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When they had arrived in town, Jaskier had been insatiable. He was hopping from one foot to another, not capable of standing still for more than a second. It had annoyed Geralt to no end, but Jaskier wanted to part ways quickly, so he’d sighed and bore the twitching Bard. Indeed, even before they reached the notice-board, Jaskier had grabbed his lute and had gone. He really wanted to get a feel for the town, he said as they parted. He apparently was planning on playing a new set in the tavern that evening.
Geralt tried to tune out Jaskier’s blabbering and hoped he’d be alone very soon, all he wanted to do was find Roach a stable, sit down and get a drink. Nevertheless, the notive-board mentioned Drowners residing at the river. For an acceptable amount of coin. They should be easy to kill, easy for a fit, well-rested Witcher. He was doubtful to count himself as such at the moment. No matter that, he didn’t really have a choice. They were low on coin and Geralt desperately wanted a nice room at an inn, a hot bath and a soft bed. He yawned. Maybe that would get him to sleep. Gods, he longed for sleep.
As Jaskier disappeared between the buildings, Geralt prepared himself to go wade through the swamps close-by the river to kill off Drowners.
The hunt didn’t quite work out how he had planned it, yet it did go like he expected it to. He’d gotten the Drowners at the end, but not without a scratch. The creatures had pulled him under in the muddy water and had attempted to drown him, as Drowners tend to do.
While fighting them, they had tried anything to keep him under, hence him being covered in scratches and bite-marks. The wounds that the claws of the Drowners left, burned. Teeth, Geralt didn’t mind too much, Drowners had surprisingly clean mouths and the wounds healed fast. But wounds caused by their claws got infected quickly, healed slow and irritated Geralt to no end.
And Geralt had been so, so stupid. When he’d been dunked under, back covered by several Drowners, he hadn’t been able to keep his head clear.
Drowning has a calming effect, almost like sleep.
It had been a long time ago that he experienced that feeling and he couldn’t help but give into it. Only the pin prick of monster teeth had kept him awake and conscious, until the thought of dying here had send him into an overwhelming panic. That had saved his life. He’d grabbed desperately at his leg, where he kept his potions. With some hustle he had found a bottle and drank it without identifying it, not caring for the consequences. It had worked, every Drowner that bit him had died.
The second he’d gotten out of the water, he understood why. He had taken Black Blood, a potion that turned his blood into poison to every monster who bit him. It was also highly toxic for him and needed to be countered by another potion. One he didn’t have in stock. Geralt had trouble staying conscious, even when all the Drowners were dead. But he was a Witcher and Witchers continue, no matter what. So he gathered all the dead Drowners, copped off their heads with shaking hands and loaded them on a shivering Roach. (She hated Drowners.) Then they started their journey back to town.
The walk back to town was slow, Roach bearing the weight of several drowner heads and Geralt swaying on his feet beside her, unsteady and intoxicated. The terrain wasn’t too rocky, which was a godsend gift to Geralt. The potion tried to destroy him from the inside out and his sleep deprivation made his head swim. He was trusting Roach to navigate them to the alderman to drop off the heads and collect the reward. He knew she’d get them there.
There was a blood-trail from where they came from, Geralt’s wounds still bleeding.
After dropping off the heads and getting the promised reward, (Geralt’s growling ensured he got the coin he was promised) they were headed for the stables to get Roach a warm place for the night.
It rained and Geralt’s armour was soaked within the minute. While it did clean him from most of the blood, mud and Drowner viscera, it also made his clothes stick to his skin and his hair to his face and neck. He grunted, hating the sensation of the fat droplets of water rolling over his skin. Roach didn’t like it either and they were both relieved to arrive at the stables.
He handed Roach, and a small portion of the money he’d just collected, to the stable boy. Enough for a warm stall, fresh hay and a proper meal consistent of grains. Counting out the coins was hard, he had to do it on feeling. His vision was too blurry to see the coins on his hand.
The stable boy took his money without counting, Geralt could almost hear his knees rattle from anxiety. Witchers weren’t liked in these parts of the country.
“Be nice,” he rumbled.
“Y-Yes sir,” the boy squeaked out.
Geralt frowned, he’d been talking to Roach. Roach whinnied at him and shook her head. She knew he wasn’t doing too well. He stroke her forehead tenderly.
“I’ll be alright. Jaskier’s waiting for me.” At least, he hoped the bard was. He longed for the comfort Jaskier brought with him.
The boy led Roach away from him and Geralt saw his hands shake when he took the reins from the Witchers hand. It had to be quite sight, Geralt thought. A monstrous Witcher with pale skin, black eyes with tendrils of toxic running out of them who frowned angrily at everything that moved.
No wonder that, went he walked the streets to get to the inn, the towns people were all but running to get out of his way. They were frightened by him. He huffed, tilting his head down to avoid catching anyone's eye and hurried to where Jaskier had agreed to meet him.
