Chapter Text
"But Geralt!"
"I told you, it's too dangerous."
Geralt's latest contract would have him hunting down a coven of vampires who were menacing a small village, making their monthly rounds to slaughter the townsfolk. As these vampires were said to be virtually unkillable, Geralt had forbade Jaskier to accompany him, and he was hearing no protests about it.
"Isn't there a bit in your Witcher's Code about not killing sentient life?" Jaskier pointed out. If he couldn't convince Geralt to take him with, perhaps he could convince him to abandon the contract altogether?
He loved the man, okay? The whole reason he wanted to come along was to see that Geralt was safe. As a human, he'd be useless in combat against a vampire, but he needed to see it with his own two eyes. So far, Geralt had not seemed aware of his feelings, or else he simply was not acknowledging them-probably the latter, as Jaskier was quite overt. He was however determined to break through Geralt's gruff exterior...but he could only do that if Geralt was alive.
"Higher Vampires don't need to kill. Many don't. These ones are doing it for fun," said the Witcher.
Then, "I'll be three days tops."
He dropped Jaskier off at an inn in the next town over with more than enough coin for three days' room and board, and after Jaskier gave a performance to the delight of everyone in the dining room, he had even more, just in case (although he shuddered to think of any 'just in case' scenario that would delay Geralt. Or, not just delay...no. He refused to even consider it.)
The innkeeper's daughter set him up with a hearty bowl of stew and a loaf of bread, along with ale, which she kept coming. He tucked in vigorously, taking some comfort in the warm meal and the drink. Probably a little too much drink. By his fifth tankard, he was spilling spoonfuls of stew into his lap, and while he was vaguely aware that he was making a drunk slob of himself before his audience, his nerves were bad. The ale calmed him. He was about to call for another when a willowy little woman invited herself to a seat at his table. He had seen her watching him intently since he'd sat down to supper-at first he thought her a prostitute intent on convincing him to buy her company for the night, but up close, he could see that her clothes were far too luxurious for a lady of the night. Her dress was ornate, and threaded through with gold. In her fiery red hair she wore combs inlaid with precious stones. She appeared almost regal. "To what," she asked, "does a small town inn owe the pleasure of such a beautiful performance of the great Jaskier?"
"You know of me?" he asked, at once swelling in the chest with pride and flushing in the face with embarrassment over his current state. He tried to wipe the stew from his lap under the table so she wouldn't notice.
"Of course! Everyone who's anyone knows of Jaskier, the most superb bard in the land! In fact...if you should like to get out of this frankly, flea infested hovel, my employer has said that she would like to offer you accomodations, free and gratis. She wishes only that you indulge her by honoring her with a private performance."
"She does, does she?" asked Jaskier. "Oh, but where are my manners? Here you are, offering me a great service, and I don't even know your name!"
"I am called Lysandra, but my name is not of any importance. I'm but a humble maidservant, sent with a message. My mistress is the one who extends the offer. Although...I certainly won't be opposed to serving you while you stay as a guest in my lady's home."
Jaskier was seeing stars. If this mysterious lady dressed her maidservants in such finery, surely she must be a woman of great wealth and great renown. To perform for her would certainly advance him in fame and reputation; to turn her down could break his career. Not that he had any misgivings about spending the next few days in the lap of luxury. There was one loose end he needed to tie up if he was going to accept this invitation, though.
"In three days, my travelling companion is to return here to meet me-"
"Ah yes-Geralt of Rivia. He is working in the next town over, correct?" said Lysandra. "My mistress is possessed of the fastest carrier pigeons one can buy. I shall write to Geralt tomorrow and notify him of your change of plans; my letter should reach him by sundown the same day. That is, of course, assuming we leave in the morning?"
Lysandra's employer's home was about a half a day's journey north by carriage, but only because the mistress' horses were fast and her driver skilled. Along the way, Jaskier and Lysandra laughed and exchanged stories. He learned that she had come from a poor family; had her mistress not intervened she may well have ended up prostituting to survive. But her lady had taken an interest in her for her pleasing looks and fine manners for a girl of her station. So, the lady had taken her in and had her trained in all manner of tasks, including cooking, seamstressing, and something she called the 'art of compulsion'. Jaskier would have asked for an explanation, but about that point in their journey, Lysandra had produced a flask from beneath her skirts holding a potent distilled spirit, and they both had such a blast passing it back and forth and getting more and more inebriated that he forgot. (Perhaps, if he had been paying better attention, he would have noticed the glazed look her eyes perpetually held, even before she touched liquor, but he didn't catch it, and she was being so kind.)
He must have passed out in the carriage.
