he briefly closes his eyes.

“Alright,” he says, trying to push down the feeling of dread he hasn't yet been able to shake since the moment he realised Jaskier was gone. The vampire is still far too cold under his fingers, and he slides a hand to cup the back of Jaskier’s head, pulling him into his neck. “Drink,” he orders, and feels Jaskier clasp his hands together behind the small of his back. He doesn't reach around to restrain him, and when he eventually  pulls on the strands of the vampire’s hair, it's enough to have him stop. “Get in,” he says, making an effort to have his voice sound something other than angry. He thinks he only half succeeds. But, Jaskier smiles a soft smile at him, lips tinged red with Geralt's blood, and his blue eyes are understanding.

Jaskier gets naked quickly, and he's relieved to see he is no longer so very pale. Instead, there is a flush spreading over the bard’s face and down his chest, reaching all the way to the rosy pink of his nipples. When he drops his undergarments Geralt can see how the softness of his cock is starting to fill out, and feels the answering thrum of arousal in his own veins, slight prickles of pleasurable electricity spreading from Jaskier’s bite.

Jaskier wades into the water, a paradoxical shiver travelling down his spine at the heat of it. He turns to sit on the ledge of rock below the water, leaning his head back against the stones. Geralt lets his eyes travel over the long, exposed column of his throat. He doesn't know if he imagines it, or if he sees the faintest imprint of a large hand pressed into Jaskier’s skin.

He undresses and wades into the water, feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him. He comes to stand between the bard's thighs, towering over him. Jaskier's blue eyes quickly drop down over his chest, lingering on his erection before swallowing. Geralt carefully watches the bob of his Adam's apple.

“Warm enough?” He asks, and Jaskier’s lips curl in a smile, revealing the edges of his fangs.

“You always manage to get me a bit hotter still,” he says, voice holding a thrill of excitement.

“I—” Geralt begins, unsure how he means to finish.

“I understand, love” Jaskier says for him, and rises up out of the water to press himself against him. Geralt has to fight to keep his hands gentle on him, and knows the bard can feel the tense pressure of his fingertips despite it. “Take what you want, darling. Anything you need,” Jaskier breathes against his lips.

“Hmh. Getting rid of fear through fucking isn't gentle,” he says.

Jaskier shrugs. “Maybe you're not the only one who needs to get rid of it,” he says softly, leaning in to press a kiss against the edge of Geralt’s jaw. “I don't want you to be angry with me. I don’t want you to fear for me. If it’s what you need, I want you to get lost in me” he whispers.

Geralt surges forward to kiss him then, knowing on that last count at least, he's already hopelessly gone.

He breaks the kiss and turns Jaskier around by the grip on his hips. He settles the bard on his knees on the submerged ledge, and presses him forward onto the stone, sliding his hand up from between his shoulder blades to grip the back of his neck and hold him down. 

The breathy moan Jaskier lets out echoes through the hot springs, and has Geralt’s cock twitch where he presses it between the bard's cheeks. When Jaskier moans again, he leans forward to whisper in his ear. 

“Do you want it, bard?” 

The vampire shudders in his hold, heartbeat quick, loudly pounding out the rhythm of life in Geralt’s ears, mirrored by the beat of his own.

“Yes! Yes, I want it, Geralt,” he says, and he hears nothing but certainty in his tone.

“Of course you do,” he growls. “So fucking hungry for me. So fucking pretty like this, Jaskier.” He thrusts forward while he says it, the head of his cock catching on Jaskier’s hole, and the bard whines . 

He's pliant in Geralt’s grip, letting himself be held down. He knows the stone edge of the basin must be digging into his hips, but when he scents him, Jaskier smells of nothing but lust and excitement.

He reaches for one of the bathing oils, and pours a large measure onto the bard’s back. The curve of his spine holds a little puddle of it, and Geralt swipes his fingers through while winding his other hand into Jaskier’s hair to keep him in place. 

He presses his fingers inside more quickly than he usually would, and feels Jaskier twitch around him. The bard does nothing more than moan though, so he keeps going until he uses all three he's worked inside him to press down onto his prostate.

The man below him positively wails at the sensation, spine curving despite the hand in his hair.

“Ready for me?” Geralt grits out, unwilling to actually hurt Jaskier by taking him too soon.

“Yes, please, Ger—”

The sound of his name from Jaskier’s lips breaks off on a groan as he presses inside his bard in one smooth, continuous slide. Jaskier is panting beneath him, lips soft and parted, a sheen of sweat forming along the gentle knobs of his spine. Geralt leans forward to taste it from his skin, and pulls out halfway before thrusting back in, driving the bard forward with the force of it.

He sets a punishing rhythm, losing himself in the sight, sounds, and smell of Jaskier below him. When he pulls the bard’s cheeks apart he can tell his hole is already starting to get puffy, but when he presses his thumb to it, all it does is have more of the scent of Jaskier's arousal spread in the hot, moist air around them.

When he feels his orgasm approaching he uses the hand in Jaskier’s hair to pull him up, back to chest. The bard’s eyes are slivers of blue surrounding blown pupils, and he moans throatily at the change in angle as Geralt drives into him harder. His cock is flushed, curved up against his belly, and a pretty enough sight that Geraly briefly slides his hand over it, eliciting a soft whimpering noise. He lets it travel upward over Jaskier’s chest, hearing his breathing hitch, before gently settling his palm over the slight shadow of a handprint he'd spotted on his throat.

He doesn't exert much pressure, but Jaskier lets his head lol back onto his shoulder in response, baring his throat even further. When Geralt bites the skin just below his ear, the bard’s hand comes up to curl around his wrist.

Geralt expects him to pull away his hand, and is fully prepared to let him. Instead, Jaskier just presses down, increasing the pressure against his throat, and shudders as he comes, squeezing around his cock with every pulse of his pleasure.

Geralt growls and surges forward, spilling deep in Jaskier’s ass, one hand wrapped around his throat, the other wound into his hair, turning his head so he can take that red, pleasure slack mouth in a kiss.

Chapter Text

Geralt knows his brothers and Vesemir see the way Jaskier is warm and flushed as they arrive at breakfast the next morning. There’s no doubt his blood is the reason for it, but there is nothing that indicates they disapprove. Even Lambert smells mostly relieved when Jaskier bounces over to his customary seat with Martin clinging to his shoulder. 

Geralt sits next to him and takes the plate of warm porridge Eskel hands out. He sees Eskel hesitate with the next plate in his hand, clearly unsure if it will be impolite to skip Jaskier. The bard sees it too, and shakes his head with a smile.

“I only take small bites for taste. I don’t really need to eat, after all,” he says. 

“You take bites?” Eskel asks in surprise.

“I like the taste,” Jaskier answers. “Speaking of flavour,” he says, eyes sliding over to Geralt. “Think it might finally be time to bring out one of those jars you bought?”

Immediately, every witcher in the kitchen directs their attention to Geralt. They have all seen the jars of honey he procured with the extra money from the season, and have pleaded for them to be opened. So far Geralt has refused, arguing to keep them until Eskel arrived. His brother is here now, and the honey would make a nice addition to the porridge. 

He nods at Jaskier and the bard grins, quickly making his way over to the large pantry. When he passes Vesemir he plucks Martin from his shoulder to drop him in the old wolf’s lap. Vesemir looks surprised, slitted eyes following Jaskier for a moment, before he scratches the little marten between the ears under loud, appreciative purring. 

Aiden laughs and leans his shoulder into Vesemir for a moment. “If I had known that’s all it took to have you warm up a little faster I would have brought a pet sooner,” he says. 

“One cat is quite enough,” Vesemir grumbles, but does briefly cup Aiden’s jaw. 

It has taken a few years, but Aiden is firmly integrated into their little family now, and they would miss him like a missing limb if he were to suddenly disappear. Vesemir never says it with so many words, but the gesture is affectionate, and they can all smell the way Aiden feels the same. 

“So. He eats. That’s unusual isn’t it?” Eskel says just as Jaskier reappears in the kitchen, jar of honey in hand. 

“I don’t really eat,” the bard argues. “It’s more that I taste. I think I’d miss it otherwise.” He opens the jar of honey, carefully distributing a spoonful across each plate of porridge. The spoon still holds a dribble of the sticky treat, and all of them eye him attentively. Jaskier laughs as he takes in the way they’re looking at him. “I guess Geralt’s not the only one with a sweet tooth,” he says, voice warm and amused. He twirls the spoon a little to keep the honey from dropping. “Eskel, darling, since you hauled us up the mountain after losing half your blood a little extra sugar seems rather meagre, but still.” He holds out the spoon to Eskel, who’s amber eyes widen in surprise.

Geralt grabs onto Jaskier’s hip, pulling him a little closer, but finds he can hardly be jealous when Eskel hesitantly takes the spoon from the bard's fingers, amber eyes briefly meeting his. Only when he ticks up the corner of his mouth in reassurance, does Eskel stick the sweet treat in his mouth. 

Across from them, Lambert grumbles. “We were out in the cold all day repairing the outer walls yesterday.”

Jaskier chuckles and points at the glistening honey where it’s drizzled over his breakfast. “And that’s why you got a treat as well. Don’t worry, tomorrow there’ll be another spoon.”

Lambert looks sufficiently mollified at that, briefly closing his eyes when he takes the first bite from his sweetened porridge. 

Aiden chuckles. “Guess you found our weak spot, leechy. A fondness for sweet things.” He winks as he says it, and though there is a slight warmth to Jaskier’s cheeks, he winks right back.

“Good thing I’m here to give you sweetness then,” he says.

When Geralt feeds him a small bite of his breakfast, Eskel speaks up again. “Not eating, but tasting. It’s still unusual. Vesemir?”

Vesemir nods. “It must be part of his line.”

Jaskier stiffens slightly next to him, and Geralt slips his thumb under the edge of his doublet to stroke soothingly over the skin of his hip. “About that,” he directs at Eskel. “The vampire that bit you. Did it exhibit any other skills? It would almost be too much of a coincidence if it weren’t of Jaskier’s line, but it would be good to have confirmation.” 

His brother’s amber eyes slide over to Jaskier for a moment, and the bard fidgets.

“If you want me to leave for this conversation, I will,” Jaskier says softly. 

Eskel shakes his head. “Stay, bard. Yesterday on the mountain we’d only just met, but—” he looks around the table for a moment, at Martin, still curled in Vesemir’s lap. He shrugs, “like Aiden said, we have a fondness for sweet things. When they’re genuine.”

This time, the flush in Jaskier’s cheeks is clearly visible, and Geralt watches the way his brother’s amber eyes linger. 

—000—

“So what happened?” Jaskier asks, using his shoulder for support.

Eskel leans his elbows on the table. “Got jumped. I wasn’t careful enough,” he says. 

Vesemir hums from his place at the head of the table, and all of them know there’ll be an extra training session coming their way soon. 

“In hindsight, I think they might have been following me for a while.”

“They?” Lambert growls. “You mean there was more than one?”

Eskel nods. “Two of them. It’s how they got the drop on me. One of them actually came out to talk. It used its lilt on me. When it turned out I didn’t have what they were looking for, the other dropped from the trees above and managed to bite me. They did a sort of— phasing thing.”

Jaskier swallows heavily. “That’s what I do,” he says, a note of dread in his voice. “What were they looking for?”

Eskel leans back, his amber eyes softening a little as they linger on the bard. “They were looking for a dagger, and the vampire that was made by it.”

There is a chorus of curses around the table, mixed with low, reverberating growls, and Geralt can feel the way Jaskier has gone rigid at his side.

“They were looking for the dagger and they were looking for me,” Jaskier says, his voice small. “So I really am the reason you almost died.” 

“Stop that, lad,” Vesemir orders. “Next time I hear you guilting yourself I’m going to have a list of chores for you so long there’ll be no room in your head for thoughts of anything else.”

Jaskier blinks a couple of times before ducking his head. “Yes, Vesemir,” he murmurs, and it’s enough to have the others chuckle, slightly lessening the tension that pervades the kitchen. Geralt is relieved to notice the scent of the bard's guilt is a little less pervasive after it. 

Vesemir sets Martin on the table, and the little marten scampers past their plates toward Jaskier and settles in his lap. The bard’s hands immediately start stroking the smooth, russet fur. 

“You let those fuckers get away?” Lambert grunts.

Eskel nods. “They ran after the one bit me. I was already out of time with the approaching storm, and they weren’t accosting me anymore. I have their scents though. I figured it had to wait till spring. I only noticed the blood thrall when it was already too late, and I dismissed the ramblings on the dagger and vampire.” He eyes Jaskier for a moment. “Unjustly, it seems.”

“What could they possibly want with me though?” Jaskier asks, pulling Martin against his chest. “I mean, I get they might want the dagger. If it calls to me it might call to them, too. But me?”

Eskel clears his throat. “I heard them as they ran away from me. There was something about the dagger containing the blood of the first. I think it holds power. It might be that because it made you, you hold that power too.” 

They’re all silent for a while, Jaskier staring off into the distance. Then suddenly, he stands up, resulting in a soft screech from Martin as he clambers onto the bard’s shoulder. 

“I have to leave,” Jaskier says, voice panicked, something wild in his eyes. 

Geralt rises quickly, hand curling around the vampire’s wrist. “You don’t,” he growls, not letting go when Jaskier tries to jank himself free. 

“What are you not getting? They want the dagger, and they want me. Eskel was under their blood thrall at least half way up the killer, which means they’ll get at least that far following the trail. If I leave now and take the dagger with me, I might be able to lead them away from here and—”

Geralt growls and lays his hand against the back of Jaskier’s neck, squeezing to have him halt his flood of words. “And then what, Jaskier? You think they’re going to ask you nicely to hand over that dagger?”

The bard shakes his head, mouth opening and closing without any sound leaving him. “Geralt,” he manages eventually, eyes flitting between the witchers surrounding him. “If I stay here, I’m going to put all of you in danger.” 

Eskel rises across the table, amber eyes intense as he looks at the vampire. “You forget who you’re amongst, bard,” he growls low. “We’re not letting a nest of vampires get their hands on that dagger, and neither will we let them get their hands on you.”

Aiden vaults over the table and crowds against Jaskier. “Don’t worry leechy,” he says. “You might already be Geralt’s, but if you want you can be ours too.”

Geralt sees Lambert and Vesemir nod in confirmation, and looks at Eskel. His brother swallows tightly before inclining his head.

“Yes, Jaskier,” Eskel says. “If you want, you’re ours.”

If one or two tears slip over the bard’s cheeks, none of them makes a mention of it. 

—000—

Geralt finds his brother in the library that afternoon. After Vesemir, Eskel is the one who reads the most, and he’s currently picking out all the books he can remember having information on vampire lore and lines.

Eskel has undoubtedly heard him coming, but remains high on the ladder, pulling a couple of thick tomes from their places on the uppermost shelves. Eventually, he can’t ignore him any longer. He climbs down and puts the books he gathered with the stack of others, already situated on the long wooden table to be perused. 

“Wolf,” he says cautiously. 

Geralt steps forward wordlessly and embraces him. He can scent Eskel’s surprise at the action, but his strong arms readily return the hug. “You’re alive,” Geralt rumbles, only now speaking the words of utter relief that have been lodged in his chest since he learned how close to death Eskel came. 

They firm their hold on each other at the same time, and Geralt notes that he’s not the only one who takes a deep breath to take in as much scent as he can. 

“I’m alive, wolf. Thanks to your bard.”

“I’m lucky to have found him,” Geralt says.

“Brave, feral thing he is,” Eskel murmurs. 

“Hmh, and sweet too, as you said.”

At that, Eskel steps out of the hug and shifts his gaze away. He rubs the back of his neck, a self conscious grin on his face. “Ah, about that. He is rather sweet, but I meant nothing by it.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t you?”

His brother frowns. “You know I wouldn't ever think of taking something that’s yours. Besides, we can all see and smell how that flower feels about you.”

Geralt lets himself grin. He thinks the endearment slipped out without Eskel meaning it to, and it’s telling. “Hmh. Maybe ask that flower how he feels about you calling him that, amongst other things,” he rumbles. 

Eskel’s amber eyes widen a little. “Wolf—” he says, breaking off. 

“Jaskier decides,” Geralt says. “You know I’m not one to share. Except with you. I’ll always share with you. If it’s what he and you would want.” He sees Eskel swallow heavily. There is uncertainty in his scent, but definite interest as well. 

“What about you, wolf? If you’re sharing, does that mean I get to share you with him as well?” Eskel asks, his voice carefully neutral. 

“Hmh. Jaskier decides,” Geralt repeats. “I’m not the one who stopped sharing myself,” he adds slowly, and sees Eskel bare his teeth in a grimace. 

“The sorceress wasn’t happy about it.”

“It wasn’t Yen’s decision. It was mine.”

“I didn’t want you to have to make it.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “I made it anyway, and lost you both.”

Eskel’s next breath hisses between his teeth, and he shakes his head. “You know you’ll never lose me. Not over that, not if the flower says no. Not— not if you say no.”

“I’m not saying no. I’m saying to call Jask flower to his face, and see what happens,” Geralt rumbles. He thinks he has a pretty good idea how Jaskier will respond to that, in fact. He just has to be sure the bard knows he’s more than fine with it. 

Eskel rubs his fingers over the scar on his face, sunken in thought, before he nods. “I’ll do that,” he says firmly, and the flare of pointed interest is hard to miss. 

Geralt steps forward and briefly curls his hand around Eskel’s before rubbing his fingers across his roughened palm. “You left a handprint on him,” he says softly, and Eskel winces as if he’s been struck. 

“I know, and I’m fucking sorry.”

“You didn’t tell us that happened. Neither did he. I don’t think he blames you.”

Eskel sighs. “He was leant over me. I think he was inspecting the cut on my abdomen, the one he stitched closed, later. To me, he was a vampire leaning into my space after I had just been bitten and nearly died. I had my hand around his throat before I could think about it.”

“Did he lilt you?”

Eskel shakes his head. “He didn’t. He used all his strength to lessen the pressure and told me not to hurt Martin. Fuck, he smelled scared, wolf.”

“Not for long though,” Geralt says, raising a brow inquisitively. Eskel’s eyes meet his, and he laughs, shaking his head incredulously. 

“No, not for long. Told me he’d leave me in the snow if I even thought of hurting Martin. And— and I didn’t tell you yet.”

Geralt frowns at the sudden smell of apprehension. 

“I threatened to burn him. Him and Martin. I didn’t confirm it to him, but I know you didn’t want him to know that’s how we kill vampires,” Eskel grits, rubbing his scar again. 

“If that’s what you said, then he knows” Geralt says, pushing down the unease that threatens to rise. Jaskier had tried to kill himself twice, and the only reason he hadn’t succeeded is because he hadn’t known how to die. 

“Shit,” Eskel says. 

Geralt shakes his head. “He would have found out eventually. Let’s give him enough reasons to live.”

—000—

Jaskier is amusing himself by playing a soundtrack to the hand to hand combat Lambert and Aiden are engaged in. They’re in the hall instead of the kitchen, the space large and open enough to have them training inside. Vesemir is standing off to the side, observing them, arms crossed over his chest and slitted eyes following every movement. 

They’re quite equally matched. Aiden is faster and more agile, and manages to slip away from Lambert’s grasp or dodge his hits more often than not. Lambert is stronger and more sturdy though, and uses his greater mass to his advantage. It means that the fight meanders, one of them having the upper hand, only to be put on their backs by the other. 

Every time it seems like either of them will win, Jaskier intensifies the rhythm and melody of his song, only to find that the other manages to wriggle free, and the fight will start all over again. 

“Maybe if you played something threatening instead of light and upbeat when I’m pinning him down, he’ll actually stay down!” Lambert growls after Aiden has managed to wriggle out from under him for the umpteenth time. 

Aiden laughs, spinning and vaulting to Lambert’s other side, his movements elaborate while the wolf witcher just turns efficiently. “You need music to beat me, Lamb? Don’t tell me you’re gonna need your own personal bard when we head out on the path next spring.”

Lambert grumbles, barely dodging the flurry of attacks Aiden bestows upon him. “I’d take him with me if I didn’t know I’d get you to sing for me perfectly well, kitten,” he says as he leers at Aiden. 

Jaskier laughs and plays a few quick chords, Vesemir just shaking his head with slight indulgent disapproval. 

“Pups!” the old witcher orders. “I want a conclusion within two minutes.”

The fighting changes because of it, and Jaskier stops playing to no longer distract them. It’s almost like they’re dancing, as if their movements are carefully rehearsed choreography. It looks like one is always anticipating any move the other makes, and Jaskier thinks it’s poetry in motion. He doesn’t notice he’s holding his breath until finally, Lambert gets a hold on Aiden the cat can’t break, and rolls the other witcher under him, forearm against his throat. 

Aiden laughs and leans up against the forearm to kiss the redhead. When Lambert hauls him up, he looks decidedly smug, but there’s a pink tinge to his cheeks. 

Jaskier grins and plays the chorus of the romantic ballad he’d only performed the previous night, and sees Lambert recognise the song. 

“Oh, fuck you, bard. If you’re not careful, I’ll be fighting you next,” the witcher says. 

“Hmh. Better not end the same,” Geralt says with a raised eyebrow as he sidles up behind Jaskier. 

He sighs and leans back against the witcher’s firm chest while looking at Lambert. “Of course not. I’d win, for starters,” he murmurs back at Geralt, and laughs when Lambert scowls spectacularly. 

He knows he wouldn’t win, not if it came right down to it. But, he’s not so sure Lambert would win either. As both Aiden and Lambert had found out in the stables, he’s quite fast, and he thinks that if he’s prepared to phase or lilt, he might just be able to stay out of their grasp indefinitely. 

Vesemir looks at him with interest. “We’ll see about that,” the old wolf says. “You’re joining training tomorrow.”

Jaskier flails and sputters a few half hearted protests, but he knows his big mouth made this happen, and there’s no getting out of it. He can feel Geralt’s smile against the side of his neck, and flaps his hand in acquiescence. “No swords though,” he says, preferring the game of dodge the witcher he played with Geralt over summer.

—000—

Vesmir has called them to the labs, and Jaskier is nervous to go. He knows the dagger is there, and he hasn’t seen it since Geralt wrapped it in black blood. He thinks he can actually feel it calling to him, even from this distance, and he fidgets. 

“We’ll be there, Jaskier. Don’t worry,” Geralt says, rising from his place at the kitchen table. 

Jaskier sees the witcher look at Eskel, somehow expectantly, and he turns to face the warrior. 

“We’ll wrap it back up if necessary,” Eskel says, “but it’s important you’re there for this.”

Somehow, Jaskier doesn’t think it's what Geralt’s expectant look was about. Still, he smiles at Eskel, thinking the witcher is really rather sweet. 

Just as they all are, he reminds himself.

He enters the labs between Eskel and Geralt. Lambert, Aiden, and Vesemir are already there. He heaves a relieved sigh when he doesn't immediately see the dagger laid out on the table. He can feel it though, as if his blood is suddenly thrumming with its presence so close to him. He can now recognise that it’s the same thrum that had made him turn around in that clearing and go back to get it. 

Vesemir opens a large tome on the table in front of them. Sketched out on one of the pages is a life-like drawing of the dagger that stabbed Jaskier all those months ago, the one he just knows is in the upper left drawer of the cabinet at the back. 

“You found it?” he says, leaning over the table to study the book. Whoever made that drawing was really rather talented. The intricate detail over the hilt is an exact replica, and the way the colours are an artful blend of black and crimson is as close to the dagger’s malignant shine as he imagines an artist can get. 

“Yes, quite sure this is it,” Vesemir says, tapping the top of the page. “Blood of the first,” he continues. “Just like Eskel heard.”

“So what line is it from?”

The old wolf raises an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you listen, bard? Blood of the first means it’s from the original vampire line. It’s no wonder you have a blood thrall, you can phase, and that your lilt is as powerful as Geralt described.” He points a finger at Martin. “Your little companion is no coincidence either. Granted, when the first bonded, it was with somewhat more fearsome creatures, but you've bonded with him nonetheless.”

“What? You mean Martin is not just a strangely attached little marten?” Jaskier squeaks, pulling Martin from his shoulder to hold him face to face with himself, little black nose so close to his he nearly goes cross eyed. He gets a lick of a rough tongue over his skin for his efforts.

Eskel shakes his head. “You fed him blood, didn’t you? That’s how the first bonded with their creatures.”

Jaskier feels himself stiffen. “Oh. You mean I took a normal life away from him?”

“The bond only forms with creatures who are dying and willingly take your blood to survive,” Eskel answers.

Jaskier slowly lowers Martin. “Ah, that’s how he found me. He was injured and hadn’t been able to hunt for quite a while, I think.” He carefully lets his fingers slide over Martin’s sleek fur, from snout to tail. “I’d not guessed he was dying, but maybe he was starving. He found me. I’d slit my throat, and when I woke up he was there, taking my blood.”

Both Geralt and Eskel release soft growls from either side of him at that, and Jaskier mindlessly pets both of them. 

“No need to grump about it now, I’m still here,” he murmurs, returning to stroking Martin while eyeing the dagger in the book. “So what you’re saying is that I could have bonded with any creature? You mean I could have gotten a— a wolf?” he says, glancing at Geralt’s medallion.

Geralt raises a white brow at him. “You’d trade Martin?” He asks. 

Jaskier gasps, affronted, and puts his hands over Martin’s ears. “Don’t even let him hear that, Geralt. I’m serious. Of course not!” He pulls Martin back around his neck while making soft cooing noises.

The witcher smirks at him. "Didn't think so.”

Jaskier has to severely suppress the urge to flip him off, and studiously does not meet Lambert’s eyes across the table. He knows that if he would, he’d certainly make the rude gesture the redhead taught him only yesterday. 

Vesemir pinches the bridge of his nose. “Focus, please,” he says, and Jaskier nods guiltily, redirecting his attention. “The first have been gone for a long time, and so were their artifacts. At least that's what we thought.”

“Wait,” Jaskier says. “You mean those who ambushed Eskel are not part of my line? I thought they had to be, with the blood thrall, and the phasing.”

“Hmh,” Geralt answers. “Technically they are, but their blood has thinned and mixed. They have the blood thrall and phasing, but not nearly in the same measure you do, or you wouldn't have been able to superimpose yours over theirs. There’s a few of them spread around the continent, but not many.”

“But then, why would they want the dagger, and why would they want me?” Jaskier asks, confused. 

“They want the dagger because it will grant them the power of the first. They want you, because they think your blood will grant them the same,” Vesemir growls low, and Jaskier feels his mouth drop open. 

His shoulders tense up around his ears. “So they're coming here for power,” he whispers.

“Not yet,” Vesemir answers. “The storms will keep them down in the valley,  but at the end of winter, when the thaw starts, we'll need to be ready.”

Jaskier rubs his palms over his face and rakes his fingers through his hair, shaking his head in denial. He feels sick at the idea. They want more power? To what end? They’re vampires, and they’re already so much more powerful than the humans they hunt. But he knows power in itself is enough of an attraction to some. He knows that to them, it could be worth pursuing regardless of the cost. 

“Can we even be sure?” he says, though he knows he’s reaching. “I mean, we’re not even certain that the dagger is what turned me. That’s just what we think happened.” Geralt’s hand slides up between his shoulder blades, coming to rest gently on his nape in silent support. Jaskier leans back against it gratefully. 

“There’s an easy way to test that,” Eskel says softly from next to him. 

He turns to look up into the witcher’s kind, amber eyes. “How?” he asks. Jaskier suspects that if Eskel is hesitant to speak of it, it’ll likely be something he’s not eager for. 

“We let the dagger show us,” Eskel says. “But that means you’ll have to confront it, and you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

He bites his fangs into his lip for a moment, and meets every witcher’s gaze as they stand surrounding the table, here to help him. It fills him with enough warmth and affection that he squares his shoulders and nods decisively. “If you’ll all stay with me and keep— keep me from grabbing it, then yes,” he says. 

“We were gonna fight tomorrow, but I guess I’m okay with fighting you now, if you were to insist,” Lambert grunts. 

Aiden slings an arm around his partner’s shoulders and grins at Jaskier. “You know, I did want a rematch for the way you evaded us in the stables. If that’s today, I’m good with it.”

Geralt’s hand is still on his nape, fingers squeezing softly, and then Eskel’s warm palm joins just below it, tips of his fingers barely brushing the bare skin above his collar. 

He meets Vesemir’s eyes across the table and nods. “Alright,” he says. “Bring it on.”

The old wolf regards him for a moment with his slitted yellow eyes. “It’s not easy to confront that which you fear,” he says slowly, and nods in approval. He walks to the exact drawer Jaskier has known all along holds the dagger, and takes it out. 

He feels his heartbeat increase and hears the thrum of blood in his ears, so similar to the sound of his prey when he’s hungry. Vesemir puts the dagger on the table, and Jaskier feels a pit of ravenous hunger open up inside him. He stares at it, and suddenly the others’ heartbeats are loud in his ears, the rushing sound of their blood overwhelming that of his own. 

On the flat surface the dagger moves from its still position, and spins until the hilt is pointed directly toward him. Jaskier wants nothing more than to take it. He blinks, and the world suddenly looks different, sharper, the red of the blade more intense. He knows without a doubt that his eyes are no longer blue, but crimson, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

Chapter Text

Geralt’s hold on his neck firms and Eskel’s hand slides from its position just below it to grip his shoulder. Jaskier stiffens, and feels his instincts scream at him to shake off their hands and make a grab for the dagger. All around him their hearts are pounding and their blood is rushing. He hungers for the dagger, and he hungers for blood. 

Martin snuffles against his ear, the noise seemingly insignificant, but familiar enough that it breaks through the overwhelming sounds of prey all around him. With a supreme effort of will, Jaskier drags his eyes away from the dagger on the table.

He looks up into Geralt’s golden eyes, and then glances back at Eskel on his other side. Both witchers are right next to him, their presence steady, their warm hands touching him. He has to swallow down the sudden wave of emotion at the trust they apparently place in him. Across the table, Vesemir, Aiden, and Lambert stand fast just the same. 

He isn’t alone. His instincts might be close to uncontrollable, but they’re here, and they won’t let him grab the dagger, just as they won’t let him hurt them. He takes a few slow, deep breaths, and reaches up toward Martin. The little marten titters softly, and licks over the pads of his fingers, tongue rough and warm. 

Jaskier closes his eyes, and takes in the scents around him. Other than the tempting call of their blood, they all smell familiar. Safe. When he blinks them back open, the way he sees the world has returned to normal, and the blade before him has lost some of the intense, crimson sheen it had before. 

“Alright,” he says, voice tight. “That wasn’t fun, but I think I’m back. I’m okay.” From either side, the witchers next to him step a little closer until Jaskier feels like he’s surrounded by them. Shielded. As if he’s something precious they’re trying to protect.

Vesemir holds out a hand to him, a small hunting knife clasped in his other. Jaskier thinks he knows what the old wolf means to do, and though he’s apprehensive about it, he lays his palm in the witcher’s outstretched hand. 

Lightning quick the tip of the silver hunting knife is dragged over the pad of his index finger, dark red blood welling up. The wound is small, and when the blood threatens to spill over, Vesemir turns his hand, hovering it over the vampire dagger in the middle of the table. It’s like they all collectively hold their breaths, and Jaskier imagines even Martin does so where the marten is poised on his shoulder. When his blood falls, it’s one perfectly round, dark crimson drop, and it lands in the middle of the blade. 

Smoke rises from the dagger, wafting up to the ceiling in a single, snake-like coil. At first it’s greyish, but then it turns vibrantly crimson. The blade itself seems to absorb the drop, and suddenly its edges glow with the red colour. Jaskier feels another surge of desire and his hand twitches against his thigh. Geralt and Eskel step closer still, and he thinks that even if he were to lunge for the weapon, he’d be doomed to fail with the way he’s sandwiched between the two of them. He shivers slightly, and he knows they can feel it. 

“What in everything under Melitele’s protection was that?” he says, and tries to ignore the way he sounds slightly hysterical.

“I agree, leechy. What in the ever loving fuck?” Aiden echoes him, joined by Lambert’s low curses. 

“ That , is confirmation,” Vesemir says matter of factly, and Jaskier swallows heavily. 

“It absorbed my blood,” he says slowly. “It wouldn’t do that if it wasn’t the blood of the first that made me, would it?”

Vesemir nods at him in confirmation. “It means you’re the closest vampire to the first, who’s been alive, for centuries.”

“Well— shit,” Jaskier says, his voice wavering slightly. “And getting the dagger, that will make them the same?”

Vesemir looks unsure. “Maybe. I suspect that’s what they think. We don’t have the resources or skill to find out if that’s actually what would happen. The dagger might make them the same, but it might also be that they need both it and—” 

“My blood,” Jaskier finishes softly.  The witchers around him growl low in response. He looks into Eskel’s amber eyes, a frown on his scarred face. “You think they’d kill me for it?” he asks. 

The witcher nods. “They would.”

“We won’t let that happen,” Geralt rumbles, golden gaze intense.

“Sure as fuck we won’t!” Lambert bites out. The redhead reaches forward, grabbing the dagger, and Jaskier holds his breath, shoulders tense, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does though, as Lambert holds the blade and carefully inspects it. “Can’t we just destroy it? Throw it into the fire or something?” he says, and Jaskier can see his fingers form the beginnings of the sign for igni. 

“Put it down, pup,” Vesemir orders. Lambert scowls, dark red brows pulling together, but obeys. “Think I haven’t tried that already?” the old wolf admonishes, and Jaskier blinks in surprise. 

“You tried to destroy it?” he asks.

“Of course,” Vesemir answers curtly. “These are not things we’d let exist in the world.”

Jaskier bites a fang into his lip. “If the blade holds the blood of the first, and I do too, maybe that means you shouldn’t let me exist either.”

This time Vesemir actually growls at him together with the others. “A list of chores, bard. Longer than you can finish this winter. I’m warning you.”

It’s startling, just like the first time the old wolf had threatened him with it. Jaskier can’t help but smile in relief. They have irrefutable confirmation of what he is now. It doesn’t seem to matter. 

“I think it’s time we call upon our acquainted sorceresses,” Vesemir says, and Lambert grumbles loudly, though Jaskier now knows well enough by now to notice the lack of heat in it. 

“Triss,” Geralt says. “Maybe Yen.”

“Both of them,” Vesemir says. “Let's hope they know more about how to destroy a thing such as this.” His yellow gaze goes to Jaskier again. “Or at least know more about what it would mean if other vampires got a hold of it, or you.” 

Jaskier swallows heavily. In his experience, mages are hardly ever good news, but then again, those were the tales he’d heard about witchers, too. 

—000—

At Vesemir’s order they gather for training in the hall after breakfast. Jaskier smells nervous, for all his bravado the previous day. He might be used to fighting Geralt, but he can understand the idea of joining five witchers for training can be rather intimidating. 

It’s why he steps forward first when Lambert does, grinning at his brother in challenge. Lambert’s eyes spark with interest.

“Protecting your bard, Geralt? Whatever for? You know he said he’d win. Won’t you let him demonstrate?” The redhead smirks at Jaskier behind him, and Geralt smiles when he hears Jaskier’s inhale, ready to retort.

“What’s wrong, Lamb?” the vampire says, tone teasingly innocent. “Not sure you’ll be able to give me a challenge if Geralt tires you out first?”

Lambert’s smirk widens. “Just you wait and see, Jaskier. You might have evaded me once, but I’m onto your tricks now.”

Jaskier laughs and Vesemir clears his throat to get their attention. “Alright, boys. This morning is just to see where we’re at after a long season. Lambert and Geralt, as you’ve volunteered, you’re up first. First one to put the other on their back wins.”

It takes a very short time for Geralt to twist around his brother and floor him with a well aimed kick to the back of his knees. Lambert grunts and almost manages to get back up, but his leverage is better since he’s standing, and next thing he knows Lambert is looking up at him from the ground. 

“The fuck, pretty boy?” his brother grouses, and Geralt knows his grin is slightly feral. 

Vesemir looks on with interest. “That was quick. Again,” he orders. 

They do it five times, and each time, though not as quick as the first, Lambert lands on his back. The redhead’s scowl increases until he’s red in the face and absolutely glowering with frustration. He springs back up after his latest loss and points at Geralt accusingly. 

“How in all hells did you get faster? When we left after last winter it wasn’t like this!” Lambert grouses. 

Geralt grunts in amusement and jerks his head in Jaskier’s direction. “Been sparring with him, all summer. He’s fast,” he says, ticking up the corner of his mouth. He sees the sudden calculation in Lambert’s eyes as he looks over at Jaskier. 

The bard, for his part, looks up at him and tilts his head in curiosity. “Darling, here I was thinking you were just indulging me when you said I challenged you.”

“Hmh,” Geralt considers. “It’s a challenge to get a hold of you, Jask. Once I do though…” He lets his voice trail off and sees the heat rush into the bard’s cheeks. 

“Hey! No flirting while training,” Aiden admonishes, looking between Geralt and Jaskier and Vesemir. “Last time I did that I had to run laps.”

Vesemir folds his arms over his chest, looking at Jaskier. “You’re up, bard. Let’s see what you can do.”

Jaskier fidgets a little as he steps forward, and Geralt can smell the small spike of nerves. He thinks Vesemir can tell too, because the old wolf changes the rules just slightly. 

“Jaskier, today you just evade. Lambert, you try to get a hold of him.” He looks at the vampire. “Remain free as long as you can. Go.”

—000—

Jaskier is prepared for Lambert to lunge. What he’s not prepared for is the witcher doing so even before the word go has died on Vesemir’s lips. Jaskier knows he’s fast, and the fact Geralt thinks so too fills him with a strange sort of pride. It doesn’t mean Lambert is a slouch though, not by a long shot. He’s caught off guard by the witcher’s early start and can’t help the soft, adrenaline fuelled squawk of fright that leaves his mouth as he barrels toward him. 

The adrenaline helps, and the world around him comes into slightly sharper focus. His muscles seem to move seemingly without his conscious input, reacting to the coming threat. Lambert almost gets him, but Jaskier drops down instead of twirling to the side as the witcher clearly expected, and he feels fingertips barely brush through the hair at the top of his head. He rolls away from Lambert and springs to his feet, leaping a little to put more distance between them. 

Lambert turns around to face him, and grins. “Almost got you there. Bet pretty boy wouldn’t like it if I grab you by the hair though, so you’d better be faster.”

Jaskier knows Lambert is trying to distract him, to catch him off guard again. It almost works, even though it’s not his words that draw his attention away from him advancing, but the growls he can hear coming from Geralt and—  and Eskel? huh .

He forces himself to not glance at either witcher, keeping his eyes on the redhead. When Lambert lunges again, he’s ready for him.

It’s not as hard to evade Lambert as it had been to evade Geralt, the last time they did this. Over the summer Jaskier has gotten used to the way Geralt moves, his little tells, and the manner of attack he prefers. With Lambert, he has no such foreknowledge, and a few times it gets him very, very close to being caught. But, where he knows what to expect with Geralt, the witcher also knows what moves Jaskier himself likes to employ and where Lambert does unexpected things, so does Jaskier.

The adrenaline and the fact he manages to keep evading the witcher, who curses more creatively every time, gets him giddy, the adrenaline giving him a sort of high. When Lambert again manages to move in close enough he could potentially grab him, Jaskier just barely manages to dart away and he can’t stop the exhilaration from bubbling out of him with a joyous cry. 

“Lambert, you’re out. Aiden. Go,” he hears Vesemir order and barely has the time to become aware of the cat entering the fray behind him, his opponent suddenly on his other side, as Lambert steps back to let Aiden take over. 

“Let’s go, leechy!” Aiden says after Jaskier needs to employ a sort of tumbling roll to keep from getting caught in his arms. 

Aiden fights entirely differently. Jaskier knew, of course. He’d seen Aiden and Lambert fight only yesterday, and had noted the contrast in their styles. Just like with Lambert, he manages to evade the cat, but he gets very close a couple of times. From the side he hears Lambert yell instructions for the cat to follow, and has to suppress his grin when Aiden just seems miffed about it, deliberately doing the exact opposite of what Lambert tells him. 

“Aiden, you’re out. Eskel. Go,” Vesemir says after some time has passed and they seem to have reached a sort of equilibrium in their movements. 

Where the other two had charged, Eskel approaches slowly, burning amber gaze on Jaskier, pinning him in place. Helplessly caught, like a deer that freezes as the wolf advances, he just stands there, looking at all that coiled strength moving toward him. 

“You might want to move, flower,” Eskel says, and however much he would try to convince himself, the thrill that bursts in Jaskier’s chest can’t entirely be attributed to adrenaline. 

There is heat in his cheeks as he retreats a few steps. He goes backward in a straight line, laughably easy to predict, laughably easy to catch. His heart hammers behind his breastbone and he licks his tongue over the sharp edges of his fangs. He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that he might just not be opposed to being caught by Eskel. The witcher had called him— had called him flower. It has warmth gathering low in his belly and he’s suddenly reminded of the way Geralt whispers Jask in his ear sometimes.

Jaskier swallows and shifts further backward, Eskel still advancing. When he flicks his eyes over to Geralt, his wolf looks on with interest. Golden irises meet his, and Geralt gives him a small shrug of his broad, muscled shoulders. Jaskier doesn’t know what it means, but he does know that the moment he took his eyes off Eskel, all pretense of moving slowly disappeared. 

He’s closer to the wall behind him than he realises, and he cannot go further backward. He can only go left or right. Eskel moves frighteningly fast for his size, and Jaskier thinks that going sideways is too predictable. He’s let himself be cornered, and only something unexpected will get him out of it. Instead of retreating from the advancing witcher he jerks forward, moving toward him. He jumps and actually manages to use Eskel’s strong thigh as a foothold, vaulting back toward the wall to push off of it higher up and land somewhere behind the witcher. When he looks over his shoulder Eskel has turned around, a feral grin on his scarred face. 

Evading Eskel is somehow harder than it was with Lambert and Aiden. It reminds him more of how it is with Geralt. Still, jaskier manages to stay clear of him for quite some time, the adrenaline rush overwhelming the uncertainty of that moment in the beginning. 

When they’re both on opposite sides of the hall, Jaskier panting with exertion and Eskel’s amber gaze sharp, but steadfast and calm, Vesemir speaks. Jaskier expects him to replace Eskel with Geralt, but that’s not what he does. 

“Right. Geralt, join Eskel. Go.” 

Jaskier turns to Vesemir to gape in affront, and the old wolf raises a challenging brow at him. 

“Two against one, really?” he shouts as he barely manages to dart past the witchers advancing on him in concert. 

“Just curious to see how fast you can really go,” Vesemir says matter of factly as Jaskier ducks under Geralt’s hand only to almost fall right into Eskel. 

He manages to evade both of them through speed and sheer luck, and then once again feels frozen in place. They are facing him, both large and strong, both intimidating, and really, a more beautiful sight than many Jaskier has come across. Their colouring is a lovely contrast, Eskel’s hair so dark it’s almost black where Geralt’s is white. Their gazes are intensely focussed on him, golden and amber, and he can see how their pupils are slightly expanded. 