When he walked into the inn, the barmaid notified him that Jaskier had already gotten a room and that he was upstairs. She wasn’t nice about it and even spat at the ground in front of Geralt’s feet. Geralt snarled at her, this was not something he could deal with. He was exhausted, hurt and cold from the rain and blood-loss. Left-over potion in his blood made it feel like his nerves were fried, every sensation one too much. A headache was building up behind his eyes and he wanted to scream from the irritation of his already infected wounds that burned with every move he made. His face twitched with pain.
The barmaid turned away from him, the feral Witcher was scary enough to her to convince her to leave it.
Gerealt stumbled up the stairs with shaking legs after being denied a bath, hoping to find Jaskier to ask him to take care of his wounds.
Jaskier seemed to indeed be in their room, working on new music or so Gerealt’s ears told him. When Geralt came in, Jaskier didn’t spare the Witcher a glance.
Geralt sighed. Well, he had always taken care of himself before Jaskier had joined him, so he was going to do just so right now. Because he didn’t trust his legs to hold him for longer, he sat down on the bed with a heavy thud, wetting the bedsheets with his soaked clothes.
“Don’t drip on the bed Geralt! Some people do need sleep once in a while,” Jaskier said. Ah, so he had seen Geralt enter.
“Fuck off,” he growled. Fuck Jaskier for saying that.
It wasn’t that he didn’t need sleep, he just couldn’t. It didn’t matter how exhausted he was, sleep wouldn’t come. That was partly the reason why his hunt had gone so badly. The other reason? Being utterly overworked.
He got up from the bed, Jaskier was right about wetting the sheets. Instead, he sat down with his back to the wall and set his swords down beside him. From where he sat, he could see Jaskier and keep an eye on the door. The floor was hard, but at least it was sturdy. He let his head rest against the wall, exhaustion creeping up to him. The desire to sleep overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes. Just for a few seconds, he told himself. Just for a few seconds he would sit and endure. Then he would get up and get rid of his drenched clothes.
Jaskier was humming. Usually that wouldn’t bother Geralt too much, he’d gotten used to it after years and years of travelling with the bard. But he hadn’t slept in so long. This was far worse than that time with the djinn. The toxicity of the potion had lost it’s worst symptoms, but was still burning inside his veins.
Geralt took his swords out of their sheets and started sharpening one of them loudly, trying to drown out Jaskier’s noise and his own feelings.
When he was done with the second sword, Jaskier was still humming.
The bard just played downstairs for over an hour, so Geralt couldn’t understand why he wasn’t strung out yet. He for sure was, unable to ignore Jaskier. The exhaustion and aftermath of the hunt had him stuck in sensory-overload, making every sound and vibration overwhelming. He pulled up his lip. His animal instincts lay close to the surface when he got like this. And Jaskier was still humming.
“Jask,” he gritted out. This was going to get out of hand if he didn’t act fast.
“Hmm?” Jaskier didn’t even look at Geralt, but reached out his arm to grab his notebook and Melitele help him, his lute. Not the fucking lute. In these moments the twang of the strings gave Geralt goose bumps and the most awful, blistering headache.
“Jaskier.”
No reaction. The bard started tuning the lute, completely lost in his own world. A warning rumbled in Geralt’s chest, low and threatening.
The noise of the instrument, Jaskier’s humming, his wet clothes weighting him down, the burning scratches all over his body, the potion in his blood, it was all too much.
He snarled, finally getting Jaskier’s attention. Jaskier snapped his head up, halting his fingers on the strings and quieting his humming.
Geralt stared at him, like the bard was a frightful rabbit and he was a big bad wolf. He bared his teeth and growled. His gums ached and he wanted to bite something. Bite Jaskier.
While growling loudly, he hoisted himself up to stalk towards the bard. Jaskier stayed seated and when Geralt sniffed the air, expecting to smell the stench of fear, he found nothing alike. The warm sent of daisies and freshly cut grass wavered through the air. Geralt growled, usually Jaskier’s smell would calm him right down, but not now.
“Geralt?” The fool was so damn trusting.
Geralt felt his teeth and nails sharpen. He poised himself, muscles tense and eyes never leaving his prey, ready to attack.
Slowly, without any sudden movements, Jaskier set his lute down and away and got up. Geralt sniffed the air again, still no fear. Then Jaskier took a step towards him, and another.
He could feel the heat of Jaskier’s body as he came closer and closer, but not close enough to touch. Jaskier’s eyes were bright blue, staring into his own. Geralt kept growling, but was frozen to the ground.
“Are you, by any chance, trying to scare me?” Jaskier whispered.
He lifted a hand, reaching out to touch Geralt’s face. Geralt snapped his teeth at him, just slow enough for Jaskier to retreat his hand in time to not get bitten.
“Okay, no. That’s it, stop.” Jaskier said fiercely, not backing off. Geralt growled and snarled again.
“I said no. Geralt, back off.” There was no hesitation to detect when Jaskier spoke. The Witcher shut his mouth with a click.
“Good. Now look away.”
A warning rumbled in his chest, he kept looking into Jaskier’s eyes without blinking. There were tears forming in those blue eyes, but Geralt wasn’t as stupid to see them as a sign of weakness. Jaskier’s eyes were ice-cold, not leaving any room for discussion. “Look. Away,” he said through clenched teeth.