When he awoke, it was in a soft feather bed. The room was elegant but dark; the thick curtains were drawn so that the only light in the room came from lanterns bearing candles which hung from the ceiling. His surroundings were elegant: were these sheets of silk? Was the frame mahogany?
He could not tell what time of day it was, or how long he had been unconscious. As he came to, he became aware of a warmth surrounding him. Blinking his eyes, he realized there were several women in bed with him. There was Lysandra, her modesty all but thrown to the wind, dressed in nothing but loosely draping silk that hid her breasts from view and covered up her most private parts. Nothing else was left to imagination. The other women were dressed in a similar fashion, and they were all holding plates of food.
Upon noticing that he was awake, one of the servants held a roast chicken thigh to his lips. Given her proximity, he had no choice but to take a bite. Immediately following, another of the girls lifted a cup to his mouth and he drank, some sort of warm beverage sweetened with honey and thick with cream, that provided welcome relief against the lingering dryness in his mouth and throat from too much alcohol.
No sooner had he finished swallowing the liquid than another servant girl spooned a bite of some sort of pot pie into his mouth, full of spiced meat and rich gravy. Another attempted to shove a whole buttered roll into his mouth; he had to take it from her so he wouldn't choke. But he broke it apart and ate it happily. It was fluffy and still hot from the oven.
As he made to get out of bed, one of the girls, a tanned blonde with wide hips and a prominent bust on an otherwise diminutive frame, pushed him by his shoulders back onto the pillows. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Is the food not to your liking? I made everything carefully with my own two hands."
"It's all very lovely, Miss, and I do compliment you on your skill in the kitchen. It's just that...well, I should like to use your amenities at some point before I encounter my gracious hostess."
At that, the servant released him. "Very well."
"Down the corridor," added another.
"To your left."
"But don't be long!"
The mistress of the house was quite endowed with wealth indeed: unless he was mistaken, he pissed in a solid gold chamberpot.
When he returned to the bedchamber, the women were all too eager to pull him back onto the bed and continue feeding him supper-or was it breakfast? He had not encountered a single window in the corridor. Everything the servants presented to him was perfectly seasoned and cooked to perfection. He imagined the contents of this house's spice rack alone must be worth a moderate fortune.
The 'head chef,' as he thought of her, since he did not know her name, had mostly taken up the duty of hand-feeding him while the others doted upon him: Lysandra combing a hand through his hair, another girl gently massaging his shoulders, and another still tilting his chin up to offer him a drink from a goblet of sweet red wine. After a time, he started to get very full, almost to the point of discomfort, but it had been a while since he had tasted anything as delicious as what the girls had to offer, so he let them carry on. Lysandra responded to his little grunt of effort by reaching over to rub his stomach in gentle, tight circles just below the ribcage. That did help ease the pressure. Though all of this was a bit invasive, Jaskier found himself enjoying it all...until one of the girls nudged his thighs apart and opened his trousers.
He startled and flushed crimson. "Ladies! You would think we should at least get to know each other first, yes?"
"Don't worry, darling, she's only giving you a little more breathing room. They won't do anything you don't want," said a new voice. Jaskier looked up to see a woman standing in the doorway, dressed elegantly in violet with a gold trim around her collar and the place where the bodice of her dress merged with her skirts. She had dark hair and the alabaster complexion of someone who truly had never had to do a day of work in her life. Jaskier had known luxury before, but nothing like this.
He shyly pulled up the bedsheet to preserve his modesty. "Do I speak to the lady of the house?" he asked.
"Yes, that would be me."
"Then I must thank you for your wonderful hospitality."
"And thank you, for honoring me with your presence! But, Jaskier...is something wrong?"
"Wrong, my Lady? No, everything has been superb!"
"But my girls...they give you no...reaction?" the lady continued. Then, a realization seemed to strike her. "If you prefer it, I can procure you some strapping gentlemen instead?"
"No, no, my Lady, don't by any means replace your staff on my account. It's just that I...well, there was someone in particular that I had in mind."
The hostess smiled. "Ah! And he's in love, how precious! I hope I shall get to hear some of your love ballads when you play for me."
"If it will please you! I'm ready whenever you are."
"Don't worry about that for now. Just enjoy the rest of your meal," said the hostess. "You were out cold for quite some time and must be famished!"
He didn't feel like he had been unconscious for that long, and if he was hungry upon awakening, he certainly wasn't now. "Thank you, my Lady, but I'm so stuffed I don't think I could eat another bite."
"But my Dmitra slaved all day over dessert! You don't want to hurt her feelings, do you?" said the hostess. Then, to the 'head chef': "Dear, show the gentleman what you've made him!"