As he stares, they glance at each other, seeming to communicate without words. Then they split slightly apart, and advance.

Jaskier tries, he really does. But evading one witcher is hard enough, two is nigh on impossible. Getting caught is an inevitability, and when he does, it’s by both of them. 

He doesn’t know how they orchestrated it, something to do with their silent witcher communication or witchery senses, he’s sure. Suddenly he’s between them, both of them close, and he has nowhere to go but up. He tries, of course, but then Geralt’s grip closes over his hips from behind, pressing him back down. Eskel is in front of him, and the witcher’s large hands wrap around his wrists. The hold isn’t tight, but unbreakable, and Jaskier knows there’s no way he’s going anywhere, no matter how much he wriggles. 

His heartbeat is quick with exertion and his breath comes in pants. They are close already, and they step closer still, as if they’re shielding him from his surroundings. He can’t help but bite a fang into his lip, the press of their bodies against him giving rise to an entirely different thrill. Jaskier feels slightly embarrassed, though he knows they won’t fault him. He can’t wholly help his body’s reaction, but to respond like this in between two witchers who can smell exactly what it is he’s feeling, well. It’s not his most proud moment, let’s keep it at that. 

Geralt is pressed in behind him, and he feels the witcher’s chest expand as he inhales deeply, the tip of his nose just barely brushing his ear. He swallows tightly and leans his head back against Geralt’s shoulder while chancing a look up at Eskel through his lashes. Eskel’s bright amber eyes take him in, and he doesn’t know if he reads too much into their predatory glint. He thinks he sees Eskel’s nostrils flare too, but then Vesemir breaks the moment. All in all it’s been mere seconds he’s been caught like this, both witchers quickly releasing him and stepping away, but it leaves him reeling. 

“Since it takes two of you to catch him, I have no other option but to conclude you’ve gotten slow. Since we have a battle coming our way in spring, training will be every morning,” Vesemir orders. 

Jaskier finds that after they’ve let him go, he misses the sturdy warmth. Not only at his back, but his front, too. He rubs his cheeks in embarrassment and scurries to the side, holding his lute in front of him, idly plucking the strings. Only when the others are set to sparring, Eskel with Lambert, and Aiden with Geralt, do the random notes converge into the melody of a nervous love song. 

—000—

That evening after dinner Jaskier briefly retreats to his and Geralt’s room to replace one of the strings on his lute. After he’s done he smells faintly of rosin, and rummages in his pack until he finds the two small glass vials with their cork stoppers with tiny flowers carved in them. He carefully puts a drop of each into his palm before rubbing his hands together and dragging his fingers through his hair. The scent of rosin isn’t entirely gone, but he supposes it’s a rather pleasant mix together with the faint notes of lavender and wildflowers. 

He thinks back to that morning’s training session. The way his game of dodge ended manages to have heat prickle across his skin every time he thinks about it. He hopes neither witcher is angry because of what happened, at what they could undoubtedly smell on him. Granted, they didn’t seem upset, but Jaskier is not entirely sure what to make of the way Eskel had looked at him, or the way Geralt had just— shrugged? 

He bites his lip as he thinks of the final sparring session between the two witchers. Eskel and Geralt move together in a way that speaks to their history, the fight more like a dance than anything. Jaskier knows from what Geralt told him that they went through the trials together. They've been family for decades. Jaskier can’t—  he won’t stand in the way of that. Not if he can help it. Not even if it means breaking his own heart. 

When he returns to the kitchen, lute in hand, Vesemir is situated in his customary armchair close to the fire, with Martin curled up on his chest. The little marten lifts his head as Jaskier enters, and he pets him briefly between the ears. Martin yawns, licking his pointed canines, and curls back up to continue sleeping. Jaskier huffs a laugh, and suspects the low rumble coming from Vesemir’s chest is one of contentment. 

The four other witchers are all piled together on the rug in front of the fire, nothing more than an entangled heap of limbs. Jaskier isn’t entirely sure who’s hand wraps around his ankle as he sits himself down beside them, cross legged with his lute in his lap. 

“Any requests?” he asks softly, unwilling to break the tranquility of the warm atmosphere with anything loud. 

“You pick, bard. You’re better at it,” Lambert rumbles, voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Oh, play something romantic,” Aiden says, and his voice is only half teasing. Jaskier thinks he can see through the tangle how the cat is half sprawled under Geralt’s legs, his head resting on Lambert’s chest, mouth close to the base of the redhead’s throat. He half expects Lambert to retort and ask for something else, but the witcher just nuzzles closer to Aiden, settling his arm around him. 

Jaskier feels another hand curl around the ankle that’s still bare, thumb softly stroking along the bony protuberance. It makes him shiver a little, as he starts a slow, gentle melody. When he starts to sing, both hands are petting across his skin. He dares to glance down, and he has to admit it’s not a surprise when he confirms that Geralt is holding onto his right ankle, and it’s Eskel who’s softly stroking across his left. He blinks uncertainly and keeps singing, studiously ignoring the way goosebumps run over his skin in response to the soft touches. He’s aware there’s two pairs of luminous eyes watching his every move. He doesn’t know what it means. He has no idea if this is just normal witcher affection - not out of the realm of possibilities given the giant cuddle pile currently in front of him- or if it’s something else. 

He knows what he would like it to be though. He just doesn’t know if it’s foolish to hope.

Chapter Text

It’s a few days of comfortable winter routine later when Jaskier decides he wants to give his witchers a little treat. All of them have a penchant for sweet things, even Vesemir, but so far they’ve not indulged in anything more than the honey Jaskier drizzles over their breakfasts or stirs into their tea. He alternates which of them gets the spoon of honey afterwards, and Lambert pouts every time it’s someone else. It’s highly amusing that the witcher who gave him the hardest time in the beginning now looks at him with hopeful yellow eyes whenever he twirls the spoon to keep the honey from dribbling. Jaskier knows that he gives Lambert more than his fair share because of it, but the others don’t seem to mind much, since they only grumble about it a little, happy to indulge their brother. 

He knows there’s more than enough stuff in the pantry to make them something nice though. He just hopes he’ll be able to remember the recipes from some of his childhood favourites, and to keep from burning whatever he makes to a crisp. He announces at breakfast he’ll be spending time in the kitchen to bake something, and gets a lot of raised eyebrows in response. 

He huffs a little, trying to keep from pouting. “Hey! I was human for a long time, you know. Most of my life, in fact. Just because I’m now a vampire who doesn’t need to eat, doesn’t mean I don’t know what tastes good!”

“Maybe not, leechy,” Aiden responds. “But we heard enough from Geralt to know that he did most of the cooking out on the path.”

Jaskier slaps the back of his hand into Geralt’s shoulder in admonishment, but can’t keep the grin off his face. “You’ve been gossiping about me? Hope you sang some praises too, and didn’t just tell plain old lies,” he says, knowing full well they can hear the way his heart skips over that last part.

“Hmh,” Geralt hums, deliberately taking a bite of his breakfast so he can’t respond, but Jaskier sees the way his mouth curves.

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Regardless, I was hoping to bake something, which is different from cooking, I’ll have you know.”

“When was the last time you baked anything?” Geralt asks. 

“I don’t see the relevance of that question. Some things you don’t forget how to do. It’s a skill , darling,” Jaskier retorts haughtily. 

Across from him, Eskel laughs. “I’m sure it’ll be— edible,” he says, tone teasing. 

Jaskier tries to suppress the smile that wants to take over his face, and throws his hands up in mock frustration while he looks at Lambert. “And you? Do you have something clever to say too? I’m rather surprised you haven’t chimed in yet.”

Lambert looks at him consideringly. “Seeing as you’ve still to distribute honey into our tea… I’m sure that whatever you make will be a fucking delight,” he says, voice dead serious, though his grin is wide. 

It startles a laugh out of Jaskier, and he picks up the jar of honey to give them all a small scoop of it into their tea. When he’s done he offers Lambert the spoon, winking at him while the others protest loudly.

“What?” Aiden says, “that’s not fair, he got the last spoonful as well!”

Both Geralt and Eskel just look like kicked puppies when Jaskier glances at them. He sniffs. “This should teach you that flattery will get you everywhere,” he says. “You just wait and see. After you smell what I’ve made you’ll have to do some fawning, and I might consider giving you a piece, if you do it well enough.” He looks at Vesemir while he says it, silently asking for the old wolf’s allowance of his use of the kitchen. 

“Jaskier is baking after training today,” Vesemir says, nodding. “The rest of you, the south wall has a crack in it that needs fortification.”

Jaskier can’t help but blush a little in appreciation. They all know he doesn’t like to go out in the cold. He doesn’t think it’s a coincidence the witcher sets the others a task that needs tending far away from the keep’s warm hearths, just when Jaskier will not be participating in completing chores. 

—000—

After training and washing up with a quick dip in the hot springs, where he very carefully keeps his eyes to himself -surreptitious glances notwithstanding- Jaskier is in the pantry with Martin on his shoulder. He selects flour, sugar, and carefully takes an amount from one of the large butter bells. When he peruses the fruits stored in the pantry he remembers the way Geralt reacts every time he gets something sweet that contains apples. 

He quickly pops out the back door of the pantry, and shivers at the cold temperature. Even though he’s sheltered from the wind by the keep’s thick walls, it’s absolutely freezing, and he’s glad the others are alright with letting him be inside while they brave winter to mend their home. 

There is about a gross of barrels stored here, and it shouldn’t be surprising. Witchers eat a lot . He even thinks Geralt eats more now then he did while out on the path, as if being home and safe allows him to indulge in something so mundane as eating his fill. Jaskier doesn’t want to needlessly open those barrels that don’t contain what he’s looking for, and sniffs carefully. The containers are meticulously sealed and he has to get close to them to determine what they hold inside. He’s about nine barrels in when he finds the thing he wants. He pops open the top and grins. Inside are apples, perfectly preserved by the cold, their skins a mixture of greens overlaid with the flush of pinks and reds. 

When he gets back to the kitchen he carefully lays out his ingredients. There is a wood fired oven that will take a while to warm, and he quickly arranges the kindling while stacking some larger pieces around it. 

He searches for a while, but when he can't find anything to light the fire with, he smacks himself in the forehead in realisation. Of course. Witchers don’t need matches or flint to light their fires, not when all it takes is a small gesture and a little bit of magic. Innumerable times Jaskier has silently thanked Geralt’s ability to have a fire going within seconds while out on the path, especially when the end of fall was approaching and their nights had started to become bitingly cold. 

He turns his head to rub his cheek against Martin’s face where his buddy is still perched on his shoulder. “Find Vesemir for me, will you?” He asks, and the little marten clambers down his shoulder and leg, scurrying out of the kitchen. 

Jaskier is gathering pots and pans when the old wolf enters the kitchen behind him, Martin lounging on one of his forearms. “That’s an interesting method of fetching me,” the old wolf says to him, raising an eyebrow.  

He grins back at him, and doesn’t miss that Vesemir has a book clasped in his other hand, seemingly prepared to settle in while Jaskier bakes. He steps forward and rubs between Martin’s ears, but doesn’t take the little marten to perch back on his shoulder. “I just need your help,” he says. “I need the oven, but there’s nothing to light the fire with. Could you? I’ll make you some more tea now you’re here.”

Vesemir’s slitted yellow eyes rest on him for a bit. Then he shifts his book to his other hand, and very briefly cups Jaskier’s jaw. “You don’t have to bribe me with tea, bard,” he says, depositing both Martin and the book on the kitchen table and crouching in front of the oven. 

As Jaskier has come to expect, all it takes is a quick gesture of Vesemir's fingers and within seconds, a blazing fire is burning in the stove. Now all he has to do is actually prepare the apple cakes, put them in and take them out at the correct time. Easy enough. 

Vesemir rises again and looks at the ingredients he has laid out on the counter. “Hmh,” He says, inclining his head toward the apples. “Those are Geralt’s favourite.”

“I know. I found them in one of the barrels outside. I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s what they’re there for,” Vesemir answers him. “Wait one moment.” 

Jaskier watches curiously as the old wolf disappears into the pantry for a bit, and comes back with a paper bag in hand, one of the ones Geralt had bought just before they went up the mountain. Vesemir hands it to him, and he can already smell what it contains before he looks. “Dates?” he asks curiously. 

“Hmh. Those are Eskel’s favourite,” Vesemir says mildly.

Jaskier can feel the heat rush into his cheeks. “Ah,” he stammers, “I get why Geralt insisted on buying them then.” He hears the uncertainty in his own voice and looks studiously at the paper bag in his hands. 

“They don’t indulge themselves enough. None of them, but especially those two. Lambert has gotten better ever since he brought Aiden. I’m afraid I might have played a part in how they were taught to— to think it’s not what they deserve.”

He looks up at Vesemir with wide eyes, startled at the regret in the witcher’s voice.

“I think you’re good for them. They used to accept it from each other, Geralt and Eskel, but only sparingly, and not so much anymore. I think they’ll accept it from you. If you’re up for that, of course.” The old witcher shoots him a knowing look as he says it, and Jaskier swallows heavily.

“We’re not just talking about apples and dates here, or are we?” he murmurs. 

“Hmh. We could be. It all depends on what you’d want, bard,” Vesemir says kindly, and settles in at the kitchen table, opening his book. Martin curls up into his lap immediately, and starts purring as the old witcher strokes him. 

Jaskier busies himself making tea, thoughts whirling, setting a steaming cup in front of Vesemir. He smiles a little when the witcher briefly cups his jaw again in thanks, and then focuses on the ingredients set out. 

He could just make apple cakes. He spills some of the dates out of their bag, biting his lip thoughtfully. The way Vesemir phrased it makes it seem like the hope he has been carefully suppressing is not so foolish after all. It might be that Jaskier won’t be the thing that stands between Geralt and Eskel, but could instead be what they need to bring them together. 

In the end, he puts apple cakes into the oven, together with small, sticky date tarts. 

—000—

When Jaskier takes the baked goods out of the oven he is gratified to see they not only smell perfect, but they look perfect too. He carefully deposits them on the counter to cool and takes off the thick oven mitts.

“Leechy! I take everything back I may ever have said in doubt of your baking skills. That smells— like I could eat the entire lot of them, honestly,” Aiden says as he bounces into the kitchen, leaving a trail of melting snow behind.

Jaskier laughs. “Now, there’s that flattery I spoke of, keep it coming and I'll have no choice but to let you try one of them.”

Aiden's green eyes sparkle, and he starts waxing poetically on everything, from the way the pastries smell, to how they look, to how Jaskier himself appears rather edible in an apron, a streak of flour on his cheek and in his hair. Behind him Lambert enters, equally wet, with a frown on his face that disappears as soon as he inhales deeply. His yellow eyes dart between Jaskier, Aiden, and the baked goods.

“Is he deserving of a treat yet?” The redhead addresses Jaskier thoughtfully. “Otherwise, if you've gotten enough air blown up your ass, he was being all unreasonable outside. Might be welcome to have some of that flattery come my way.”

Jaskier grins, and raises an eyebrow at Aiden, who looks rather hilariously shocked at this turn of events. “Well?” Jaskier asks him, making an offhand gesture to the cooling treats. “You're getting one for sure, but as you can see I've made two different types…” he lets his voice trail off.

Aiden looks thoughtful for a second, and then basically attacks Lambert, tackling him to the ground, all the while whispering praises all of them can hear, and which are barely suitable for being uttered outside their bedroom.

Geralt and Eskel enter the kitchen next, clearly soaked and clearly cold, frowns of surprise on their faces as they barely manage to avoid falling over the knot of limbs that is Aiden and Lambert rolling over the floor. Jaskier notices when either witcher identifies the smell of their favourite sweet treat, their eyes taking on a sudden glint, and grins to himself, sidling up to Geralt.

“Love, I made you something,” he says softly. Geralt's smile is warm, even though his hand seems barely above freezing when he cups his face, thumb swiping over his cheekbone to wipe away the pale streak of flour there.

“Definitely makes working outside all day worth it,” the witcher rumbles, and Jaskier isn’t sure if he means the promise of apple cakes, or the way their kiss is a rather lovely contrast of Geralt’s cold lips against his mouth, still hot from the tea he just drank.

“I— I made apple cakes and sticky date tarts,” Jaskier says slowly, carefully tracking every emotion he can parse from Geralt’s expression.

“Hmh. I can smell that,” the witcher says simply, dropping another kiss to his lips. 

It leaves Jaskier a little unsure. The reaction seems decidedly neutral, even though Geralt knows that dates are Eskel’s favourite, and that Jaskier must have made those with his brother in mind. 

Geralt confirms it the next second, calling over to the scarred witcher. “Eskel, Jask made you something.”

Jaskier hears the involuntary squeak that leaves his mouth, and knows the others can hear it too. Before he can sputter an excuse, there’s a second large witcher next to him.

"It smells good, flower,” Eskel rumbles, reaching up slowly to brush over the part of Jaskier's hair that is still dusted with the baking ingredient. “How did you know dates are my favourite?”

Jaskier feels decidedly hot in the cheeks as he looks from Eskel to Geralt and back. “Uhm, Geralt bought them for you,” he decides. “So I thought they must be.”

He doesn't say that he'd only learned for sure this afternoon when Vesemir told him. He feels gratified to have said just the right thing when there is a surprised, pleased look Eskel sends Geralt’s way. He doesn't miss the low, satisfied rumble that vibrates against his back from where he’s leant against the white haired witcher either.

“Pups! To the hotsprings with you. It’s like you took half the snow with you when you came inside. A bit more time and the kitchen will become a bath. Out!”

—000—

Geralt groans under his breath as he submerges himself up to his neck into the water of the hottest spring. The others echo the sentiment, glad to warm up and have the heat relax their muscles after a long day in the cold. It was worth it though, the south wall is no longer in danger of deteriorating, and he has apple cakes to look forward to after dinner. 

Eskel settles next to him, leaning against his shoulder. Across from them Aiden has his head pillowed on Lambert, the cat’s eyes half closed, looking for all the world like he’ll fall asleep soon. Geralt knows he won’t. The cold doesn’t harm Aiden, but he doesn’t like it. The cat originally hails from the southern, hotter regions of the continent, and though he gladly winters in Kaer Morhen with them, he prefers the sun over the snow. 

“So,” Lambert drawls, yellow eyes sharp while he surreptitiously pulls Aiden a little closer under the water. “What’s up with the sticky date tarts? I can understand the apple cakes for you, pretty boy. But Eskel, what did you do to deserve a special treat?”

“Hmh. I did get bitten, nearly died, and hauled Jaskier back up the mountain you know,” Eskel says. 

Aiden snorts, not bothering to lift his head from Lambert’s shoulder. “That was a while ago. Also, you’re calling him flower.”

Eskel grunts, rubbing a hand over the scar on his face. “That’s what his name means.”

Geralt turns to look at him. “It does?”

Eskel rolls his eyes a little. “Jaskier is not a usual name, is it. You hadn’t thought to ask? It means buttercup. I doubt it’s his real name, I’m guessing he chose it for himself.”

“Flower,” Aiden says slowly, drawing out the syllables. “I guess it suits him, he’s a bard, after all. It’s a good name.”

Lambert growls a little under his breath. “Don’t you go calling him flower too. Buttercup is going to have his hands full with those two anyway,” he says, carefully taking in his brothers’ reactions. 

Aiden snorts. “If you’re going to call him Buttercup, then I am too,” the cat says, and gets another possessive growl out of Lambert. 

“Straying off topic here,” Lambert grouses. “Apple cakes and sticky date tarts. That mean what I think it does?” 

Geralt can smell the slight tendrils of longing on Eskel’s scent, and presses his thigh against his under the water. “Maybe,” he rumbles. “Esk and I have talked about it. But we haven’t yet talked to Jaskier.”

Lambert nods, and Aiden’s lids are a little more open, green eyes shrewd. “You better talk to leechy soon then,” he says. “You know when I first got here, I made some assumptions on you two. You don’t want him to come to the same - wrong - conclusion.”

Geralt just grunts, and Eskel softly clears his throat, fingers rubbing over his scar again. 

Aiden suddenly sits up straight, looking at them seriously. “I’m not kidding, wolves,” he says. “I know talking about feelings is not your thing, but Jaskier has tried to kill himself out of sacrifice before. I’m not saying he would again, but would he stay if he thinks he has no place here because his presence would come between the two of you?”

Geralt looks at Eskel next to him, concerned amber eyes meeting his. 

“Fuck, you better suck it up,” Lambert exclaims loudly, looking at the cat with wide eyes before regarding his brothers. “The Buttercup should stay here, and he shouldn’t feel like he’s too much. You two get your heads out of your asses and talk to him. He’s all but given you an invitation with those tarts!”

—000—

“To know what we’re facing at the end of winter and be prepared for it, we need you to use your powers, Jaskier,” Vesemir says. 

They’re in the hall, ready for that morning's training. The taste of the last of the apple cakes still lingers on Geralt’s tongue, and he looks over at Jaskier to see how the vampire takes that statement. Predictably, the bard fidgets, looking unsure. 

“Alright,” Jaskier says. “I can understand that. But using those powers does make me rather hungry.” The bard’s eyes flick over to him, and he releases a soothing rumble.

“We have enough golden Oriole that that’s not a problem,” he says, quickly glancing at Lambert to see the redhead nod in confirmation. 

“Yeah, and that’s all well and good for the blood thrall, but the phasing requires a lot of energy, which means if we truly want to practise I’d need to take a lot of blood. I don’t want to bleed you dry, love,” Jaskier says softly, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. 

Vesemir sighs. “You know I’m not just talking about the phasing, Jaskier. We need to practise with your lilt, too. Geralt told us it’s powerful. If we can work on resisting it, we’ll have a higher chance to resist the lesser lilt of other vampires without issue.”

Jaskier swallows heavily, and Geralt can scent his apprehension. So far Jaskier has only used his lilt a handful of times, and he knows it reminds the bard of forcing him out of the tub when he was bleeding out. 

“But taking vervain helps with that too, doesn’t it? Is it really necessary to practise if you can just take a few drops of the stuff?” the vampire argues.

“The vervain helps,” Eskel rumbles from Jaskier’s other side. “But if we’re going to have to resist repeated lilting, we need every edge we can get. Besides, some of us should refrain from taking vervain, just in case you need to be fed while we’re still fighting.”

Jaskier stares for a moment, but nods, rubbing his hands over his face. “I hate this. I understand it, but I hate it too,” he says, voice frustrated. “I don’t like the idea of lilting any of you, and it takes just as much energy as the phasing does. On top of that there’s my regular hunger for blood. Again— ” he says while looking at Geralt, a stern twist to his mouth, “I don’t want to bleed you dry.”

“You won’t be. Geralt is not the only one who can feed you,” Eskel says softly, and Geralt sees Jaskier’s eyes widen a fraction. 

The bard exhales a shivery breath, eyes shifting from Geralt to Eskel and back. “Yeah. Okay,” he says eventually. 

They show Jaskier how they axii each other first. Geralt forms the sign with his fingers, directing it at Eskel. His brother grins at him, and he can feel the slight yield of his mind as Eskel shows Jaskier what it looks like to comply. When he meets resistance it’s like slamming into a solid brick wall, and Eskel breaks through. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, eyes wide. “Is it like a lilt but through a gesture?”

“It might seem similar, but the origin is different. The origin of our axii is the same magic that powers our other signs. The origin of the lilt is the power your vampire blood holds. Resisting it is different from resisting axii,” Vesemir answers.

“How so?” Jaskier asks curiously. 

“Our magic recognises it when we’re under axii because we carry within us the potential for the same spell. Our magic makes us naturally resistant to being axii’d ourselves. We have some natural defenses to the vampire’s lilt, but less so. It’s why we take a few drops of vervain in the first place, when we think we’re going to encounter one.”

Jaskier taps his fingers to his lips, and Geralt has an idea of what’s to come. “Axii me first,” the bard says decisively. “I want to know what it feels like.”

Geralt steps forward. “As witchers we do have some natural resistance to the lilt.The mutations gave it to us. Vampires in turn are somehow quite resistant to axii. Still, I’ll know when you’re uncomfortable, and I’ll stop,” he reassures him.

“I know darling. I trust you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt forms his fingers into the sign. 

He sees the influence of the spell hit Jaskier, his eyes glazing over slightly. Jaskier’s mind feels different than Eskel’s or any of the others’. He can’t describe it as anything other than — bright , and for a moment he wonders who is influencing who here. Then he presses a command toward Jaskier, simple enough, to move toward him, turn in three circles, and move back. Jaskier’s mind bursts with colour, and the bard tilts his head. 

“Oh, but that’s interesting ,” Jaskier says dreamily. “It feels rather strange I must say. It’s like everything is unimportant, except the thing you’ve asked me to do. Like complying is all I need, to be…. perfectly content.”

Geralt presses the command forward more firmly, his magic surging through him. It just feels like Jaskier’s mind whirls around it, none of the yield followed by an insurmountable barrier as when it was Eskel under his spell. It’s like his consciousness is water, and Geralt’s axii is a set of hands, desperately cupped together to keep it from flowing away. 

He’s axii’d vampires before, but none of them have felt like this. He wonders if it’s a vampire thing, or if it has more to do with who Jaskier is as a person. He pushes a little harder again, and Jaskier steps forward, turns three times and steps back again.

“Very interesting,” the bard repeats, his voice losing some of that dreamy quality. “Try again,” he says, and Geralt reiterates the same command with a slight change. He pushes for Jaskier to step backward this time, before turning and assuming his original position. 

This time, Jaskier doesn’t comply. He just keeps standing there, meeting Geralt’s gaze, the cornflower blue of his eyes losing that glazed over quality bit by bit. He feels his hold onto Jaskier’s mind slipping. Instead of being pushed out as he was with Eskel, he just— disappears, until his axii has nothing to influence anymore, and the spell breaks. 

“Hmh,” rumbles. “You’re right, Jask, that was interesting. How do you feel?”

Jaskier’s mouth quirks in amusement. “Always so worried, darling. I’m fine. I feel fine.” He takes a deep breath. “Now, who am I lilting first?”

Chapter Text

Jaskier tries not to fidget as he poses the question of who to lilt first. He’s managed to make his voice come out confident, as if he has no apprehension about compelling them whatsoever. Fidgeting would just serve to undermine that. Geralt tilts his head at him, and he knows the witcher is fully aware of how nervous he is about using his lilt, on any of them. 

“Would it help if it was me, first?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier wrinkles his nose, thinking about it, before shaking his head. “No. Someone else would probably be easier. I think lilting you would remind me too much of when I accidentally did it. I’ll probably be able to do it so you can practise, but as I need to practise too, it’d be easier starting with someone else.”

“What about me?” Eskel asks. 

Jaskier tries his darndest not to flush. Lilting Eskel reminds him too much of lilting Geralt, and won’t be easy for him either. He opens his mouth to say so, when Aiden bounces forward. 

“Nah, leechy. Leave those big lumps of wolves alone for now. Why don’t you start with a cat?” The glint in Aiden’s bright green eyes is knowing, and Jaskier smiles at him in thanks. 

“Alright,” he says, bracing himself and facing Aiden.

“Start simple,” Vesemir orders. “Make the command for him to step forward, turn, and step back, just like Geralt did with you. Aiden, see how long you can resist.”

Jaskier breathes in through his nose, letting the familiar scents surrounding him bring him calm. He smells Geralt’s pine and leather, Eskel’s paper and thyme. Nothing can go wrong. He’s only lilting one of them, and the others are here should anything unexpected happen. He can do this. 

“Step forward,” he says, calling upon that part of him that’s always present, somewhere in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach, always hungering. He sees Aiden’s eyes widen a little, but the cat doesn’t move.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” Aiden says thoughtfully.

“Buttercup, either Geralt hugely exaggerated the power of your lilt, or you’re going at him with kiddie gloves. Out of all of us, pretty boy is more likely to understate than overstate, so treat us like the fucking witchers we are, will you?” Lambert growls at him. 

Jaskier raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “First of all, Buttercup?”he says, incapable of keeping the slight smile off his face and out of his voice. 

Lambert grins and shrugs. “Eskel told us that’s what your name means.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. When he looks at Eskel he knows his smile is even wider, and the witcher blinks his amber eyes, before smiling back. 

“It’s a good name. Buttercups are lovely,” Eskel rumbles. And just like that, Jaskier’s heart is back to trying to beat out of his chest. 

He diverts his attention back to Lambert to distract himself from the impulse to say something teasing and flirtatious, but he remains aware that Eskel’s eyes are on him, as are Geralt’s.

“Second of all,” he says, “give me a chance to work up to it, alright? The last few times I did it I was in a state of panic, and there was no moderation whatsoever. The purpose of this is to have you practise resisting. Not to overwhelm you to the point where resisting isn’t an option.”

“Aw, come on. I can take more than this though. Give me a challenge!” Aiden says. 

“Step forward,” Jaskier repeats a bit more strongly. This time, Aiden grits his jaw a little, but still shakes his head. 

“Nope. Not enough, leechy.”

Jaskier slides his tongue across the sharp edge of his fangs, debating how much more he’s willing to push. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. “Those other vampires aren’t going to take it easy either. You’re not helping us by holding back.” 

He rubs his hands through his hair in frustration. He knows Geralt is right. He looks at Aiden, raising a brow in question, and the cat nods at him to try again. “Step forward,” he lilts. This time, his voice is deep and layered, and he can feel the weight of it as it leaves him. He’s not said it with all his strength of will behind it, but it’s a damn sight more than he used before. 

As one, all the witchers in the room take a halting step toward him. 

“Oh, oh fuck,” he breathes, stumbling back a measure. He bites the sharp point of a fang into his lip, looking at the others with wide eyes. “Shit. I’m sorry. I went too far, didn’t I?”

“No,” Geralt rumbles, his jaw clenched and his golden eyes flashing. “Just— just a little strong, Jask. But that’s good. It’s good we know what that feels like.”

“But you already knew, and it was meant to only hit Aiden,” Jaskier says, the screech of his voice betraying his hysteria. He nervously bites his thumb nail. Slowly, one by one, they step back to their previous positions, and he’s exceedingly glad to see them move according to their own will.

“It’s your practice too, bard,” Vesemir says firmly. 

Aiden shakes his head a little, as if he’s getting rid of water lodged in his ears. “Come on, do it again,” he says. 

“Tell me what it feels like first.” Jaskier argues. He knows what it’s like to be axii’d now, and that’s far from unpleasant. He can only hope that getting lilted feels similar. They’re all quiet for a moment, and he has the sinking suspicion that’s not the case. “Melitele have mercy,” he says. “Please tell me it doesn’t hurt!”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Eskel reassures him. “It’s— a little like getting wrestled to the ground by a bigger, stronger opponent. We just have to find the way to slip through your grasp, and resist.”

The relief that he’s not actually hurting them is heady, but he’s still bothered by the fact the lilt’s effect is apparently so different from their sign of axii. He feels a little sick he’s pushing them down, pressing his will onto them. “It’s something else entirely, I understand that. But I'd hoped it would be like what I felt when you axii’d me,” he says quietly. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Lambert says with a grin. “It’s no different than sparring together. You think I’ve never wrestled Aiden to the ground? Or pretty boy for that matter? It’s all good. We’re just practising together.”

Jaskier inhales deeply, nodding, and after a moment catches onto what Lambert didn’t say. He thinks about it, and decides to tease. “I notice you didn’t mention Eskel,” he says, quickly throwing a wink in the scarred witcher’s direction.

“I’ll give you a heads up. If you wrestle Eskel and you let him get a good enough grip on you, you’re going down,” Lambert says with a knowing smirk, and Jaskier tries his utmost ignore the image of Eskel pressing him down - somewhere soft like a bed, or a bedroll - that flashes before his mind’s eye. 

“Good to know,” he says, careful to keep his voice neutral. When he chances another look at Eskel, the witcher looks at him with marked interest. He swallows and directs his attention back to the task at hand, firmly telling his brain to stop it with the imagery that will make the others smell exactly what he’s thinking about. “Aiden?” he asks, and the cat readies his stance, crooking his fingers in a come hither motion. 

“Yep, hit me,” he says. The way his expression is almost excited, like all of the witcher’s are whenever they get ready to spar, tells Jaskier that they truly see it as practice, as a challenge to overcome.

“Step forward, spin thrice, and step back again,” he lilts, trying to find the middle ground, somewhere between his first lilt and his last. 

—000—

The training that morning takes a lot out of him. He keeps wavering between his lilt being too strong and too weak, and it’s hard to tell where the tipping point is exactly. It’s obvious when it’s too strong though. When every witcher grits their teeth or obeys his command without pause, he knows he’s layered the lilt a little too thickly. It happens less and less the longer they work at it, though Jaskier isn’t entirely sure if it's because he better knows his range, because he’s getting tired, or because the others are getting better at resisting him. It could very well be a combination of all three of those things. 

What seems to be a pretty reliable indicator that the practice is actually helping them, is when he tells them to remain still in place ,without holding back, and they manage to break through sooner and sooner. Geralt invariably is the first to move, and Jaskier wonders if it has anything to do with the fact he’s been exposed to his lilt before, or been in his presence for longer. 

By the time it’s approaching the end of morning the low grade headache that started about an hour into the practice has amplified to a pounding just behind his eyes. He rubs his thumb between his eyebrows in an effort to lessen it, and actually sways a little on his feet. 

“You alright, bard?” Vesemir rumbles. 

“Yeah. I’m getting rather tired though. I think I’ve had enough for today,” he says. He has done a fair bit, he thinks to himself. He’s been lilting them for the entire morning, as individuals and as a group, and while they’ve been able to take breaks whenever it was one of the other’s turns, Jaskier has been going non stop. 

It’s Aiden in front of him again, and he distantly registers the frown appearing on the cat’s face. “You do look tired. And a little pale. Okay there, leechy?”

Jaskier rubs harder over his forehead and tries to nod. The hunger has been growing steadily, and he thinks he’s at a point where he definitely should stop now, lest it becomes too all encompassing for him to ignore. He feels a little weak with it as well, and thinks if he’ll go on, he’ll reach the same state he was in after fighting that werewolf. He thinks he just might have gone a little beyond what was wise. 

“Geralt,” he says. He doesn’t follow up with anything. All he can think about is that he’s tired, and cold, and so hungry. The witcher’s heartbeats are pouding in his ears, synchronising with the pounding headache, and he can hear the rush of their blood. When he inhales he can scent their blood more than he can smell who they are, and his mouth floods with saliva. He curls his lips inward a little, and squeezes his eyes shut, unwilling for them to see the red tinging his irises. 

Suddenly, Geralt is close, his scent delectable, and Jaskier has to swallow. 

“You’re alright, Jask. I’m here,” Geralt rumbles, arms coming around him, fingers curling around the back of his neck to pull him in. Jaskier lets himself sag against the witcher. The scent of his blood is strong when he rubs his nose against his neck, right over the carotid, but so is his smell of leather and pine. 

“Overdid it a bit,” he murmurs, feeling the way Geralt nods and his fingers firm around his nape. From below, he hears Martin titter, and he’s just in time to see the little marten climb up Geralt’s leg and jump over to his shoulder to snuffle against his ear.

“Take him up. Still got some golden oriole?” he hears Vesemir say, still hiding his face in the crook between Geralt’s neck and shoulder.

“No more than a single dose,” Geralt responds, and Jaskier curls his lips over his fangs a little, to keep the temptation of breaking skin as far at bay as he can. 

“I’ll brew up some more, and bring them to you later,” Lambert says. 

Jaskier wants to have his lips shape the words to thank him, but he can’t quite get there. 

—000—

Geralt keeps a firm grip on Jaskier as he guides the vampire toward their room. By now he’s familiar with the signs of Jaskier’s hunger, and they’re quite a bit more present now than they usually are. The bard had warned them that using his lilt or phasing would make him hungry. 

The practice had been going quite well, he and his brothers resisting the lilt with increasing ease. Jaskier hadn’t taken any breaks, assuring them he was fine. It’s as if the vampire was perfectly in control one moment, and then the next he reached a sort of threshold, and his instincts flared to life. Geralt can’t help but feel a burst of pride at the fact Jaskier had done nothing more than squeeze his eyes shut and covered his incisors with his lips, and called for him.

There’s a sharpness, a voracity to his scent that’s only there when he craves blood, and he’s glad he’s going to be able to let the vampire feed from him, just as soon as they reach their room. 

Jaskier is mouthing at his neck as they enter, and when Geralt feels the slightest scrape of his fangs against his skin he hisses between his teeth. The vampire knows better than this, and that he makes the slip tells him just how ravenous Jaskier is right now. 

“Jask,” he growls in warning, and feels him fold his lips back over his fangs and shiver in his hold.

“Sorry, darling. I swear I didn’t mean to, I'm finding control— a bit hard, at the moment.”

Geralt hums low and winds his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, pulling his face out of his neck to be able to see his eyes. Jaskier’s skin is still quite pale, though not as bone white as it had been when he and Eskel had emerged from the winter storm. His soft lips are parted, and the way his incisors peek out under the edges is almost— sweet. His eyes are closed.

“Look at me, bard,” he growls, and when Jaskier doesn't immediately obey, he gently shakes the vampire to make him pay attention. When the bard blinks open his eyes, the irises are fully crimson, and he licks his tongue over the sharp points of his teeth. “Are you still with me, Jask?” Geralt murmurs,  prepared to firm his hold on him, his body responding to the potential threat, muscles tensing for a fight.

Jaskier shifts his gaze up from where he'd been staring at Geralt’s carotid to meet his eyes, and blinks slowly. With every blink, Geralt can see the intensity of the red lessen slightly,  until there’s the barest hint of blue again, right along Jaskier’s pupils.

“Yes, love. I'm here,” Jaskier answers him, his voice tight.

“Are you good to feed?”

“I—” Jaskier begins, but halts himself, licking his tongue over his teeth again. “Yes, but I think maybe instead of just holding my wrists, I need to be held down. I don't think I should be able to move,” he shakes his head while he says it, and Geralt can smell the slight tendrils of panic coming off him. “Don't let me hurt you,” the vampire breathes, his shoulders stiffening slightly as his gaze drops back to his neck, and the slight blue that had appeared retreats again.

“Hands behind your back, Jask,” he rumbles.

When Jaskier moves, it's like he's doing so through molasses, languid and slow, though still deliberate. Geralt reaches around and wraps his hand around his wrists. When he firms his grip, the bard shudders.

“Darling,” the vampire says, his voice slightly hissing with the way he speaks through his teeth. “I feel I ought to let you know that everything in me is screaming to rip myself free and go for your jugular, or lilt you until you comply and then do the same.”

The scent of his panic mixing in with his hunger is getting stronger, and Geralt can practically see the worry behind those eyes, despite their crimson hue. Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, and he's sure the vampire wants to shut the feeding down.

“I can hold you down, Jask. But it might be safer with two of us. That way you can get more blood too, if Eskel is alright with it.”

His suggestion is apparently surprising enough it distracts Jaskier from his bloodlust a little, and Geralt is glad to see that sliver of blue return around his pupils.

“You— you want Eskel to be here?” Jaskier asks uncertainly.

“Only if you're okay with it. We can keep it between the two of us, if you want.” He firms his hold around Jaskier’s wrists, and pulls his head back by his hair to expose the long line of his throat, letting him feel that he has no problem controlling him while he feeds.

Jaskier gasps a little. “Love, how would you feel if Eskel was— a part of this?” 

The scent of Jaskier’s nerves bursts into the air, and Geralt can hear the patter of his heart tripping over itself. “Hmh. What do you mean by this, bard? Do you mean part of your feeding, or part of us?” He asks slowly, seeing Jaskier’s eyes widen at his last words, a flush finally appearing in his pale skin. He bends forward and drags his nose over the side of the vampire’s neck, to just below his ear. He inhales deeply and feels him shake against him. “It's up to you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against the tender skin.

Jaskier doesn’t say anything for a while, staring off into the distance. When he looks back up at him, the slight ring of blue is still there. “Would he be there for me, for you, or for us both?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. 

It's astute and so like him, despite the way his instincts must be overwhelming right now, that Geralt can’t help a slight chuckle.

“For us both,” he rumbles, rubbing his thumb across the pulse point of Jaskier’s wrist.

The bard nods thoughtfully. “You have a history?” He asks, and Geralt’s breath catches. He just nods. “Tell me about it later?” Jaskier says.

“Anything you want to know.” 

“Okay. Then for now, I think it'd be good— safer, if he was here,” Jaskier says slowly, and Geralt can scent the increasing sharpness of his hunger. 

“Just for feeding,” he says. “We should talk before anything else.”

“I'm really not capable of talking right now, love. Coherent thought is quite the challenge already,” Jaskier answers, his eyes dropping back to his neck.

Geralt tightens the grip he has in his hair again, and turns his head toward the door to listen. He can hear Eskel in his own room, and knows by the beat of his heart that his brother has been listening. 

“You want to join us, Esk?”

Chapter Text

Jaskier is hungry, all his senses focussed on wanting to feed, the only thing grounding him Geralt's firm grip in his hair and around his wrists. He can hear Eskel approaching and inhales deeply. There is distance and a thick wooden door between them, but just like Geralt's scent, Eskel’s calls to him more than the others’. He tries to focus on the paper and thyme of it, more than on the coppery warmth from the blood that flows just beneath his skin.

When Eskel is close, he manages to rip his eyes away from Geralt’s carotid to turn his head toward the door, and the witcher lets him, his firm hold gentling slightly.

Eskel opens the door and pauses in the opening. Jaskier sees him take in the tableau before him, and swallows at the picture they must make. Here he is, held helplessly in Geralt’s grip, back and neck arched, panting for blood, theirs specifically, his eyes red and hungry. He meets Eskel’s amber gaze over the distance, and can't suppress the soft whimper when the witcher’s narrow pupils expand a measure, and the scent of his interest mixes into the smells already pervading the room. It’s enough to push the tempting smell of their blood into the background a little, and Jaskier can feel a different type of hunger vying for his attention.

“Hello there, flower,” Eskel says, his voice deep and rumbling, fanning the flames of desire that have started to smoulder low in Jaskier’s belly. 

When Eskel comes closer, the sound of his heart rushing forth his lifeblood toward the surface of his skin has his hunger slam into him anew. He twitches in Geralt’s hold and can't help but bare his teeth a little. As soon as he realises, he immediately presses his eyes closed and his lips together. It takes a moment to gather enough of his control that he can speak.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I don't mean to look at you like you're no more than food to me. That— that's not the case. For neither of you.”

Geralt rumbles low in his chest and just keeps holding him. Jaskier is painfully aware when Eskel steps up close behind him, so he’s bracketed between two firm, muscular bodies. 

“Quite alright,” Eskel says right next to his ear, warm breath hitting the skin. Goosebumps erupt along his spine and he licks his lips. Very slowly, carefully, he leans back a little against the scarred witcher behind him, his held hands pressing against a taut abdomen, while glancing up at Geralt. 