Dmitra retrieved a covered dish from the nightstand and lifted the lid to reveal a trio of custard tarts in a delectable-looking crumbly pastry, each of them garnished with a different fresh fruit in a syrupy glaze. He really didn't want to offend the girl or her mistress…
"I could probably manage a bit more...perhaps after more wine?"
Had he been paying less attention to the tarts and more to his hostess, he might have noticed that she cast no shadow.
How strange it was that the whole castle was kept in semidarkness, lit only by the occasional candle lantern.
He tried to tell time by the number of indulgent meals the women continued to bring him, but soon gave up on that, as it felt like they were providing to him more than thrice daily. By the estimation of his internal clock (though it was hard to rely on it without the light of day), it was on his second day at the castle that the hostess came to fetch him.
She led him down to a veritable auditorium in the lower chambers of the castle, where she had a stage built into the floor and rising rows of upholstered seats all the way to the back of the room.
She sat down in the front row and motioned to a stool on the stage. He started to play, a bit nervous at first-his mind was troubled by Geralt's continuing mission. He'd probably overdone it the last time the serving girls brought food to his room, too, to help with his fried nerves, and he was having to adjust his hold on the lute around an uncomfortably full belly. But the hostess' awed expression and eager posture in her seat, leaned forward with delight in her eyes, hands clasped together in front of her in anticipation for the moment it would be appropriate to applaud, bolstered his confidence, and he finished the concert strong.
"Bravo!" she cheered, applauding loudly so that the sound echoed throughout the chamber. "Jaskier, you're a genius of music! You must play for me again before you depart!"
"Yes, well...hopefully my friend will be finished with his business in town, soon. But I'm sure I can indulge you again before then. Strange, though, that I've heard no word."
"Your friend...the Witcher, yes?" said the hostess. "I'll have Lysandra write into town at once. If your friend responds promptly, word should arrive by dawn tomorrow."
The next morning (presumably), Lysandra woke him with a goblet of wine, a small square of some sort of cake coated in chocolate ganache, and news.
"Your friend has been somewhat delayed," she said. Jaskier paled.
"He's not hurt, is he?"
"Not that he reports. It's simply that whatever he's tracking must sense his presence. They have been acting more stealthily than he's predicted, and he's having a hard time discovering them. He may have to wait until the full moon to catch them about to strike."
"And when will that be?"
"Only in three weeks' time."
"Three weeks?!" Jaskier didn't know if he could go that long missing Geralt.
"I know it seems like a long time," said Lysandra. "Try to consider it a vacation. My mistress is insistent that your every desire be fulfilled for the duration of your stay. By the by, Dmitra has made you a little gift," she added, gesturing with her head toward the piece of cake she had left on the nightstand. "She's very proud of her baking and she'll be heartbroken if she doesn't hear any feedback."
Lysandra had not brought him a spoon, so he was forced to pick it up with his hand to take a bite. "Delicious," he said, once he'd swallowed a mouthful of dense butter cake filled with cream. She hadn't brought him a napkin, either, so he had to lick the chocolate off his fingers before reaching for the wine.
"Dmitra will be over the moon! Now, what shall I tell your friend?" She retrieved some parchment from a shelf and sat down to a desk in the corner of the room to write.
"That I do hope he is not too long," said Jaskier, hoping he wasn't sounding too needy, "but that I have generous accomodations and that your mistress is treating me kindly."
"As you wish." While she penned the letter, he finished the cake and had the strangest thought: he imagined Geralt, lovingly feeding him in the place of all these servants, pushing him to his back, coaxing him to accept each bite, sticking a thick thumb into his mouth and making him suck the garnish off…
"My my, someone's become excited. Thinking of your love?"
He startled and covered his arousal with the sheet.
Lysandra blew on the letter to dry the ink and folded it up. "Right, I'm off to the aviary to send this. The others shall be around shortly with the rest of your breakfast!"
It was around the end of the second week (Jaskier thought) that he noticed his clothes were starting to pinch uncomfortably tight. A flash of panic overtook him-had he gained weight in the short time he'd been here? It couldn't have been more than two weeks, right?
Then again…
He'd played two more concerts for the hostess, but other than that, there wasn't much to do around here except get drunk and stuff his face, and with somewhere between five and seven women waiting on him, it was easy to lose a grip on his self-control when it came to indulgences. (He tried to take a roll-call in his head. There were Lysandra and Dmitra, then the twin sisters, whose names he did not know, a tall dark beauty from the East whose name he couldn't pronounce and not for a lack of trying, and there might have been one or two more, but it was hard to tell, there was so much wine served with every meal that he was never sure if he was seeing double.)