Geralt meets Eskel’s eyes over Jaskier’s shoulder, before looking at him, his golden gaze warm and affectionate. “It's okay, Jask. We know. Don't worry about anything but feeding right now.”

Jaskier nods, curling his fingers into his palms, thereby dragging them across Eskel behind him. He hears the witcher’s breath catch.

“You've done this before, flower, wolf. What do you need from me? Anything you need me to avoid doing?”

For once, Jaskier can't find any of his words, too overwhelmed by his hunger and the scents of the witchers surrounding him to form a comprehensible answer to the question. Thankfully, Geralt is there to answer for him.

“Hold him. Usually he's in control enough that holding his hands behind his back is easy. We usually agree that the feeding stops when he moves his hands, when he doesn't respond, or when he feels he needs to, for any reason. We're going to help him this time, by restraining him while he feeds so he doesn't have to worry. Right, Jask?”

Jaskier knows he's checking in with him, giving him the chance to protest, to voice it if this is not what he wants. He craves blood though, and he craves to take it from either of them, both of them, without the possibility of causing them harm.

“Right,” he manages to hiss between his still gritted teeth. He can feel Eskel step a little closer, his body a heated line against his back, large palms settling on his hips. Jaskier feels the way the pads of his fingers brush the sides of his belly like a brand.

“So I'll hold you, and you'll feed from Geralt. Then he'll hold you, and you'll feed from me,” Eskel murmurs. 

“Yes,” Jaskier manages, and he knows his scent must be a confusing jumble of hunger and lust, so intertwined right now he's barely able to tell the difference between the two. Behind him, one of Eskel’s hands leaves his hip, his arm winding across his chest, firm as a band of steel, trapping his arms between his back and the witcher’s front. Geralt lets go of his wrists and hair, and Eskel’s other hand slides up the back of his neck, palm warm and rough, until his fingers are wound into the soft strands and he makes a fist.

Jaskier can't help the small, desperate sound that bursts forward from his lips, and both witchers release a low, reverberating growl in response. He knows this is only to let him feed - this time - but he's glad he can smell their arousal in the air, just as sharp and heady as his own.

Eskel pulls his head back, and Jaskier tries to wriggle in his hold experimentally. The witcher doesn't even need to firm his grip, it's already strong and unyielding enough there’s no way for him to break free. He lets himself sink into it a little, and finally, finally, allows himself to truly feel his hunger.

—000—

Geralt can see the exact moment Jaskier feels safe enough in Eskel’s hold to let go. He struggles for a second, not getting anywhere, and then he yields. Suddenly his eyes are not merely crimson, but glowing with it, and the voracity in his scent becomes overwhelming. All he does though, is carefully track Geralt’s every move with those intensely red eyes. 

Geralt meets Eskel’s gaze while pressing himself against Jaskier’s front. He reaches around, and lets his fingers curl gently around the other witcher’s nape. There isn't the urge to grab and hold, like there is with Jaskier, but there is the longing for closeness nonetheless. When Eskel gives him a half smile he returns it easily, and then leans forward, tilting his head to let the vampire close to the place his lifeblood flows under the surface of his skin. Jaskier releases another whimpering sound, and as one, he and Eskel press closer still, the bard well and truly caught between them. Slowly Eskel lets Jaskier move forward, never slackening the grip in his hair. 

Geralt wonders if he'll feel fangs before lips and tongue this time, but that's not the case. Despite everything, he still gets the soft press of Jaskier’s lips, followed by the gentle glide of his tongue, as if he's already apologizing for the moment of sharp pain that’s to follow.

When Jaskier’s fangs slide into his neck, he feels the familiar surge of desire. This time, for the first time, he has his hands free while the vampire feeds. He can hear the breathy noises Jaskier makes and scent his arousal on the air, intermingling with the scents coming from Eskel. He uses the one hand to stroke across Eskel’s neck, the other to slowly pet fingers over Jaskier’s cheekbone, over the cut of his jaw, the stretch of his lips where they are pressed against him. He drags his thumb down the bard’s throat, pressing softly when he encounters the gentle bump of his Adam’s apple. He can’t suppress a slight grin when Jaskier moans in response. Behind the vampire, Eskel inhales, getting a strong hit of arousal from the vampire between them, as well as from Geralt, and the other witcher groans low in the back of his throat. 

Geralt sees Eskel shift his hips away from Jaskier a little, unwilling to press into the bard’s behind too much, not when all they’ve discussed is feeding him, pausing conversation on all else for a later time. He moves his fingers up into the hair at the back of Eskel’s head, scratching gently in appreciation. The other witcher has his eyes riveted on Jaskier, but at the soft gesture he looks up, expression mirroring the warmth and affection Geralt feels. 

Jaskier releases a breathy sigh, and moves his own hips a little, Geralt’s thigh slotted between them, giving him something to rub against. He’s quite tempted to let the vampire have his pleasure, but he doesn’t want him to have any regrets once he comes back to himself after feeding. Jaskier had given the okay when Eskel mentioned being willing to share his blood before their practice had started. Before the bloodlust could influence his thoughts on the matter. Geralt thinks that the bard might very well be okay having Eskel witness more than that, but he wants him to be able to tell them when he’s fully cognizant. 

He shifts his hand away from Jaskier’s throat and closes it around his hip, holding him still. The bard makes a soft, pleading noise, and it goes straight to his groin. Eskel’s responding growl of want follows directly after, and has Jaskier shiver between them.

“Hold still, Jask,” he orders, squeezing him, before letting go of his hip. The vampire makes another high whine, tongue lapping up the blood that flows from his neck, but obeys, stilling in Eskel’s hold. It’s hard to miss the way both Jaskier’s and Eskel’s scent burst with arousal at that, and Geralt takes a moment to close his eyes and inhale deeply, revelling in their combined smell. 

When Jaskier has taken as much from him as is safe, Geralt nods at Eskel. “He’s done,” he says, and already feels the soft, tender licks of Jaskier’s tongue that are meant to close the puncture wounds before Eskel has a chance to pull him away from his neck. It doesn’t take a lot of strength to have him stop, as the vampire goes willingly. He lets his head lol back against Eskel’s shoulder when he releases his hair, looking up at Geralt with eyes more black than crimson. 

“Gods, flower,” Eskel growls. “The way you smell, the way you obey.” He presses his nose against the space below Jaskier’s ear and inhales deeply, just the same way Geralt likes to do himself. It could have jealousy or possessiveness flare hot in his belly, and though there is some of the latter, there is nothing of the first. It just serves to have his lust spike when Jaskier parts his lips sweetly, and tilts his head to the side to let Eskel take another deep breath of his scent. 

Eskel doesn’t let go of Jaskier until Geralt has a good grip on him, their positions now reversed. He cages the vampire in, enveloping him with his own body to a point where he’s not able to move, not able to escape. Jaskier releases a slow, appreciative humming noise, some of the urgency from before replaced by warm contentment. He bends his head to press a kiss against the vampire’s neck. “You did well,” he murmurs. “I’m proud of you, Jask.”

Now that Jaskier has fed, he’s no longer so very pale, and the words result in heat rushing to his face, a charming blush echoing the red that’s still visible in his eyes. “Thank you, love,” he says, eyes flicking up to Eskel. It betrays his uncertainty just as much as the tinge of it in his scent does, and Geralt sees when Eskel registers it. 

Eskel lifts his hands and cards his fingers through the hair at Jaskier’s temples, before cupping his face. “Same here, flower,” he says, amber eyes focussed on Jaskier intently. “Very proud. Are you still hungry enough that you want more? Or would you like to stop?” 

Jaskier swallows, and Geralt drags his nose up the back of his neck to offer comfort and approval. “I’m still hungry, but I would be alright if you don’t— there’s no urgency— I mean, I know you said, but you’re under no obligation to—” 

Eskel growls a little, cutting off Jaskier’s babbling. “I asked you a simple question. Do you want more? ”

Jaskier’s breath catches, the smell of his hunger briefly flaring again. “ Yes ,” he hisses between his teeth, before taking a few slow breaths. “Yes, darling. Please.”

Eskel’s eyes briefly flick back up to his, and Geralt gives him that same little half smile. 

—000—

Eskel’s blood flows warmly into his mouth, different from Geralt’s but suffusing him through and through just the same. It’s metallic and heady, but underneath it, it’s him , and Jaskier can’t help the way he groans while he drinks. Geralt is holding him from behind, grip steady and firm, while Eskel is now pressed against his front, one hand on his hip, the other carding through his hair, as if soothing him. 

He can smell the way Eskel responds to his bite, has his nose full of the scents of his blood and lust. He wants to shift his hips again, to find delicious pressure where he needs it most, but Eskel has his own hips tilted away from him, carefully preventing their groins from touching. Jaskier drinks, and by now coherent thought comes much easier. They’re letting him feed, and there'll be time for talk later. That Geralt held him still and that Eskel is observing a boundary between them is a protection both witchers have set, for him . The realisation warms him, even more than the blood does. 

He feeds, and for the first time in months, Jaskier’s hunger is fully sated. He hadn’t entirely realised the strain the constant craving and struggle to control it had been for him, until it’s suddenly gone. He doesn't need Geralt or Eskel to tell him to stop this time. He feels sated, held, and safe. He licks over the wounds and feels them close over under his tongue, the vibration coming from Eskel’s chest travelling through him. When he leans back into Geralt’s hold to look up into amber eyes, Eskel strokes careful fingers over his cheek.

“How are you feeling?” the witcher asks, a frown of concern on his face.

He has to swallow against a lump of emotion, and feels their tension when the salt of his tears hits their noses. “I'm not hungry anymore,” he says, trying to blink away the tears but only succeeding in letting them roll down his face. “I— I am finally safe to be around. I won't hurt anyone,” he says, his voice breaking.

Eskel makes a soft rumbling noise and wipes the moisture from his skin, amber eyes kind. Geralt gentles his hold, but doesn't let go of him, breath hitting the side of his neck.

“You were always safe to be around, Jask. Only now you don’t have to be so strong all the time, and you can rest a little.”

They settle him into the large bed, sheltered between them. They let him cry. First are the tears of relief, replaced by those of residual fear. They change into tears for his lost humanity, until finally, he allows himself the tears of hope and happiness.

—000—

Somehow, Jaskier manages to sleep away the rest of the afternoon, all the way past dinner and through the night. He only wakes briefly when there’s a knock on the door, lifting his head. It's only after he’s quietly shushed that he realises it’s Lambert on the other side of the door.

The redheaded witcher enters, a small rack in his hands filled with clear vials of liquid sunlight, individually dosed. There’s another wave of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him, and he burrows in further in the witcher’s embrace, fresh moisture dripping down his eyelashes.

“Fuck,” he hears Lambert say, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I didn’t mean to bother you. Buttercup okay?”

“Yes,” Geralt answers, and Jaskier has to stifle a wet laugh despite himself at the way he gives the shortest possible answer, without any hint of an actual explanation.

“I'm fine, Lamb. You’re not a bother. I'm just feeling a bit— emotional. But emotions aren’t a bad thing, and some of these are happy tears,” he says. He gestures to the rack Lambert is holding. “Thank you.”

There’s a distinct redness to Lambert’s ears and he shifts, as if he’s uncomfortable being thanked. “Don’t mention it,” he says a little gruffly. “See you at breakfast, Buttercup.”

—000—

At their morning training the next day, Vesemir observes him for a few long moments.

“You’re sitting this one out, bard,” he says. “Sword practice today.”

Jaskier feels good, full of energy, and part of him wants to use it. A larger part of him is relieved he doesn’t have to, content to observe and to feel like this for a while longer. He grins and settles in with Martin in his lap, scratching his pale, furry belly.

“That means I get to delight in the show!” He teases. “I expect you all to put on your best performance for my enjoyment.”

Aiden smirks at him. “Maybe if you promise a kiss, leechy,” he says.

Jaskier feels the atmosphere change, a certain alertness pervading the hall. Aiden would like a kiss to make Lambert jealous, Lambert would want it out of sheer desire to prevent anyone else from getting it, and Geralt and Eskel— well, he's pretty sure he knows how either of them feels about winning a kiss. He glances at Vesemir, and catches the old wolf rubbing the bridge of his nose in tired acceptance. When he sees Jaskier looking, the witcher just shrugs his shoulders. 

Jaskier smiles. “Alright, a kiss for the best performance.”

“Fucking hold on a minute,” Lambert interjects,  and Jaskier is surprised the witcher would protest. “Who decides the winner? Certainly not you , bard. I'm entirely fuckin sure you're not impartial.”

It startles a laugh out of him, and he taps his chin in thought. “Hmh. Maybe not, and I wouldn’t want you to think you don't have an equal shot, Lamb,” he says teasingly, shooting the witcher a wink.

Lambert crosses his arms over his chest, and nods in satisfaction. “That’s right,” he says.

Jaskier turns his head to shoot a questioning look at Vesemir. The old wolf sighs in tired resignation. “A kiss from the bard, for whoever puts on the best— show.”

Jaskier notes he puts a certain emphasis on the last word, and thinks he’s onto him. Vesemir might present himself as the stern, older wolf who's tired of his pups’ antics, but he’s pretty sure he actually gets a great amount of enjoyment from seeing them at this type of play, to see them relaxed enough to indulge in it. He rises quickly and bounces up to the grey witcher. When he presses a grateful kiss to his cheek, Vesemir’s palm briefly cups his jaw.

“Sit down, bard,” he says, but his voice is warm under the gruff tones.

They fight. And they fight spectacularly. Jaskier can do no more than gape and stare. The witchers are good at hand to hand, but with their blades flashing through the air as if they’re the natural extensions of their bodies, they’re something else entirely.

The cold steel catches the reflection of flames from the hall's hearths, turning them into weapons of burning heat. They are pure power and grace, all contained and controlled within the powerful movements of their bodies. Jaskier doesn't think he's ever considered fighting to be something of elegance, but the way witchers do it, it undeniably is. He'd known, of course. He'd seen Geralt wield his swords on the path often enough, both silver and steel, to be familiar with this type of deadly grace. To see all of them together like this, using those skills to best each other while showing off at the same time, leaves Jaskier breathless with the sheer beauty of it.

He's suddenly glad it's not him who has to pick a winner. 

When they finally stop, their chemises are stripped off, their chests bare and their skin gleaming with sweat. At first Jaskier tries not to be obvious, peeking through his lashes, but he knows it's a lost cause when Geralt’s nostrils flare and the witcher regards him with amused golden eyes.

“So, who's getting kissed?” Aiden says, eyes shifting between Vesemir and Jaskier.

“Hmh,” Vesemir considers, shooting Jaskier a look, one grey brow raised. “This time, it’s Eskel,” he says. 

Eskel smiles as he slides his sword back into its sheath, the others grumbling more for show than for anything else. Jaskier rises to meet him, settling Martin on his shoulder. Eskel reaches for him gently, hand on his waist to pull him in, and Jaskier can’t help the flicker of his eyes down to his mouth. The scar on his face cradles the corner of it, stretching up across his cheek to finally end at his temple, arching next to his eye. His heart quickens in his chest and he feels almost breathless with anticipation. When he looks up at him, there’s amusement and want in equal measure in the witcher’s gaze. 

“Can I ask you to give it to me later?” Eskel asks, and it might have resembled a rejection, if not for the fact the witcher pulls him closer while he says it, as if he wants the moment to be more private than it can be, out in the openness of the hall. 

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Yes, of course,” he answers, splaying one hand over the middle of Eskel’s chest, where he can feel his wolf medallion lie beneath the fabric. 

The scarred witcher leans forward to speak into his ear, despite the fact the others will be able to hear regardless. “Later, when it’s just the three of us,” he murmurs, and Jaskier doesn’t miss Geralt’s slow rumble of satisfaction. 

—000—

Vesemir is late to dinner that evening, and when their mentor finally arrives, Geralt knows he has news.

“You managed to be in contact with the mages, Ves?”

“Yes. I’ve spoken to Triss and Yennefer both,” he says, and Geralt does his best not to clench his jaw. It’s not that he has a problem with Yen, far from it. But there’s something in him that wants to keep her far away from both Jaskier and Eskel, especially while what they have with the three of them is so new it has barely even started. 

“The sorceresses?" Jaskier asks, seated next to him. “The ones who might know how to destroy the spooky dagger?”

Vesemir nods, and Jaskier shifts to look at Geralt.  “Then why the eyebrows of doom, darling?” he asks, Aiden and Lambert snickering into their stew as Geralt tries his best not to scowl even harder. 

“Hmh,” he considers, unsure how to explain to the bard without inviting more questions he doesn’t want to answer out of the relative privacy of their own room. He’s still looking for words, when Eskel answers for him. 

“Remember how Geralt and I have a history, flower?” Eskel murmurs. 

Jaskier nods, expression curious. “Yes. The one you still have to tell me all about, though now might not be the time,” he answers.

“Yennefer was part of why I made the choice for it to be history, at the time,” Eskel says, and Geralt tenses. 

Jaskier evidently notices, quickly looking between the two of them. “Alright,” he says. “So it’s complicated, and there might be residual feelings involved. I get it.”

“No,” Geralt growls. 

“Love,” Jaskier admonishes him quietly. “Residual feelings are normal. Some would say inevitable, whether they be anger, resentment, or affection . You can’t tell me you feel nothing.”

“Hmh. I know what I want” he responds, voice low and firm, looking at Jaskier and Eskel both. 

Jaskier leans against him, and he inhales his scent to help him settle some of his irritation. “I know, love,” the bard says softly. Below the table, Eskel’s shin presses against his, and Geralt lets their comforting presence soothe him even further.

“So what did they say?” He finally grumbles, looking back at his mentor. 

“They’re prepared to help.”

Lambert snorts. “At what price? I for one am not prepared to sell my fucking soul to a witch unless they work some sort of miracle,” he says, though the heat in his words is only half hearted. 

Jaskier lifts his head back up from where he’d leant it against Geralt’s shoulder, looking concerned. “They’ll ask for something in return?” 

“They always do,” Aiden says, his voice uncharacteristically cold and calculating. 

Jaskier opens his mouth, and Geralt knows it is to protest, but Vesemir halts him by holding up a hand. “They’re prepared to help, and they’re coming to see if they can. Tomorrow we’ll drop the wards for a moment, and they’ll portal in.” His tone signals the finality of his words, and they all nod in acquiescence. 

Geralt pulls Jaskier a little closer, and presses his leg more firmly into Eskel’s. They have one evening for this conversation that needs to happen between the three of them, before Yen will be here. It’s not as much time as he would have liked.

Chapter Text

Jaskier is in the kitchen, carefully putting the orange cakes he baked after dinner into a large earthenware dish to soak up cinnamon syrup. He drizzles the last of it over the top before covering them, leaving them to saturate overnight. He wipes his hands on a towel and feels the nerves he’s been trying to distract himself from fully settling into his belly. At the table, Vesemir marks his page in the book he’s been reading and closes it, his yellow eyes catching on the way Jaskier’s fangs worry at his lip, and raising his brows while his weathered hand gently lifts Martin to uncurl from his lap. The little marten yawns and makes a soft squeaking noise, before scampering over the table and jumping onto Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I don’t know how something as simple as a conversation can be as nerve wracking as this,” he says, looking between the door and the old witcher.

“Hmh. I don’t think you have much to be nervous about, bard,” Vesemir says gently.

He feels his cheeks warm at that, and nods. “I know you’re probably right, but I just don’t know where to start.”

“I’m sure you’ll find the words. You have enough of them, after all,” Vesemir says in his rumbling voice, and Jaskier knows it’s meant to tease, though the nerves make his answering smile into a small, unsure thing. Vesemir looks at him, and he recognises the way the witcher takes a deep breath, even if he’s more subtle in scenting him than his pups are. “If you’re not sure what words to start with, maybe you should start with that kiss, and go from there,” Vesemir says.

He nods, and quickly leans forward to kiss Vesemir on the cheek like he’d done that morning, unable to suppress the sudden surge of affection for the old wolf. “Thank you,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for witcher ears to pick up. 

Vesemir looks surprised for a moment, and then his scent changes in a way Jaskier can recognise as fondness. “You’re welcome, bard,” he answers, before briefly cupping his cheek with a calloused palm, and scratching Martin under the chin as he retires.

He’s alone in the kitchen now, Martin his only company. He takes a fortifying breath and rubs his cheek against the marten’s russet one. “Let’s go up and find our wolves, shall we?” he asks, and gets a little snuffling purr in response.

—000—

When he enters their room, both wolves are already there. They’ve heard him coming, and they look up at him from where they’re lounging on the rug in front of the fire. Jaskier doesn’t miss the way their ankles are pressed together, and he feels a smile tug at the edges of his lips despite his tension. 

“Hmh. You’re nervous,” Geralt rumbles as he closes the door behind himself. 

“Darling, I was hoping you’d at least allow me the dignity to pretend I’m not, by politely ignoring what you smell on me,” he says, and the teasing goes a long way to quiet the jittery feeling in his belly. 

“It’s alright to be nervous,” Eskel says. “I hope it means you’re wishing for good things, but are still unsure how to get there. I feel the same,” he adds, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the way his hand briefly comes up to rub against his scarred cheek.

“Come sit with us, Jask,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier nervously licks his lips, golden and amber irises avidly following the movement. He approaches them, and they shift aside a little to make space between them. He shakes his head, hoping they’ll understand, and settles close, but across from them, so he can look at them both as they speak. As soon as he sits, Martin crawls down his arm to stretch out in front of the fire, briefly bearing his pointed predator’s teeth in a wide yawn. It’s as if the little marten has decided they’re gonna be a while yet, and doesn’t find it worth the effort to postpone his warm sleep until they’re done. Jaskier huffs a small laugh and stretches out his leg to poke his toe into the marten’s belly, getting a halfhearted, hissing growl in response. 

Like he’d thought would happen, he’s not sure what words to start with, and thinks about the old wolf’s advice. He bites a fang into his lip and looks at his wolves from under his lashes. “I know we said we should talk before anything else, but—” he falters a little and gets soothing rumbling in response.

“Anything you want, Jask.”

“Tell us what you need, flower.”

“If it’s alright with you— both of you, could we start with that kiss?” he asks, and sees Eskel’s eyes widen in response. He shifts his gaze to Geralt, to see how his witcher reacts to the request. He’s still anxious about showing his interest in Eskel in front of him, or have Eskel show interest in him , unwilling to do anything that will hurt Geralt. Besides wanting to give Eskel the kiss he’d earned, he thinks it will help him truly gauge if it’s something Geralt is alright with. He thinks Eskel might need the same, seeing as his amber eyes briefly flicker over to Geralt, too. 

The growl Geralt releases is warm and low with want, and his slitted pupils are starting to round. The witcher reaches forward to grasp his chin, and he lets his lips part slightly at the gentle swipe of his thumb against his bottom one. “I won’t deny that’s something I want to see,” Geralt rumbles, his gaze heated. “Just as I won’t deny I’d like to taste him on your lips afterward.” 

Jaskier releases a soft squeak of surprise at that, a flush crawling up his throat and onto his face. 

“Melitele, wolf,” Eskel groans. “I want the same.”

“Oh,” Jaskier sighs tremulously. “Well, seeing it’s what we all want then—” he trails off. Eskel’s amber eyes come to rest on him, and Geralt leans back a little, golden gaze shifting between them. He knows their scents well enough by now to recognise the desire in it, and it transforms some of the nerves he’s feeling into strands of heated attraction. 

“About time you award him his prize, bard,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier can recognise a challenge when he hears one. 

He shifts over onto his knees, and leans forward to settle his hands on Eskel’s thighs. He can feel the muscles under his fingers tense and shift, and can’t help the way he lets his tongue slide over the sharp edge of his incisors. Eskel’s amber eyes drop down to follow the movement, and the predatory glint in them has the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. When his lips meet Eskel’s, it's in a soft, innocent press. He shuffles a little closer on his knees, his fingers unconsciously gripping more firmly. He lets his tongue come out to lightly touch against the curve of Eskel’s upper lip, as if in question, and he gets more of a reaction than he expected. 

One of Eskel’s broad hands closes around his nape, firming the pressure of his mouth on his. His other hand fists in the back of Jaskier’s doublet and pulls, and before he knows what’s happening he’s held firmly in the witcher’s lap, his hands landing on his chest. He dares to repeat the movement of his tongue against the seam of Eskel’s lips, and all thought ceases when the witcher tilts his head and deepens the kiss while exerting pressure against his lower back until their fronts are pressed firmly together. He winds his arms around Eskel’s neck and cards his fingers through the short, dark hair.There’s a low growl reverberating through the room as he gets the living daylights kissed out of him, and it’s coming from both of the witchers present. Eskel licks into his mouth like he’s been waiting all his life for the chance to do so, and Jaskier can feel himself go pliant in his firm hold. He shivers as Eskel flirts with the sharp point of his left fang, breath hitching at the sensation, glad to find it has arousal blooming at the base of his spine with only the slightest echo of hunger. 

When they finally part Jaskier is panting, and he swallows at the hungry look in the witcher’s eyes as the broad hand that had been fisted in his doublet slips under the fabric to lie against bare skin, thumb swiping slowly over his spine. 

“Wolf?” Eskel growls, gaze never leaving Jaskier. 

The whimper he releases when Geralt’s hand winds into his hair and grips him is something dragged out of the depths of him, and he lets his head be pulled back, neck and back arching, pressing his lower body more firmly into Eskel’s. “Love,” he pleads, and though his eyes slide to the side to meet Geralt’s, he doesn’t know which of them he’s referring to.

“Hmh. So fucking lovely, isn’t he?” Geralt growls, shifting his gaze to briefly meet Eskel’s before looking back at him.

“Lovely. Pretty. Smells divine,” Eskel murmurs, leaning forward to briefly graze his teeth over Jaskier’s exposed neck, drawing forth another whimper. “And so sweet to kiss,” he says, earning another growl from Geralt. 

Jaskier knows that growl, and knows what’s coming.The hand in his hair turns his head to the side, and then Geralt’s lips are on his. His wolf doesn’t hesitate in the slightest, tongue immediately sliding past his lips, claiming his mouth, and Jaskier can do no more than hold onto whatever he can find. What he finds happens to be Eskel, and he can hear the witcher’s low rumble, his thumb swiping over his spine repeatedly. 

When Geralt breaks their kiss it takes him a few seconds to come back to himself, slowly blinking his eyes open. He’s in Eskel’s lap, and he can’t find the will to be embarrassed to have his erection pressing against the witcher’s stomach. One of Eskel’s hands is still on his lower back, under his doublet, the other curled over his hip. Geralt’s hand is wound through the locks of his hair, and his other rests on Eskel’s shoulder. The room is saturated with the scents of them. Leather and pine, paper and thyme, and Jaskier takes deep breaths of it, wishing it could be all he’d ever smell. 

—000—

Geralt watches Jaskier in Eskel’s lap, arched back to accommodate his hold in his hair. He licks his lips, tasting both the vampire and the other witcher, and he has to remind himself they’d promised to talk, first. The kiss between the other two was a thing to behold. He’s only just seen it, and he wants to see it again. He’s tasted Eskel from the bard’s lips, and now he wants to have it the other way around, as well. 

He gentles his hand in Jaskier’s hair, lessening the arch he’s holding him in, but doesn’t release him. “You wanted the kiss, first. Was this what you had in mind, Jask?”

Jaskier takes deep breaths, and Geralt knows what he’s smelling. “I dare say it’s all that I wanted and more. Though I think if I’m going to try talking now, nothing but nonsense will come out of me,” the bard answers, blue eyes sparkling. It gets an amused hum from Eskel, and he sees his brother’s fingers slide over Jaskier’s skin in a careful caress. 

“Esk,” he says, pulling his attention away from the man in his lap. 

“Wolf?”

He squeezes Eskel’s shoulder, but looks at Jaskier, raising an eyebrow in question. He knows what he wants, and Jaskier has all but given him permission. Talking about it is different from experiencing it though, and if Jaskier says no, he won’t go through with it. All the bard does though, is blush even more furiously than before, his mouth falling open sweetly. 

“Oh, what I must have done to have the fates smile upon me like this,” the bard almost sings, his voice warm and melodious. “Yes, love. Yes, I want to see.” The burst of arousal in the air confirms exactly how much he wants it, and Geralt keeps one hand in his soft hair, while he uses the one on Eskel’s shoulder to pull him in. 

Eskel’s hands remain on Jaskier, but he surges forward to meet him, and when they kiss, Geralt can still taste the bard on his lips, just like he’d tasted Eskel on Jaskier’s. Kissing them is different, and it would be, since they’re different people. Jaskier is yielding and sweet, though he’s surprising at the same time, like soft lips covering razor sharp incisors. Eskel is familiar, warm and firm and steady, the vibration in his broad chest similar to the sound reverberating in his own. They’d had this before, easy affection between them that Geralt thought they might never have again. Unconsciously he firms his grip on both of them, afraid they’ll slip through his fingers just when he’s so close to having his heart’s desire. 

When he backs off to look at them Jaskier is smiling back at him, his scent filled with lust and affection. When he looks at Eskel though, his brother is a little stiff in the shoulders, and looks furtively between the bard and himself. Eskel pulls his hands off Jaskier, and Geralt doesn’t know where the tension comes from, and frowns, searching for the words to ask. He tries to ignore the fact that he thinks it’s tension he recognises. He couldn’t fix it then, and he’s afraid if he’s going to have to fix it now, he’ll fail just as miserably. 

It’s enough that he almost forgets that now, it doesn’t fall to just him to figure out what is going on and to make it better.

Jaskier is looking at Eskel too, a slight tilt to his head. The bard raises his hands, and cups his brother’s cheeks. Eskel closes his eyes, and Jaskier shakes his head. “Darling, please look at me.” When his brother opens his eyes, he’s looking up at Jaskier and there’s something pained in his scent. “Tell me what you’re thinking, love,” Jaskier says firmly. 

Geralt hums in concurrence, and shifts until he’s pressed all along Eskel’s side in silent support. He can hear his brother swallow tightly, and knows Jaskier can hear it too. 

“I—” Eskel begins, and then pauses when Jaskier wraps long fingers around his wrists and carefully lays his palms back against his sides. He blinks in surprise, part of the tension slipping away from his shoulders as he looks at the bard in wonder. “Last time someone saw me kiss Geralt like that it was Yennefer, and she gave me an ultimatum.”

He blinks in surprise, twisting to face his brother more fully. Jaskier tracks the move, a small frown between his brows, and he knows the bard hasn’t missed that he’d not known of this.

“What kind of ultimatum?” Jaskier asks gently. 

Eskel’s hand comes up to rub over his scar where it curves next to his eye. “Either I’d stop, or—”

“Or she would,” Geralt grits, realisation making his voice colder than he wants it to be. Eskel’s jaw clenches in response, and he leans more heavily against his brother’s shoulder to convey what he isn’t able to verbalise right now.

“Oh, love,” Jaskier murmurs, thumb swiping over Eskel’s cheekbone before lifting one hand to mirror the gesture on Geralt’s cheek. Both of them tilt their faces into the caress. “I guess it’s high time for that conversation now, isn’t it?”

—000—

“So this history between the two of you, how far does it go back? I know you went through the grasses at the same time, you told me that much,” Jaskier says. 

The three of them are still in front of the fireplace, but they’re sitting in a sort of triangle now, some more distance between them. 

“Years,” Geralt rumbles, and more than expects the eye roll that quickly follows. 

“Eskel, darling. Please tell me you have a more comprehensive answer,” Jaskier says, wrinkling his nose.

Eskel tilts his head, a teasing smile curling his lips. “Years,” he repeats, and Geralt chuckles when Jaskier’s eye roll is dramatic enough he might as well roll them right out of his head. “I know when it started for me,” his brother continues, and glances at him from the corner of his eyes. 

“When?” he asks, and sees Jaskier shift his gaze between them with interest. 

“After the first year out on the path,” Eskel says softly. “When I returned to Kaer Morhen I was glad to be home, but out of everyone, you were the one I wanted to see the most.”

He’s at a loss for words for a moment, and it takes Jaskier’s toes poking him in the thigh harshly to spur an answer out of him. “I don’t actually know when it happened for me. When I became aware of it, it was like it had always been there,” he murmurs. The confession has the skin next to Eskel’s eyes crinkle, and the bard smiles, revealing the tips of his fangs.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Jaskier says kindly. “So when did things go bad?”

Geralt sighs deeply. “I had some problems sleeping after the incident in Blaviken.”

Both Jaskier and Eskel nod in understanding. Jaskier just knows what happened in Blaviken, Eskel also knows what happened afterward. 

“I did a stupid thing, and searched for a djinn to help me sleep.”

“ Darling! ” Jaskier says, and it’s very nearly a lilt. “Tell me you didn’t. That’s like putting salve on a tumour! I thought everyone knew that magical sleep is not the same, and relying on it will eventually leave you empty and exhausted just as much as not sleeping at all.” 

Eskel chuckles. “At least it was salve, he might as well have let it fester otherwise.”

Jaskier looks aghast, and Geralt shrugs. “It went sideways, and I met Yen in the process of undoing the djinn’s magic. One of its wishes bound us together, in a way, and though we broke the spell our destinies seemed intertwined for a while because of it.”

“So you started a relationship with her?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head. “That doesn’t seem like much of a base for one.” 

“It wasn’t,” Geralt grunts. “But it seemed logical at the time, for both of us. We did come to care about each other, even if it wasn’t entirely amicable when we parted.” 

“I thought you loved her,” Eskel says, his mouth tight and a frown between his dark brows. “That’s why when she came to me after she saw— that’s why I stepped aside.”

Geralt looks into his amber eyes, seeing the pain his brother has hidden away from him for so many years now. “Hmh. I did love her, in a way,” he says consideringly, laying his hand on Eskel’s knee. He makes himself say the words, even though they don’t come to him easily, never have. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell them, but it’s a difficult thing to open himself up when the world has taught him his love isn’t worth anything. But they deserve to know. “I’ve not loved her like I love either of you,” he says, trying to capture all he feels in those few, simple words. 

Both Jaskier and Eskel make a soft gasping sound, and Eskel raises his hand like he wants to rub at his scar again, and briefly flicks his eyes over to the bard. 

Jaskier shuffles a little closer to them, and the vampire’s eyes are suspiciously shiny. “Love,” he addresses Eskel. “Seems like she gave you an ultimatum you should have thrown back in her face.”

Eskel reaches for the vampire, fingers curling around Jaskier’s chin. “What about you, flower? Would you—”

“Would I give you an ultimatum like that?” Jaskier interrupts him, blue eyes shifting between them. “Either of you? Never ,” he says with such certainty it takes Geralt’s breath away. “If both of you have space in your hearts for me, I’ll be nothing more than grateful for it. Melitele knows you have already burrowed so deeply into mine there’s no dislodging you without tearing the organ from my body.”

Geralt chuckles, pulling Jaskier out of Eskel’s hold and into a brief kiss. “Dramatic, Jask,” he rumbles, and the bard just grins and shrugs. Jaskier tilts his head at Eskel, blue eyes twinkling.

“You think I’m dramatic too?” he asks, and it’s as much a question as it is an invitation.

The last of the tension leaves his brother’s body, and Geralt easily lets Jaskier go as Eskel replaces his grip with his own, pulling the bard to him for another kiss. “Dramatic in a way that’s somehow irresistible,” Eskel growls low into Jaskier’s ear, and the bard shivers, the warm scent of his arousal returning to the space, a flush warming his cheeks.

“At the risk of saying it in excess, but for the sake of being as clear as possible,” Jaskier breathes. “If— If you’ll have me, I want both of you.”

Though Jaskier hadn’t smelled unsure or nervous since he first came into the room and sat with them, he suddenly does now, and Geralt growls low, hearing Eskel echo the sound. “Oh, we’ll have you, bard. Don’t you worry about that,” he rumbles, and hears Jaskier’s heart trip over itself. “Won’t we, Esk?” 

“Hmh. I did say irresistible, didn’t I?” Eskel agrees, a touch of hunger in his voice as he looks from Geralt back to Jaskier.

—000—

Though Jaskier is almost certain he won’t be able to sleep between them while feeling very effectively wound up, they’d agreed beforehand that this evening would be for talking only. He half considers begging them to reconsider, and even wiggles a little where he’s wedged between them. He gets not one, but two hands grasping onto his hip to hold him still, and groans softly in the back of his throat. 

“You know that’s really not helping the situation,” he whines. “How am I supposed to sleep like this? How can you sleep like this?”

“Is he always this impatient, wolf?”

“Hmh. Always impatient, and always loud,” Geralt answers, breath hitting the back of his neck. “Maybe you should see if you can kiss him silent.”

His eyes widen in surprise, but before he can tell them that will only serve to have him lay awake between them, hard and panting for even longer, Eskel takes his mouth in a searing kiss. Geralt’s hand on his hip pulls him back while the witcher shifts his hips forward. Jaskier can feel the hard heat of him against his backside, and when Geralt’s teeth scrape over his nape his moans are eagerly swallowed by Eskel who presses against his front, and slides a thickly muscled thigh between his. When the scarred witcher shifts forward, there’s another erection pressing insistently against his hip.

He shivers at the way he's pressed between them, surrounded by their scents. When he’s released from the kiss he has to catch his breath before he can speak. “Not that I'm complaining, unless you plan to leave me with the bluest balls and worst case of sexual frustration known to the universe, but I thought we agreed it would be just  conversation, and no more?”

Eskel dips his head toward his collarbone, and the scrape of teeth there followed by careful suction is sure to leave his skin visibly marked. It has Jaskier whimpering softly, and he can't help but shift his hips again, alternating the pressure of Geralt’s cock against his ass, and Eskel’s against his front. He tilts his head back against Geralt's shoulder to give Eskel more space, and the witcher growls against his skin before looking up at him with lust-round pupils.

“That was the agreement for the evening, flower. It's night now. Unless you'd prefer to wait?” Eskel says, his smile betraying he knows full well Jaskier won't want to do any such thing, especially not when he increases the pressure of his thigh between his legs, making it so that when Jaskier moves, he's rubbing himself against him.

“Hmh,” Geralt hums behind him, sliding his hand up from his hip, under his chemise to splay over his sternum. “I'm rather enjoying myself. But if you want to stop, Jask?”

Jaskier has already shown he has no compunction against begging for Geralt, and he certainly doesn't have it against begging for Eskel either. He does so, loudly, creatively, and feels gratified when both of them grab onto him even more tightly, and he gets their teeth against his skin. He thinks that even though he's more robust now he's a vampire, there's a good chance not all of those marks will have faded come morning. The thought has a delicious shiver travel down his spine.

“Gods, please, please, kiss me,” he pleads, and is cut off when Eskel presses his lips to his, sliding their mouths together before Geralt grasps onto his chin and turns his head to claim him with his own kiss. “Please,” Jaskier murmurs again, and bites a fang into his lip for a moment, unsure if he dares to say it. He's nothing if not bold though, and he breathes the words on a moan as Geralt thrusts against his ass, pressing him more firmly against Eskel’s thigh and groin. “Please, kiss each other,” he begs, and gets a hand wound into his hair to angle his face up, so he can look. Both witchers raise themselves onto their elbows to meet above him, and Jaskier thinks they must be the loveliest thing he's ever laid his eyes on.

When they lay back down to have him firmly wedged between them again, their hands start to roam. He doesn’t know which of them pulls his chemise up and over his head, or who gets rid of his braies. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that he’s naked, and they are still wearing far too many clothes. He whines a protest, and Geralt chuckles behind him. 

“Be a good boy and ask him sweetly, Jask.” Jaskier feels like the words flow though his bloodstream,  reach the very edges of him, and set him aflame.

He meets Eskel’s eyes, amber rings around deeply black pupils, looking at him intently. He leans forward and presses his lips softly against the edge of the witcher’s jaw. “Darling, please. Won't you let me see you?” He shivers at the growl that rumbles in Eskel’s chest, and then there's suddenly space between them, the witcher leaning back to get rid of his sleep clothes in quick, efficient movements.

Eskel presses back against him, and it's skin to skin this time. The feel of him has Jaskier moaning desperately, and he tries to touch as much of him as he can, though admittedly he's rather limited in his movements.

“Love, please. You too,” he pleads, shivering as Eskel slides his broad palm all along his flank until it curves over his buttock, blunt fingers barely dipping into his cleft. Before Geralt rolls away from behind him, his hand reaches over Jaskier to trail over Eskel’s hip in a light caress. The scarred wolf follows the direction of the movement, and suddenly Jaskier is rolled onto his back, Eskel large and heavy between his thighs, their cocks sliding together. 

“Hands up, flower,” the witcher directs him, and Jaskier groans as he raises them to lie beside his head, his fingers curled softly into his palms. Eskel slides his hands from his forearms all the way to his wrists, and keeps a gentle but firm grip on him. Jaskier knows the only way he'd get out from under him is if Eskel lets him, and the knowledge has him tipping back his head, exposing his throat to the witcher holding him in place. 

Eskel dips his head down to murmur in his ear. “You're so very sweet. Now look at our wolf and tell me what you think,” he orders.

Jaskier turns his head to the side, and is just in time to see Geralt, silhouetted against the light spilling from the hearth, stepping out of the fabric he's let drop to the ground. His golden eyes reflect the fire in a way that never fails to be mesmerising, and his skin seems to shimmer with the light of the dancing flames. He has to swallow before he can speak. “He's beautiful,” Jaskier says softly. “Like a painter's dream come to life.” He swallows again, aware that their eyes are on him. “He's lovely. Strong, kind. He— he's ours,” he concludes, seeing the way Geralt's mouth curves in a smile before he looks back up at Eskel. He leans up to press his lips against Eskel’s jaw again. “So are you, love. All of that.” 

“Yes,” Geralt rumbles, putting a knee on the mattress. “All of that, and so are you, Jask.” He leans forward and kisses Eskel again, and Jaskier drinks in the sight of them together. Then he leans down, and the way Geralt kisses him is ravenous.  He can taste both of them, and when he tries to move closer but can't shift Eskel’s grip on his wrists, he lets his thighs part a little further and tilts his hips in invitation. 

“Flower, wolf,” Eskel growls, looking between them while his nostrils flare on every inhale. “I know what I want, but I don't mean to presume.”

Geralt reaches out to stroke over the back of Eskel’s neck while the both of them stare down at him, and Jaskier feels like he just might combust from his desire for them.

“Anything,” he babbles. “Anything you want. Please.”

“He wants to fuck you, Jask,” Geralt says simply.

Eskel’s grip firms on his wrists for a moment. “If you'd let me, yes,” he says.

Jaskier wraps his legs around his strong hips, trying to pull him in more closely, but the witcher isn't so easily moved. Eskel leans forward, and the kiss he presses to his lips is far softer than the ones he's gotten so far.

“I need an answer flower, or I'm not going to do anything.”

Jaskier can't help the soft laugh that escapes him, looking between his two wolves. “The both of you,” he says. “Are you sure you aren’t too good to be real? That this hasn’t all been some fever dream and I'm about to wake up and find I've never met you at all, and it’s all been a figment of my imagination?”

Eskel growls, and Geralt winds his hand in his hair and makes a fist to have small pin pricks of pleasurable pain erupt along his scalp. “Even if this was a dream, we’d not let you go that easily, bard. Now answer him,” he orders.

“Yes!” Jaskier hisses between his teeth. “Yes, please,” he manages to say, and Geralt leans over him to kiss him in reward, the rough pads of his fingers rubbing over his nipples as Eskel holds him down.

When they prepare him, they do so together, and Jaskier can’t help the sounds he makes when the first of Eskel’s fingers is joined by one of Geralt’s. It’s as if Geralt is showing his brother just where to press and where to stroke to have Jaskier howling with pleasure. Before long he feels tears edging along his lashes, and he pleads for one of them, either of them, both of them, to fuck him. 

It’s Geralt who spreads his thighs a little wider, and who reaches out with oil to take Eskel’s cock in hand to make sure the slide inside him will be slick. Jaskier watches avidly as Eskel’s eyes close halfway with pleasure, seeing the thrum of his normally slow pulse at the dip between his strong pectorals. Geralt dips a few fingers back into him, as if to make sure he’s ready, and then he’s resoundingly kissed as finally , Eskel takes him. 

The witcher’s grip on him is strong on his hips, his thighs, his shoulders, as he moves inside of him, holding him in place for his long, steady thrusts. It takes an embarrassing while for Jaskier to realise that it’s impossible for Eskel’s hands to be everywhere at once, and that it’s both witchers holding him down. He cries out and whimpers and tries to arch up into the pleasure assaulting him. Everything blends together, their touches, their scents, their rumbling voices in his ears, telling him he’s doing well, telling him they can’t get enough of him. He pleads for either of them to touch him where he most needs it, and thinks it’s Eskel who rumbles an answer against his ear that has him arching his spine and begging.

“I can touch you now, flower. Or I can take my pleasure, and touch you as Geralt takes you. Which would you prefer?”

Jaskier knows he can choose either one and they will give him what he wants. He doesn’t want to choose though, not when he’s incapable of pleading for anything but release. He gets a pause from hands and thrusts when he doesn’t answer, and thinks he manages to babble at least a few intelligent words along those lines. 

They seem to know what he means, because while they seem to stroke over every inch of his skin, his cock remains hard and flushed and untouched, leaking against his belly. When Eskel speeds up in rhythm, Jaskier can no longer form coherent thoughts, wordless cries spilling over his lips. He’s aware there’s a warm mouth on one of his nipples, fingers pinching and rolling the other one. Eskel’s breath stutters in his throat, and then he slides his hands from where he’d been grasping the upper part of Jaskier’s thighs, all across his torso to hook behind his shoulders. For a moment, it’s just the two of them, Eskel above him, moving inside of him, his kiss achingly soft in contrast with the harsh thrusts into his body. When Eskel comes, Jaskier takes advantage of his momentarily slack mouth to lick inside, and lay his own claim to him. 

He lets himself be dragged up from the mattress after Eskel pulls out of him, still panting and half delirious with arousal and delayed gratification. Eskel kneels and pulls him into his lap so they’re chest to chest, Jaskier’s thighs spread over him, his back to Geralt. 

“Still alright, Jask?” Geralt murmurs in his ear, and he manages to nod along with his soft moan as he feels Geralt slot in behind him, the heat of his erect cock against the slick cleft of his ass. 

“Tell us when it’s too much, flower,” Eskel says gently, stroking reverent fingers over his cheek for a moment, before laying his hand back against his lower back, thumb swiping over his spine. 

Jaskier murmurs assent, and opens his mouth to lick along Eskel’s neck. He doesn’t even register that there’s not a trace of hunger in him, not even when he’s got his tongue pressed over the witcher’s carotid. 

When Geralt takes him, it’s like they  move with the three of them. He feels Geralt’s arms reach around him, cradling him against Eskel’s chest, his calloused hands landing on Eskel’s side and neck. He gets Geralt’s lips against the side of his throat, while Eskel first tilts his hips, until there is blinding, pleasurable heat rushing through him with every press and drag of Geralt’s cock inside of him. He lays his head on Eskel’s shoulder, and lets himself go pliant. The scarred witcher holds his hips still with one hand, and then reaches between them to lightly stroke him, and Jaskier keens.

“You smell so good, Jask. But you smell like his, now. I’ll make you smell like ours,” Geralt murmurs in his ear. “Before I do, you want to show him how pretty you are when you come?”

Jaskier feels overwhelmed with pleasure and the two of them, but manages to whimper his assent. He can hear the slap of skin and feel the impact against the curve of his ass as Geralt takes him with more force, while at the same time Eskel firms his grip around him. Eskel’s hand shifts to his face to cradle his cheek, and he obeys the wordless command to open his eyes. The amber gaze on him is gentle and affectionate, and when Geralt thrusts inside him to hit just the right angle, he comes with a soft cry. 

He hasn’t finished coming, waves of pleasure making him shiver between them, before Eskel leans forward to kiss him again. He makes a questing sound, and Geralt leans forward to meet both their lips, his chest pressed against Jaskier’s back. It could be messy and uncoordinated, but it somehow isn’t, and Jaskier opens his mouth for them, feeling languid and pliant. Geralt groans into their mouths, before pressing up and into Jaskier as he spends, his arms around them holding the three of them together as if he’s afraid to let go. 

Jaskier is content to let the witchers do all the clean up. They wipe themselves down quickly enough, but it takes some effort to clean up the slick mess between his legs, and he shamelessly whimpers when the cloth is rough against his swollen, sensitive rim. He gets soft touches and gentling kisses, and words of praise whispered into his skin.

When they join him under the blankets, he’s cradled by their strong arms and surrounded by their scents. He can feel the soft smile on his face as he hums under his breath, and falls asleep listening to the answering rumble in their chests. 

---000---

It’s a rude awakening when before the ass crack of dawn the next morning, Lambert pounds on their door. 

“I don’t want to fucking come inside, since I can smell you all through the freaking door, but get your asses up and out of bed.” There is a pause. “You too, Buttercup. I don’t care what state your ass is in. The fucking mages are here.”

Chapter Text

Geralt can tell Jaskier is nervous by the way the bard chatters as they get dressed. When he puts a few more drops of scented oil than usual in his hands to drag through his hair, he carefully doesn’t say anything about the fact it cannot hide the way the bard reeks of both him and Eskel. They all smell strongly of each other in fact, and when Eskel meets his eyes, there’s something savagely pleased in their amber depths he feels echoed in his own chest. 

“I can’t understand why we don’t take a quick dip in the hotsprings first. Honestly, if they’re already here, they’re already waiting. What difference will a few minutes make? Ugh, and you don’t even have a mirror here. How will I know if I’m presentable? Mages serve in courts!” Jaskier frets.

“Indulge me, will you, flower?” Eskel says. 

“Of course, darling Eskel. With what though?” Jaskier asks, pausing his fastening of the frustratingly tiny buttons on his doublet. 

Geralt watches as Eskel steps forward to slide his hands under the fabric where it’s still parted. His brother’s amber eyes quickly drag over the bard’s elegant, pale neck, and Geralt follows his gaze. He isn’t sure if Jaskier knows, but not all of the love bites they left on him last night have disappeared from his skin yet. That, combined with the fact his hair is just a little wild, and that they’ll arrive with the three of them, will leave no doubt as to what they’ve been up to. 

“Hmh. He wants to show them that we’re his. That he’s ours,” Geralt says, stepping close and sliding his own hand beneath the fabric, fingers briefly intertwining with Eskel’s on Jaskier’s skin. 

Jaskier looks surprised for a moment, but turns sharp eyes on Eskel when his brother briefly rubs his fingers over his scar. “If they have any doubt on that front, I’ll disabuse them of the notion,” Jaskier says, his voice slightly sharp. “You know I’ll have no problem being obnoxiously loud about it if I have to.”

Eskel grins a little, but shakes his head. “Careful, bard. We still need their help, after all.”

Jaskier just sniffs, glancing over to Geralt and winking. When they leave, the collar of his doublet is left unbuttoned, love bites clearly on display against his pale skin. 

—000—

Jaskier feels it’s kind of surreal to meet the mages over breakfast, but that’s what happens. They can hear voices coming from the kitchen. There’s Vesemir’s low rumble, followed by the higher tones of a female voice. The voice is friendly, and he wonders if it’s Yennefer or Triss. He does his best to keep an open mind, but after what he heard last night it’s hard not to have certain expectations when it comes to the mage Geralt has a history with. It doesn’t help that Eskel’s shoulders are tense again, his expression guarded in a way Jaskier hasn’t seen since their first moments in the cave. When he looks at Geralt, the witcher’s expression is unreadable in a way it only is when he’s wary of danger. 

He sincerely hopes their help is worth it, if the mages’ presence alone means his wolves are on edge like this. He takes a deep breath, reaching up to scratch between Martin’s rounded ears, and opens the door. 

No one is seated yet. Instead everyone is standing, as if they’re waiting for them. Vesemir looks more at ease than the other two witchers, who turn their head as Jaskier enters with Geralt and Eskel at his back. He smiles at them briefly, before his eyes are pulled to the two women in the room.

They are both tall, with an otherworldly beauty that seems just— a little too perfect, and dressed in gowns more suitable for royal courts rather than a snowy keep high in the mountains. One of them smiles at him, her green eyes friendly, long red curls pulled back to frame a tan, freckled face. The other just gazes at him coolly, purple eyes briefly catching where his doublet lies opened against his throat. Yennefer has long black hair she wears loose, spilling across her shoulders, her olive skin smooth and perfect. 

Jaskier is aware of the contrast between the two of them. Where she’s perfectly groomed, not a hair out of place and her clothing immaculate, his hair is tousled, the sweat from last night dried on his skin, his wolves’ marks openly on display against his throat. He looks at her, and grins just wide enough to bare his fangs. Something flickers in the purple depths of her eyes, and he feels a sudden fierce surge of protection when they slide over to the witchers behind him. 

Before he can say anything, the other mage, Triss, steps forward, extending her hands to him. “It’s good to meet you, Jaskier,” she says, and the friendly voice they’d heard had been hers. “We’ve heard some things from Vesemir. You must have had a hard time of it. I hope we can help.”

She sounds genuine, though Jaskier doesn’t miss the soft note of worry that threads through her tone and her scent. When he meets her eyes her gaze is knowing, and he thinks Triss is very much aware of everything . Despite his apprehension otherwise, it has a spark of hope flare in his chest that just maybe, they really do know how to destroy the dagger. 

He takes her hands in his, and softens his smile. “It’s an honour to meet you, my Lady Triss,” he says, and is glad to see her smile widen. When she steps aside to greet the wolves behind him, Yennefer doesn’t take her place. 

“Geralt. Eskel,” she says by way of greeting, and it’s only the fact that her voice is neutral and her scent isn’t hostile that keeps Jaskier from letting his eyes turn crimson and baring his fangs again. Still, he reaches up, and briefly scratches Martin under his chin to calm himself. The marten purrs a little, but seems to sense his focus on the purple eyed mage, gleaming black eyes trained on her, just as Jaskier’s are. “So you are the vampire who has been welcomed into the witchers’ keep,” Yennefer says. “And I see you’ve made your way into their beds impressively fast.”

Anger swirls in Jaskier’s stomach, and he opens his mouth to answer.

“Yen,” Geralt growls before he can, stepping forward to stand beside him, fingers briefly pressing between his shoulder blades.

“Just stating facts, Geralt,” the mage answers, shifting her gaze from Jaskier to her former lover. The corners of her mouth pull down, and she sighs. “Like Triss said. We’re here to help.” She looks over at Jaskier again. “I’m Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Jaskier really wants to afford her the benefit of the doubt. He really wants to be polite and afford her the same courtesy he’d afforded Triss, no matter how frosty she presents herself. He catches that same whiff of hurt in Eskel’s scent though. That same bitter tinge of pained emotion that was present when Eskel had thought Jaskier might make Geralt choose between them, and he just— can’t. 

Instead, he just slightly inclines his head toward her. “Jaskier the bard,” he says.

She arches a dark, perfectly shaped brow. “Surely not anymore,” she says. “Surely it’s—”

“You don’t decide who I am,” he says, taking care to keep his voice mild. “Refer to me however you like, but you don’t determine the way I see myself.”

To his surprise, Yennefer’s expression softens slightly at that, and she gives him the barest dip of her chin.

“Good. With introductions out of the way, let’s sit down to breakfast,” Vesemir orders. 

—000—

Geralt has to admit that introductions could have gone worse. He can practically feel the way Jaskier is biting his tongue though, and appreciates the fierce protectiveness that emanates from everything the bard does. Instead of sitting down in his usual spot, the vampire gestures Eskel to it. His brother blinks in surprise, but takes the seat with a barely perceptible curve to his mouth. It puts Eskel between him and Jaskier, and Geralt makes sure to lean his shoulder against him. Yen sees the contact between them, but doesn’t comment on it, purple eyes averting to where Jaskier is dribbling honey over the plates of porridge and into cups of tea. 

When Jaskier deftly spins the spoon between his fingers, neither Lambert nor Aiden ask for it. Geralt is surprised when the bard reaches to bring it up to his mouth, and lets his lips part. The honey is sweet and rich on his tongue, and Jaskier takes it away before he can get all of it. He offers it to Eskel next. His brother grins, and takes the spoon in his mouth while laying his hand on the vampire’s lower back.

While they eat, Yennefer and Triss bring them news from Aretuza and the continent. It’s mostly politics the witchers don’t concern themselves with. Jaskier, though, is as knowledgeable as you’d expect from a former Viscount and traveling bard, even if he does deflect attention away from it by the sheer amount of words and levity he uses. Geralt sees the way it makes Yennefer consider him, and when she meets his gaze she tilts her head as if to say; maybe not such an odd choice after all. He reaches around Eskel, making sure his arm brushes over his brother’s shoulders, and lays his palm against the nape of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier barely pauses in his conversation with Triss, eyes quickly flicking over to him to give him a smile. 

At the end of breakfast the tension that had been there at the start of it has lessened greatly, but he knows better than to think it will stay that way. He himself has to continuously suppress his anger to keep it from spilling out. He hadn’t known about the ultimatum Yen had given Eskel, and now he does, he wants to confront her. This is not the time though.

 He clenches his jaw as Yennefer leans back in her seat, eyeing the vampire across from her. 

“Vesemir tells me he thinks you have the blood of the first.”

Jaskier licks his lips, and Geralt is sure the way his fangs peek out from under them isn’t a coincidence at all. “It seems that way, yes.”

Yennefer makes an expression that tells him she’s trying not to roll her eyes, but Triss leans forward, a frown on her face. “The first have been extinct for a while, their artifacts destroyed. If that dagger really contains blood of the first, it’s a dangerous thing to have.”

“I did not have much of a choice in obtaining it,” Jaskier answers.

“You wouldn’t,” Yennefer interjects. “ If that dagger is what you say it is and it made you, it will not easily let you go.”

“What?” Jaskier asks, attention now fully focussed on the mage. “What does that mean?”

Yennefer tilts her head, her purple eyes sharp. “If it’s true - and that’s a big if as far as I’m concerned- then you are the only source of blood for it. At least until it can find— another.”

“Yen,” Geralt growls. “Must you speak in riddles?”

She scoffs. “Don’t ask me to share dangerous information without any proof. You know better than that. I will share,” she looks at Triss. “We both will. But not frivolously. If the vampire can prove to us he has the blood of the first, we’ll talk.”

—000—

Jaskier scoffs, irritated, but looks at Vesemir. “Can we repeat the trick with the blood, to show them?” he asks. 

“That won’t be enough,” Yennefer interrupts before Vesemir can answer.

“Why in the ever loving fuck not? Do you enjoy being difficult, witch?” Lambert growls, a spectacular scowl on his face. 

Triss holds up her hand, and Lambert keeps scowling, but doesn’t say anything more. “I’m guessing you let a drop of your blood fall on the blade and it got absorbed?” the red haired mage asks kindly. 

“As you very well know, it’s the method to demonstrate the blade as the origin of his turning,” Vesemir answers in his calm, no-nonsense way. 

Triss nods. “That’s true, but it won’t prove more than that the blade made him. It won’t prove his lineage.”

“Why not?” Jaskier asks bewildered. “The book said—”

“Not all books are accurate, bard,” Yennefer says with an eye roll. “Written text is inevitably coloured by the author, and history is written by the victors. Their artifacts weren’t destroyed for no reason. The first are no longer here, as far as we know, and unless one of them actually wrote that book, we’re not going to blindly assume it’s actually correct.”

Jaskier gapes at her for a moment, but he has to admit there’s a certain amount of sense to her words. “The vampires that Eskel encountered, you know about them?” he asks. 

Yennefer and Triss nod.

“They mentioned the same thing,” Eskel adds in his low, rumbling voice. “Blood of the first, and a vampire that was made by it.”

Triss shakes her head, looking at Eskel with that same frown of concern. “How can we trust vampires we know nothing about?” she says, and Jaskier can’t help flinching slightly. Eskel presses his hand more firmly against his back, and he can feel as much as hear the soothing rumble in Geralt’s chest. 

He takes a deep breath. “Alright, so the spooky dagger is out as a means of evidence.” He meets Yennefer’s eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

“The first had a certain skill set, as I’m sure they’ve told you. They’re very particular skills. Phasing, blood thrall, compulsion,” she trails off, pursing her mouth, and her eyes briefly flick to Martin, still perched on Jaskier’s shoulder. “And a few more. I can see that your eyes are blue instead of crimson for one, otherwise we’d already know enough.”

“Fine, so the colour of my eyes can be proof. Much more reliable than an ancient book, I’m sure. Anything else?” he asks sarcastically.

Yennefer gives him a deceptively sweet smile. “Of course. Those other skills I mentioned. We’d like a demonstration.”

“Just take my word for it, if you won’t take his,” Geralt growls next to him. “He has them.”

Yennefer stares at Geralt for a moment. “Your word is not enough,” she says eventually, and Jaskier hisses through his teeth. 

“Are you sure you're here to help and not to hurt?” he says, abandoning all pretense, throwing the accusation in the mage’s face. There’s the crackle of something static in the air, and Jaskier instinctively knows it’s chaos, and that it’s dangerous. Instead of making him back down, it sharpens his senses, and for the first time since he’s fed from both Eskel and Geralt, he becomes aware of the heartbeats and thrum of blood around him. He closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, Triss has her hand on Yennefer’s shoulder, but the static in the air doesn’t diminish. 

“I’m here to help,” Yennefer says, meeting his gaze without flinching. It sounds like the truth, and smells like it. It’s why when the sudden crack of chaos ripples through the air, it comes as a surprise.

Martin is yanked from his shoulder by an unseen force, and the screech the little marten lets out is high, reminding Jaskier way too much of the way he’d sounded being crushed in a werewolf’s jaws. Martin twists in the air, hovering above Yennefer’s lap. Jaskier doesn’t even try to stop his instincts from slamming into him, baring his teeth on a hiss. Around the table, four wolves and a cat spring to their feet, their growls deafening. 

Jaskier is slower to rise, keeping control of himself through sheer willpower. The world around him is sharp and distinct, and instead of all their heartbeats, there’s just one that’s loud in his ears, drawing all of his focus. The veins under Yennefer’s olive skin stand out to him now, and it’s almost as if he can see through her, all the way to where her heart is beating in her chest. She looks at him, and though there’s no shift in her expression, he knows she’s surprised. Hidden behind that, pressed down so far it’s nearly indistinguishable, there’s fear. 

“You might want to let Martin go,” he says softly. There’s not a trace of a lilt in his voice, but the dangerous tone is unmistakable. He can hear Triss swallow where she sits next to Yennefer, and briefly wonders if she will add her chaos to the mix. He keeps his focus wholly on the mage across from him.

“Listen to him,” Geralt growls. “The last one to hurt Martin paid with his life.”

Jaskier tilts his head, gaze never leaving Yennefer. There is a stubborn set to her jaw. “You wanted me to demonstrate?” he says. Geralt’s fingers stroke briefly over his nape, and he half expects the witcher to grab hold of him. He doesn’t. “You will not ever use chaos to hurt those who belong to me.”  

Where in practice he’d been having trouble focussing his lilt on one specific individual, he now directs the full force of it to the mage across from him, and the static in the air winks out like a candle flame in a breeze. 

Yennefer blinks as Marten drops down to the table next to her hand. She pulls it away, but Jaskier isn’t at all sorry to see Martin’s teeth bury into the muscle just below her thumb. The mage yanks her hand away with a cry, and Martin releases an angry, hissing growl, before skittering back over the table. Jaskier sits down slowly, and pulls the marten into his lap, stroking his fingers across his russet fur from nose to the tip of his tail, soothing him. Yennefer is staring at him, viscous red drops slowly leaking from her hand. Jaskier can smell it, and can still see the thrum of her blood through her veins, pumped forth by her heart. 

He licks one of his sharp fangs and tilts his head at her. “You might want to use chaos to stop that wound from bleeding though,” he says casually. 

“Fuck, leechy!” Aiden exclaims, sitting down, looking between Jaskier and the mage. 

“I second that, Buttercup,” Lambert exclaims, sounding almost awed. 

Suddenly Jaskier feels highly uncomfortable with what he did, eyes flicking from one slitted pair of irises to the next. At the same time he doesn’t regret it at all. 

“I think the bard has made it very clear not to touch the marten,” Vesemir growls angrily. When Jaskier looks at the old wolf, he’s not glaring at him, but at the pair of mages seated at their kitchen table, and Martin titters as if he knows the witcher is defending him. “Everyone take their seat and calm down,” Vesemir continues, and those who are still standing slowly lower themselves back down. There’s another, smaller crackle of chaos in the air, coming from Triss. When he looks, Yennefer’s hand is no longer bleeding, all traces of blood gone and her skin whole as if it had never been broken by Martin’s teeth.

This time when Geralt lays his hand against his nape, he does squeeze. “Eyes blue, Jaskier,” he says. 

He tries to take deep breaths, willing himself to focus on the familiar scents of them, on Geralt’s hand against his skin and Eskel’s thigh pressing into his under the table. When he meets Yennefer’s eyes again, he knows his own are no longer crimson. 

“I apologise,” the mage says stiffly. “I should have known better than to harm the animal companion of one of the first.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier feels frustrated and angry, but tries to squash down the feeling. He resents the fact they forced him into lilting, even if he doesn’t regret the command he gave Yennefer. He breathes deeply to keep in the harsh words he wants to speak. 

“Let's just move on, shall we?” he says. They’re very clearly not words of forgiveness, and Yennefer’s purple eyes flicker with recognition.

“We should talk about balance,” the mage says. “There’s no conjuring something from nothing. We want something in return for our help.”

Jaskier snorts, and feels Geralt’s fingers twitch where they still lie against his nape. “Such pretty words and pretty terms. Does calling it balance help you live with yourself? Let’s call it what it is. You’re not helping unless you get paid .”

Yennefer shrugs. “If that’s what you prefer to call it. I wonder if you judge your witchers as harshly. After all, do they not ask for payment for a contract to be completed? Could they not help without it?”

Jaskier grits his teeth and thinks of how often Geralt helps those with little to their name for far less compensation that he's worth. He looks to Vesemir. 

The old wolf has his arms folded over his chest, and his voice holds clear disapproval when he speaks. “So name your price, mages.”

Jaskier can tell Triss is uncomfortable, but not enough to have her services be for free, apparently. “The use of your library,” she says, meeting Vesemir’s eyes. 

Aiden scoffs. “That seems too easy, which library, and use in what way?” Jaskier can almost hear the swallowed down witch at the end of that sentence. 

Triss sighs. “I swear we mean no harm. It’s just research.” She pauses for a moment, her gaze shifting over the witchers in front of her. “The library in your labs. Just reading. We won’t take anything.”

Jaskier feels how the warriors stiffen to a man, and starts shaking his head before he can even think of why the mages would ask for this. “Wait,” he says, meeting Vesemir’s yellow gaze again. “What type of books does the library in the labs hold?”

“Library might be a stretch,” Geralt rumbles. “Most were destroyed in the pogrom, but the labs is where we keep the surviving tomes on how to brew witcher potions.”

Jaskier stares at him open-mouthed, before he returns his gaze to the mages, looking at Triss this time. “Fuck no!  Absolutely not. Has chaos rotted away your damn minds?” He thinks of the way Geralt’s eyes turn black on cat, to allow him to see an attack coming his way even on a moonless night. He thinks of swallow, allowing him to take more damage than should be humanly possible, and survive. He thinks of black blood and cursed oil. He thinks of liquid sunlight, the thing that keeps his witchers from spilling their lifeblood after they let him feed. 

He knows the witcher potions are a very carefully kept secret, and everything in him rebels at the idea that these two mages will know what they are made of, will know how to make them themselves. There’s a sharp, cold fear in his chest that it might tell them what to do, to make the potions stop working. He wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but not when it comes to this. Jaskier will not allow his witchers’ safety to be compromised on the off chance these mages will be able to help with their vampire problem.

“You  must not know how bargaining works,” he hisses. “The price you ask for isn’t one I’d ever consider.” 

“Good thing you’re not the one who’d be paying it then,” Yennefer says, raising a dark brow.

“The answer is no,” Vesemir says stoically, and Jaskier sags in relief, leaning heavily into Eskel's shoulder.

Yennefer rolls her eyes in response. “Fine. We don’t yet know if we can help anyway. Once we do, we’ll set a new price for you to consider.”

Both Geralt and Eskel growl. Vesemir looks like he’s considering throwing the mages out into the snowstorm, and Lambert and Aiden just look pissed the fuck off. 

Jaskier bares his fangs at her. “As long as the price you ask is something you’ll ask of me , we have an agreement.”

The mage looks at him with a haughty tilt to her chin. “We have an agreement,” she says.

—000—

“What the hell, Yen?”  Geralt growls between his teeth. He’s followed her scent all the way down to the labs, and though he knows the books are kept safe in a way that even she can’t get to them, he still takes a careful breath of the air. The seal hasn’t broken. That’s good.

Yennefer is bent over the table, the dagger laid out on its black blood soaked cloth in front of her. She’s not touching it, just staring at it very intently, and he can feel the shift of her chaos in the air. 

“Geralt,” she acknowledges without looking up at him. “You have a bone to pick?” Outwardly, she seems utterly indifferent, but he knows her better than that. 

“More than one,” he says, and after a few more minutes of her staring down at the blade, she looks up to regard him. 

“Let’s sit,” she says, and moves toward a pair of chairs, setting herself down like a queen on her throne. “Pick away.”

“The price you asked for, the price you’re going to ask. Grabbing Martin. The ultimatum you gave Eskel,” he finishes. 

“More than one indeed,” she says. “The price I asked was never the price I expected to get, obviously. I wanted to know if he’d let you pay it.”

Geralt growls. “Testing him? Even after he showed you what will happen if you threaten those that are his?”

“The unfortunate situation with the lilt confirmed the marten is his. Now I know that you’re his, too. All of you in fact. Rather inconvenient, seeing as that lilt will take an age to wear off.”

Geralt can’t help smirk at that at least a little. He raises his brows. “All of us?” he asks. 

Yennefer’s sigh is put upon, as if she’s explaining things to a particularly dense toddler. “Yes, all of you. The vampire gets rather attached, apparently. Though his claim on you and Eskel is certainly a bit— stronger .”

“The ultimatum you gave Eskel,” he says, keeping himself from balling his hands into fists. He does nothing to keep the anger out of his voice though. Yennefer’s purple eyes flick over him and he knows the deliberate purse of her mouth is to hide the way she truly feels. 

“So he finally told you. When?”

“Last night.”

“Ah, so the vampire actually makes you discuss your feelings?” she says sardonically, and Geralt clenches his jaw to keep in the growl. He doesn’t know why he still lets her do this to him.

“Yen,” he says. “You know what he means to me. You knew, when you forced him to step aside.”

She scoffs. “I didn’t force him. I just told him how it would be.”

This time, he does growl, anger burning hot in his chest. “You knew what he would do. You knew how he would choose and that he would shoulder the secret. You caused nothing but hurt.” At that, her gaze suddenly shutters, and for a moment he can’t read her at all. She takes a deep, deliberate breath, and rolls her shoulders. When she looks at him again after a few seconds of silence, there’s something soft and vulnerable in her purple gaze. It has the anger in his chest sputter, and die. 

“I knew it would hurt, but can you blame me for trying to prevent my own?” she says. “I know it’s selfish. I guess there’s the difference between me and the lovers you have chosen. I couldn’t share. My heart just can’t understand it. It can only make space for one, and when it doesn’t get that in return, it feels diminished. I hurt you. I hurt him. To me it was worth it if I got to keep you. Had I posed that ultimatum to you, I know how you would have chosen.” She looks away from him then. “I’m glad their hearts are greater than mine.”

Geralt leans back into his chair, shaking his head. “Not greater. Not better or worse. Just different,” he says. “Though if you hurt him again, either of them—”

Yennefer waves her hand through the air dismissively. “Keep your threats to yourself, wolf,” she says. “I can imagine them all too well.” There’s something fond in her voice when she says it, and they don’t exactly smile at each other, but it’s not exactly antagonistic either. “One final bone, If I’ve remembered correctly,” she says with a raised brow.

“The price you’re going to ask for,” he says. 

She shrugs. “Do you believe me when I say we don’t know yet?”

“Hmh. I might. But that’s not very reassuring.”

She laughs. “None of you would ever accuse me of that trait, certainly. Now, why don't you go do the rest of your brooding somewhere else, and let me inspect this dagger.”

They stand together, and Yennefer makes her way back to the lab table. Geralt stands in the door opening, silently looking at her for a moment. She’s focused. Murmuring under her breath, concentrating on figuring out the puzzle in front of her. It’s quite some effort for a mage who hasn't set a price yet.

“Yen,” he says, and waits for her to look up at him with distracted purple eyes. “We can't lose him.”

For the first time since she’s arrived, the curve of her mouth is gentle, and he thinks he can see the way she used to look at him, before they fell apart. “I know,” she says. “I'll see what I can do.”

From Yennefer of Vengerberg, it's as good as a declaration of intent.

—000—

Jaskier manages to avoid the mages for quite a while. The keep is large and cold, and the two women don't wander further than their welcome allows. He sees them at mealtimes, and that's more than enough for him. They haven't found much that could be of help yet, but both of them seem to think the dagger holds answers.

Jaskier trains, bathes in the hotsprings, and bakes every other afternoon. When there’s time between fixing the various ways the castle is slowly falling apart, he holes up in the library with his lute, composing. In the evenings, he plays for the rest of them, and everyone,  including the mages, seem more relaxed when he does. His nights are shared with both Geralt and Eskel, and consist of warm comfort and blinding pleasure. And if he goes down to breakfast with the collar of his doublet opened despite the cold, lovingly laid down bruises on full display, well. Who's to call him on it?

It is, of course, only a matter of time before he encounters one of the mages while he's on his own. And of fucking course it isn't gentle Triss, but Yennefer who finally manages to sneak up on him.

He narrows his eyes as he looks up at the purple eyed mage when she enters the library. There’s ink on his fingers and he’s already in a mood after spilling part of the pot over the deep blue fabric of his doublet. There's a large black stain he knows won't be washed out. He knows clothes, and he knows ink far more intimately than anyone really should from his days in Oxenfurt. 

He's attuned to his senses well enough by now that he can hear anyone approaching the library far in advance. Usually. “Did you actually use an enchantment to hide your heartbeat from me?” He says incredulously.

“Yes. Seeing as I've failed at every attempt to find you by yourself before. If I didn’t know better I'd think you're avoiding me.”

Jaskier snorts. “Know better,” he says. “There’s no reason for us to talk alone.”

“That's where we disagree,” Yennefer retorts, and sets herself next to him. He raises his eyebrows at her and she smirks. “Had a little accident?” She gestures to the ink staining his clothes, and Jaskier is this close to reconsidering his policy of not draining anyone of their blood. He might just have to make an exception for mages.

High up on one of the shelves, Martin sticks his head out between the books, his gleaming black eyes focussed on them. It serves to have him a little less tense, his own russet furred sentinel, keeping an eye from high above. He might have worried about Yennefer grabbing Martin with her chaos again, if it weren’t for the fact he’s quite sure she can't. He doesn't know exactly how he knows, but the lilt he'd thrown at her is still strongly in effect.

“Do you want some help with that?” the mage asks.

“Something tells me I really don't want to be owing you any favours,” he says rather meanly.

Yennefer scoffs. “Consider the price staying here to listen to me, instead of immediately running off. You do know how to do that, don't you? Listen?”

Her tone is knowing, and Jaskier cannot help but bare his fangs at her. “I listen plenty. Not to you.”

“Fine. I'll rephrase. The price is hearing me out.”

Jaskier stares at her for a moment. He really doubts he wants to hear anything she has to say, but— this is one of his best doublets. “Fine,” he says. “But if you speak ill of any of them, i'll leave.”

“Fair enough,” Yennefer responds, and then there's the crackle of chaos in the air as she waves her hand. Jaskier feels a decidedly uncomfortable tingle where the stained fabric lies over his chest, and when he looks down at himself, the blue of his doublet is back to being pristine.

“Thank you,” he says, and he can't help it much if he’s the kind of person who's joy at seeing his clothes restored is clearly audible in his voice.

Yennefer rolls her purple eyes at him. “You're welcome. You know if you hadn’t brought it up, it wouldn’t have cost you anything.”

Jaskier wrinkles his nose at that, folding his arms over his chest. “I know we didn’t discuss a time frame, but you should know I get bored quite easily,” he retorts. Above them, Martin had started a soft, hissing growl at the chaos in the air. Now that it's gone, the little marten jumps down the shelves and races toward him. Jaskier extends a hand, letting Martin wind his way up to his shoulder to curl around the back of his neck. The marten hisses at Yennefer again for good measure, and then snuffles against Jaskier’s throat.

“I wouldn't have hurt him, you know.”

“I don't know.”

“I'm not in the habit of hurting those who can't defend themselves.”

“Hmh. I seem to remember rather clearly that you were the one left bleeding.”

Yennefer dips her chin, the curl of her lips amused. “Point,” she concedes.

“I'm assuming you came here to make some kind of point as well?” Jaskier says, making his voice deliberately slow, as if he's doubting her mental capabilities. It's not an insult everyone would pick up on, but Yennefer certainly doesn't miss it, if the spark in her eyes is anything to go by. He fully expects her to bite something back at him, but she doesn't.

“Hm. I actually wanted to apologise.”

Jaskier raises a sceptical brow and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right,” he articulates slowly. “Well, since you have so much to apologise for, which are we focussing on?”

Her mouth quirks. “Testing your skills was necessary. I couldn’t take their word for it that you had them. It seemed— a convenient way,” she says, gaze briefly flicking over Martin.

“Why the hell could you not trust their word? You know they’re monster hunters, right? Have been for longer than I’ve been alive, I believe.”

“Do you know anything of the first, other than what they told you?” She asks.

“No. Not exactly a subject that was taught at Oxenfurt. I imagine Aretuza has no such oversight?”

She laughs, short and entirely without mirth. “For all Aretuza’s faults, that's not one of them, you're right.”

“I'm guessing there's something the witchers don't know about, and you've inexplicably decided that I should?”

“You're more perceptive than you let on. You seemed rather— dull, upon first impression”

“I don't know that anyone has ever called me dull before. How typical, to have a compliment wrapped up in an insult.”

“Something you seem to be quite adept at yourself. You'd have done well, as a Viscount.”

Jaskier snorts. “That right there, definitely an insult.” To his surprise, his remark has a genuine smile sliding over Yennefer’s face. It makes her look softer. Kinder. And Jaskier reminds himself not to be fooled. “So what is it that you think I need to know, that you've decided to tell me when the others are all outside fixing a patch of roof, conveniently out of earshot?” No matter what she says, he'll be checking the truth of it with his witchers before he believes any of it.

“The skills of the first are known to you. It's just that there’s far more connection between two of those than you realise.”

“Which two?”

“Compulsion, and the blood thrall,” she sighs.

Jaskier stares at her. “I'm afraid I'm going to need some spelling out on this one.”

“You can compel without a blood thrall, but that’s not the case the other way around."

“What?” Jaskier says, not sure what she’s getting at. “To repeat something Geralt said, must you speak in riddles? Is that something required to become an Aretuza graduate?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to let you get there on your own. Don’t think I don’t know you’d hardly believe a word that comes out of my mouth.”

Jaskier sniffs, and Martin titters. “Quite right,” he says, but then her words start to sink in. He presses a fang to the inside of his lip slowly, trying to keep calm. “You’re saying that a blood thrall— also compels?”

“Yes,” she says simply. 

Jaskier pulls Martin from his place around his neck, and occupies his hands by stroking him from the tip of his nose to between his ears repeatedly. Usually it has Martin purring, but right now the little marten keeps his gleaming gaze on the mage next to them. “The same way my lilt does?”

“Not exactly,” Yennefer answers. “It’s more subtle than that. It leaves the subject of the compulsion largely unaware of it.”

There’s dread curdling in Jaskier’s stomach, and he’s quite sure he doesn’t want to finish this conversation. But he can’t stop himself either. He has to know. “Golden Oriole takes care of the blood thrall,” he says. He can hear the horror of realisation starting to creep into his own voice. 

“As far as I understand Golden Oriole takes care of poisons. It would take care of the proximity based anticoagulant. It wouldn’t take care of any deeper magic.”

Jaskier swallows. “But, what sense would that make? Why would the first need to have a blood thrall that’s laced with compulsion?” Yennefer looks like she’s pitying him now, and Jaskier’s breathing is getting so fast he’s rather light headed. 

“Is there a more convenient food source than the one who stays, seemingly of their own volition? Some would have run as soon as they were bitten, not giving the compulsion time to take effect. Those would have offered the benefit of a one time meal. Some would remain unaware, and live as companions to the first, providing easy, risk free access to blood.”

Jaskier feels like he’s going to be sick. He shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly. “No,” he manages to gasp eventually. “That— that can’t be, I— I can’t have made them!”

“I’m sorry,” Yennefer says, and for once Jaskier thinks she sounds genuine.

He lets his head drop into his hands. He feels like his heart has been ripped to pieces, the remnants left raw and bleeding. He doesn’t want to believe it, but something about Yennefer’s words rings true. “Why did you tell me this?” he asks, voice rough. 

“I might not have. But you didn’t let them pay the price to help save you. I believe you don’t want them hurt. I thought you’d want to know.”

Tears slip from his eyes and between his fingers. He’d bitten Geralt before anything ever happened between the two of them. He’d bitten Eskel, before the witcher had even gotten to know him. They never had a chance. He wishes getting stabbed by the dagger would have killed him. He wishes that one of his attempts to kill himself would have succeeded. 

He rubs the tears from his eyes with rough hands before looking up at Yennefer. “You say you came to aplogise, but you tell me this?”

There’s a frown between her dark brows. “I didn’t tell you for you to go do something stupid,” she says with a warning in her voice. He laughs joylessly, the hollow pit in his chest threatening to consume him whole. “They don’t want you hurt. They don’t want to lose you.”

“Did they tell you that themselves? Hardly counts in light of this, now does it?”

She makes a slight, irritated sound at the back of her throat. “I didn’t tell you this to break you away from them. I told you this because I’ve since checked them over, and there’s not a single thread of compulsion in them, not in any of them. Again, don’t do anything stupid, bard. I think losing you would break them.”

He raises a sceptical eyebrow at her,and she purses her mouth. “How though? you just said—”

“They’re not human. They’re witchers. They have mutations that make them more resistant to all manner of things.”

“They’re not resistant to the blood thrall though,” he says. “Geralt almost bled out the first hunt after I bit him. Eskel was bleeding out from it when I found him on the killer.” Inexplicably, his words have a self satisfied smile appear on Yennefer’s face. 

“Ah, that’s good to know.”

“How in the ever loving fuck is that good?” he asks, starting to get slightly hysterical with the maelstrom of emotion still raging through him.

“Hmh. I’m guessing Geralt didn’t leave you immediately after the bite, did he?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Of course. He wouldn’t. That means he left you for a hunt some time after it.”

“It— it wasn’t long,” Jaskier says uncertainly.

“And Eskel left as soon as he was bitten by those other vampires, up the killer.”

“That— that’s what I understood, yes.”

“Well, both of those are not the behaviour of the type of— livestock the first kept.”

At that word, Jaskier feels a whole new wave of nausea roiling through him, and he hisses between his teeth. He stands, and Martin claws his way back up to his shoulder. “Did you tell me this to hurt me? To hurt them?” he asks, meeting the mage’s purple eyes. 

She stands as well, facing him directly. “I’ve hurt them enough in the past. I’m not the same person I was then. Though that might be hard to believe. I’d rather see them happy than in pain, and things like this have a way of coming to light at the most inopportune moments.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “You think the vampires would have used this information against us.”

“Almost certainly,” she says. “There’s a reason the first lived for centuries. These are not of the same calibre, but there’s nothing more dangerous than a monster with intelligence. It’s why the worst monsters are the ones who used to be human, or the ones who still are, after all.”

He nods, very slowly. “You couldn’t take their word because I might have compelled them, but me compelling them would have proved my lineage regardless. How does that make sense?” 

She rolls her eyes at him. “We were suddenly called upon by our monster hunting, vampire killing acquaintances, to help keep safe the vampire they’d welcomed into the keep they’ve kept secret for years. Forgive me for being suspicious and trying to finagle out of you whatever nefarious plans you might have had.”

“You still think I have nefarious plans?”

She scoffs. “You’re too soft to have anything of the sort, Buttercup,” she says, and Jaskier blinks at her use of the nickname. 

“Now, those big lugs of muscle must be done with the roof at any moment. Shall we head down to dinner?”  She turns and opens the door. 

“Wait,” Jaskier says, and smiles at her, putting the tips of his fangs on display when she looks back at him. “All this, and I still haven’t heard the apology you were supposedly planning to make.” 

She laughs. “Oh, I never expected you to be this much fun,” she says, something feral in her smile. “I apologise, bard. For the tests.”

Jaskier lets his smile become a little more feral, and nods. “I accept. Though my forgiveness for the way you hurt them might take a while.”

She nods. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier is quieter than usual when they finally get to sit down to dinner. Geralt briefly touches the back of his neck, and the bard shivers when his still icy fingers brush over the tender skin. “Jask?” he asks, briefly flicking his gaze to Eskel, seeing his concern mirrored in his brother’s amber eyes. 

Jaskier presses a kiss to his lips, still cold from working outside, and turns around to bestow the same upon Eskel. His mouth is warm and tender, but there’s something careful, almost hesitant in the way he initiates the contact. Geralt can feel his brows pull together in a frown, and Jaskier lifts a thumb to rub at the wrinkle with a slight smirk. 