The next time Lysandra came with the laundry, though, everything fit fine, so he decided his worries must have only been in his head.
Okay. With week three well underway, he couldn't possibly deny it anymore that he was gaining weight.
Everything was feeling tight again. His doublet strained against a new softness in his arms and chest, and he struggled to button his pants against his belly. Damnation, he had actually put on a belly. It was soft and yielding to the touch and actually jiggled if he happened to give it a smack. His thighs and ass were thicker, too, testing the tensile strength of the threads that held his pants together. He knew he had been enjoying Dmitra's cooking a little too much, but he had no way of assessing just how bad the damage was, as he had yet to encounter a mirror in the house so far.
One day (he was at last forced to admit to himself that he could no longer discern the time of day, his internal clock was shot) when the ladies came to attend him, the twin sisters had to open his doublet just so he could sit up comfortably. When Dmitra pressed a spoonful to his lips (eggs in some sort of tomato confit with herbs), he reluctantly held her at bay. "Dmitra, that smells wonderful. You really are a genius in the kitchen. But with you all feeding me like this, I'm getting fat."
To his surprise, she grinned. "Good! Gentlemen should be a little fat," she said.
"It means you're successful," supplied one of the twin sisters.
"A good provider, too," said the other.
"Just think: after you depart from here, the women shall be lining up to marry you," said the Eastern girl.
"And the men," provided Lysandra.
"We like it!" said the first twin sister. "You're so much more appealing now that you've started to fill out."
"We just wish there were more of you. You're still so damned skinny!"
Then their hands were upon him, massaging his chest and sides, slipping up his shirt to lavish his belly with affection. Attraction or no, he reveled in the praise, and he was soon happily eating again until Dmitra's skillet was empty.
After the others had left, Lysandra remained behind to take some measurements. She wound a string around his waist, his hips, his chest, one thigh, prattling on as she worked but refusing to show him any numbers. "I'll send for some materials posthaste," she said, "and make you something more comfortable to wear."
"You're too kind," said Jaskier.
"Thank my mistress, it's she who funds all of this."
He played another concert for his hostess in his too-tight clothes before Lysandra came to him with replacements. The jacket she had fashioned for him fit with some room and was soft and light against his skin, made of the finest silk with various adornments in gold and gemstones. The pants, too, were light and roomy and fastened with ties of gold twine rather than the buttons he was used to, so they were adjustable. "I thought blue, to match your eyes," she said. "What do you think?"
"You're a woman of excellent taste."
Lysandra left the room for him to dress, but soon knocked to check on him. "May I see?"
He opened the door for her and she smiled warmly. "Perfection. Care to take a short walk with me, and test the fit?"
He followed her lead down the corridor and around a few corners, making conversation. "You've told me how you came to work for the lady. And the others?"
"All similar stories. She found us in dire straits, and offered a better life."
"But you are clearly your mistress' favorite."
Lysandra giggled. "If it seems that way, it's only because I am Dmitra's favorite, and as she has the most important job of all, our mistress aims to keep her happy."
Jaskier smirked. "I see. So you and Dmitra…?"
"Like you and your Witcher."
"Well, not exactly," he admitted, flushing. "He has yet to acknowledge my advances."
"Well, certainly once he sees you a little plusher and well-kept, he shall not have the power to resist you!" she said, giving his side a demonstrative pinch.
That was when they arrived back at his bedchamber. "You should rest, and practice your music. My lady shall want another performance soon!"
He was sitting up in bed having just tuned his lute, experimenting with a few new chords when the mistress of the house made her appearance in the doorway. "Composing?"
"Attempting to," said Jaskier. "Say, I'm in a bit of an awkward position: here I've been, enjoying your hospitality, and I don't even know your name."
"Is it not enough that I keep you well harbored?"
"I didn't mean it like that, my Lady! I had just hoped...well, to sing of your generosity throughout the land when I return to my travels."
She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but at last smiled warmly. "I am Rosina, to those who know me."
"Rosina...right. There has to be a rhyme in there somewhere. I might not have it down before the end of today-"
"Oh, tonight I have an engagement in town. I had just meant to stop by and let you know. I would have invited you, and my girls as well, but I'm afraid my friend in town has only extended the invitation for one. Worry not, though, the girls will keep you at want for nothing, and I shall be back before morning."
Dmitra and the twins came by sometime later with dinner, and he stayed up sometime after that, still trying to write. After a while, he decided to check if it was approaching morning yet. It seemed to be an unspoken rule of Rosina's not to open the curtains, but with her out of the house, it couldn't hurt to check, right?
He rolled out of bed, crossed the room, and pulled back the curtain…
Only to find nothing behind it but more stone wall.