“One of these days your face will get stuck like that, I swear. Just— I have a lot to think about tonight,” he says. 

“Anything we can help with, flower?” Eskel murmurs softly, placing his palm on Jaskier’s lower back. 

The bard looks between them again. “You are both so very dear to me. You know that right?” 

Jaskier says it all the time, his words and gestures saturated with his affection and love, as if he can’t help but have it seep out of his very pores. This feels different though, and Geralt doesn’t like it. 

“As are you to us,” Eskel says, meeting Geralt’s eyes over Jaskier’s shoulder. The bard blinks a few times, nods decisively, and leaves them behind to whirl through the kitchen to serve everyone a piece of the plum pie he’d made the day before. When the sweet treat has been devoured, Eskel reaches around Jaskier to brush his fingers over Geralt’s hip. “Will you let us take you up early tonight?” he rumbles softly into Jaskier’s ear. The bard shivers a little and bites a fang into his lip, before shaking his head.

“Not tonight, I have something I need to ask Lambert,” he says. Across the table their brother is caught with his last forkful of pie halfway to his mouth, comically frozen until Aiden snorts loudly in amusement. 

“Shut it, kitten,” he growls, his ears slowly turning pink before he turns to Jaskier. “What is it, Buttercup?”

“Something I’d like to discuss with you in private,” Jaskier answers, and he sounds uncharacteristically serious. The entire table now looks distinctly interested, though Geralt doesn’t miss the fact that Yennefer is studiously pretending not to listen to the conversation, engaging Triss and Vesemir instead. Geralt can’t entirely suppress the growl that rumbles in his throat, and Lambert smirks.

“Hey, he’s asking for it, pretty boy,” his brother says.

It has Jaskier chuckle, and more than the slight flare of possessiveness there’s relief to see their bard come out of his serious mood a little. 

“Just remember we’ll see you in training tomorrow, little Lamb,” Eskel says with a smirk of his own. 

—000—

Jaskier follows Lambert and Aiden to their room, far enough away and with a door made of thick enough wood that he knows his wolves won’t be able to hear him, unless he’d make some very loud noise. He knows it’s possible, Aiden and Lambert aren’t exactly quiet. Then again, neither are the three of them, up in their own room. 

“You want me to go take a dip in the hot springs, leechy?” Aiden says gently. 

Jaskier smiles and shakes his head. “No. No, you can stay. I suppose that’s even better, two know more than one.” Both witchers look at him with quiet interest, and he follows them into their room. It’s much the same as the one he shares with Geralt, and now Eskel. There’s a hearth on one side, with an area to relax in front of it, and the rest of the space is dominated by a rather large bed. The space is saturated with the scent of them, and he thinks of how his own room holds the scent of the three of them, harmonious and intertwined. 

Jaskier curls up in a chair in front of the fire, Lambert and Aiden half facing him. He pulls a knee into his chest and lays his cheek down on it, thinking of how to start. “I need some help determining the truth of something,” he says. 

“Why’d you need us for that? You’re as good at sniffing out lies as the rest of us, once you stop letting yourself be distracted and actually pay attention to your senses for fucking once,” Lambert growls.

“I need help, because can you ever really trust what you’re smelling on a mage?” he says. 

Aiden grimaces. “Fucking witches,” he says under his breath. “Which mage though? I’d be inclined to believe one more than the other.”

“Yennefer, of course,” he answers.

Lambert’s sharp yellow gaze comes to rest on him, and Jaskier shifts a little. “And the reason you’re not asking your two wolves is because it has to do with them?” It’s rather quick on the uptake, but Jaskier has gotten to know Lambert well enough by now to know that the antagonistic shell hides not only a surprisingly soft heart, but a sharp mind as well. “What did she fucking tell you, Buttercup? I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her.” 

Jaskier can’t help but laugh at that, and raises an amused eyebrow at Aiden. “Admittedly, that’s pretty damn far, Lamb,” the cat says fondly. 

Lambert crosses his arms over his chest. “You know what I mean,” he grumbles. Jaskier would call the expression on his face a pout, but if he does so, he’d do it far out of the witcher’s earshot. He has no desire to get snow poured down his neck the next time they’re outside together. “So, what did the wicked witch tell you?” the redhead asks. 

There’s something unsure and vulnerable, curled up tight in his chest, that might just get mortally injured depending on what they say. Of course, he could keep his mouth shut and not tell them. He could choose to believe Yennefer’s words. He’d told himself he’d check whatever she said with a witcher though, and he’s going to, even if the outcome of it might break him. He takes a deep breath, and tells them what Yennefer had told him, word for word. 

When he’s done speaking, Jaskier fidgets nervously. Both witchers are staring at him silently, their faces unreadable, and he can’t help but pick at his nails. He briefly wishes Martin was here, so he could press his fingers into the marten’s soft, furred belly, and have him purr. He’d sent him up with his wolves though, riding contentedly on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“So, you see why I need your help?” he says. “She said there’s no compulsion on them. But how can I trust her to tell the truth? How— how can I face them when I might have—” his voice cracks despite his effort in keeping it level, and he breaks off. 

There is a growl rumbling in Lambert’s chest, and the expression on his face is furious. Jaskier winces, and remembers the witcher’s conviction that Geralt had to be under his compulsion when he first arrived at Kaer Morhen. He’d been growling then too, that same type of furiously protective noise that’s coming from him now. When he looks at Aiden, the cat looks equally enraged, his anger cold compared to Lambert’s heat. 

“Fuck, leechy!” Aiden says, and the nickname has Jaskier sag in his seat with relief like his strings have been cut. Lambert rises from his seat, and only the cat’s foot hooking around his ankle stops him. “Where are you going, Lamb?” 

“I’m going to those shithead brothers’ of mine and tell them the little Buttercup needs us to pound a witch into the dust,” he growls. 

Jaskier can feel his mouth fall open, and carefully wets his bottom lip. “Wait,” he says. “You’re not mad at me?” At that, both witchers turn their heads to once again stare at him. 

“No?” Aiden says. “Why would we be?”

He throws frustrated hands up in the air. “Because!” 

He gets another fierce growl from Lambert. “Cut that shit out,” the redheaded witcher says. “I know my brothers. Granted, I was sceptical at first, but this shit they’ve been doing with you? It’s good for them. It’s— It's what they’ve needed. They were free to choose. Don’t take it away from them now, bard.” Aiden nods when Jaskier looks between them, a concerned frown on his face.

“How can you be so sure?” Jaskier asks, hope flaring in his chest. 

“We just are,” the cat says. “And so are you. We know them. You know them. You asked us for our opinion, leechy, and here it is. The witch is a bitch, no surprise there, but she told you the truth. There’s no compulsion on them.”

Slowly, Jaskier allows himself to believe it. Despite himself he’d trusted that what Yennefer told him was true, but if left alone, the small seed of doubt would have sprouted and grown large enough to infest everything. 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay, I believe it.” 

Lambert growls. “That witch is lucky you do, or I would have had a word with her.”

“Words, Lamb, really?” Aiden says sceptically, and Lambert shrugs. The cat kisses his partner on the cheek before giving Jaskier a feral grin. “Me too though. So she really is lucky.”

Jaskier shakes his head at them. “What does it say about me that I find your penchant for threatening violence endearing?” he murmurs, earning a grunt from Lambert and a delighted laugh from Aiden. “I really do think she meant well though,” he says. 

Both witchers look highly sceptical at that. But now that Jaskier knows she was telling the truth, he thinks she was trying to help him more than harm him. She just went about it in a rather unique way.

—000—

When Jaskier enters their room, he smells relieved, and happy. His shoulders are loose, and the corners of his mouth curve up to where the very tips of his fangs catch the light with a glint. Geralt inhales deeply to get more of it, and releases a low, rumbling growl. When he rises, Eskel remains seated, leaning back on the rug in front of the fire, eyeing them carefully as he advances on the bard.

“Jask,” he rumbles, pulling him into him with an arm around his waist. “Care to tell us why you smell like you’ve been rolling around in Lamb and Aiden’s scents?” He leans his head forward, nosing up under Jaskier’s ear, grateful to breathe in the bard’s own smell, intermingled with his and Eskel’s. 

Jaskier laughs, and slaps his shoulder. “Don’t let your nose get any ideas, love. They just hugged me and held me for a while.” At that, Geralt stiffens a little, and he can hear Eskel shift behind him, taking a deep breath of his own. 

“What was it that made you sad? You could have come to us for comfort,” his brother says softly.

Jaskier unwinds himself from Geralt’s embrace and moves forward to plop himself into Eskel’s lap. Martin had been snoozing there, but the little marten doesn’t seem to mind being displaced, settling closer to the hearth to soak up its warmth. “I couldn't, darling. Coming to those who might be under your compulsion is no way to verify if that’s in fact true,” he says far too casually. 

Eskel’s hands come up to grab onto Jaskier’s waist, and he can see his brother’s fingers dig in a little. “Why would you think that?” Geralt growls. He’s got a suspicion on why Jaskier would suddenly be so concerned. The vampire bites his lip, and Eskel lifts his hand to pull the soft flesh from between sharp teeth with his thumb. 

“Tell us, flower,” his brother orders, amber eyes intense, a slight tendril of anger making it into his scent telling Geralt Eskel too suspects it has something to do with Yennefer. Jaskier shifts in the witcher’s lap, and Eskel’s hands drop down to his hips to hold him still. “No distracting me,” he says firmly, and the bard colours. 

Geralt comes to stand behind Jaskier, and cards his fingers through his hair. “It was Yennefer.”

Eskel bares his teeth, and Jaskier tips his head back to look up at him. “It really isn’t a big deal,” he says firmly. “So stop your growling. Of all the things she’s done, this one is not so bad. I think she was actually trying to help .” 

Eskel doesn’t say anything, but Jaskier can evidently feel the tension in his brother’s body beneath him, his slender hands repeatedly stroking over the rigid line of his shoulders. 

“I talked to her, Esk,” Geralt rumbles. “I’m not saying we trust her in everything— but, I trust that she doesn’t want to see us hurt.” 

Eskel nods stiffly, and Jaskier leans forward to press their lips together. Geralt still has his fingers in the bard’s hair, and scratches blunt nails over his scalp, eliciting a shiver. He sees Eskel’s nostrils flare. Their brothers’ scents on Jaskier really are rather annoying, and Eskel could use a distraction.

When their kiss breaks, he pulls Jaskier’s head back gently to where his mouth falls softly open. “I think right now, the more pressing problem is our bard smelling like he belongs to someone else,” he says on a low growl. 

After, when the three of them lie in bed together, Jaskier tells them about the conversation. Both Geralt and the bard keep their hands on Eskel, and the scarred witcher kisses them softly, his body languid and relaxed. Jaskier still smells very faintly of Aiden and Lambert, but their own scents overlaying them are by far the stronger now. 

“Were you afraid you’d bewitched me, flower?” Eskel says in his rumbling voice, trailing his fingers down Jaskier’s spine to dip into his cleft, only to trail them back up again. 

“Well,” Jaskier begins, his voice hitching every time Eskel touches him where he’s slick and sensitive and still slightly open. “I admit it was a small concern after what she told me. That I somehow unknowingly compelled you and Geralt both. You’re the only ones I’ve bitten after all, and both of you are— well,” he gestures to encompass the entirety of the bed. “Between the sheets with me.”

Geralt drags his nose up Jaskier’s neck, inhaling just under his ear. “Hmh. And do you believe we’re here of our own free will now? Or do we need to show you again?” he murmurs. Jaskier shivers between them, and Geralt tastes the warmth of his arousal in the kiss he presses to his bare shoulder. 

“I believe it, but I’d have no objections to—ah, having it reaffirmed,” he says on a soft moan when Eskel brings his mouth to his nipple and drags his tongue over it.. 

They show him, and by the time they get to sleep, there’s not a trace of scent on Jaskier but their own. 

—000—

 Jaskier goes flying, twisting through the air, and for one split second he doesn’t know which way is up. Then, in a way remarkably similar to what he’s seen Martin do the few times the marten has fallen from a tree, he rotates his body and sights the ground. A moment later, he lands lightly on his feet and is only just fast enough to dodge the hand that’s grasping for his collar. 

He laughs as he ducks, and gets a grin from Geralt in response, golden eyes reflecting the same exhilarated joy he feels swirling in his own chest. “Missed me,” he singsongs, grinning at the witcher as he dances out of reach. “Come on, witcher. Be faster than that, catch me!”

Geralt raises one white brow, and Jaskier freezes instinctually for a fraction of a second. “Baiting me, bard?” his wolf says, his voice dropping low. 

“Hey!” Lambert calls from the sidelines. “No fucking flirting or I’m getting snow and dunking your heads in it!” He hears Eskel and Vesemir chuckle, and Aiden belts out a laugh. 

When he uses his phasing, being flirted with might be the only way they can still catch him. Without his phasing their chances are higher, but Jaskier is still frighteningly fast. By now, the ability isn’t scary anymore, not when the witchers keep demonstrating with every training session that they appreciate the strength and speed of him. Granted, when it comes to actual fighting Jaskier doesn’t really stand a chance against them, but he’s the freaking best at playing dodge the witcher. 

They still regularly have him practise his lilt too, and by now the witchers can push through and resist unless Jaskier really lays his all into it. The mages have joined that part of the training, and he has to admit that he takes no small satisfaction in the fact they seem more susceptible to his compulsion than his witchers are. They’re improving, but Jaskier heartily enjoys when Yennefer wrinkles her nose every time she can’t resist, reminded of that one particularly forceful lilt of Jaskier’s that’s still in effect. 

As if thinking of them has summoned them to the hall,Yennefer and Triss enter, the slight crackle of chaos that follows them brushing up against his skin. Triss’ chaos is gentle, like the barely there brush of fingers across the back of a hand, a subtle greeting. Yennefer’s chaos is more like a sudden slap to the face. It’s not as jarring as it was in the beginning, though he wouldn’t yet describe it as a friendly tap. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Triss says in her warm voice. 

Jaskier should have known that Geralt only stops their game after Vesemir’s say so, and he should have known better than to let himself get distracted. Geralt barrels into him, his arms firmly closing around his waist before he can wriggle free. As he always does, Geralt protects him as they fall, this time by twisting them around to land on his back with Jaskier above him. 

“Caught you,” he grins, golden eyes warm with mirth. 

“Hmh. I don’t know wolf,” Eskel says from the sidelines. “Looks like he’s on top.” 

Jaskier just wants to start crowing his victory when the world spins and he’s suddenly looking up at Geralt, the corners of his mouth quirking in satisfaction. “Not fair,” he huffs. “I didn’t even feel you were about to do that.”

Geralt raises his brow again. “Pay attention, Jask,” he rumbles. 

“Pups,” Vesemir calls out to them. “Up!”

When Geralt pulls him up after him, he slings a strong arm around his waist to pull him in so they’re facing Triss and Yennefer together. The redheaded mage is openly smiling, and Yennefer rolls her purple eyes, though Jaskier thinks she too, is at least the slightest bit amused. 

“So, your untimely interruption just as I was about to claim victory has a good reason I suppose?” Jaskier says.

“Would we subject ourselves to all this grunting madness otherwise?” Yennefer counters, encompassing everything with a careless wave of her fingers. 

Jaskier can’t help but grin a little. It is something he might have said, though he’d have to be in a rather prickly mood for it to come out as haughty as Yennefer makes it sound. 

“At least this is honest combat, no fucking mage-tricks,” Lambert says. 

Yennefer sniffs. “What seems like trickery to some, is just smart strategy to others,” she retorts. 

“I feel like we’re getting off track here,” Triss says, shaking her head. “How come you manage to devolve into bickering within minutes every time?”

Vesemir rubs the bridge of his nose and grunts in answer. Martin is perched on the old wolf’s shoulder, and as soon as his hand comes in reach, the little marten puts his front paws on it, unaware that this only hinders the scratches he’s after. 

Jaskier tilts his head at Triss. “You found something?” he asks. 

The mage nods. “We experimented and managed to combine two spells in a way we think will work to find out if beside its connection to you, the dagger is actually connected to any of the other vampires.”

“How?” Eskel asks, sounding interested. 

Yennefer turns toward the scarred witcher, and Jaskier can feel Geralt tense beside him. Eskel is calm though, his heartbeat slow and steady, and Jaskier moves his hand in a rubbing motion along Geralt’s flank. 

“We combined a spell used for the extraction of certain— poisonous juices, with an enchantment of identification. It takes two of us to cast, because the components need to be activated at the exact same time, but we think it will work.”

“But what use is knowing that?”Jaskier says thoughtfully. “We already know they want the dagger. And we already know they want my blood. Even if it’s connected to them, so what?”

Yennefer raises one perfectly sculpted brow. For all their differences, the expression eerily reminiscent of the same move on Geralt’s face. “You mean you don’t want to know if getting stabbed with an ancient spooky dagger -  Ha! Jaskier knew that would catch on, though it’s rather ridiculous when Yennefer says it - and being followed by vampires is an actual unfortunate twist of fate, or if someone meant for this to happen?”

“When you put it like that,” he grouses. 

“Besides,” Triss says. “If it turns out the dagger is connected to another vampire and the enchantment works like we think it will, it might tell us something of that vampire’s power.”

Jaskier sighs. “Alright. So you’re going to cast an experimental enchantment on an ancient spooky dagger, the powers of which we know very little about.”

“Basically,” Yennefer says with a smirk. 

“Well why didn’t you say so?” he snarks back, waving his hand like a magnanimous lord welcoming guests of the highest esteem. “Lead the way.”

—000—

All of them are back in the lab, gathered around the table. The space is large enough, but with all of them in it, it feels rather crowded. Jaskier has to swallow when his eyes are automatically drawn to the dagger, already laid out on top of the cloth that’s still dark with the dried black blood potion.

“What will we see?” Aiden asks, and Jaskier thinks the cat sounds curious despite his continued dislike of the sorceresses. 

“The enchantment should extract drops of blood from the dagger, to form little pools,” Triss says softly. “Kind of the opposite of how you proved the dagger is responsible for the turning. One of the pools will be Jaskier’s. One will be the blood of the first, the blood that turned him. If there’s a connection to another vampire, there will be a third pool of blood.”

“With that third pool of blood,” Yennefer takes over, “we might able to determine what kind of vampire we’re dealing with.

Jaskier swallows nervously, and like the last time he had to face the dagger, he gets Geralt’s warm hand on his nape, and Eskel’s broad palm splayed between his shoulder blades. Martin is curled up in Vesemir’s arms. 

“Bard?” the old wolf asks him, and Jaskier nods.

“Ready,” he answers. 

As soon as the witcher gives them the signal, the mages start their casting. Jaskier had expected more chanting, really, but they’re just murmuring under their breaths in a language he can’t understand, their eyes closed. It takes longer than he expected, but eventually the chaos in the air starts to crackle with more strength, the usual low level thrum that’s ever present when the sorceresses are near growing to an inescapable storm. It’s incredible to him that he’s able to feel such a surge of power in the room, without there being any visual or auditory cue. At the same time, he’s intensely grateful for it. The chaos’ presence is overwhelming, and if his other senses could register it as well, he’s not sure he’d be able to endure it.

As it is, it almost feels like all of the air is being sucked out of the space, leaving him to take heaving breaths. When he looks around, the others seem uncomfortable, but maybe less affected than he himself is. He wonders if it has anything to do with his own connection to the dagger, and the fact it is the object of the enchantment. 

“Jask,” Geralt rumbles to get his attention, and he looks from the mages down to where the dagger lies still on the table. 

From the sharply pointed tip, drops of dark, crimson liquid are leaking over the length of the table, as if gravity has temporarily changed its rules. When he inhales, the copper scent of it is familiar, its presence strong, but different from the blood of humans or witchers. He doesn’t want to smell it, and tries to hold his breath. As he watches, the droplets start to pool, a small puddle of viscous red liquid seeping into the wood of the table. Then another forms, growing larger and larger, until there are two.

Jaskier knows which one is his, the blood more crimson in the same way the dagger’s edges are coloured, less of the black that characterises the body of the blade. He opens his mouth to speak, but then the blackish blood starts to move toward the crimson puddle, sliding across the wood as if it’s a living thing. His own blood stays still and undisturbed, its surface smooth as some type of morbid mirror. 

The dark liquid slithers closer and closer, and Jaskier really wishes it would stay away from his own blood that had dripped out of the blade. There’s a cry that wants to burst out of his chest but gets stuck in his throat. He can’t do anything but watch helplessly as it begins to drip into the smaller collection of blood. They merge together into a large, rippling pool of darkness, tinged crimson at its edges, until finally, its surface returns to stillness. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Jaskier manages to utter into the deathly silence, his voice slightly hysterical. 

Across the table, Yennefer’s purple eyes meet his. The slight fear in their depths has his stomach clenching with dread.

Chapter Text

“ That, means we’re in trouble,” Yennefer says tightly.  Jaskier doesn’t think the mage would readily admit to having a problem she might not be able to overcome. The fact she does has nerves prickle across his skin, as if his body is trying to warn him.

“Yes,” he says. “The blood of the first basically consuming my own, kind of tipped me off. I mean, being absorbed like that hardly spells out happy days for me, does it?” 

“I can take a guess,” Vesemir says slowly, looking between the mages. 

Both of them nod, and Triss looks rather pale. 

“Ves,” Geralt growls. 

“Easy, pup,” Vesemir answers. “The existence of this dagger was a surprise. The artifacts of the first were thought to be destroyed, but apparently we thought wrong. We should have considered the possibility that meant we were wrong about the first’s existence in this world too.”

“What?” Jaskier screeches. He knows his voice went right toward the shrill, upper reaches of his range, and it’s grating on sensitive witcher ears. Right now, he’s quite alright with letting them hear how unsettling he finds that message.

“The blood of the first is what made you. The dagger is connected to your sire; one of the first, who still lives ,” Yennefer says with a sense of finality to her voice.

“How do you know?” Eskel grits out.

“The blood should have been passive otherwise,” Vesemir answers. 

Jaskier stares down at the blackish puddle of blood on the table. “It’s passive now,” he says slowly. “After it merged with my blood.”

“They lent something of theirs to make you. You’re part of them, in a way, and the blood knows that,” Triss says softly.

“What about those other vampires?” Jaskier asks. 

“Likely under the command of the first,” Yennefer answers. 

“I just don’t understand,” Jaskier says, and fidgets with his fingers. He feels thoroughly unsettled, even more so because he can just not seem to grasp the why of things.

Yennefer shrugs. “Neither do we. I don’t think we fully can.”

“What we know,” Geralt starts, “is that Jaskier got stabbed with a dagger containing blood of the first, seemingly randomly, and turned. Now we know that the first who sired him, lives. We know there are other vampires too, and that they bit Eskel, likely to be able to follow his trail in order to find Jask and the dagger. So they’re coming, whether that’s under the command of the first or not.”

Yennefer purses her mouth in thought. “I don’t think they want the dagger, per say.”

“No?” Geralt asks. 

The mage shakes her head. “Every artifact has a purpose. I don’t think this blade is meant for killing. It’s meant to turn. It has fulfilled its purpose. They might still look for it, but I think we have to work under the assumption that what the first really wants is Jaskier himself.”

As soon as she says it, Geralt’s hand clamps down on him where it had rested against his nape. Eskel’s arm snakes from his back around his waist, grasping onto his hip. 

“Don’t even think about it, bard,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier looks from one face to the next. Martin clambers down from Vesemir’s arms and darts across the table to jump onto his shoulder. He knows why they’re holding onto him so firmly. He knows what they fear he’ll do. He thinks about it. Thinks about leaving to draw the vampires away from the keep. Five pairs of slitted eyes rest on him, five concerned frowns on the faces of men who have hunted monsters for decades. Leaving them might be safer when it comes to their lives. He’s not so sure it will be the safe thing to do for their hearts. He knows what it would do to his own.

“Don’t think for a second we won’t come after you, Bard,” Vesemir says. 

“We’re great trackers, we’ll fucking find you, Buttercup,” Lambert adds. 

“You’re smarter than this, leechy,” the cat witcher says, his green eyes knowing. 

“Stay,” Eskel rumbles. 

Jaskier reaches up to let Martin lick his fingers. He smiles at them and shakes his head fondly. “You all think I’m going to do something stupid, don't you.” He gets unimpressed expressions and raised brows across the board. “I'm not letting them drive me away, and I’m not letting them harm you,” he says, briefly baring his fangs. Some of the tension that had pervaded the room dissipates at his words.

Vesemir nods. “Spring will be here sooner than we’d like.”

“Sooner than you might think. Two weeks, to be exact,” Yennefer says drily. 

“Two weeks is enough time to prepare the keep,” Geralt says. Jaskier feels him turn toward the mages. “We need to know if you’re staying. If you’re helping.”

“I want one of you to accompany me into the Mahakam mountains to harvest kadupul flowers,” Triss says. 

Jaskier sees the witchers nod. It’s the price Triss is asking in exchange for her help, though it feels more like a favour. It means she’ll stay. He turns to Yennefer. “What about you?” he asks, remembering how she’d agreed to ask something of him and not his witchers. 

She tilts her head at him. “I want some of the venom from your bite,” she says calmly. 

Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “If you give my venom to anyone out of my proximity, they’ll bleed to death. Not to mention the compulsion you told me about. I’m not controlling anyone for you. I’m not killing anyone for you.”

“Hardly what I’m asking, Jaskier,” she responds. “I’m guessing Geralt told you about the Djinn?”

“Yes,” he answers tersely.

“We are bound together, he and I. It does neither of us any good. To undo a Djinn’s magic isn’t easy. In our case it pulls us back together, again and again, intertwining our fates. Your blood thrall does a similar thing, binding someone close, under consequence of death. I can use it to break the magic.”

“You’ll break the wish?” Geralt grunts, disbelieving.

“I have no desire to be bound. Neither do you.” She pauses for a moment. “Neither of us can fully trust the other because of it. Yes, I’ll use the venom to break the wish.”

“Then I agree,” Jaskier says, and feels the slight movement of Eskel’s hand on his hip before he clears his throat. It’s a quiet sound, but it holds something that has everyone in the room stilling and turning toward the scarred witcher. 

“I’m just letting you know, Yennefer. If you do anything with that venom other than what you promised, I’ll find you.” His voice is calm and level. It’s no louder than usual, and it doesn’t hold a growl. It’s a promise, and the hair on Jaskier’s neck stands on end at the threat it conveys. He sees the slightest shift in Yennefer’s stance, and knows the mage can sense the danger.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says eventually.

—000—

“Hold it fucking still, pretty boy, or we’ll find out exactly to what extent witchers are fireproof.”

Geralt growls back at his brother, but steadies his grip on the tongs between which he’s clamping the potent dancing star bomb. They’ve already made some dragon’s dream and some devil’s puffballs, but the dancing stars are more delicate than most. Lambert is good with them though, the most talented out of all of them when it comes to alchemy and explosives.

“Careful now,” Lambert says, inserting the wick and latching the contraption closed. “There. Only a hundred or so more to go.”

“It would go faster if we both made them,” Geralt growls. 

Lambert rolls his eyes. “It would go faster if you stopped complaining. Buttercup rubbing off on you? Or— maybe not rubbing off on you enough?”

Geralt growls again, but dutifully picks up another of the dancing stars between his tongs. This time, Lambert sprinkles a fine layer of purple dust through the opening into the cavity they’d already filled before. “Wait, what’s that?” he asks. The grin his brother gives him is wicked, and in any other context Geralt would be on the lookout for pranks for days after seeing that smile. 

“Just a little extra I’m adding,” Lambert says way too casually.

“Lamb,” Geralt grits in warning. 

Lambert snorts, eyeing him from the corner of his eyes. “I’ll let the Buttercup know he might be able to help locate the stick up your ass. I’ve marked them with this, see?”

When Geralt looks, Lambert is pointing at a small, stylised depiction of a bloedzuiger on the bomb’s casing. “Thought I smelled something acrid,” he says. “Assumed it was you.”

Lambert doesn’t answer, since he’s currently putting the wick into the bomb Geralt is carefully holding still. Only when the cap is latched on, does he aim a kick at his ankles. Geralt dodges, the bomb still held firmly between the tongs. “What does it do?”

“It’s the acid from their digestive system,” Lambert answers. “Dried and then ground to dust. It’ll have the flames burn away organic matter with even more efficiency.”

“Do I want to know how you found that out?” Lambert grins another of his wicked smiles, and Geralt shudders to think of the answer. 

“You really don’t. Maybe I’ll tell you though, after some gull.”

By the end of the day, there are rows and rows of rounded bombs, marked with symbols in different colours, neatly laid aside in the lab. Most of them are the same as those Geralt takes with him when he leaves the keep in spring, but there are a few rows of bombs that contain Lambert’s special ingredients.

“Tell the Buttercup which ones to look out for especially,” Lambert says, pointing to the dancing star bomb with and without something extra. Geralt knows that the regular ones cause quite the impressive sweep of fire, let alone with that special purple powder added to it. 

“Will do,” he grunts.

—000—

Jaskier smiles as he goes from horse to horse, Martin on his shoulder, offering them all an apple from the barrel out behind the kitchen. The witchers’ horses took some time to get used to him, but by now they all know he comes bearing treats, and blow warm air into his palms in greeting. When Martin titters excitedly, the marten gets the same treatment, the moisture in the horses’ breath making the fur between his rounded ears stick up adorably. 

He spends a little extra time with Scorpion and Roach, though the latter whinneys with impatience when he takes his time scratching the black stallion behind the ears to the sound of deep, satisfied grunts. Martin titters, and Scorpion doesn’t even bother to bend his long neck back to see, when the marten uses his back as a springboard to land on Roach’s withers. 

Roach is busy lipping over Martin’s fur when he comes to feed her her apple, and the marten looks like he’s been stuck in his own very localized whirlwind, fur sticking every which way. Jaskier laughs, and gets out a coarse haired brush to Roach’s appreciative snort. He softly drags the bristles over Martin’s fur a few times, until he looks at least a little more streamlined, and then spends his time doting on Roach while letting Martin play hunt the brush every now and again. 

“You ready, leechy?” Aiden asks from the doorway, and Jaskier jumps. 

“How are you still able to sneak up on me?” he asks, a little miffed. 

There’s amusement in Aiden’s green eyes. “You just get absorbed in what you’re doing. Distracted by other sensory input. It’s not a bad thing.”

Jaskier grumbles. “It’s not a good thing.”

Aiden shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. Isn’t it better to not be so conditioned you look over your shoulder for the knife in your back at the smallest sound? And the keep is safe. For now.”

He can’t help but wince a little at that, and Aiden moves next to him to lay an arm over his shoulders. “It must be tiring to be so alert all the time,” he says softly. 

“It’s not too bad. It’s what keeps us alive. And when we’re together there’s more ears to listen, more noses to smell. It lets us be a bit less vigilant.”

Jaskier nods, swallowing away the guilt that the keep, their safe haven, will soon be far less safe . “I’ll be more vigilant,” he says.

Aiden grins at him and shrugs his shoulders. “You just be yourself, leechy. It helps remind us that we’re not out on the path.”

They put thick, warm winter blankets on all of the horses, carefully tacking them to bear sacks of grain. Jaskier is wearing his woollen coat again, Martin tucked warmly against his chest. 

It takes them a few hours to reach the next valley over, where they settle them into a stall made from rough boulders stacked on top of each other, in a way Jaskier thinks only a witcher would. With five horses in the space, it’s already starting to warm up, and Aiden casts a quick igni to melt down the ice in the troughs. 

“You think they’ll have enough water?” he asks Aiden worriedly.

“They’ll be fine. We’ll go get them as soon as it’s safe. They’ll generate enough heat for it to tide them over.”

Jaskier takes care to stroke his fingers over their soft noses, and presses a little kiss right between Roach’s eyes. The mare lays her ears back at that, but still lips gently at his frozen fingers when he offers them. He pulls his collar open wider, and Martin jumps from Roach’s back onto his shoulder, quickly curling back up under the woollen fabric. When he turns around, Aiden is leaning against the doorpost.

“No wonder you got those wolves. You really are delightful,” he says teasingly.

Jaskier smirks. “You’ve got a wolf yourself, so what does that say about you?”

Aiden grins and tilts his head back against the stone, as if he’s fondly recalling some memory. “I won my wolf over with a fight, obviously.”

Jaskier taps his chin. “Come to think of it, Geralt and I did fight when we met.”

“After he tracked you?” Aiden says with a knowing glint in his green eyes.

“Wretched cat,” Jaskier exclaims. “You know perfectly well that I tracked him!”

—000—

When Geralt enters their room, Eskel is already there, seated in front of the fire. The other witcher has his sword in his lap, pulling the whetstone over its edge in smooth, rhythmic strokes. He gets his own swords and settles next to him, falling into the easy rhythm. 

When Eskel finally puts his blade away, so does Geralt. He slowly threads their fingers together. “We’ll protect him, Esk.”

His brother nods. “We'll try. But will he let us?”

“Hmh,” Geralt responds. “He’ll let us as much as you’ll let me, or us, or as much as I’ll let you. It’ll have to be enough.”

Eskel sighs, and reaches out a hand to wind into his hair. He lets himself be pulled into a long, slow kiss. 

—000—

In their various preparations to get the keep battle ready, there’s one thing besides their meals that remains a constant. Every morning after breakfast, they train. Even Yennefer and Triss enter the fray now, conjuring portals, streams of water and ice, wind and fire from their fingers. It's certainly impressive, but despite their portals the mages tend to fight from a stationary position, whereas the witchers and Jaskier tend to be constantly on the move.

They get used to it and work around each other until they reach some sort of— harmony. That is, until Vesemir enters the fray.

The grey wolf might be older than his pups, but when Jaskier sees him move he can hardly imagine he's diminished in strength and speed over the years. He thinks Vesemir managed to keep his heartbeat and scent innocuous right up until he pounces, and Jaskier isn't the only one who's caught off guard.

They're doing the circle drill this morning. There’s a large, chalk circle drawn on the flagstones. The last one still standing in it, wins. The mages are allowed to portal within its confines but not outside of it, and Jaskier fully expected them to be thrown out first. Their portals manage to save them a few times though, and even Jaskier avoids expulsion once by kicking off Eskel’s sturdy thigh as he goes to grab him, and diving into a portal triss had conjured for herself. It does leave him rather nauseous when he appears on the circle's other side.

There’s a sudden shout, and Jaskier looks to the side just in time to see Eskel caught off guard from where he'd turned away after missing his opportunity to grab him. He’s not even sure what exact move Vesemir makes, but Eskel is already close to the chalk line, and when he falls, he lands over the edge.

“Damn it!” Eskel yells, jumping up. “Watch out, there’s an unexpected wolf in the shadows!” he warns. It's already too late for Aiden and triss, who'd been locked in on each other in a lightning quick trading of attacks. Next are Lambert and Yennefer, who Jaskier actually thinks have been too busy sniping at each other to even hear Eskel’s yelled warning.

It's just Geralt and him now, and for a fraction of a second the witcher catches his eye from the other side of the circle. Then Geralt is fully focused on Vesemir again, who's definitively lost the element of surprise now. He sees the grey wolf smile, and thinks he quite enjoyed managing to kick out most of his pups and two mages. 

“Remember the waterfall just outside of Hagge, Jask?” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier forces himself not to look at him, but keep his eye on Vesemir. He thinks the old witcher notices, and feels warmed at the slight, proud tilt to his mouth.

“Yes” he murmurs back. “Let’s do it.”

Vesemir can, of course, overhear their conversation perfectly well. But, he has no way of knowing that what they did that warm, summer afternoon, was to have Geralt throw Jaskier into the cool water, again and again, and again. 

Jaskier grins, and Vesemir narrows his eyes. He runs toward Geralt as fast as he can without actually phasing. After all, he wants Vesemir to be able to track him. The old wolf has taken up a defensive stance now, and his slitted gaze follows Jaskier as he barrels toward Geralt. 

Geralt catches him, heaves him into his arms, and then throws him with all his strength toward Vesemir. Jaskier twists in the air, making sure he’ll land feet first and will either be able to dodge and make a quick escape, or find a hole in Vesemir’s defense. The latter isn’t likely, but who knows when luck decides to show her sunny face. 

Vesemir, of course, sees him coming. The tactic is unusual enough that it has him focussed on Jaskier, flying through the air toward him, and that’s exactly what they’d wanted. Geralt has thrown him high enough that he tries to use the old wolf’s shoulder to brake and bounce away again, but Vesemir turns on a dime and lays a hand firmly on his ankle. Jaskier is caught, and he can feel the strength of the witcher, coiling to throw him over the line. Then Geralt is suddenly there, unexpectedly on Vesemir’s other side. The grey wolf is caught unaware, and once Geralt has a grip, he is the younger and stronger of the two. 

Vesemir rolls and gets to his feet in a way only witchers manage, and gives them an approving smile. “Smart,” he says. “But there is only one winner in the circle drill.” 

Geralt is moving before he’s even finished speaking, and Jaskier squeaks in surprise. He reacts on instinct, and manages a wink at his wolf, as in the next moment he phases, too fast for Geralt to grab. 

When Vesemir eventually calls a halt to training, they’re both still in the circle. 

—000—

Geralt is in the workshop they use to repair their armour, patching up his own, when Triss finds him. 

“I thought you’d be here,” she says gently, and he gives her a smile he hopes isn’t as stiff as it feels on his face. Triss is nice, actually. But even though she and Yennefer are helping, mages are not his favourite people right now. She gestures to his armour. “Eskel told me you were repairing your armour. If you like, there’s some enchantments I can weave into it.”

Geralt puts the pauldron he’d been working on back on the table. “Chaos in my armour would throw off my senses, not to mention my medallion. It wouldn’t help,” he says.

Triss shakes her head. “Not those kind of enchantments. Just those that will make the material more sturdy. More durable. Less likely to be pierced. The chaos changes it as soon as I cast. After, you wouldn’t know it’s been magically altered. Only that it will need less repairs than you’re used to,” she says with a smile. 

“What do you want in return?” he asks. 

Triss shakes her head. Red curls bouncing. “Anything I can do to help keep you all alive.”

“What about yourself?” Geralt asks. 

She smiles at him. “Well, I do expect you’ll do your best not to let me die in return.”

When she’s finished, Geralt lets his hands slide over his armour. Like she said, now it’s done, there’s not a shred of chaos he can sense.  A witcher’s armour is his protection. Without it, life on the path would end far too quickly. He usually wouldn’t let anyone but himself or his brothers near his armour, but he’s convinced there’s not a malicious bone in Triss’ body. 

“You’ll do the same for the others?” he asks. 

“Already did Vesemir’s and Eskel’s,” she says. “Maybe you can help convince Lambert and Aiden?”

Geralt tests the pauldron he’d been working on. It’s perfect. “I’ll talk to them,” he says. 

—000—

Jaskier finds Yennefer in the library. There’s a multitude of books spread out in front of her, and somehow he’s sure she’s reading them all at once. 

“Neat trick,” he says as he walks toward the table. She doesn’t look up to greet him, and instead just waves him toward a chair. He takes a seat across from her. “I didn’t think chaos had any real, practical use. I stand corrected.” 

Yennefer’s mouth curves up a little at the corners, but her eyes keep moving as if they’re flying over lines of text. “Only a bard would call reading ancient texts practical use,” she says. 

“Hmh. A bard, a scholar. Or a mage,” he concedes. “I wanted to ask you something,” he says, and lets all animosity slip away from his voice. The crackle of chaos dissipates from the air, until Yennefer’s eyes stop their rapid track from side to side, and come to rest on him.

“It better be important, bard,” she says.

He sighs. “I know vampires can be killed by fire. I want to know how likely it is that that's true for the first as well, and if not, how do we kill the one that’s coming?”

Yennefer leans back in her chair, and steeples her fingers to tap against her mouth, considering. “It might be optimistic to count on fire doing the job,” she says, agreeing with him. "It’s one of the things I’ve been looking for.”  She gestures at the books open in front of her.

“Have you found anything?”

“Maybe,” she says slowly. “But it won’t be easy, and your wolves won’t like it.”

“Tell me anyway,” Jaskier answers.

—000—

“So whenever you see a bomb flying, just stay clear of it, Jask.”

“But what if one of you is in trouble and I need to get close?”

“Don’t,” Geralt growls. 

“We’re more fireproof than you are, flower,” Eskel adds. 

Jaskier huffs, and Geralt can see that the bard isn’t happy about it. “You just told me the different types of bombs!” he argues. Not all of them are equally dangerous to me.”

“Will you be able to remember in the heat of battle what the difference is?” Geralt retorts

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I need to stay away from the dancing star bombs, especially the ones that Lambert augmented – with something awful from those bloodzuugs, apparently — since they will produce flames. I also need to avoid dragon’s dream since its gasses will explode, ergo, more fire. Devil’s puffball you’re not sure about since there’s no fire, but it does spew poison gas your mutations protect you against, so better to steer clear. A lot of the rest of it apparently just goes kaboom. How am I doing?”

Geralt glances over to meet Eskel’s amber gaze. “Bloedzuigers,” they say in unison, resulting in a full body flail of incredulity from the bard. 

“You both are— darling ,” he says with emphasis. “Yes, yes. Bloedzuigers. Really, love. Priorities.”

“Eskel and I are also not going to be taking vervain, or black blood like the others,” Geralt continues. And that— that has Jaskier stilling, his scent suddenly filled with fear. 

“No, you have to,” he says quietly. “You can’t risk getting bitten. They will try to bite you. Don’t be stupid, you have these potions for a reason. I won’t need to feed, I promise.”

“You can’t know that, Jask.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No. It's not fair. You can’t ask me to let you do that when it might not even be necessary.”

Geralt reaches out to cup his cheek, and Jaskier leans into it, looking up at him pleadingly with his big blue eyes. The bard stretches out one hand behind him, reaching for Eskel, and his brother easily slots against his back. 

“It will be alright,” Eskel murmurs. “We have a veritable buttload of golden oriole we can take. Even if we do get bitten, we’ll get the blood thrall out of our system before we can even start to bleed.”

“But—” Jaskier begins, tension seeping out of his body despite his still combative expression. “But what about the compulsion inherent in the bite?”

“You know we’re not sensitive to that,” Geralt says gently. “And Yennefer and Triss think you’ve bitten us enough that it works as a— sort of inoculation- against the bite of other vampires.”

Jaskier lets his head fall forward until it’s resting on Geralt’s shoulder, reaching behind himself to pull Eskel in more firmly. “I guess if you weren’t so stubbornly disregarding your own health and wellbeing you really wouldn’t be you, would you,” he says resignedly. 

“Hmh. Knowing we can feed you if necessary does rather a lot for our wellbeing, flower,” Eskel says, speaking from just behind Jaskier’s ear, his lips lightly brushing the skin.

The bard shivers between them, and his grip suddenly strengthens. “Just promise me, that if you get bitten you’ll immediately take liquid sunshine. Don’t wait. And don’t— don’t let them feed on you.”

—000—

Two weeks is the time Yennefer predicted for the pass and the killer to thaw enough to be traversable. Two weeks is the time they have gotten to get ready. Jaskier hopes it will prove enough. 

The evening before, he just can’t seem to sit still, and even Martin is annoyed with him. His wolves let him be for a while, their slitted eyes following him around their bedroom as he inadvertently winds himself up like a tightly coiled spring. He sits, walks, tries to read, lies in front of the fire, gets up to get his lute to only play three notes, and puts it away again. When he pulls Martin onto his shoulder only for the little marten to be jostled when he jumps up again, he’s aware he’s spiraling, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. He feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin with nerves, itchy and restless. 

“Jask,” Geralt growls. “Ask for help if you need it.”

Jaskier drags his fingers through his hair, trying to find some comfort in the floral scents it releases from the oils Geralt has gifted him. He looks at Geralt’s golden eyes, slightly narrowed, taking in the way he’s practically trembling. He looks at Eskel, who is marking his place in the book he’s reading and putting it away. His hands twitch against his thighs. 

“I just— can’t seem to stop thinking,” he says. “Help me stop thinking?”

Chapter Text

“Undress and get on the bed,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s heartbeat immediately triples its already nervous rhythm. He watches hungrily as the bard quickly divests himself of his clothing, effortlessly elegant in the way he moves. His brother is watching the vampire too, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s chest where his long fingers are quickly undoing the buttons of his doublet to reveal the frilly chemise and the soft skin underneath. 

By the time Jaskier stands there, nude in the light of the flickering flames, he’s already filled out and hard, and the air is practically saturated with the scent of arousal. Jaskier licks his lips, eyes flickering between the two witchers staring at him. 

“On the bed, flower,” Eskel rumbles. 

Jaskier makes a soft pleading noise at the back of his throat, but obeys, scrambling onto the mattress. The way he wriggles puts his ass on display in a way Geralt finds impossible to look away from. By the way Jaskier smirks back at them over his shoulder before settling against the headboard, he knows.

“Stay there,” Geralt directs him. Reaching out a hand to pull Eskel up off the floor

“Hmh,” his brother hums, stepping close to him before looking at the way Jaskier is leaning back against the pillows, his body relaxed, decadent, and lovely. “I don’t think just telling him to stay is enough, wolf. Do you?” Eskel speaks right against his ear, just loud enough for Jaskier to hear. The bard makes another soft, desperate noise, and his big blue eyes are round and pleading. 

“I think you’re right,” Geralt answers, looking at Jaskier. “Hands on the headboard, Jask.”

Jaskier gapes at them for a moment, irises tinged slightly red at their edges. The bard takes a few deep breaths until there’s only blue, and then slowly lifts his hands, curling them around the wood. Eskel groans at the vision he makes, the sound deep and covetous. It has Geralt’s already half hard cock fill out completely, and he sees the way Jaskier shivers, mouth falling open softly, skin pebbling in anticipation. 

“Fuck, flower,” Eskel growls, Jaskier’s cock twitching where it lays against his abdomen. 

“Keep looking at us, Jask,” Geralt murmurs. “And don’t move your hands.”

Eskel chuckles softly at that. “Think he’ll be able to obey, wolf?” One of Eskel’s arms winds around him, hand splaying against his lower back, right above his tailbone. Geralt lets his own hand curl against Eskels nape, not gripping, fingers just resting there. 

“Let’s see if he can be a good boy,” Geralt answers, and pulls Eskel in for a kiss. Both of them hear the high, breathy moan Jaskier lets out as he watches them, the scent of his arousal overwhelming. He can feel the curve of Eskel’s mouth against his, and can’t suppress his own smile. Already their bard’s mind is no longer brimming with nervous thoughts, his attention firmly directed elsewhere. He slides the hand that’s not on Eskel’s neck down over his chest, feeling the strong muscles and pausing over the steady beat of his heart, palm flat against him. He continues the downward trek, not stopping until it’s between Eskel’s legs, pressing firmly against the hardness he finds there. He gets blunt teeth biting into his bottom lip in response, and growls.

“Oh,” Jaskier says breathily from his position on the bed. “Oh, Melitele, yes . Why don’t you take your clothes off, my loves?” 

Eskel chuckles again, shifting his hips to press into Geralt’s palm while he looks at Jaskier splayed out on the bed. The bard’s cock is starting to look flushed, just like the rest of him, beads of moisture glistening at the tip. His lips look a little red and swollen, as if he’s been pressing his own fangs against them. His hands are still in their position on the headboard. 

“Obedient little flower,” Eskel rumbles, and Geralt grips him through the fabric of his trousers, his hand moving up and down slowly. It has his brother’s already deep voice dropping its register even further. “If you keep behaving this well we’ll give you anything you want,” Eskel burrs.

Jaskier’s cock leaks another drop, and Geralt flares his nostrils. “Let’s give him the distraction he’s asked for,” he growls. 

Jaskier’s heart is pounding as they slowly undress each other, and when they’re finally naked, the bard spills a stream of laudatory words that seems like it won’t ever end. His eyes are just blue now, the pupils blown, steadily fixed on the show his lovers are putting on to distract him. 

Eskel’s grin is predatory when he looks at the bard, and then his warm, calloused palm wraps around Geralt’s cock and strokes him. He lets his head fall back, looking at the both of them through his lashes, and groans at the pleasurable touch. He reaches down again, and wraps his hand around Eskel, returning the favour while their mouths meet for another kiss. 

There’s a high, whining moan coming from the bard on the bed, and when he looks at Jaskier again, the bard has his eyes fixed on where they’re giving each other pleasure, and one of his hands has left the wooden headboard, creeping down his thigh toward his own leaking cock. Geralt doesn’t think the vampire realises, as transfixed as he is, and he taps Eskel twice to signal him. Eskel looks at Jaskier too, and as if they’d actually discussed it, they let go of each other. 

“What?” Jaskier protests. “Why’d you stop?”

“Hands, bard. Headboard. Now,” Geralt growls, and sees Jaskier’s cock twitch as his chest flushes with heat and he snatches his hand back to put it back in position. 

“Shit,” Jaskier breathes. “Sorry, darling. Keep going. Please?”

“Do you feel left out, pretty flower?” Eskel rumbles. 

Jaskier licks his lips, seeming to think about it. “As much as I want to say yes and have you come up here and ravish me, part of me won’t forgive myself for interrupting your lovely display.” He looks at his own hands where they’re clenched around the headboard. “And if I’m honest, I’m hardly feeling left out.” He grins, the points of his incisors flashing in the light. 

“Hmh. We’ll get a little closer,” Geralt says, and pushes gently against Eskel’s hip until the scarred witcher settles down at the foot of the bed, lying perpendicular to Jaskier’s position. 

The curses that spill over Jaskier’s lips when he climbs over Eskel to take his hard cock into his mouth while he does the same to him, are some of the more creative ones he’s ever heard. And that’s saying something, since he’s known Lambert from the day his brother first discovered curse words exist.

Jaskier might not be thinking about what’s coming anymore, thoroughly distracted, but so is Geralt. His senses are filled with Jaskier and Eskel, with the closeness between the three of them, despite the fact they’re currently withholding from touching the bard. Eskel’s mouth is warm and slick around him, his tongue moving across his slit in the way he likes. His own mouth is filled with Eskel’s cock, hot and heavy on his tongue, and with every move they make Jaskier provides a background of filthy words and moans. 

When Eskel reaches between his legs to stroke his balls, he groans at the same time Jaskier does. He lets the cock in his mouth slip from between his lips, and looks up at the vampire. 

Jaskier is practically writhing on the bed, eyes fixed on them, lust pouring off of him, his hands clenched around the wood so tightly the knuckles have turned white. Below him, Eskel turns to look as well, and Geralt thinks about a different type of slick heat he’d like to surround his cock. 

He bends down to press a kiss against Eskel’s hip. “I think he’s been quite disciplined about following direction. How about a reward?” 

Eskel growls. “What would you like?” he asks, one lange hand wrapping about Jaskier’s ankle. 

The bard shudders, licking his lips. “Both— both of you. Please,” he says eventually, a flush burning in his cheeks. 

“Hands stay,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier nods. 

Both of them kiss him, pressing the lingering taste of each other into the bard’s mouth, until he’s a moaning, trembling mess beneath them. When Geralt presses slick, oiled fingers into Jaskier the vampire moans and blinks hazy eyes up at Eskel.

“Please, please love,” he begs the scarred witcher, and Eskel drags a thumb over his soft, pretty lips, slowly pressing it into Jaskier’s mouth. 

“Ask for what you want, flower.”

Geralt feels Jaskier clench around the fingers he has inside him. He slides them a little further and presses up, dipping his head to press his teeth into the bard’s inner thigh to strengthen the order. 

Jaskier gasps and groans, Eskel’s thumb slipping from his mouth as his head leans back to expose the long line of his throat, fingers twitching where they’re holding on. He asks for them, in stumbling, halting words, his body shaking, clean sweat gathering on his skin in sparkling droplets.

“Shh, Jask,” Geralt gentles him, pressing kisses over his hips, carefully avoiding his cock. “We’ll give it to you.” He slips in a third finger as he says it, and Jaskier keens. 

Eskel swings a leg over Jaskier’s chest, careful to not settle his full weight on him, and Geralt takes a long moment to watch, though his fingers never stop their careful stretching.

Eskel is strong, broad and scarred, thick thighs caging in Jaskier's lighter, unblemished body beneath him. The muscles in his back and ass shift as he moves his hips forward, and though Geralt can't see him, he can imagine the expression on Jaskier's face from the way he moans and shifts his hips. It has him press down more firmly onto Geralt’s fingers, and he takes the opportunity to make a firm circling motion over the vampire’s prostate. When he moans again, it sounds muffled, and Geralt rumbles low in his chest, imagining the bard's lips wrapped around Eskel’s cock, they way his own were just moments before.

When Eskel’s hips shift forward and back gently, he has to press his teeth to Jaskier’s thigh again in an effort to keep from rushing. After what seems like endless minutes, his own erection barely getting relief from pressing against the mattress, Eskel looks back at him over his shoulder. One broad hand reaches back to card through the hair at his temple.

“The pretty flower can't talk right now, but he’s begging with his eyes, wolf.”

Geralt surges up, fingers still pressed inside Jaskier, to look down at him over Eskel’s shoulder. Jaskier’s eyes are large and dark, the blue reduced to narrow rings. Eskel is large and thick, and the bard’s lips are stretched around him, glistening with saliva. He meets Geralt’s eyes before the slide of Eskel’s cock further into his mouth has his eyelashes flutter. Geralt presses against his prostate again, just to see what happens. It makes Jaskier clench his hands where they’re still on the headboard, his head jerking forward until he makes a soft choking sound that has Eskel groaning. Geralt turns his head to swallow that groan, licking into Eskel’s mouth, before reaching forward to slide his fingers across the stretched expanse of Jaskier’s bottom lip. 

He knows exactly what his brother means when he says the vampire begs with his eyes, and he’s powerless to resist. He slowly pulls his fingers out of Jaskier’s body, ears picking up on the muffled, pleading whine. He kneels between the bard's spread thighs, and strokes oil onto himself before he presses the head against Jaskier’s rim and pauses. 

He waits until Eskel reaches back to tap his thigh, signaling Jaskier is reaching the limit of how much teasing he can take, and presses inside at the same time as Eskel’s gentle thrust forward. 

The noise that punches out of Jaskier is loud despite his mouth being filled, and is all Geralt can hear. He's steady and gentle for the first few minutes, until there's another desperate moan. Then, he fucks Jaskier how he wants to, in long, powerful strokes. He leans forward to kiss over Eskel’s shoulders, and when he bites the thick muscle connecting to his neck, the scarred witcher groans and shivers, tremors travelling along his spine with each wave of pleasure, as he comes in their bard’s mouth.

Eskel leans back against him while he catches his breath, the sounds Jaskier makes free to spill over his lips now, loud and filthy. He rolls off the bard eventually, settling on his side to watch, winding his hand into the vampire’s hair and holding on. 

Geralt now has space to blanket Jaskier as he takes him, allowing his sweat slicked abdomen to slide over the bard’s cock. He kisses him, tasting Eskel’s release on Jaskier’s tongue. He keeps an iron grip on his own pleasure until Jaskier’s breath starts to hitch. 

“Show me, flower, wolf,” Eskel growls next to them, tightening his hand in Jaskier’s soft locks.

The way the bard goes tight around him and shudders as he comes, has Geralt's own peak slamming into him like a tidal wave. He presses his mouth to Jaskier’s, swallowing the sounds he makes and letting his own be devoured in turn.

When they clean him up, Jaskier’s body is finally still, not a trace of his anxiety fuelled movement remaining. He’s warm, soft, and relaxed. He yawns in a way that's strangely reminiscent of Martin, lengthened fangs on display. There’s a slight smile on his lips as he snuggles between them. He presses a kiss to Eskel’s mouth and then to Geralt’s before settling back down.

He sighs, long and content, eyes drifting shut. “Thank you, my darlings. Sleep now.”

Both Geralt and his brother drape an arm over the vampire between them, fingers brushing over the other’s skin.

—000—

When Jaskier wakes, he’s still pleasantly relaxed, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. He’s not sure what it is, the sensation not unlike an itch that can’t be scratched because it is out of reach. His wolves’ breathing is even and slow as it is in slumber, and he’s loath to wake them. The room smells strongly of them and what they did, and he can’t help but smile at the thought that Lambert will take one whiff at breakfast and call them a bunch of fucking rabbits. 

He slips quietly out from between the witchers’ large, sleeping forms, padding over to his clothes and pulling on his trousers and chemise. He’s restless, and though he’d been uneasy at the beginning of the night, this feels different. He just doesn’t know why. 

He pokes his toes into Martin’s belly where the marten is sleeping in front of the hearth, and glances back at the bed when the little creature wakes with a soft, squeaking noise. He thinks Geralt takes a deep, sighing breath in response, but there is no more movement than that. He scoops Martin up, draping him across his shoulders, and heads down to the kitchen. If he can’t sleep, he’ll distract himself by taking inventory of the pantry and coming up with a new sweet treat to bake his witchers. 

Once the threat has passed and he can breathe again, that is.

He closes the door behind him and listens carefully. His wolves’ heartbeats and breathing are steady, and he smiles at the surge of affection he feels. 

He’s puttering around the kitchen, murmuring happily to himself at his discovery of a type of sweet pear conserved in syrup, when suddenly Martin’s claws dig into his shoulders and he releases a furious, hissing growl. Jaskier sets the jar on the counter, frowning, lifting his hand to pet over Martin’s head to calm him, but gets an admonishing bite to his fingers.

“Auch, Martin, what’s up with you?” he murmurs. As soon as he’s said it, he becomes aware of the slow heartbeat of someone in the room with him. A heartbeat he doesn’t recognise, paired with a strong scent of rusting iron. He freezes. 

“You’re quite oblivious. Haven’t you learned to heed your senses yet? If not, you should really pay more attention to your companion.”

The voice is smooth and warm, something rich and sensual in the way the words are pronounced. It has the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. Slowly, Jaskier turns, and Martin hisses again when they come face to face with the stranger.

The man before him is hauntingly beautiful. He’s tall, and has long, black hair that’s braided back. He’s clean shaven, showing off features that are both masculine and somehow delicate. He wears an aristocrat’s clothes, though Jaskier thinks the style might actually be slightly dated. He half expects the eyes that meet his to be deeply crimson, but they’re blue, just like his own. 

Just like Jaskier has Martin, there’s an animal perched on the man’s shoulder. The owl is large, it’s beak sharp and eyes bright orange and black, and Jaskier doesn’t like the way it looks at Martin, at all. He takes a slow step back, his lower back colliding with the counter, and the man smiles, revealing sharply pointed incisors. 

“Who are you?” he challenges, wondering what will happen if he were to yell for his witchers.

The smile grows wider, the vampire’s tongue flicking quickly across a fang. “I’d advise against it,” he says, as if he knows what Jaskier is thinking. “And I think you know who I am.”

“You’re the first,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth. 

“Hm. One of the first. The last, of the first. Or I was, at least.”

“That still doesn’t tell me who you are,” Jaskier says.

“I suppose it doesn’t. And I suppose it’s only civil to introduce oneself, though as my host you might have given me your name of your own accord.”

Jaskier remembers his etiquette lessons well. It’s not so much the host who introduces themselves first -and he’s hardly hosting this vampire- but it’s the one who’s lower in rank who precedes in any introduction. 

The vampire doesn’t continue, but his owl hoots hauntingly. Martin growls in response. Jaskier reaches up, pressing his fingers into Martin’s fur as he shoots a glance at the bird of prey. 

“Not to worry. Archimedes isn’t hungry,” the vampire says. 

It’s not his own name he’s offered, but the name of his companion. Not responding in kind would be a snub. 

“Martin isn’t keen on being a meal, so I suppose that’s good,” he answers. 

The vampire tilts his head as if to acknowledge the extended courtesy. “And what might your name be?” he asks.

Jaskier debates holding out, but so far, the first is just talking, and doesn’t seem inclined to attack. He’d like to keep it that way. “Jaskier,” he says.  The first doesn’t say anything for a moment, and a heavy blanket of unease falls over Jaskier’s shoulders. 

“That’s a different name than I expected, Julian,” he says, and Jaskier hisses a breath through his teeth. 

“How do you know that name?” he bites out.

“It’s the name that was given to you upon your birth, is it not?” the vampire asks. 

Jaskier doesn’t answer, but repeats his question instead. “Who are you?”

“My name is Alaric, though I suspect that hardly answers your question,” the first says.

“What do you want?”

Alaric raises a dark eyebrow and Jaskier feels like he’s navigating a minefield. It reminds him of the interactions he’s had at court in the past, somehow. “Isn’t it obvious what I want, Julian?”

“You want my blood,” Jaskier answers.

Alaric laughs, the sound a mimicry of mirth, empty of any real joy. “Why would I want your blood . No, my dear. That, you can keep.”

“Then what?” Jaskier asks. The longer he is in Alaric’s presence, the more uneasy he grows under that cold, blue gaze. 

“I want a companion, of course,” Alaric says. 

“You already have a big fucking owl, I don’t see why you’d need another one,” Jaskier bites out. 

The smile on Alaric’s face is a little more dangerous this time. “You are amusing,” he says slowly. “Be careful it stays that way. Amusing and rude can become vexing rather quickly, don’t you think?”

“Rude? I’m not the one who invaded another’s home uninvited.”

“Oh, but I don’t need an invitation to collect what’s mine,” Alaric says. 

That has Jaskier bristle, and he steps forward, away from the kitchen counter at his back. “I am not yours,” he hisses. 

There’s that infuriating tilt of the head again, blue eyes calculating. “Not entirely, not yet,” the first says quietly. “But that will change soon enough. I’m the one who made you, after all.”

“Just because I got stabbed by some moron with a stupid spooky dagger, does not make me yours,” Jaskier says, taking a deep breath in preparation to give the vampire a piece of his mind. 

“Silence,” Alaric says calmly, and it’s not a lilt, but the sheer authority and danger in the tone has Jaskier clenching his jaw shut on the words bubbling up in his chest. “It’s only a matter of time, Julian. My blood made you. It calls to yours. You’ll give in.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Hm. Like I said. Amusing. I might even let you keep some of your pet wolves.”

Jaskier shakes his head, a flare of protective anger making him bold. “You won’t touch them. I won’t let you.”

Alaric smiles.

“Why do you even want me? Trust me, I get annoying real fucking fast, and I’d take more joy than you can imagine in being a needle that keeps pricking under your skin.”

Alaric looks at him, the smile gone now, blue eyes ice cold and unreadable. “I’ve been alone for a long time, Julian.”

Jaskier wants to retort that that’s too bad, but it’s not his problem and he should deal with it on his own, when Alaric continues. 

“I’m going to give you some time to think. After all, I can be benevolent. To a certain extent,” the first says, giving him another cool smile that has his fangs glinting in the low light. He steps forward, and Jaskier backs up until he finds himself unable to move, trapped against the counter. One of the vampire’s fingertips touches the edge of his jaw. It’s ice cold, and has a shiver travel up his spine. “There’s only one possible outcome to this. It’s up to you how we get there. I feel obliged to tell you, I wouldn’t mind some bloodshed.” He tilts his head again, cold blue gaze boring into him. “After all, we’re always hungry, aren’t we?”

Before Jaskier can answer, Alaric steps away from him, his owl clicking its beak, eyes still on Martin. 

“You stink. I do hope the next time I see you, you will have bathed.”

Jaskier bares his teeth, taking savage pleasure in the fact the vampire can smell his wolves’ claim on him. “If it keeps you away from me, not fucking likely.”

The first tilts his head slightly, anger in his scent but nothing in his expression to betray the emotion.

“ Bathe,” Alaric lilts. 

It hits Jaskier hard, and he gasps. He remembers the floating feeling from Geralt’s Axii, and the way they said his lilt was different. If this is what it's like, he feels even worse for having used it on his witchers.

When he finally manages to look up, the vampire is gone. He wants to call out for his wolves, but it’s as if something is blocking him. He fights, but he can't break through. It has pain lancing through his head, and he struggles until he’s gasping with it, the kitchen around him starting to swim in his vision. It’s the same type of pain that had stung his hand when he’d tried to use the vampire blade to cut his own throat. Apparently the disgust and anger he’d felt coming from the artifact had come from Alaric, just like the white hot agony assaulting him now is the first’s doing.

He has no choice. He yields. 

Without making a noise, he gets up and heads down to the hot springs.

Chapter Text

The sun has yet to rise when Eskel finds him. 

His clothes are in a heap next to the pool, lying crumpled where he dropped them. Jaskier is uncomfortable and sweating from the heat of his prolonged submersion, and he can’t so much as call out to his wolf. Instead, he keeps scrubbing at his skin, over and over again, leaving it red and rubbed raw. It’s painful, despite the softness of the cloth he’s dragging over himself. His breaths are coming in shivering pants, and now he’s complying with Alaric’s lilt he just— can’t stop.

There’s relief in Eskel’s expression and scent, until he spots what Jaskier is doing. The witcher takes a deep breath through his nose, and Jaskier knows he’ll be able to smell the way there’s traces of his blood in the water now, the capillaries in his skin having broken under the onslaught of scrubbing himself. 

“Flower,” Eskel says, and Jaskier heaves a hiccuping sob, but still drags the cloth over his chest. “What are you doing?” Eskel asks, brows coming together in a frown, and Jaskier can’t answer. “Jaskier. Stop that !” the witcher snaps, his voice harsh with worry. 

It breaks the compulsion. Eskel’s voice, familiar and safe, filled with concern, releases him suddenly. The pain behind his eyes recedes, and he no longer feels like his body is controlled from the outside, like he’s some sort of twisted marionette. He drops the cloth and shivers despite the heat, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“Eskel,” he pleads, and without hesitation, without even taking off any of his clothes, the witcher jumps into the pool and gathers him into his arms. 

Jaskier clings to him, his body shaking uncontrollably. Distantly, he hears Eskel call out to Geralt and the others that he’s found him. One strong arm is around Jaskier’s waist, holding him to him, and his other hand strokes a gentle path over his spine, up and down, again and again. There is a splash of water behind him, but he can’t make himself pull his face out of the crook of Eskel’s neck. 

It’s not until Geralt presses against his back so he’s enveloped by the two wolves entirely, that the trembles start to subside.

“What happened,” Geralt growls, low and angry. 

Jaskier shudders. “He was here. The first. He used his lilt on me and I couldn’t— I couldn’t—”

“Shh, Flower,” Eskel rumbles, rubbing his thumb over the base of his spine.

Geralt is stiff behind him. “What did he make you do?” his witcher asks. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “He just told me to bathe. I tried to resist, but—”

“I know you did, Jask,” Geralt tells him. “Is he still here?” And Geralt sounds furious, angrier than Jaskier has ever heard him.

“No, I don’t think so. He said he’d give me time to decide. He made me wash because I smelled of you.” He recounts what happened in the kitchen in fits and starts, and by the end of it his fear and unease have made way for biting anger of his own. “That asshole thinks because he made me he owns me. And that fucking owl—” 

He suddenly realises he doesn’t know where Martin is, his heart tripping over itself in his chest, and looks around. “Martin?” he asks, voice tight.

“He’s safe, Jask,” Geralt says. “He came to wake us, scratched at the door all hissing and growling until we were up. He’s with Vesemir now, we split up to look for you.” Jaskier sags in relief. 

When they lift him out off the hot water he’s glad to pull his clothes back on. He may have been forced to wash their scent away, but his clothes are still saturated with it. He feels calmer with the familiar smells surrounding him, calmer when he can scent himself on their skin in turn. 

—000—

“So, it seems it isn’t a coincidence I got stabbed,” Jaskier says.  He’s sitting at the kitchen table, Martin curled up in his lap, his rough tongue licking over the inside of his thumb repeatedly, as if the little marten is doing his best to soothe him. 

“Insofar as it can be a coincidence when the first was actively looking,” Yennefer says. “By the sound of it, he’s been searching for a long while. Who knows how many people died at the end of that blade before you lived.”

Geralt growls low in his throat, and Jaskier presses his thigh against him in comfort.

“He’s the only first who’s left, and he no longer wants to be alone,” he says thoughtfully. “How long do you think he’s been without others?”

“Centuries,” Vesemir replies, and Jaskier winces. 

“That’s a long time to go without companionship,” he says softly.

“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for that piece of dung beetle excrement, Buttercup,” Lambert growls, his anger plain. 

Jaskier sighs. “Only a little. I can relate, up to a point. Granted, I was alone for only a month before I found Geralt, but— it wasn’t a good time.”

“I found you , Jask,” Geralt says with a slight smile, though it is short lived. “And there’s no comparing you to him. You were alone because you refused to hurt anyone. Don’t think for a second that he has done the same. He is alone because he feels no one but another first is worthy.” 

Jaskier nods slowly. “You’re right. He might have always been this way, or time might have warped him into it. Regardless, he wants me to choose to come with him and leave you behind.”

“Not a chance, right, leechy?” Aiden growls.

Jaskier shivers. “I would say no, but— but he’s so much stronger than I expected him to be. I had no chance to resist his lilt.”

“There’s eight of us, and only one of him,” Eskel rumbles. 

“He might be the only of the first who’s left, but there’s an untold number of lesser vampires that accompany him,” Jaskier says. “What if we can’t win this?” 

“The first are all but extinct,” Yennefer says succinctly. That’s evidence enough that they can be exterminated.” She raises a meaningful eyebrow at him. “I agree with Eskel, there’s eight of us, and only one of him. The lesser vampires we can deal with easily enough.”

“We’re in this, Jask,” Geralt rumbles. “All of us. Unlike him, you are not alone.”

—000—

“He’s coming,” Triss’ voice sounds in Geralt’s head, just like he knows the others will hear it too. “Just one so far, just the first. There might be more following behind though.”

Geralt and Eskel flank Jaskier, standing close enough to get to him quickly, but not so close that the three of them form an easy, single target. Vesemir, Lambert, and Aiden are hidden away behind pillars in the large hall, out of view, their heartbeats and scents masked by the mages’ chaos. The mages themselves are up in the towers somewhere, extending their magic beyond the keep walls, to give them warning ahead of time. 

The others have taken vervain and black blood. But neither Geralt or Eskel have, despite Jaskier’s protests. At their belts, there are several vials of Golden Oriole. 

“He’s coming in fast,” Triss says, and Jaskier fidgets nervously between them, Martin on his shoulder. 

“Alaric will want to talk, first,” the bard says. 

“If he comes in close, we’ll catch him off guard,” Eskel rumbles. 

Jaskier shakes his head, biting a fang into his lip. “He’s too smart for that, he’ll keep his distance until he no longer wants to. Be ready.”

Geralt meets his brother's eyes, and both of them down several vials in quick succession. He feels them burn through his bloodstream, his senses sharpening exponentially until he thinks he can hear a slow heartbeat in the distance, getting closer rapidly. Jaskier shoots them both a quick look, nerves pervading his scent. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had more fierce looking guardians,” the bard says, his voice high with strain. “Under any other circumstances I think whoever dared attack me would likely run screaming.”

Geralt knows what he looks like. He can see his mirror image in Eskel. Skin deathly pale, like something that’s not alive. Eyes fully black, with long, spidering veins spreading across their temples. He bares his teeth, and so does Eskel. This vampire might want Jaskier, but he’s going to have to go through them all to get to him. 

He can hear the heartbeat just outside the door now, and on his next breath, there’s a vampire inside the keep. 

It’s immediately clear that it’s the first, Alaric. He stands alone, a stark contrast to Jaskier’s protected position between them. The first’s blue gaze doesn’t so much as flicker as it slides over the witchers with bared teeth and bared swords, and locks onto the bard. The owl on his shoulder does the same, orange and black eyes zoning in on Martin on Jaskier’s shoulder.

Geralt feels his muscles tense, his slow heart picking up speed in his chest. Jaskier was right. This one is dangerous.

“Julian,” Alaric says, as if their meeting is a pleasant one. “I’m so glad you’ve observed my instruction to wash, though I’d hoped you’d change your clothes of your own accord.”

Geralt knows they’re being baited, but can’t help the furious growl that rumbles in his chest, the same sound coming from Eskel. Jaskier had rubbed himself raw, and though his skin healed quick enough, the fact this vampire forced that upon him makes him want to tear his throat out. 

There’s a slight tilt of amusement to the side of Alaric’s mouth in response to their threat, but he keeps his eyes on Jaskier. “I see your pets might need some training,” the vampire says coolly, his fingers coming up to brush his long black braid back over his shoulder in a careless gesture.

Without looking, Geralt knows the insult has Jaskier baring his teeth. He can smell the bard’s anger and hear it in his voice when he speaks. 

“Don’t talk about them like that.”

Alaric tilts his head, fingers brushing against his jaw in a gesture of feigned surprise. On his shoulder, the large owl releases a haunting screech. “Why ever not? That is what they are, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Jaskier bites out. 

Alaric tuts as if he’s addressing an insolent child. “Don’t play coy, Julian,” he says, his voice severe. 

Geralt clenches his jaw and curls his fingers more firmly around the hilt of his sword. He’d give anything to cleave that arrogant head from its shoulders, but he’ll stick to the plan. He won’t leave his place at his bard’s side. He doesn’t so much as shift, keeping his black eyes focussed on the vampire facing them. 

“You’ve bitten them.” Alaric tilts his head back, carelessly exposing the pale line of his throat, as if he doesn’t consider them to be a threat at all. His nostrils flare slightly on a deep inhalation. “I can smell it.” His lips curve into a cruel smile, “Tell me again they aren’t your pets, when you’ve fed on them .”

Geralt can hear Jaskier swallow. Alaric evidently notices it too, since it has his smile widening. 

“Don’t tell me you don’t know about the blood thrall. The compulsion , Julian, dear. You’ve made them into convenient guard dogs who provide you with sustenance at the same time. Quite well done, I must say. Though if you insist on being difficult, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist you part with them.”

Jaskier laughs. It’s a harsh and furious sound, so different from the way it’s usually full of warmth. It has the hair on Geralt’s neck standing on end. The bard shakes his head, letting the echoing sound die out into stillness. Alaric’s eyes narrow, and Geralt knows the vampire is caught off guard, for the first time. 

“Seems to me, you don’t know much about witchers at all,” Jaskier says calmly. 

Behind them, Vesemir, Aiden, and Lambert step out from the cover of their pillars, all pale skin and midnight black eyes. Vesemir and Lambert grip their silver swords, precious metal glinting in the light. Aiden holds two curved, silver knives as long as his femurs, twirling one around in his grip, gaze fixed on Alaric. 

The first takes another deep breath, and his mouth tightens, blue eyes finally shifting away from Jaskier to the witchers flanking him, to those who are circling and closing in from the sides. His gaze returns to Jaskier and he tilts his head.

Where before there was only the rusted iron smell of his cool assurance, now there’s anger in Alaric’s scent. 

“An ambush? And I see you’ve bitten two, but not the others? That’s interesting ,” the first says, voice hissing out between his teeth. “You see, Julian, you might have been better off if you’d bitten all of them. Because now I can do this.”

Geralt knows it’s coming, and braces himself. 

“Don’t move,” Alaric lilts, lips slightly parted in a mocking smirk.  

He’s fully prepared to fight against the compulsion, but it isn’t there. None of the pressure bearing down on him as it is when it’s Jaskier’s lilt addressing him. On the bard’s other side, he hears Eskel’s surprised inhale, and realises it’s the same for his brother. 

It’s not like that for the others. He can hear Lambert curse and grunt, hear Vesemir’s low, rumbling growl, and Aiden’s soft hiss of breath. The lilt that passes him by, has hit them fully, and they’re struggling against it. 

They’ve practised resisting Jaskier, and they’ve taken vervain. Geralt knows the first’s compulsion is strong enough to have them obey despite it, just not immediately. He can hear it in the layers upon layers of reverberation in that tone. Geralt and Eskel have practised with them, they have even forgone the vervain, and should therefore be more susceptible to the first’s lilt. Unless— Unless the fact Jaskier has bitten them protects them from Alaric somehow. 

“No!” Jaskier hisses, stepping forward from between them. “They’re not yours!” 

Alaric chuckles, the sound mockingly indulgent. “They’re not yours either. So they’re fair game. Come now, Julian. You can still choose to come with me, and I’ll leave them be. I’ll even let you bring those two,” he says with a nod of his head. “Though I can’t promise I won’t want a taste, myself.”

On Jaskier’s shoulder, Martin growls angrily, not backing down when the owl ruffles its feathers and clicks its beak. Geralt bares his teeth, willing the vampire to come at him so he can strike. It’s getting harder and harder to chain the violence within, especially with Alaric speaking to their bard like this. 

“Back off,” Jaskier says, taking another step closer to Alaric, away from them. “I might not have bitten them, but they’re mine.”

Alaric laughs then, the sound haunting and cruel. “I see I might have to teach you a lesson before you come with me willingly. I’m just warning you, Julian. It’s not a lesson you’re going to like.” He swivels his head back toward the other witchers again, still struggling under the weight of his command, despite the vervain in their bloodstream. His cold blue eyes tinge crimson at their edges as he surveys how the three are struggling, not quite fully in compliance with his lilt. His eyes narrow. “Kill the grey one first. Then each other.”

Though he doesn’t feel it, Geralt knows the lilt is impossibly strong. Lambert and Aiden will resist as long as they’re able to, but he isn’t sure they won’t buckle under the pressure. His eyes meet Eskel’s behind Jaskier’s back. Both of them are tense, muscles primed and ready to intervene should they have to, should their suspicion prove to be wrong. 

On his next breath in, Jaskier’s scent has changed, and Geralt doesn’t have to look at him to know that there’s not a speck of summer blue left in the bard’s irises. 

“No. You are free to do as you will,” Jaskier lilts, voice deep, melodious, and brimming with power. 

“Fuck yeah, leechy!” Aiden calls out while Lambert and Vesemir snarl. 

They move, no longer under Alaric’s sway, the compulsion broken by Jaskier’s command. They’re in a loose V formation now, Jaskier forward and in the middle, all of them facing Alaric. 

The first bares his teeth, fangs flashing. He lifts his owl, boosting it into the air. From his perch on Jaskier’s shoulder, Martin hisses and takes a great leap over to Vesemir’s shoulder, and then onto a pillar, racing up into the rafters. 

Alaric’s eyes slowly bleed crimson. “Some lessons are learned the hard way,” he says.

Inside his head, Geralt hears Triss’ voice. 

“More are coming. Minor vampires. Many of them.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier can hear more of them closing in, but the first two minor vampires to join Alaric appear within the blink of an eye. The air shimmers, and then they phase into visibility next to the first. If they can phase, it means these two are descendents of the line Alaric - and Jaskier- belong to, however thinned their blood might be. 

Behind him, Eskel releases a low, furious growl. “Those are the ones that got the jump on me.”

Jaskier hisses through his teeth, and hears the rest of the witchers snarl. Those two minor vampires are the ones that bit Eskel, and nearly had him bleed out on his way up the killer. 

Both are women, and like Alaric, their beauty is of a quality that makes them appear otherworldly. They have similar black hair, pulled back into long braids. Just like Alaric has. When Jaskier looks at them, their eyes are a deep crimson, and he wonders if it’s because they’re ready for a fight, or if it is because they never had any other colour from when they were either born or made. They look so much alike, he thinks they could be sisters. 

The one on the right briefly meets his gaze, and something flickers in their crimson depths. She blinks, and it is gone. 

Alaric smiles, the vibrance of his irises much more intense than that of the minor vampires next to him. “Ah, yes. Your pet came across mine. Very fortunate, since it allowed me to finally locate you, Julian. These are Opal,” he gestures to the vampire on his right, “and Ruby,” He gestures to the one on his left. “Not their original names, of course. But since they were the closest I could find to us , I had to change them to something more suitable. 

Jaskier doesn’t do anything to suppress the furious grimace from taking over his expression. He calls them pets? He changed their names? He talks about them as if they’re something inconsequential. It reminds him of what Yennefer told him. The first, keeping people under their thrall, nothing more than cattle. He’s not so sure these minor vampires are any different. 

“Yennefer?” he calls out to the mage in his thoughts.

“Yes, bard?” she answers.

“How would I know if the minor vampires are being compelled?”

It seems like it’s silent for a while, but in reality their mental conversation happens within a fraction of a second. 

“I guess the only way to find out is to try and put them under your own influence,” she says.

Putting them under his own influence will require his lilt. He’s willing to try, but he isn’t sure his compulsion will override Alaric’s. It did for his witchers, but they had already been resisting Alaric’s influence. When it comes right down to it, Jaskier isn’t sure his lilt is the stronger one. After all, when Alaric had compelled him to bathe, he’d been forced to comply. It likely means the first is more powerful than him, but he’s damn well willing to try and overpower his influence . He can’t imagine what it must be like, if Opal and Ruby really are being compelled, here against their will. 

“When?” he asks Yennefer.

“Wait until Alaric is trapped,” she says. 

“Last chance, Julian,” Alaric drawls, his tone mocking. 

Jaskier bares his fangs and shakes his head. 

In the distance, on the perimeter they set around the keep, there is the sound of a bomb going off. Judging by the sound of flames crackling in its wake, it’s one of Lambert's dancing stars.

Alaric tilts his head and narrows his eyes, flicking his fingers at the two vampires next to him. The women phase out of the visible spectrum, and then all hell breaks loose. 

—000—

More bombs go off, the sound deafening and getting gradually closer. Jaskier hopes the fire kills the vampires quickly.  He doesn't know who they are, but he’s increasingly sure not all of them are here because they want to be. 

He'd feel more grief over the ones that die, if it weren’t for the fact they're suddenly inside the keep, and are attacking his witchers.

The lesser vampires clearly aren’t a match for the witchers of Kaer Morhen, but their numbers are greater. Vesemir, Aiden, and Lambert cut them down, but they cannot always start the fire that's necessary to definitively kill them. More than once, Jaskier sees a vampire baring its teeth and charging that had been lying in a bleeding heap mere moments before.

Opal and Ruby are stronger, and manage to evade the witchers’ silver blades. Jaskier has to keep an ear out, because every now and then one of them uses their voice in a command. 

“ Drop your sword!” The one he thinks is Opal lilts at Vesemir. 

The old witcher grunts and slows, though his hands only firm on his weapon's grip. From the corner of his eyes he sees Geralt intercept the vampire, silver sword flashing while he keeps her away from Vesemir. He draws a long line across her cheekbone, and Jaskier can smell the blood that spills down over her fair skin.

He's intensely grateful Vesemir made them practise resisting his lilt. He might not have liked compelling them, but he thinks the fact they did is the only thing that kept the old wolf from dropping his sword. 

It's not entirely necessary, but he decides to counter the command regardless. Every time he lilts it takes energy away from him, but it hasn't been so long since he fed, and he feels strong enough. What's more, he feels angry. Angry that Alaric would dare to come where he wasn’t invited, and use others to attack those he holds dear.

“Don't drop your weapons unless you choose to do so,” he grits out, his voice echoing through the hall, overwhelming the sounds of battle going on everywhere.

Aiden grins as he spins by, silver daggers flashing in his hands as he takes off the head of a tall, dark skinned minor vampire, and tosses it in the fire raging on one side of the hall. In the next moment there’s a warning whistle, and Jaskier deftly climbs up one of the pillars, a dancing star from Lambert’s hand exploding when it lands where he stood, taking three more vampires down who'd been converging on his position.

In all the chaos, Jaskier has lost track of Alaric. From his elevated spot high in the rafters of the hall, he scans the chaos below him. 

Eskel and Geralt are fighting Opal and Ruby. Jaskier takes a moment to evaluate their movement, and watches with baited breath as both witchers suddenly switch positions, catching the vampires off guard. It's not enough to kill them, but it forces them to use their strength to phase away.

He narrows his eyes and focuses on spotting a shimmer in the air. He'd suspected Alaric would let others fight for him rather than join the violence himself. He knows he's right when he spots the first at the edge of the fire, red eyes looking on, searching, before phasing away to avoid the explosion from a dragon’s dream. 

“There!” He thinks at both mages, pushing the image of Alaric shifting in and out of the visible spectrum at them. No sooner has he done so, or a portal shimmers to life with a deafening crackle of chaos. It's directly in Alaric’s path.

One thing Jaskier has noticed about phasing, is that it's about intent. The will to go fast from one place to the next has to be there, before the actual movement. Once the will is there and the speed is cultivated, there is no going back.

The portal emerges, and Alaric reappears right before he goes through it. The first twists his body around, but he's too late to stop himself. Just before he disappears he looks up, and their eyes meet over the distance. There’s a grimace on the vampire’s face, and even with the realisation he’s walked into a trap, there’s nothing in Alaric’s face but calm fury as he looks at Jaskier.

The mages appear with another crack of chaos into the air, the thrumming power adding itself to the magic from the witcher’s signs. From his position up above, Jaskier can feel the heat of the raging fire, from the bombs, and from the signs of Igni formed by strong, calloused hands.

Yennefer and Triss take up positions facing each other, both of them raising their hands to keep a portal in existence, pressing them against each other.

When Jaskier had come up with the idea to trap Alaric between two portals connected to nowhere but the other, Yennefer and Triss had been sceptical of it working. Now, he hears both their voices in his head. 

“We have him! We'll hold him as long as we can. Go!”

Jaskier waits a little longer in his elevated position, until he spots Martin in the rafters on the opposite side of the hall. The large owl is flying, chasing him, but its wingspan is wide enough that it's hindered by the beams that cross like the branches of a forest. Martin screeches as he evades, quickly circling around to hide behind wood and stone, as the owl soars by. 

He closes his eyes and turns his attention inward for a moment, feeling for his connection to the little marten. When he finds it, he opens his eyes and hears Martin titter. He knows his little buddy isn’t worried and isn’t strained. The owl is bigger than he is, but flying takes a lot of energy, more than simply dodging and evading amongst the many hiding places in the rafters. Martin is biding his time. 

Below, Geralt throws a dancing star on top of the vampire he has slain, and Jaskier waits until the fire brightens, demarcating where it will reach, before he lets go of his handholds. He pushes himself away from the pillar, landing in the middle of the fray to join the fight. 

—000—

Geralt hears Triss and Yennefer’s voice in his head, and feels their chaos brushing over his skin like the electricity that’s in the air before a thunderstorm. He quickly dodges a small, fast vampire with blond hair, arcing his sword in the opposite direction to cut through its body as it tries to change direction and go after him. 

Vampires cut down like this look dead for all intents and purposes, but Geralt knows it will rise again unless he burns it. He quickly listens for Jaskier’s heartbeat, locating the bard somewhere high above. He throws a dancing star on top of the vampire, trying his best not to compare the young looking man he’s just killed to the vampire he loves. 

He hears it when Jaskier lands, though the bard’s footfalls are light. Jaskier phases past him, briefly appearing next to him, gone in a blink, but long enough for their fingertips to brush together. 

When another vampire makes for him, Jaskier is in its path, twisting off its head like it’s nothing, and throwing it into the flames. His eyes are a vibrant, shining crimson, and it’s only the distaste in the pained curl of the bard’s lips that betrays how he really feels about the action.

Geralt takes a second to wipe the sweat away from his brow before it can drip into his eyes, and downs another potion. The fight is taking longer than they want, and he can only hope Triss and Yen can keep their portals going for as long as they need Alaric trapped. For as long as it takes them to overpower and eliminate the minor vampires. 

He’s not too worried about most of them, except the two women. Sisters, maybe. They are unexpectedly strong. Even though they’re nowhere near Alaric’s or Jaskier’s ability, so far, none of the witchers have managed to take them out. They have got to be descendents of the first, even if their blood is too thinned to qualify as first themselves.They prefer to fight together, and it makes them a force to be reckoned with. He’s lost sight of them while battling others, and spins around in search of them. 

High above him, there is the sound of an owl hooting in distress, and a marten’s hissing growls. A few small feathers twirl down through the air, settling into the sticky blood that coats the flagstones. The sound of the bird’s wings when it flies away is laboured. 

Geralt resists the temptation to look up, eyes drifting over the fighting witchers and vampires until he finds them. The sisters are still moving together, and they’ve cornered Eskel. 

He wants to growl for Jaskier, but the vampire is currently between a group of three minor vampires and the portals being held up by the mages, and he doesn’t want to distract him. Not when keeping those portals up keeps Alaric from tipping the scales of the fight. 

He runs toward Eskel. Across the diminishing distance he can see one of the sisters attack his brother, baiting him into opening up his flank. Eskel has no choice but to defend himself, the vampire going for him with her fangs bared, clearly intending to bite him. Eskel easily fends her off with his blade, blasting off an aard in the direction of the other one. It hits her hard, but she uses the momentum to gain air and push off one of the large stone pillars, catapulting herself back onto Eskel with speed. They’re joined by two others, and suddenly it’s four against one.

There’s a struggle, and neither of the sisters expends the useless effort to lilt at the witcher they’re beleaguering, as if they know Jaskier’s bite protects Eskel from being compelled. Geralt can smell that Eskel is bleeding from somewhere. Likely a minor injury, but the presence of blood is enough to have the vampires’ bloodlust raging, and Eskel is having trouble fending them off. Two minor vampires fall to his blade as Geralt sprints to reach him, but the sisters are still alive.

Not far off, Lambert throws a bomb, but it’s knocked out of the way by the vampire it was meant for, rolling far too close to Eskel for comfort. Geralt sees his brother brace, and then it goes off. The sound is deafening, and Eskel has to raise his arm to protect his face from the flash of flames. 

One of the sisters screams, fire eating away at her clothing and hair, and Eskel turns toward the sound to finish her. The smoke from the fire is thick, and Geralt knows it will impair his sight and smell. The unhurt sister launches herself at Eskel’s neck, and Geralt bellows out a warning. His brother reacts just in time, slamming the burning vampire away from him and lifting his arm to defend his vulnerable carotid from the other. Neither Geralt nor Eskel have taken black blood or vervain, and being bitten will hurt them more than it will hurt the vampire doing the biting. 

The vampire’s teeth bury themselves into Eskel’s flesh, and there is more of the scent of his blood permeating the air. He has managed to keep her away from his major blood vessels, but that doesn’t matter, not for the blood thrall. 

Geralt growls, protective anger surging at seeing Eskel hurt, and flings a silver dagger that buries itself in the vampire’s shoulder. The woman lets go of Eskel and turns her crimson eyes on him. For a fraction of a second, he thinks he sees something like regret in her gaze. Then she pushes away from Eskel, pulling her still burning sister with her. 

She’s smart. She uses the smoke from the fire and a recently exploded devil’s puffball to cover her retreat, just before Geralt gets there. 

“You alright?” he grunts, eyes quickly scanning the chaos around them for any threats coming their way. 

Eskel gives a brisk nod, cursing when he brushes over the punctures in his forearm. He bends and gives the two bodies of the minor vampires a shove, into the fire. “Fine,” he growls. “We need those two taken out. They’re more dangerous than the others.” He takes a vial of Golden Oriole from his belt and throws it back. 

“Hmh,” Geralt responds. “More dangerous, but—” 

“But not here of their own volition, I think,” Jaskier says, suddenly appearing next to them. 

The bard’s eyes are large with worry, though his irises remain a vibrant crimson. He quickly strokes his long fingers across Eskel’s forearm, as if he wants to make sure the small wounds are scabbing over. 

“Love, you took liquid sunshine?” He asks, unable to keep the tension from his voice. 

Geralt allows himself to reach up for a moment, pressing his palm over the vampire’s nape. 

Eskel lifts his own hand, and cups Jaskier’s cheek. “I did, flower. I’m fine. I promise.”

Jaskier nods. “Good.” 

Geralt sees his crimson eyes quickly shift over the raging battle, and follows his gaze. Vesemir is fighting a group of minor vampires all at once, flinging them away from him at strategic intervals, straight into where Aiden is waiting in the wings, his silver blades lightning quick and deadly. Lambert has a grin on his face that could surely be called manic on anyone other than him, and actually has three bombs hanging from between his teeth by the wick, racing after another couple of vampires. High above, there’s another loud screeching sound, and Jaskier’s mouth curls in a vicious smile with no effort at all to hide the sharpness of his incisors. More feathers flutter down through the air, the bright down flecked with blood.

“It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it?” the bard says with a raised brow.

“Careful of the fire, Jask.”

“Of course, darling,” he says almost distractedly, and Geralt sees his eyes following the two sisters, now on the other side of the hall, the one who’s unhurt carefully supporting the other. “I’m just going to see if I’m right.”

“How?” Eskel growls, shifting his sword in his grip, eyeing the way the group of vampires accosting Vesemir has split into two, one half of them seemingly having set their eyes on the two mages who are now wild haired and wild eyed and sweating, holding up their portals. 

“Right now, they’re Alaric’s. I’m just going to see if I can make them mine,” Jaskier answers determinedly.

—000—

Jaskier manages to corner them eventually. The one with burns - Ruby, he thinks -  is steadily recovering, but she’s slow with it, and her sister bares her teeth and hisses when he approaches. 

They’re hiding behind a pillar, and they’ve chosen their position well. The large, stone column is close to the wall and effectively obscures them from most directions. A dragon’s breath bomb has detonated in the vicinity not too long ago, and the smouldering organic material left in its wake produces enough of a scent to mask their presence. 

There’s still blood on Opal’s cheek from where Vesemir had cut her, but Jaskier knows the skin underneath the red stain has knit itself back together by now. The wound at her shoulder from Geralt’s blade is still bleeding sluggishly.

She seems frozen, standing in front of her sister, and she looks like she’s fighting something. He thinks he knows what it is. He thinks he can recognise the signs by now, has even experienced them for himself. Resisting a lilt is an internal struggle, but when you know what to look for, the body reveals what’s going on inside. 

He thinks Opal is resisting the lilt that had ordered her to attack the occupants of Kaer Morhen, in favour of remaining in front of her sister, protecting her. Jaskier briefly wonders if Alaric’s lilt to the vampire has specified who to kill and who to let live. That is, if Alaric still plans on having Jaskier be his companion. 

He takes another step forward, and she bares her teeth at him, hands curling into fists. Behind her, Ruby is gasping for air as if the burns to her torso have singed more than her skin. As if the fire has damaged her lungs, and her ability to take in air. She looks weak, despite the fact she’s healing. Fire kills vampires. Apparently it’s quite effective in doing so. 

“Stay away!” Opal manages to grind out through her gritted teeth. Her lilt sounds pained, as if just uttering the words is ripping open her vocal chords and leaves them bleeding.

Jaskier remembers the pain of resisting Alaric himself. First when he had brought the dagger up to his own throat, prepared to cut his carotids and bleed to death. Then, when Alaric ordered him to bathe, and he resisted until the pain became too much, and he couldn’t anymore. 

He’s quite sure now. Alaric has compelled these two. They are the closest he could find to their bloodline, though too far removed for him to consider them a suitable match. Too far removed to put up anything but token resistance, no matter how strong Opal and Ruby are, no matter how hard they try. 

“All you have to do is protect your sister,” he lilts at Opal, laying all his power in it. “All you have to do is keep her safe.”

Her crimson eyes widen, and all at once, all the tension bleeds out of her shoulders. She stares at him, slowly licking across her incisors.

Chapter Text

Tension bleeds from Opal’s shoulders at his command, but after a moment, she narrows her eyes. 

“Her, too,” she says, only slightly stepping aside to reveal Ruby behind her. Jaskier can hear the way there’s fear under the thin layer of haughty confidence. He should have known that to Opal, freeing her sister from Alaric’s compulsion might be more important than being free herself. 

He looks at the minor vampire standing behind her sister. Ruby is the smaller, younger of the two, even though they might be centuries old already. She’s still panting for breath, but the burns from the fire are slowly healing. Her crimson eyes slide over to the battle, and Jaskier thinks he can see how she’s being swayed to join in the violence once more. 

“Quickly!” Opal bites out, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow at her. “Please,” she says after a moment of silence, desperation making its way onto her face. 

He gives her a curt nod, and gathers his strength of will around himself like a cloak. It seems lilting Opal with all of his raw, unchecked power was enough to break her free, but it took a lot out of him. He suspects lilting like that again will leave him weak and craving blood. He looks between the sisters. It’s not like he has a choice. 

He focuses on Ruby this time, and repeats his command. “All you have to do is protect your sister. All you have to do is keep her safe.”

Ruby inhales a ragged, shocked breath, and stumbles as if her strings have been cut. Opal is there to catch her, slipping her shoulder under her sister's arm to keep her upright. When her crimson eyes meet Jaskier’s, there is surprise in their depths. 

Jaskier tilts his head at her, trying to ignore the roaring hunger that has flared to life in the pit of his stomach. Through the scents of acrid smoke and ash, and the hot, burning scent of open fire, the smell of blood is calling to him. 

“You didn’t think I would do it,” he says to Opal. 

She shakes her head. “I did not.” Her voice and expression are tight, and Jaskier thinks she still doesn’t trust him. 

“Always so sceptical of others,” Ruby wheezes next to her. “She probably thought you’d command me differently, to hold sway over us both.”

“Cissy!” Opal hisses in warning, glancing at Jaskier with suspicious crimson eyes. 

Jaskier shrugs, trying his best to keep his attention on the two minor vampires and ignore the heartbeats of the witchers around him, calling him to feed. It’s a considerable effort to think of anything else but sinking his fangs into a carotid artery and letting the hot liquid flow over his tongue, the scent of copper and iron in his nose. He can hear all of the witchers. He knows where each and every one of them are, but he zeroes in on two of them especially. His wolves, still fighting the minor vampires, diminishing their numbers and bleeding from several small wounds sustained in battle. 

“I wouldn’t,” he says simply. “I require nothing of you, other than that you don’t support Alaric and harm my own.”

“We never supported Alaric,” Opal bites out, while Ruby shakes her head, still leaning heavily on her sister. 

“No. I suppose not,” Jaskier says.

“We’re not staying,” Opal says, a challenge in her eyes and in her tone, daring Jaskier to tell them otherwise.

“I won’t stop you,” he answers, trying to keep it together long enough to see them leave. 

Opal turns away from him, pulling her sister with her. Jaskier is already looking over his shoulder, searching out Geralt and Eskel, when she pauses and turns back to him. 

“You need to feed,” she says. 

He snorts. “No shit. It might calm your suspicions to know that I couldn’t make you stay, even if I wanted to,” he says. Her eyes widen, realising he’s just let her know he doesn’t have enough left for another lilt, let alone one that would command them to do anything.

“You could use some more scepticism yourself,” she says tightly. 

Jaskier hums. “Could I? I quite pride myself on being able to read people.”

Ruby blinks at that, though Opal still looks guarded. “You’d have to be,” Ruby says. “To move amongst wolves and know yourself to be safe.”

He smiles at her. She doesn’t know half of how safe he is, in fact. Opal tries to pull Ruby with her, but the younger sister resists.

“Cissy!” she hisses again, and Ruby throws her a meaningful look. Opal looks at Jaskier again, and purses her mouth. “Fine,” she bites out. “But we’re leaving after you tell him.”

Jaskier does his best to remain outwardly calm, the battle raging on behind him, the crack of chaos in the air ebbing and flowing as the mages hold the portals that have trapped Alaric. In the back of his mind his witchers’ heartbeats thrum like the beat of a drum, calling to him. 

“You need to feed, because you can’t face Alaric without doing so,” Ruby begins, coughing a little. The cough sounds wet and painful, though her singed skin is looking better by the second.

Jaskier nods. He knows this can’t be all she wants to say. It’s obvious he needs all the power he can get when facing the first. Opal rubs her hand over her sister’s back in a calming gesture, and meets Jaskier’s eyes. 

“She wants to warn you about what Alaric wants,” Opal says. 

“I know what he wants,” Jaskier answers. “He wants a companion.”

“That’s not all,” Opal says, shaking her head with a grimace. Jaskier feels dread building at the back of his throat. “He might want you as a companion, but he wants your blood too. Having you by his side will be convenient for him.”

All the hair on Jaskier’s body seems to stand on end. “He said he didn’t want my blood,” he finds himself arguing. 

Ruby shakes her head. “You can’t trust anything Alaric says,” she wheezes, earning a concerned glance from her sister and Jaskier both. 

“He needs your blood to make new vampires,” Opal says curtly. “The blade that made you is ancient, and held blood from when Alaric was young. He’s too old now. He wants to use your blood to have the first return to the continent. Ours is— too thin,” she concludes.

Jaskier hisses through his teeth. He still doesn’t know a lot about the first, but he thinks of Yennefer’s words again. Vampires keeping humans like cattle. He knows enough. 

“You can’t let that happen,” Ruby wheezes, breaking off into another wet cough. 

He shakes his head. “I won’t,” he assures her, before looking back at Opal. “Get her out of here. I think the smoke from the Devil’s puffballs is doing harm to her. She needs fresh air.”

Ruby coughs again, and Opal gives him a long, hard stare, before nodding. “Thank you,” she says. 

Jaskier blinks, and they’re gone. 

—000—

The tide of the fight is turning. 

The five of them and Jaskier had been outnumbered at the start, fighting off a multitude of minor vampires while protecting the two mages holding up their portals at the same time. Now the two vampire sisters are somewhere on the outskirts of the battle together with Jaskier, and the witchers can focus on methodically taking out the vampires that remain. 

Despite the odd numbers, the fight is far from fair, the minor vampires no match for witchers with toxins and the adrenaline of battle burning in their veins. The skirmishes are bloody and short, and Geralt is thankful that vampires don’t smell like roasting flesh when you burn them. 

Relative quiet descends as he’s throwing another body into the fire, while Eskel breaks the back of the last vampire still standing, adding more to the flames.

He looks around himself, keeping a firm grip on his silver sword despite the hilt being slick with blood. He seeks out his brothers one by one, eyes tracking over them in search of hurts that won’t mend, hurts that will need attention or have them perish. He ends on Vesemir, the grey wolf standing facing the fire, teeth bared in a silent snarl. 

This is not the first time Kaer Morhen has been under attack, and this is not the first time the keep has burned. Geralt has his own remembrance of the fire in the great hall and knows those memories are likely at the forefront of his mentor’s mind. 

All of them are standing. All of them are injured in several places, but there are no mortal wounds, and all of them have more left in them. High up in the rafters, there is the tired beat of wings and the sound of a marten in pursuit of its prey, nails scratching against the wood.

“Yennefer, Triss?” Vesemir asks the mages, and Geralt turns to glance at them. They look exhausted, and he feels grateful they have been able to hold on as long as they have. 

“We can hold for a bit,” Yennefer says, her jaw clenched and her hands trembling slightly. “Not long. Take your potions, and do what you have to do to get ready.” 

“We can feel he’s angry,” Triss adds, voice tight. “Be prepared as soon as the portals drop.”

“Where’s leechy?” Aiden asks, wiping the blades of his daggers on his pants heedlessly, and looking around. 

For a second, Geralt’s heart freezes in his chest. Then Eskel leans his shoulder against his in comfort and Lambert points to the other side of the hall before letting his fingers slide over the bombs still attached to his belt. 

Jaskier is walking toward them, his skin starkly pale and his eyes glowing crimson. Geralt inhales, and smells the sharply voracious quality to his scent that only appears when the vampire is so hungry he has to keep a tight rein on his control. 

He thinks of how Jaskier was a few months ago. Afraid of his own instincts and hunger, keeping himself apart from anyone he saw as prey in moments like this. Now, the vampire’s crimson eyes lock onto him and Eskel, and he keeps walking toward them, tongue slipping across his bottom lip and the points of his teeth. 

“Jask?” Geralt rumbles. The bard stops in front of them, and Geralt looks at the deep, full breaths he takes of their scent. 

“The sisters were under Alaric’s control. They aren’t anymore,” he says, anger and hunger intermingling in his voice. 

“You need to feed,” Eskel says calmly, and Jaskier nods. 

Geralt is barely aware of the others politely averting their gazes as he and Eskel crowd the bard between them. Despite his hunger, Jaskier smells focussed, and when he rubs his fingers over the bard's wrist in question, the vampire shakes his head.

“Not necessary, love,” he says, deeply red eyes drifting over to the portals the mages are holding. “I’m no danger to you.”

Geralt hums in approval while Eskel rumbles deep in his chest. Neither of them grab onto the bard, doing nothing more than tilting their heads to the side to expose their carotids to him. Jaskier’s breath catches slightly, and he slides one hand up Geralt’s neck, his other reaching out for Eskel. 

He doesn’t doubt for a second Jaskier will stay in control. The bard’s long fingered hand is strong on his nape, thumb swiping gently across muscle as the vampire’s lips trail over tender skin before sinking in his fangs. 

Familiar heat flows through his veins, and though he does his best to curb his arousal, it’s definitely there at the edges. Eskel reaches out and lays his hand over Jaskier’s on his neck, and Geralt is aware of the heavy thump of his heart against his ribs. He meets his brother’s stark black gaze while the vampire drinks from him, and lets his lips curl up into an answering smile. It’s not over yet, but they’re all still here, and they will face Alaric together. 

When Jaskier pulls his fangs from his skin and turns to Eskel, his brother rumbles low in his chest with satisfaction. Jaskier’s hand is on the back of his neck, like his other is on Geralt’s. He can’t look away from the two of them, and knows he’ll do anything to keep them safe. 

After feeding, Jaskier pulls away from Eskel and stands still between them for a moment, eyes closed, inhaling deeply to pull in their scents. When he opens his eyes they are still deeply crimson, but around the pupils there is a narrow ring of bright, summer blue. 

“Damn it, Buttercup!” Lambert grumbles, rubbing his fingers over his forehead, carefully not looking in their direction. “I could have gone a lifetime without ever smelling that.”

The bard laughs. “Too bad, little Lamb. Just deal with the fact I appreciate your brothers, very much.”

It’s hard to tell with eyes the colour of midnight, but somehow Geralt knows Lambert is rolling them fondly. “Good,” the redhead says.

Jaskier grins, their blood a slight red sheen in his teeth. Geralt thinks he looks like something wild and dangerous, full of life and full of protective anger. He looks like theirs. 

—000—

They are standing in a triangle formation again. Jaskier stands in the middle, slightly forward from the others, closest to the portal. Close behind him Eskel and Geralt stand off to either side, the other witchers a few paces further away still. 

He meets Triss’ gaze, and thinks it shouldn’t have lasted a moment longer. He looks at Yennefer, and the purple eyed mage looks grim, sweat beading on her brow and dampening the hair at her temples. 

“Ready?” Yennefer asks, and from behind Jaskier the witchers growl as one. He nods, allowing himself to briefly feel the power thrumming inside him, replenished by his wolves’ blood. 

The mages drop their hands and immediately retreat, sheltering behind the witchers of Kaer Morhen. They’ve done their part. They’ll still be here to help, but they don’t have much left to give. The chaos in the air crackles for a moment longer, and then it fizzles out, the electric quality that has danced across his skin since they called forth their portals finally disappearing. 

A few seconds later, the portals shimmer in the air one final time, and drop. 

Alaric only stumbles a little, but the fact he does at all is telling. The first no longer looks perfect, and he definitely doesn’t look as in control as he did before. Jaskier can’t keep the feral smile off his face. 

Alaric looks wild. There’s black hair flying out of his long braid, tangling in a web around his head. His eyes are still a burning crimson, but Jaskier can see the confusion in their depths. His skin is pale, veins standing out underneath, like bluish rivers under the skin. He takes another step and wavers, clearly dizzy after passing through the portals an untold number of times. 

Behind him, he feels Geralt shift from one foot to the other, as if he can imagine all too well how the vampire feels. Jaskier remembers his wolf telling him about his own reaction to portals, and takes vicious satisfaction in the fact Alaric is likely to feel pretty miserable right now. 

They’d agreed on assessing the state Alaric is in before attacking. Just as Jaskier contemplates if now is the moment, the first rights himself, standing up straight, and drags long, pale fingers through his hair to smooth it back. 

Deeply crimson eyes stare into his own, and Jaskier clenches his jaw als Alaric’s  lips curl in a cruel smile. 

“Clever,” he says coldly, eyes passing over the fire at the other side of the hall, taking in the fact there are no minor vampires left. “I did say you were amusing, didn’t I? But you knew those portals had to come down sometime. Tell me, Julian. What’s your plan next?”

Jaskier bares his teeth at him. “It’s simple. We kill you,” he says. 

Alaric tilts his head to the side. “It’s interesting that you think you can,” he tuts. “I made you, Julian. You’re mine. You can’t kill me, you don’t know how .”

Now it’s Jaskier’s turn to tilt his head to the side, smiling. “Are you sure of that?” he says sweetly, and doesn’t miss the slight widening of the vampire’s eyes, though Alaric flicks his fingers dismissively.

Jaskier holds Alaric’s gaze, and forms his fingers into a subtle gesture at his side. In the next second, a bomb flies over his left shoulder toward the first, immediately followed by a second one flying over his right. They explode directly in front of Alaric’s feet, the first crouching down, preparing to jump away just before they hit. 

When they explode, the sound is deafening. The explosion seems to shake the keep right down to its foundation, and slight trails of dust rain down from the ceiling. Jaskier chances a glance upward for a moment, meeting Martin’s shining black eyes when the marten peeks down at him. The next second, Martin disappears in pursuit of an owl that’s losing feathers and drops of blood as it flies. 

He looks back down, taking in the bright flames and caustic green smoke billowing outward from where Alaric had been standing. 

“He’s still there,” Eskel murmurs from one side of him. Geralt growls in response, and Jaskier narrows his eyes in an effort to peer through the noxious clouds. 

“He’s in the fucking cloud,” Lambert grumbles, and Jaskier can tell by his tone alone the witcher is tempted to throw another one of his bombs. The gasses could ignite though, and while that might kill Alaric, it isn’t safe for them either, especially not for Jaskier. 

As they watch, the smoke swirls higher and higher. There’s a silhouette in the cloud, moving. When the tendrils of noxious gases part, Alaric steps out with a smile, eyes blood red and hungry. 

—000—

Geralt sees Alaric step out of the smoke and gas, and sees the vampire’s eyes lock onto Jaskier as he smiles. Then his crimson eyes slide over to Eskel, and to him, the only ones who haven’t taken black blood and vervain. 

“Fuck,” he curses, feeling his adrenaline surge. “He’s hungry. He wants blood.”

Jaskier hisses, eyes never leaving Alaric, even as the first begins to stalk toward them. “Stay away from them,” the bard spits. 

One moment both vampires are moving toward each other, the next the air where they’d been standing shimmers as they phase, and they disappear from view. 

Geralt knows the way Jaskier fights. He has sparred with him for an entire summer and has trained with the vampire and his brothers for the better part of winter. He whistles low, getting answers from behind and beside him. They change their arrowhead formation, moving while keeping their senses on high alert, until they form a loose circle. 

Jaskier’s favourite drill out of all of them - a close second behind dodge the witcher of course-  has been the circle drill. He’s especially good at tossing others out of it, or keeping them in , when it suits him. 

—000—

Jaskier is aware  of his witchers’ positions forming a ring all around him. There are certainly gaps between them, but keeping Alaric inside a circle of warriors should be easier than keeping him confined within a mere line of chalk. 

He’s moving fast, and the world around him seems to slow down. It’s interesting. He’s more cognizant of time passing differently, and more aware of his surroundings than when he was phasing down the mountain to get Eskel. Back then he just felt like he skipped entire stretches of the killer on his way down. This time he feels consciously in control, his senses sharp and his mind alert for the slightest aberration in what he sees, hears, or smells. 

There’s something that seems to brush past just behind him, and he allows his instincts to take over, and strikes. 

He grabs onto Alaric, hands clamping down onto the first’s upper arm, pulling him out of his phase. Jaskier doesn’t pause to think about it, but allows his body to react, dragging Alaric in a movement that puts Jaskier’s greater height and weight to use. He drops his weight down in a turn, creating momentum to fling the other vampire away from him, straight toward Geralt. 

A silver sword flashes, and a piercing shriek rends the air. When Jaskier inhales, he smells Alaric’s blood in the air. He meets Geralt’s eyes, fathomless black, and the witcher bares all his teeth in a feral smile. Time slows again as Jaskier throws himself into another phase. 

—000—

Jaskier making full use of his powers and instincts is a sight to behold. Geralt and the others can’t see half of what the bard does, as he phases in and out of the spectrum that’s visible to them, even under the influence of blizzard and cat and other toxins.

When Jaskier flings Alaric in his direction for the first time, Geralt is ready, and manages to draw the sharp edge of his silver sword all along the back of the vampire’s thigh. The scent of blood pierces the air as it wells to the surface. More importantly, Geralt feels the thwack-snap of a hamstring tendon sever under his blade. He meets Jaskier’s eyes, and grins. 

The next time Jaskier and Alaric appear it’s between Vesemir and Lambert, and the bard shoves the vampire back into the ring of them, aided by silver blades on either side, driving Alaric where he wants him. Geralt sees the way the first hobbles, one of his legs seemingly dragging behind. Not long after, Eskel’s sword catches the light of the fire as he drives it forward into Alaric’s shoulder, more dark blood splattering the flagstones amongst the stains of brighter red. 

It takes a while, but eventually, Alaric stops phasing, coming to a halt in the middle of the circle of witchers. Moments later, Jaskier’s form shimmers and appears in front of the first.

Blood drips down Alaric’s torso, down his legs and down his arms, rivulets of it leaking over the backs of his hands and forming droplets on the tips of his fingers. His hair is wild again, and the crimson of his eyes seems slightly dimmed. Geralt inhales deeply, and recognises the hunger in Alaric’s scent, so similar to Jaskier’s, but miles apart at the same time. Where Jaskier’s hunger smells voracious, sharp and thrilling, Alaric’s smells of darkness and loss of control. 

Jaskier is slowly circling Alaric, the first turning in place to keep his eyes on the bard.

“You still don’t know how to kill me, Julian. What’s your plan, to have them bleed me dry?” There’s something in his voice that’s different now. As if Alaric is starting to realise winning this fight is becoming less and less likely.

Jaskier regards the first calmly. “Not them.” 

His voice is soft in a way that has Geralt acutely aware of how dangerous Jaskier is, how dangerous he has become. 

“ Me,” the bard concludes, and for the first time there’s an unmistakable change in Alaric’s scent. 

Fear smells the same on everyone. Even on monsters. Even on vampires. It’s pungent and acrid, and Alaric stinks of it. 

Witchers know that just before a monster dies, it is at its most dangerous. It will take the slightest chance for a way out, whatever it may cost them. If that doesn’t work, it will inevitably try to take the witcher hunting it down with them. 

Alaric is bleeding, and even before that, he needed blood. Geralt and Eskel are the only ones without vervain or black blood in their system. But, Aiden is closer. None of them expect it, and though Jaskier moves to intercept, this time he is just slightly too slow. 

Alaric phases, and though Aiden might be the fastest of them, he doesn’t stand a chance. The cat struggles with everything he has, but the first has a firm hold on him, and can’t afford to let go. Distantly, Geralt hears Lambert’s heartbeat raise to three times its normal tempo. 

“Let him go, Alaric,” Jaskier says, fury barely contained, his voice so very close to being a lilt. 

“Don’t move,” Alaric bites out. 

His lilt lacks power, the fact he’s hungry making it hollow, a mere shade of the power he held before. Still, it’s enough to have everyone but Geralt, Eskel, and Jaskier freeze in place.

“Don’t you move or speak a word, Julian. Or this one is dead.” The vampire glares at Jaskier, then tilts his head, and slides his eyes over to Lambert. He smiles, sharp incisors catching the flickering light of the still raging fire. Keeping his crimson irises on Lambert, Alaric slowly drags his nose up Aiden’s throat. 

For a second, Geralt almost hopes the first will bite Aiden, that he will drink the vervain and black blood in the cat’s bloodstream. When he hears the words Alaric speaks his stomach clenches with dread. 

The vampire sniffs Aiden again. “Your mutations are different, aren’t they?” Alaric says slowly, a slight hiss to his voice. 

Next to Vesemir, Lambert struggles against the lilt with everything he has, managing a step forward, breaking the circle, teeth bared and black eyes focussed on the vampire holding his partner. 

“Hmh,” Alaric continues, “You metabolise black blood faster than the others, as you do vervain.”

The first curls his lips back from his teeth, pulling Aiden’s head back and opening his mouth over his neck. This won’t just be a bite, or just a feeding. Once Alaric is done, there won’t be a drop of blood left in Aiden. 

As one, Geralt, Eskel, and Jaskier move, as Aiden struggles futilely in Alaric’s grip, and Lambert bellows in rage.

Chapter Text

Jaskier’s heart is hammering in his chest, pumping fear through his bloodstream, sharp and cold like shards of ice. He moves on instinct, and behind him he can feel Geralt and Eskel jumping forward as well, unaffected by the first’s voice. 

They’re predictable in their desperation, because of course they are. He's got Aiden. He's got one of their own. Alaric has seen how they move together, how they protect each other, and Jaskier himself has threatened and hissed at the first enough that there is no doubt in the vampire’s mind that he loves his witchers, and would do anything to save them. 

Alaric’s lips curl at the confirmation they’ve just given him. “You better stop moving,” the first says, teeth still poised over Aiden’s jugular. There is not a trace of his lilt in the threat, just calm assurance. “Feeding takes time, but ripping out his throat and leaving him to drain takes less than a second. Tell me, can a witcher heal from that?”

All three of them freeze, and behind them, a pained noise leaves Lambert’s throat. 

Triumph flickers in Alaric’s eyes. As long as he has Aiden, he can threaten to kill the cat. Jaskier knows that none of them will be fast enough to prevent it, and Eskel and Geralt know it too. His witchers’ growls are low and angry, but they remain behind him. Still and unmoving. He sees a flicker of something in his peripheral, but can’t afford to take his eyes off of the other vampire. 

“What now?” he asks, trying to stall Alaric, his mind going a mile a minute. 

Alaric tuts, some of his arrogance returning to him. “Now you do as I want, Julian.”

The wolves growl, and even Aiden hisses furiously where he’s held still, head still pulled back to expose the arch of his neck. 

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “And what’s that, exactly?”

“Coy, again. You know what I want,” Alaric says, arching a dark brow dismissively.

“A companion. One who is the last you ever made. One who conveniently holds the blood of the first, and can do what you no longer can,” Jaskier answers.

Alaric’s expression morphs into a mask of anger, and Jaskier has to keep a tight rein on his own emotions. This is a dangerous game, and one wrong move might cost them Aiden. The anger disappears from the vampire's face almost as soon as it’s there, Alaric's stare returning to the cool veil of indifference, the rage a flicker of emotion that only temporarily found its way through. 

“I know you didn’t find that out by yourself, Julian. So who spoke out of turn. Opal, or Ruby?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, carefully avoiding looking at that same shimmer of air in the corner of his vision. 

“No matter,” Alaric says delicately, danger in his voice. “I will find them both. They were useful to me. Not anymore.”

It’s entirely clear that Alaric means to find and exterminate the sisters, and it’s what they’ve been waiting for. Jaskier has lilted them and told them all they need to do is protect each other. They could have left. He’s sure that’s what Opal wanted. He thinks it’s Ruby who convinced her sister to come back. Alaric has threatened both of them, and though it was never Jaskier’s intention, under the influence of his lilt, they attack.

They’re suddenly there, shimmering into existence next to Alaric. Jaskier had been aware of their presence at the edge of the hall, but he’d been the only one. Maybe it’s the fact they are under his compulsion in the first place that made him aware of them. He can hear surprised inhalations all around, including Alaric’s. 

Opal bares her teeth in a snarl as she breaks the hold Alaric has on Aiden’s torso. Jaskier thinks he can hear bones crack under the force, and hopes they’re not the witcher's. At the same time, Ruby darts forward and wrenches Alaric’s hand away from where he’s controlling the angle of the cat’s head to keep his neck exposed. 

Despite being freed, Aiden doesn’t move, and with a shock, Jaskier realises that the first’s lilt on him is still in effect, as it is on the others. 

“You are free to move,” he lilts at them, feeling the power reverberate through the air. 

As soon as he does, Aiden struggles to put distance between himself and Alaric, cursing up a storm. The first has gotten out of Opal’s grip though, and grabs onto the cat before he can vault away. Jaskier sees Alaric bare his teeth, crimson eyes fixed on the cat’s pounding pulse. 

“NO!” he bites out, his voice echoing off the walls in a way it hasn’t before, even at its most powerful. The tones are deep and layered and oppressive, and make no distinction, buffeting everyone around him. Alaric freezes, but so does Aiden, and so do Opal and Ruby, and the witchers around him.

Jaskier’s heart is pounding, and he’s fighting for control. There is power in this, in him, more than he ever thought possible. For one heart stopping moment he’s afraid it will overwhelm him. Then there’s a hand on his nape, familiar and strong, closely followed by a warm palm between his shoulder blades. Somehow, despite his lilt, his wolves have been able to move.

He takes a deep breath, focussing on the scents of leather and pine, on paper and thyme, and lilts again.This time, he consciously calls upon the fathomless well of power inside him, and looks Alaric directly in the eye. 

“You will not bite the witcher,” he says, forcing his will onto the first with all the strength he has. 

He sees Alaric’s knees buckle, and his grip on Aiden grows slack. As soon as he can, the cat rips out of the vampire’s grip, spinning away. He’s met halfway by Lambert, the wolf pulling the cat behind him until Aiden is able to pull in a deep breath and take the dagger pressed into his hand, now that he’s lost his own. 

Jaskier takes a step toward the first, the witchers drawing in close behind him. He thinks they have Alaric cornered now. The vampire needs blood, and is severely outnumbered, facing two minor vampires, Jaskier himself, five witchers, and two mages waiting in the wings. 

To his shock, Alaric smirks at him, eyes shining with triumph. Jaskier’s heart freezes in his chest, and he knows he’s made a mistake in his lilt. 

Don’t bite. Don’t bite anyone. Don’t bite at all, is what he should have said. But he didn’t.

Between the sisters, Ruby is closer to the first, and she’s still weaker than she should be, even though the burns are healed and nowhere to be seen. 

—000—

He realises the mistake at the same time Jaskier does. The bard seems frozen for a second, his eyes wide and horror taking over his scent. Geralt moves before he fully comprehends he plans to do so. There is a silver blade flung from between his fingers, flying straight toward Alaric’s throat. 

The first dodges, the blade drawing a long line across his shoulder, adding to the wounds he already bears, before harmlessly embedding itself into the stone behind him. Opal turns, her face contorted with fear, as if she already knows what’s about to happen. Jaskier opens his mouth, but Geralt can tell he still has to gather his strength, the powerful lilt from before leaving him temporarily weakened. 

Eskel starts forward, and so do Vesemir, Lambert, and Aiden. There is the crackle of chaos gathering, but Triss and Yennefer have depleted their reserves.

None of them will be in time. 

Ruby is still holding onto the vampire’s arm she’d ripped away from Aiden. Faster than his eyes can follow, Alaric thrusts Opal away, flinging her into a stone pillar. There is the audible crack of bone when her skull connects, and Geralt knows she’ll get up because she is a vampire, but it won’t be soon.

Ruby screams for her sister, eyes wide with shock. The scream is cut off when Alaric wrests out of her grip like it’s nothing, and yanks her head back to sink his teeth into her neck. 

—000—

Jaskier wants to deny what he’s seeing. He’d known, of course, that Alaric did not care about the sisters at all. Despite them being descendents of the first. Despite holding them under his compulsion for who knows how long. To him, they were nothing more than a means to an end. Convenient pawns in his game.

He’d known Alaric wouldn’t care if they died, that he might have killed them himself in punishment giving Jaskier information. 

He never thought Alaric would eat one of them. 

There’s no other word for what happens. The first drinks from her, long incisors easily piercing her pale skin, the scent of her blood heavy on the air. He takes quick gulps, pushing his fangs further into her, ripping and tearing, as his eyes get back some of their crimson glow. 

Jaskier prepares to lilt at Alaric to stop. There’s time to save Ruby before he’s taken all her blood. If she has blood left inside her, she will recover. 

Before he can, Alaric smirks against her throat and looks at him, clearly aware of what he’s planning. The vampire pulls his teeth from Ruby’s neck with a tearing motion, more blood spilling down the front of her, leaving her gasping for breath with awful rattling sounds.

“Let her go,” Jaskier lilts, and Alaric grins, blood in his teeth and dripping down his chin. 

“My pleasure,” he answers, and hurls Ruby’s body away from him, directly into the blaze of the raging fire. 

—000—

The scream that rips itself from Jaskier’s throat is anguished and broken, the bard’s fists balling at his sides. Geralt can see the way he wants to move toward the fire, and hurls himself forward at the same time Eskel does. 

Their arms wrap around the vampire, holding him in place as he screams again. The sound is layered this time, the way his lilt is. It’s wordless, and does nothing more than hammer them with enough pain and grief to where it is all they can feel, threatening to drag them under. 

“Jask,” Geralt manages to grind out. 

“Flower,” Eskel says in turn. 

They can feel the emotion gather in him again, and hold onto him tighter, desperately trying to tether their bard to them.

“Please, Jask,” Geralt murmurs in his ear. “Please. I know it hurts, but this is hurting us .”

The vampire stiffens in their arms, and instead of letting another scream rip from him, he hisses between his teeth. 

“Let me go,” he says, but neither Geralt nor Eskel do. 

For one, terrifying moment, Geralt thinks Jaskier will rip himself free of them, or lilt at them to step away from him. He thinks the vampire is this close to doing it, and unconsciously presses his nose up below the bard’s ear, seeking comfort. On Jaskier’s other side, Eskel does the same. 

He squeezes his eyes shut in relief when instead, Jaskier sags against them, momentarily letting them take his weight. 

Around them, fighting has resumed, Alaric appearing and disappearing as he phases. Lambert, Aiden, and Vesemir fight with the three of them, careful to guard each other’s backs and prevent Alaric from getting a hold on any of them. A few times, Alaric seems to veer off in the direction of the mages, but the witchers fight viciously, and manage to keep them away. 

Slowly, Jaskier’s scent starts to change from grief to determination, strengthening with every breath. When he takes his own weight again, they loosen their grip on him, but don’t take their hands away entirely. 

“I’m sorry my darlings,” he says softly. “You can let me go now.”

There’s steel in his voice, and Geralt can’t help but think that Alaric’s time has run out. 

—000— 

When they let him go, Jaskier lets his hands slide over theirs, briefly feeling the strong, steady pulse at their wrists. Then he throws himself into a phase. He doesn’t need to focus his senses and wait for Alaric to betray his position. He knows exactly where Alaric is. 

When they slam into each other, Jaskier can feel that Alaric has regained strength from drinking Ruby’s blood. 

It enrages him. 

The first held Opal and Ruby against their will, and compelled them into actions they would never have taken themselves. Alaric called them pets, and held them as such without a shred of consideration for their lives and autonomy. He made Ruby into cattle, there to harvest when he needed it. He thinks he owns Jaskier, and if he’ll let him, he’ll be used. Alaric wants to bring the first back to the continent, and create a world where countless others will suffer a similar fate. 

Opal and Ruby came back to prevent that from happening, and Ruby has paid with her life. 

He throws Alaric into one of the large, granite pillars that hold up the castle, and can practically hear the fissures crack through the stone on impact. Unlike Opal, who fractured when Alaric threw her, Jaskier will have to be the one to tear the first apart and make sure the fragments can never be fused back together. 

He phases after Alaric again, darting around the pillar when the vampire gets up, barely in time to dodge him. 

Time seems to stand still as they play a deadly game of tag, Jaskier’s anger never waning, spurring him forward. Alaric tries to defend himself a few times, but it means he lets Jaskier get close, and right now, the first is no match for him. 

So Alaric keeps dodging instead, and the first time he goes for the doors that lead outside,  Jaskier snarls in anger and throws him back hard enough to have the other vampire slam into a wall. 

He doesn’t need to ask them. All around the hall his witchers take position at doors and windows, ready to drive Alaric back should the first try to escape. 

Despite all the emotion and adrenaline driving him, Jaskier can’t seem to definitively get his hands on the first. Not until Vesemir calls out to him. 

“Bard!” 

The old wolf’s voice is rough, his eyes black like those of his pups, dark veins spidering over his temples. When Jaskier turns to him, he sees Martin perched on the witcher’s shoulder, eyes shining, the same midnight black colour. Vesemir scratches under Martin’s chin with one hand, and the marten titters proudly. In his other he holds something out to Jaskier. 

The owl is struggling weakly, one of its wings hanging from its body at an odd angle, its pale feathers bent and streaked with blood. As Jaskier watches, it clicks its beak together, the sound no longer threatening like it was before. Vesemir’s hand is curled around the owl’s neck, and Jaskier knows a bird’s bones are fragile, easily snapped. 

He gives the old wolf a nod. 

“Now!” Vesemir growls, and the sound of the Owl’s neck breaking seems to crack something right inside of Jaskier. 

He’s ready for it when a scream tears through all other sound, wailing and in pain. 

“Archimedes!” Alaric screeches, and Jaskier can almost feel something for the vampire at the utter despair in that call. Almost.

When Alaric moves toward Vesemir, the witcher now holding Archimedes’ corpse in his outstretched hand, Jaskier is there to intercept. His hand closes around Alaric’s throat, and he slams him back against another pillar, close enough to the fire to feel the blazing heat of it on the side of his face. 

Alaric isn’t looking at him, eyes large and horrified, looking at the dead body of his owl. The vampire’s irises aren’t crimson anymore. They’re blue. Alaric doesn’t resist, his breath rasping against the pressure Jaskier is putting on his throat. 

Before the first can come back to himself and begin to struggle, Geralt and Eskel are there, grabbing hold of an arm each. They hold Alaric back against the pillar, as Jaskier steps away. 

Alaric looks different now. He’s no longer in control. His black hair has gotten entirely loose from its neat braid, falling over his shoulders in knotted tangles. His eyes flicker between crimson and blue, never settling on one or the other, and his lip is curled up in a snarl, which Jaskier answers by baring his own incisors. 

“Buttercup,” Lambert says behind him, anger and pain in his voice. “He almost killed Aiden.” 

“I know, Lamb,” Jaskier says, his voice coming out far calmer than he feels. 

“He can’t fucking live!” Lambert growls.

Jaskier looks back at him over his shoulder. “I know,” he says. “Yennefer?”

The mage steps forward with Triss at her side, the two women supporting each other. Alaric struggles weakly against Geralt and Eskel holding him back, his movements stiff and uncoordinated. Out of the long sleeve of her gown, Yennefer pulls a sharp, intricately decorated dagger. The blade is made of a dark metal, the light catching crimson on its edges. 

Jaskier can feel it call to him, but it’s nothing like before. Now, it's more like a soft buzzing at the edge of his awareness, instead of all consuming desire and a headache pounding behind his eyes. 

He takes it from her, and tilts his head as he regards Alaric. The first knows what’s coming his way, and begins to shake his head from side to side, snarling all the while. When Jaskier takes a step toward him, the vampire lilts. 

“ No! You will listen to me. I made you. You are mine.” He directs his attention to the wolves holding him. “Let go.”

It holds a fraction of the power it did before, and it takes no effort at all for Jaskier to keep walking. Neither Geralt nor Eskel show any sign of loosening their grip, keeping the vampire firmly pressed with his back against stone. 

When he is close enough, Jaskier twirls the dagger between his fingers, darting forward when Alaric opens his mouth to spew more venom. The blade slides into the vampire’s belly easily. Jaskier feels a sort of vicious satisfaction at stabbing Alaric with the blade that turned him against his will, in the same place it cut into his body. 

Alaric groans, and lilts again. “You belong to me. Come with me, Julian.”

The dagger is firmly lodged into Alaric’s abdomen. With a twist of his wrist, Jaskier breaks away the hilt, leaving the blade behind. He leans forward to whisper into Alaric's ear. 

“My name isn't Julian. It's Jaskier. I am not yours. I'm theirs. They’re mine. You shouldn’t have tried to hurt them,” he says coolly. 

There’s blood dribbling over Alaric’s lips, dark, the way it was when it was pulled out of the dagger by chaos. The vampire makes a gurgling sound, trying to form words.

“Don't speak. Don't move,” Jaskier lilts. He doesn’t even have to try to lay power in it this time. It flows from him as if he’s never done anything else. 

Against the pillar, Alaric stops struggling. Jaskier meets his wolves’ eyes on either side, the others quietly closing in behind him. He can tell the potions in Geralt’s and Eskel’s bloodstream are waning, and he’s grateful to catch glimpses of gold and amber. They nod at him, and Jaskier tries to stop his hands from trembling by curling them into fists. 

When he bites Alaric, there’s less blood in him than he expected. Still, draining him of all of it takes longer than he wants. Jaskier almost thinks he can’t keep going, until hands from all around him settle on his neck and shoulders, offering silent support.

It’s the first time he’s fed to kill, since he was turned all those months ago. 

—000—

Geralt can tell Jaskier feels sick with it, but the bard keeps going until there’s not a drop of Alaric’s blood left. When Jaskier finally steps away he looks pale, despite the blood in him. Geralt tilts his head to listen carefully for Alaric’s heartbeat. 

There isn’t one. 

Eskel lets go of the body they’re holding against the pillar at the same time he does, and then they're stepping away to lend support to their bard, who’s reaching for them. 

At their backs, Alaric’s corpse slides to the ground, and crumples into dust. 

Geralt slings his arms around Jaskier, reaching behind the vampire to pull his brother in, and leans his face into the bard’s neck, pressing his nose up behind his ear to take deep, huffing breaths of his scent. He can feel Eskel’s arms around Jaskier, half covering his own and grabbing onto him in turn, holding the three of them together. Around them, Lambert, Aiden, and Vesemir close in, the mages eventually following along, albeit more hesitantly. 

Martin titters from his position on Vesemir’s shoulder, scrablling across a tangle of limbs to get to Jaskier and wind around his neck. The bard trembles between them, and buries his face into Martin’s russet fur. 

Geralt doesn’t know how long they stand like that, offering comfort to each other. After the intensity of the battle they fought, time seems to have lost all meaning. Eventually, there’s a voice that pulls them apart, the sound of it empty, as if the owner has already lost all life they once had. 

He stiffens, and listens to the unfamiliar, slow heartbeat. 

Opal .

—000—

“So it’s done?” Opal asks, empty eyes taking in the pile of dust at the base of the pillar. 

Jaskier wants to cry when he takes in her emotionless face, the lack of anything in her expression and the depths of her eyes. 

If Opal had had her way, she and Ruby would be far away from the keep right now. Ruby had come back, and Opal had gone with her. The sisters are the reason they still have Aiden. If they’d lost Aiden, they would have lost Lambert. Neither Eskel or Geralt would have been able to stomach the loss of their brothers, nor would Vesemir the loss of his pups. 

Jaskier would have lost all the colour from his existence,if Opal and Ruby hadn’t come back. 

He swallows heavily, looking into her dull, crimson eyes. “It’s done,” he says softly. 

Opal’s breath hitches on the hint of a sob, but her eyes are dry. It’s as if no amount of tears in the world can reach the depths of her loss. She nods. 

Wordlessly, Lambert holds out a bomb to her. She doesn’t react for a moment, but then looks at the flames around her, and takes it.

The wick catches fire easily. Instead of throwing it at the pile of dust, she deliberately lays it in the heap. 

When the bomb goes off, the explosion is minor, but the heat of the flames is remarkable, the colour pale blue rather than orange. All of them are silent as the fire rages and then burns out, leaving nothing behind. 

Opal turns to him, and her eyes are so terribly empty.  

“How can I help, Opal?” he manages to croak out eventually. 

When Opal flicks her gaze to him, there’s a mere trace there of the sharpness she held before. “You can tell me where she went into the fire,” she says. 

Jaskier swallows. He wants to keep the words trapped behind his teeth, because he knows what Opal will do with that information. 

“I don’t think I can tell you that,” he says, and hears the threat of tears in his own voice. He grabs onto her shoulder, as if holding her will anchor her to this world, now that her sister is no longer here to do it.  

Opal looks at him impassively. “I've lived for nearly two centuries, and I have never been without my sister. I won’t live another two without her. Without her , I might become more like him than I want. You'll be the last of our line. But you won't be alone, and you won't be like Alaric. Let me go.”

Jaskier blinks to keep the moisture from filling his eyes and dripping down his cheeks. There’s a sting in his nose and his throat feels like it's closing, and it has nothing to do with the residue of smoke and ash and blood in the air. 

He nods, and lets his hand slide off her shoulder. He points at where the fire is made up of flickering red and orange tongues, heat blasting off it.

Opal's expression has turned strangely tranquil as she regards the blaze in front of her, her crimson eyes that had been dull and lifeless suddenly full of spirit, as she glances around herself at Kaer Morhen's witchers, ending back at Jaskier.

“Thank you for saving Cecilia from him. For saving me,” she says. 

“Her name was Cecilia, not Ruby.” Jaskier whispers. “What’s yours?”

She smiles the smallest smile, the first Jaskier has seen on her face. She looks even more like her sister when she does. 

“Serena.”

“I wish—” Jaskier begins haltingly, trying to force the words out. “I wish we’d have met sooner, Serena.”

“Wishing won’t change anything,” Serena answers. “Though I wish we had, too.”

Jaskier doesn’t try to keep the tears back now, Martin’s rough tongue sliding over his cheek to lick away the moisture, Geralt and Eskel’s hands supportive on his lower back. 

Serena turns to face the fire, glancing back at him over her shoulder one final time. “Cissy loved music. Sing a song of us, bard.”

Before he gets the chance to respond, she steps forward, joining where her sister had disappeared into the flames.

Chapter Text

Alaric came at the end of winter. The only first left on the continent for centuries, died at the beginning of spring, leaving Jaskier behind as the last of the line. He came along with the barest hints of warmth in the air, the rising temperature carrying with it the scent of dripping meltwater and budding foliage. Usually, this would be the time Geralt and his brothers would gather and check over their gear, and prepare to leave. They would have one last sparring session, one last dip in the hot springs, one last dinner, and one last breakfast before parting. 

Vesemir would speak stern words of warning and vigilance, always the exacting instructor, but for the way he would cup their stubbled jaws in his rough palm, telling them to be safe in that same, gruff tone.  

They would embrace, glancing over one another one final time, while wondering if they would get to see each other again come the next frosts. Wondering what new scars might mar the skin of those they hold dear. 

This year, the thaw brought vampires to Kaer Morhen’s doorstep. 

As if nature itself wants them to have one more moment of respite and companionship, one of the worst storms of the entire winter hits the mountain right on their heels. 

—000—

Jaskier is in front of the fire in the kitchen, lazily strumming his lute while the wind howls outside the castle walls. There’s apple cakes and sticky-date tarts in the oven, and slowly but surely the warm, sweet smell is pervading the kitchen. He smiles at the thought it might even reach his wolves where they’re working in the great hall, restoring some of the damage Lambert's bombs have wreaked on the heavy stone pillars. 

The wind howls again, buffeting against the windows. Jaskier winces a little when he thinks of Lambert and Aiden battling through the storm to bring back the horses from the valley over, where Jaskier and the cat brought them to keep them safe. 

Vesemir doesn’t miss much, and notices the slight flinch. The old wolf is kneading a large lump of dough that will go right in the oven once the sweet treats are done baking. “Relax, bard,” Vesemir says. “They’ll be fine. A little wind and snow won’t hurt them.” 

Jaskier remembers how cold he’d gotten on the way up to Kaer Morhen, and again when he and Eskel had made their way up the killer. “I know,” he says. “But if they’re not back soon I might go to get them and drag them back myself.”

Vesemir raises an eyebrow. “You’re worried, if you’re considering braving the cold.”

At his back, Martin clambers up, his little nails hooking in the fabric of his doublet to drape himself across his shoulders like a warm, russet scarf. The little marten titters at Vesemir, as if confirming that both Jaskier and him would in fact brave the storm to bring back their witchers. 

The corner of Vesemir’s mouth ticks up, before the witcher tilts his head, listening to something. “They’re fine,” he says, more firmly now, jerking his head in the direction of the stables. 

Jaskier’s senses are as strong as the witcher’s are, but even after everything, he’s still not as vigilant. He hadn’t noticed before, but Vesemir’s head tilt is telling, and he focuses on what he can hear under the gusts of wind outside. He grins at the grey wolf, setting his lute to the side and springing to his feet. 

Jaskier should really know better, but he enters the stables without consciously listening or making use of any of his senses. He’s greeted by the horses snorting their welcome, Roach and Scorpion neighing loudly when they spot him. It doesn’t startle the pair of witchers in the stables, and Jaskier has no doubt they heard him coming despite how wrapped up they seem to be in each other.

Lambert stands with his back against the wall, Aiden pressed all along his front, his large palms doing their best to slip under the cat’s armour. It’s a strange, but endearing contrast; two scarred, hardened warriors, clad in protective, steel reinforced leather, blades at their backs and sides, while their hands and mouths move softly against each other.

Jaskier grins. “I really thought letting you two go get the horses together would get the worst of it out of your system,” he teases. He can hardly blame them. The fight with Alaric could have gone a different way entirely, and Jaskier himself has spent last night desperately reaffirming through touch the fact he and his wolves survived. Of all of them, Aiden came closest to death, and Lambert came closest to getting his heart ripped out of his chest. 

Martin titters from his shoulder, jumping onto a stall door and making his way over to Roach by way of Scorpion’s back. Scorpion nickers softly, and Roach bends her long neck backward, blowing warm breath over the marten’s head in greeting.

“It’ll be a while before the wolves get this out of their system, leechy. You better be prepared for it when dealing with your own,” Aiden says with a smirk, looking at him over his shoulder. 

Jaskier grins. “I dealt with it perfectly fine last night, thank you.”

Lambert lets his head thunk back against the wall and groans loudly. “Buttercup, how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t want to know.”

Jaskier laughs and Aiden extracts himself from Lambert’s embrace to loud grumbling sounds spilling from the redhead’s chest. The cat lifts his head and sniffs the air significantly. 

“I smell something sweet baking in the kitchen,” he grins. “Guess it was a good night, huh?”

Lambert growls while pushing himself off the wall. “Damnit, Aiden,” he grumbles. “Don’t encourage him.”

Aiden grins while throwing his arm across Jaskier’s shoulders, and he can’t entirely help the wave of relieved emotion that sweeps over him at the closeness. He burrows into Aiden’s side while convulsively swallowing down the threat of tears.

“Hey. Hey, Jaskier, It’s fine. I’m fine, I promise,” the cat murmurs, pulling him into a firm embrace. 

Jaskier makes a strange sort of strangled noise and nods his head, his nose suddenly stuffy. “I just— if you had died, because you all let me stay here, I—” 

Lambert growls loudly and slots in behind him, cradling him between the two of them like Geralt and Eskel so often do. It’s different with them, but no less comforting, and Jaskier releases a shuddering breath. 

“Shut the fuck up, Buttercup. Next time I hear you blame yourself I’ll kick your ass up and down this castle.”

Aiden leans over Jaskier’s shoulder to press a kiss to Lambert’s mouth. “Better listen,” the cat says when they part. “He’ll do it.”

Jaskier sniffs haughtily. “He’d have to catch me first.”

—000—

“I think Aiden and Lambert are back,” Eskel rumbles, hoisting a replacement beam into place where he just took out one that cracked down the middle during the fight. 

“Hmh,” Geralt answers, looking at the other witcher from the corner of his eyes. 

“And I think Jaskier has made us something,” his brother continues, a small smile curving his lips as he secures the beam to where it won’t slip free, unless another bomb were to explode right on top of it. 

“Hmh,” Geralt says again, eyes trained on Eskel’s mouth while he inhales the scent of apple cakes and sticky date tarts. The smell makes him think of Jaskier, and Eskel’s mouth makes him think of the way the other witcher had rimmed the bard until he’d been weeping the previous night. 

Eskel’s amber eyes find him immediately, nostrils flaring and his small smile transforming into something hungry. “And what would you be thinking of?” he asks. 

Geralt wipes the dust and ash from his hands onto his thighs and approaches. Eskel lets go of the beam and jumps down from his perch, rising to his full height as Geralt reaches him. He cups Eskel’s face between his hands, one palm resting against unblemished skin, the other covering most of the crescent scar that curves from the corner of his eye to his mouth. Eskel’s hands come up to grasp onto his waist, fingertips pressing in firmly.

“Thinking of you and Jaskier, the way you were last night,” he rumbles. He sees Eskel’s slitted pupils expand, and when he scents the air the sweet fragrance of baked goods is interlaced with the familiar smell of his arousal. 

“Wolf,” Eskel begins, voice as hungry as his expression. 

Geralt cuts him off by pressing their mouths together, immediately deepening their kiss as Eskel parts his lips on a surprised inhale. When they break apart he leans forward to press his lips to Eskel’s ear, the one that has the small notch of cartilage missing from the top of the arch. “Thinking of how it’s my turn to use my mouth tonight. On both of you.”

Eskel’s grip on him tightens, and Geralt can hear the uptick in the rhythm of his slow beating heart. “Tonight,” Eskel confirms, and the look in his eyes makes Geralt half want to drag him upstairs right now, dinner be damned. 

His brother turns his head toward the kitchen, and Geralt hears it too. 

“Sounds like the flower is getting smothered, without us there,” he rumbles. 

Geralt grins. “Something to correct, before anything else.”

—000—

Jaskier re-enters the kitchen firmly sandwiched between Aiden and Lambert, now out of their armour. Martin jumps from his shoulder onto Vesemir’s where the witcher stands stirring the root vegetables he’s chopped into a stew. The old wolf turns and reaches toward them after scratching Martin under the chin, something indulgent in his expression as he briefly cups their faces. 

“Go settle by the hearth,” he says, and turns back toward the bubbling pot of food with Martin still on his shoulder. When Jaskier looks, he sees Vesemir has taken the sweet treats out of the oven, and the dough he’d been kneading has been formed into several elongated loaves, rising in the heat. 

Lambert settles on the rug first, stretching in a way that makes his spine pop harshly. He pulls Aiden into his side as soon as the cat settles next to him, and Jaskier makes to retreat to a seat a little further away. 

“Oh no you don’t, leechy,” Aiden growls.

Jaskier wants to protest, but both witchers somehow manage to grasp onto his ankles and topple him. He lets out a soft oof upon landing, though the impact is much softer then it would have been on the ground, or even if the witchers had still been wearing their armour. 

Both Lambert’s and Aiden’s arms wind around him, and there’s a surge of feeling in his chest at the easy affection. Lambert pulls him in a little more firmly, until he’s half on top of them, half slotted between them. There’s a shit-eating grin on his face, and all at once Jaskier knows why, when he recognises the sound of approaching footsteps. 

Eskel is first through the door, amber eyes quickly tracking over the pile of limbs in front of the fire. Geralt steps up behind him, and growls low in his chest, raising a brow at him while Jaskier makes a helpless sort of gesture to indicate his innocence in his current predicament. He knows Geralt and Eskel hardly mind him cuddling with their brothers and more than wish for him to have this easy affection. He also knows that being squished between Aiden and Lambert like this leaves him smelling like them, and that there’s only so much of that his wolves can tolerate, before they want to renew their own scents on his skin. 

“Ugh, you two fucking reek,” Lambert grouses right next to his ear, glaring at his brothers who glare back just as strongly. 

“I don’t know how you do it. Worse than a fucking whorehouse,” Aiden adds, rubbing his hand over Jaskier’s shoulder and leaving behind more of his scent for good measure. There’s a knowing tease in the cat’s voice, and Geralt growls again. 

“Fair game,” Geralt says. “Since you two are making our bard smell.”

Jaskier sniffs haughtily. “Excuse me, I don’t smell, regardless of whose scent is on me. You told me yourself, love,” he says, smirking and meeting Geralt’s eyes. “I smell like cinnamon and nutmeg, like reds and oranges, and low, harmonious music.”

Geralt reaches up and rubs the bridge of his nose in a way that’s so reminiscent of Vesemir Jaskier can’t help but laugh. “Trust you to remember those words,” he mutters while Eskel leans against him with a smile. 

“How poetic,” Yennefer says as she and Triss enter the kitchen, seating themselves at the table, hardly sparing a second glance at the tangle of witcher and vampire limbs in front of the hearth.

Geralt grunts and pulls Eskel a little closer to him as the witcher's shoulders stiffen. “He’s quite poetic, when he wants to be,” Eskel says, meeting Yennefer’s gaze head on. 

She shrugs. “I guess I was not the one to bring that out in him.” It’s said indifferently, but from Yennefer, it’s as good as an acknowledgement.

Triss just shakes her head, but there’s a soft smile on her face when she takes in how they’re lying together in front of the fire. When she reaches out to pet Martin, the little marten stretches forward from his perch on Vesemir’s shoulder to press against her fingers. 

The two mages settle in with books in their laps while the old wolf continues filling the kitchen with the warm, hearty smells of stew and baking bread, to compliment the sweeter smell of the cooling pastries. He can smell all of them, close, familiar, and safe. Jaskier takes a few deep breaths, and thinks he will remember this particular combination of scents forever. It lodges itself in his chest firmly, and he knows that if he’s allowed, he’ll always return to smell it again. It’s the smell of home. 

When Geralt and Eskel move toward the fire, Jaskier half expects to be pulled from his cozy nest in between Lambert and Aiden, but instead the witchers just lie down and curve around them. They just lie there for a while, breathing each other in, until Vesemir calls them to dinner. 

—000—

“Are you sure?” Eskel says, his voice a low growl. 

Jaskier huffs, the sound impatient, though Geralt can smell he appreciates Eskel asking. “Yes. I know you don’t like it, love. But you and I both want Geralt to be untied from Yennefer, and I truly think she wants the same.”

Eskel crosses his arms over his broad chest and doesn’t say anything. 

“I don’t think she’d break her promise, Esk,” Geralt says. He’s trying to sound soothing, but his tone is gruff and his brother just raises a brow. 

“Forgive me if I don’t find her to be particularly trustworthy.”

Jaskier shrugs and tilts his head, summer blue eyes softening as he looks at the scarred witcher. “Not even after what we just went through?” he asks gently. 

Eskel sighs, and rubs a hand over his face. “Maybe. I don’t know. I know Yennefer and Triss were instrumental in holding Alaric at bay until we were ready, and I like Triss. I know I’m not being reasonable, but—”

Jaskier reaches forward and pulls Eskel from his standing position, down next to the both of them. Geralt reaches out and lays his hand against his brother’s knee. He knows where the distrust is coming from. He hates the way he didn’t see what was happening back then, and the way he’d let Eskel distance himself without asking questions is something he wishes he could take back. All he can do now, is reassure Eskel that he’s not alone. 

“She knows better than to break our trust, Esk. She knows we’d go after her,” he says.

Eskel eyes him carefully. “Would you?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says firmly. 

Jaskier grasps one of Eskel’s hands and presses a soft kiss to the palm. “Believe me, love, she’d be stupid to use my venom for anything other than what she promised. If she did, she’d have you after her, and Geralt, and me. And I dare say Lambert, Aiden and Vesemir wouldn’t mind coming along.”

“And she’s not stupid,” Eskel murmurs, nodding slowly, his fingers curling around Jaskier’s. 

“Far from it,” the bard says. “Besides, I think she quite got the message when you said you’d find her if she did.” Jaskier grins as he says it, his blue eyes sparkling with interest.

“Hmh,” Geralt agrees, pressing his fingers more firmly into Eskel’s thigh. He’s quite sure that Yennefer lost any ideas she might have had regarding Jaskier’s venom then and there, if she’d ever harboured them. 

—000—

By the time they go to bed, Eskel is only slightly less tense, and Jaskier briefly meets Geralt’s eyes over the witcher’s broad shoulder. He’s already pulled off his doublet, and his chemise is largely unbuttoned, lying open over his chest and halfway down his belly. Jaskier wishes he could wipe that tension away, but there is still too much pain there for Eskel to easily let go of his distrust of Yennefer.

“Love,” he says, stepping forward to catch Eskel’s attention. “Would you allow us to distract you tonight?” He sees the way Eskel’s eyes drop down over the hollow of his throat, to where the thin fabric is held together by the last few buttons. The witcher rumbles softly in his chest, and glances back up at him before looking at Geralt, his eyes dragging over Geralt’s body in the same, slow, appreciative way. 

“What did you have in mind, flower?” he asks, voice dropping low in a way that has a shiver travel up Jaskier’s spine. 

“Well,” he says, intensely aware of Eskel in front of him and Geralt slowly approaching them from the side. “You can tell me if you want something else, but I find that being between you and Geralt is quite— soothing. You might enjoy being between the two of us for a change?”

Both witchers inhale sharply as he says it, and Jaskier carefully watches Eskel, seeing the widening of his pupils and inhaling the smell of his arousal. He flicks his eyes toward Geralt, and sees the soft smile on his wolf’s face as he slots himself behind Eskel to mouth at the witcher’s neck. 

“I know I’d enjoy it,” Geralt rumbles softly, pressing his lips to Eskel’s ear. 

It’s Jaskier’s turn to swallow as he watches the two of them, Eskel leaning back against Geralt’s chest and letting his head fall back to a broad shoulder, exposing his neck. His eyes briefly fasten onto Eskel’s carotid, the thrum of his pulse catching his attention.

“You need to feed first?” Eskel rumbles, looking at him with heavy lidded eyes.

Jaskier bites a fang into his lip and shakes his head. “I don’t need to. I can go a while without, still.”

Eskel tilts his head back further, and Geralt reaches around him while his golden gaze fixes Jaskier in place. “Hmh. He might not need to, but I think he wants to, Esk,” he says, splaying his palm over the other witcher’s chest, covering the steady thump of his heart. 

Jaskier is staring at the both of them, and Eskel grins. “Go on,” he says, lifting his chin.

Jaskier steps up to him, and presses his body along Eskel’s front. The witcher reaches out, one strong arm winding around his waist and pulling him in more firmly, his other palm sliding up between his shoulder blades and over his neck, until it cups the base of his skull. Geralt keeps one hand on Eskel’s chest, reaching his other hand over to Jaskier’s hip, pulling him closer still until he’s able to palm the curve of his buttocks. 

“Oh Melitele,” Jaskier gasps, and both witchers grin sharply, their slitted pupils rounding further and their nostrils flaring. “This was to distract you, darling.”

“Oh believe me,” Eskel rumbles, “I am quite thoroughly distracted.” The last words vibrate against Jaskier’s lips, as Eskel pulls him in by the back of his neck. 

Jaskier shivers, his wolves’ scents in his nose, their heartbeats loud in his ears. He’s pleasantly surprised to find he feels quite in control, and thinks that now he’s actually made use of his full array of powers, he’s no longer so afraid of being overwhelmed and hurting them. Still, he hesitates until Eskel firms his grip on his neck, fingertips pressing against the muscle. 

Jaskier focuses on the smell of paper and thyme that is Eskel, combined with Geralt’s leather and pine scent from where he stands behind the other witcher, leaning over his shoulder to briefly rub his stubbled cheek against Jaskier’s smoother one. He takes a deep breath, and presses a kiss to Eskel’s throat, before baring his fangs and lightly scraping them across his skin. He hears Eskel’s breath stutter, the hand on his neck exerting firm pressure while Geralt gently kneads his ass. They’re pressed as close as they can be. Eskel is in the middle this time, but their hands on him are firm all the same, not holding him, just reassuring him of their presence. 

When his fangs slide into Eskel’s neck he can’t help the low moan that spills from him. The rich flavour of his blood explodes onto his tongue, and though Jaskier hadn’t been hungry, he can feel the surge of strength raging through him, warmth spreading through his body like he’s just submerged himself in the hottest of the springs below the keep. 

He doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes while drinking until Geralt rumbles a gentle order, his hand moving from his ass to the small of his back, thumb tucking under his chemise and running over the base of his spine. 

“Eyes open, Jask,” his wolf says. 

He blinks a few times, meeting Geralt’s eyes over Eskel’s shoulder, whimpering softly at the back of his throat at the sheer heat in that golden gaze. Even if he didn’t know, the proud curl to Geralt’s mouth would tell him his own are blue. 

Eskel groans between them, the scent of his arousal spiking, slightly overpowering Geralt’s and Jaskier’s own. The scarred witcher cants his hips, pressing back against Geralt behind him, before surging forward, his hard cock a line of scorching heat where he rubs it into Jaskier. 

Carefully, he pulls his fangs from Eskel’s skin, reaching to card his fingers through Geralt’s white hair while he laves his tongue over the flesh he’s pierced, until the blood stops flowing. 

When he pulls his face from Eskel’s neck, the witcher growls and yanks him forward, taking his mouth in a rough, hungry kiss, tongue sweeping past his lips immediately. It feels like he’s kissing the literal breath from his lungs, and when he’s released Jaskier barely has time to gasp in a breath before Eskel’s hand on his neck directs him toward Geralt. His wolf kisses him with the same barely restrained hunger. Jaskier has been growing hard from the moment Eskel leant back against Geralt’s chest, but now he’s almost painfully aroused.

“Bed,” he gasps. “Bed, please?”

Eskel’s hands come down to grasp the backs of his thighs, and he lifts when Geralt lets go of them. Jaskier immediately winds his legs around the witcher’s muscular hips, reveling in the way he can feel his erection rubbing against his ass from the changed position. 

“Get undressed, Jask,” Geralt rumbles when Eskel drops him onto the bed. 

Usually he would scramble to get rid of his clothes with the utmost haste, but through the haze of lust he remembers his original goal. To distract Eskel. And maybe tease both of his loves a little.

Jaskier smirks, letting the tips of his fangs show just slightly, and watches the way both witchers’ eyes hone in on him, as wolves hone in on their prey. He shifts onto his knees, and shivers a little under the attention. He licks his lips and lets one hand trail over the part of his chest that’s bared by his open chemise. He tilts his head back and looks at them from under his lashes, as he slides his hand under the thin fabric. He knows the chemise hides what he’s doing from their gaze, but at the same time it doesn’t, at all. 

When he pinches and rolls his own nipple between finger and thumb, his breathing hitches and he lets his head fall back to show off the long line of his throat. It’s the rough rumble coming from the witchers’ chests, as much as the pleasurable touch, that has him twitch and leak in his trousers. 

Keeping his eyes on them, he slides one shoulder free of the fabric, seeing them hone in on the bared skin, following the slipping cloth down all the way, until their gazes catch on his peaked nipple. He laughs a little, the exhilaration in the sound unmistakable, and again reaches up to first swipe his thumb over the stiffened nub, before daintily circling it with the tip of his index finger.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls roughly. 

“Keep going, flower,” Eskel adds when Jaskier pauses for a moment. 

As he reaches under the fabric to circle his other nipple, Geralt steps up behind Eskel again, pulling the dark chemise from his pants and up over his head. Eskel leans back against Geralt, eyes still fixed on Jaskier, all his focus on the movement of his hand where it’s hidden under the linen. Geralt meets his eyes over Eskel’s shoulder, and smiles. Slowly, he trails his hand up Eskel’s chest, and Jaskier’s cock jerks, his fingers pinching around his nipple as he watches Geralt mirror his movements on Eskel. 

He licks over the sharp edge of an incisor, eyes riveted on the vision in front of him. He slips the fabric off his other shoulder, before letting the chemise fall to the bed. He’s clad in just his trousers now, the line of his erection clearly visible under the tight fabric. He slides his hand down his own chest, his other hand coming up to rub a thumb over his bottom lip. The scents of arousal suffusing the air in their bedroom are intensifying, and he knows it’s only going to get stronger. Across from him, Geralt does the exact same thing to Eskel as Jaskier is doing to himself, swiping a thumb over his bottom lip while Eskel lets his tongue come out to lick the pad, his other hand travelling down strong pectorals and abdominals, until it rests just above the waist of Eskel’s pants, just like Jaskier’s rests above his own.

Eskel’s amber eyes are dark and hungry as he stares, and Jaskier feels his heart pick up in speed. He is so tempted to just reach and stroke himself, but that would mean giving up the tease, and he’s not entirely ready yet to do so. 

He trails his fingers along the waist of his trousers, his skin pebbling at the light touch, and watches Geralt again, doing the exact same thing to Eskel. He lets both hands fall to his thighs, resting lightly against the muscle, before sliding them up the insides. Eskel’s breath hitches, and the sound of it combined with Geralt’s quickening breaths is loud in Jaskier’s ears. 

When he finally cups himself through the fabric, his groan of relief blends with the sounds spilling over his witchers’ lips. Eskel’s low moan is pleasured, while Geralt just sounds hungry, and Jaskier allows himself to smile at them while gripping himself and moving his hand up and down slowly. 

He’s wondering just how long he can hold off for the sake of teasing, when Eskel breaks. 

“Take off your pants, flower,” the witcher growls. “And touch yourself. Now.”

Jaskier has to close his eyes for a moment, heat rushing through him, his cock jerking against the palm of his hand. There’s not a shred of hesitation as he complies with Eskel’s demand, finally stripping off his trousers and kneeling on the bed in front of his wolves, not a scrap of clothing left on him. He can’t help the tremble of his limbs as he watches Geralt slide Eskel’s trousers down, wrapping his large palm around Eskel’s thick cock as Jaskier slowly strokes himself. 

The both of them are naked, Jaskier on the bed and Eskel in front of Geralt, while the latter is still fully clothed as he stands behind the scarred witcher and carefully mirrors every touch Jaskier bestows on himself, watching with burning golden eyes. 

Geralt does exactly as he does, and Jaskier did ask if Eskel might enjoy being between the two of them. He knows in which way he’d like to see it happen, but before he makes it obvious he wants Eskel to be at least desperate enough to forget about anything but the three of them. He strokes himself more firmly, faster, twisting his palm over the head of his cock like he knows Eskel likes having done to him. He can’t help but smile in victory when he sees Geralt do the same, resulting in Eskel bucking his hips forward on an exhaled curse. With every touch of his own hand he gets closer, and when he starts letting out breathy little moans on every breath Geralt’s eyes sharpen on him. 

“Jask,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier nods at him in acquiescence, taking his hand off his cock, skin prickling at the way both witchers watch him. 

He crawls to the nightstand, reaching for not one, but two vials of oil. He lets Eskel see what he has in his hand as he approaches, and sees the big witcher shiver, before leaning his weight against Geralt more firmly. As soon as he is within reach Eskel grabs onto him, and hauls him into a bruising kiss. When he feels Geralt’s fingers on his wrist, he presses one of the vials of oil into his wolf’s hand. 

He’s distracted enough by Eskel’s kiss that Geralt’s touch to his backside catches him by surprise. He gasps into Eskel’s mouth and distantly wonders exactly how Geralt has already managed to slick his fingers when two of them gently circle his hole, spreading the oil around. 

“Back on the bed,” Eskel orders him as soon as the witcher breaks their kiss, and Jaskier nods, but can't resist quickly dipping his head to lick over Eskel’s nipple. His moan sounds like it’s punched out of him, and Jaskier looks up just in time to see Geralt’s fingers catching Eskel’s other nipple, while his teeth graze over the join between neck and shoulder. 

Once Jaskier is back on the bed he’s not quite sure if he wants to be kneeling like he was before, or if he wants to lie back. The first will give him a better view, while the second will allow him to be fully on display to his wolves. It’s decided for him, when Geralt speaks. 

“On your back, Jask,” the witcher growls. “Let us see you.”

The click of his throat seems loud to him when he swallows heavily and settles on his back with his legs splayed. The cork pops from the vial easily, and he bites his teeth into his bottom lip in anticipation as he coats his fingers. 

He begins by gently circling himself the way Geralt had, breath hitching in his chest and his cock jerking against his belly when he hears Eskel’s guttural moan. He teases himself a little, and feels the corners of his lips pull up when there’s a hissed breath coming from the scarred witcher as Geralt undoubtedly mirrors his actions on Eskel’s body. 

The way Eskel finally releases a soft, slight, whimpering sound when Jaskier presses the first finger inside himself has arousal pour through his veins like a heady liqueur, and he lifts his head to look at the witchers across from him. 

Eskel has widened his stance to make space for Geralt’s touch, pupils entirely blown as he watches Jaskier lying back on the bed. Geralt’s hand is clearly moving behind him, and when Jaskier focuses he can hear the slick sounds of gentle penetration. He licks his lips and slowly presses upward, rubbing against the bump of his prostate. It takes a lot to keep his eyes open and on Eskel, but it’s worth it for the expression of sheer pleasure on his love’s scarred face, as he bucks and shakes. 

“Add another finger,” Eskel growls eventually, and Jaskier can do no more than groan, drop his head back to the bed, and obey. 

He stretches himself carefully, knowing he’s not just preparing his own body, but in a way, Eskel’s too. When he has three fingers pressed inside himself he can’t help the low keen building up in his throat. Despite his best efforts his eyes are mostly closed now, his head tilted back against the mattress, his legs splayed wide for his wolves to see. 

The warm, rough palm sliding up from his ankle along his calf startles him, and when he looks up Eskel is kneeling between his thighs, looking down at him with hungry eyes. As soon as Jaskier pulls his fingers from his body Eskel replaces them with his own, and his spine arches on a stuttered exhale, his hands finding broad, scarred shoulders. When he looks to the side he sees Geralt, who’d still been dressed, quickly getting rid of his clothes. 

When Eskel presses his fingers up against his prostate, he whimpers. “Melitele, please,” he gasps out, and Geralt chuckles. 

“Not the right person to plead to, Jask,” he rumbles, and Jaskier can feel goosebumps travel over his skin. 

“That’s right, flower,” Eskel leans over him, whispering in his ear. “It’s me you’ll want to ask.”

Jaskier arches up, pressing several kisses along the line of Eskel’s jaw in supplication. When the witcher thrusts his fingers into his body more firmly, he moans brokenly and lets himself beg. 

“Eskel, my darling, please,” he breathes out, “please, love.”

He half expects the witcher to hold back and make him ask for more, but the air around him is suffused with the scent of their arousal, and he knows all three of them have about reached the limit for how much teasing they can take. 

So instead, he gets Eskel’s large hand squeezing around his thigh roughly, pushing it to the side and splaying him open even further, pressing the head of his cock against his loosened, slicked up hole. Jaskier practically vibrates beneath him, and though he’s aware Geralt is approaching the bed, the hand in his hair that pulls his head to the side is still slightly unexpected.

When Geralt’s tongue slips past his lips and into his mouth to taste him, Eskel presses forward, slowly building the pressure against him until Jaskier can’t help but tilt his hips to welcome him inside his body. He moans into Geralt’s mouth as Eskel rolls his hips against him, fastening his teeth around the muscle of Jaskier’s neck and lightly biting down as he takes him with those first few, gentle thrusts. 

When Geralt eventually lets him go, Eskel’s hand turns his face back toward him, and before he has taken more than a shaky breath he is kissed again, as the witcher thrusts into him harder. Jaskier has his legs tightened around Eskel’s waist, and when he feels rough fingertips slide over the bones of his right ankle, he knows Geralt has taken position behind Eskel. 

Eskel slides their lips together tenderly, more softly, before he leans his head forward onto Jaskier’s shoulder. He gently kisses the side of Eskel’s face he can reach, feeling the texture of his scar under his lips. The big witcher above him shivers at the sensation, and muffles a soft, needy noise into the side of Jaskier’s neck. Eskel keeps rolling his hips, but the movement has become smaller, and Jaskier realises it’s because Geralt has his fingers inside Eskel’s ass again. 

He blinks up at golden eyes over Eskel’s shoulder, and strokes his fingers over the back of the witcher’s neck, sliding it down his spine to curl over the curve of his buttocks, joining the place where Geralt is pressing inside. The angle is difficult, and Eskel is big enough he can barely reach, but when the wolf rolls his hips forward again, Jaskier manages to slip one of his fingers inside along Geralt’s. 

Eskel’s growl is low and the press of his teeth borders on painful, digging into the muscle of his shoulder, but the sensation does nothing more than drive Jaskier’s desire ever higher. 

“Yes, please,” he hisses, directing the plea to both of them.

Eskel suddenly stills the movement of his hips, his fingers threading through the hair at the back of Jaskier’s head and gripping tightly, as his mouth falls open on a guttural moan. Jaskier can see Geralt pressing forward between Eskel’s thighs, and he can feel the scarred witcher twitch and jerk inside him at the flood of sensation. He surges upward, and licks inside that pleasure slack mouth as Geralt starts to thrust. 

They move with the three of them, somehow managing to keep their bodies in perfect synchrony. Geralt leans forward every now and again, pressing kisses against the side of Eskel’s neck before the latter lifts Jaskier’s head by the grip on his hair, so their mouths can meet. 

Eskel comes first, spilling inside Jaskier’s body, as Geralt throws his head back on a groan at the squeeze around him. Jaskier forces himself to keep his eyes open through the pleasure of those final, rough thrusts, gaze flicking between the two wolves, determined to drink in the sight of them. 

“Esk?” Geralt pants roughly, hips stilling. 

“Don’t you fucking dare stop, wolf,” Eskel growls, slowly pulling out of Jaskier and pressing back against Geralt. He’s leaning on his elbows, and before Jaskier knows what’s happening, rough hands close around his hips and shove him further up the bed, until Eskel can lean down and get his mouth around him. 

He arches back against the bed, his spine bowing, unable to keep his eyes open any longer at the warm, wet heat around his cock. Eskel swallows around him, and when Geralt thrusts, Jaskier keens as he slides deeper into the witcher’s throat. 

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to come after that, and once he does Eskel lets him slip from between his lips after the first pulse, to have his release stripe his belly and chest as the witcher strokes him through it. Geralt’s eyes are riveted on him, sliding from his spurting cock to the streaks of white on his skin, to meet his eyes. When Geralt comes, the sound of their moans harmonise in the space of their bedroom. 

—000—

Jaskier yawns widely, the sharpness of his incisors on full display. He smells sated and tired, and so does Eskel. Geralt presses his nose against Jaskier’s neck, just below his ear, and inhales the smell of him, before leaning over and doing the same to Eskel. 

When Eskel huffs a few breaths against the sensitive skin of his neck, Jaskier releases a snort like giggle, shivering between them. 

“I thought I offered for you to be between us , love,” he directs at Eskel over his shoulder. 

His brother hums, shifting closer against the bard’s back, and reaches to lay a broad hand on Geralt’s hip. “I do believe I was between the both of you, and while it was quite enjoyable, right now I’m exactly where I want to be. 

Geralt presses closer in turn, caging Jaskier between them, reaching to lay his own palm against the back of Eskel’s neck. 

“As am I,” he says softly, breathing in the smell of the three of them. 

Chapter Text

Even though the storm seems eternal, the last gift of winter has to come to an end at some point. The flurry of falling snow transforms into rain eventually, and it isn’t long before there’s sparkling water falling from hundreds of metres high all around them, glittering in the sunlight once the clouds finally part. 

“Is it like this every spring?” Jaskier asks Vesemir, as he folds and kneads nuts and raisins and dried apricots into the dough the old wolf has prepared. 

“Hmh, not every spring.” Vesemir answers. “The meltwater forms waterfalls most years, but the added snow and rain over the last few days means there’s more of them this year.”

Jaskier grins as he shapes the dough into portion sized loaves. It’s one of Vesemir’s special recipes, and will be baked for longer and on lower heat than the bread they usually bake, leaving it with a hard crust that will break your teeth, but will keep well.