Geralt tilted his head down slightly, breaking eye-contact. His gaze flitter through the room, not settling anywhere. There stood Jaskier’s lute against the wall, on the table lay some bread and stood a lit candle. The bed was indeed splattered with rain and his swords lay on the ground in a heap, forgotten. All a little blurry by the soreness of his eyes.
Geralt blew out a breath and dropped his shoulders with a shudder. He didn’t really want to have a fight with Jaskier.
“Good, Geralt. May I touch you?”
With a clenched jaw, Geralt nodded. A warm hand cupped his jaw, caressing over his rough, dirty skin.
“What in the fucks name is wrong, Geralt? You’re usually so… calm.”
Geralt couldn’t help himself, he leaned into Jaskier’s touch. He kept quiet, the words lost in his mind. How could he tell Jaskier about the ache that his wet clothes gave him? How the scratches and the potion still burned, no matter his effort to forget about them? How even the candlelight made his eyes sting and tear up? How he hadn’t gotten any sleep in weeks and that the exhaustion was driving him insane?
“Darling Witcher, let me take care of you?”
Geralt bit his lip with his sharp teeth, accidentality drawing blood. Then he nodded.
The hand left his cheek and he all but winched.
“Darling.” Jaskier’s soft voice soothed his fear of being abandoned. The Bard wasn’t going anywhere as of now.
“First a bath, have you eaten? No, of course you haven’t. I’ll get you some food. You are going to sit here, take your armour off if you can. I’ll be right back.” And then he left Geralt’s side, taking all the comfort with him.
Geralt let out a pitiful sound. “No bath. They won’t fill the tub for a mutant.”
Jaskier swirled around and frowned. “Those assholes. Surely they won’t refuse me a bath? No worries darling, I’ll fix you a bath. Be right back.”
The bard left the room and Geralt was on his own.
After sitting frozen for some time because he couldn’t bar ethe thought of the wet clothes rubbing against him while he moved, he convinced himself to at least try to get rid of his chest-plate and boots. Maybe when Jaskier returned, Geralt could relax enough to undress further. He didn’t like it when Jaskier wasn’t by his side.
Geralt jolted up from the table, where he had only rested his head for a second. A loud knock on the door had startled him and without waiting for an answer, the barmaid marched in. She carried two buckets full of water and her face held a frown. Clearly she wasn’t doing this out of the kindness of her heart.
“It’s cold. Heating the water up costs me too much time right now. I’m busy.”
When Geralt has just been downstairs, the inn had almost been completely empty, so that was simply an excuse to not spend a minute longer on caring for the Witcher than necessary.
Just when she had pulled out a tub from a hidden compartment in the room and had filled it with water, Jaskier returned. He brought two bowls full of steaming stew with him. Geralt should be hungry, he knew he should, but the smell had him gagging.
Jaskier set the bowls on the table, in front of Geralt, and saw the maid out. Then he sat down across Geralt and started eating his stew.
Geralt looked at him and frowned. The thought of eating had no appeal to him and even seeing Jaskier eat was nauseating. He yawned and let his chin rest on his folded arms. His eyes began to droop. It took Jaskier two bites of stew to catch on.
“What was the last time you slept?” He asked him with worry in his eyes.
Geralt froze. Hadn’t Jaskier realized that he hadn’t slept in so long? “It’s-It’s been a while,” he croaked, not lifting his head from his arms.
“A while? How long is that?”
Noisy creatures, bards . Geralt looked up and sighed. They were having this talk, whether he liked it or not.
“Weeks.”
Jaskier gasped and Geralt was glad it wasn’t in the midst of a bite. He had no energy left for a rescue.
“You should sleep! Take the bed, I’ll-”
“Fuck off, Bard.” Geralt interrupted him. It wasn’t as if the bed would help him sleep. Nothing helped him sleep, he’d tried almost anything.
Certainly now that he was all beat up and had a near-death experience, sleep would be hard to find. The potion and the adrenaline in his system could keep him up for days on end, certainly so when he felt unsafe.
When Jaskier lifted his eyebrows in suspicion, Geralt growled at him. Fuck off, Jaskier .
“You know you don’t scare me? You never have.”
Gods, Geralt had the urge to bite again. He growled louder.
“Geralt,” Jaskier warned him, leaning closer instead of away. Piercing blue eyes caught tired but angry honey-coloured ones. Geralt didn’t need a second warning and he looked away.
“I can’t sleep. Doesn’t matter what I do.” He rubbed his eyes roughly, the pain grounding him.
“Oh,” Jaskier murmured. “That’s-that’s bad.”
With a huff, Geralt gathered all his strength to get up.
“Nuh-uh, Witcher-dear. Eat your stew first.”
Geralt threw his full bowl and Jaskier a pained look. “Don’t want to.”
“Don’t care. Eat.”
Shit. He knew Jaskier was right, he needed to eat. Healing would be horrible without the energy from the stew. His stomach turned, but the thought of disobeying Jaskier didn’t sit right with him.
“Fine.” The bowl got picked up by his large hands and he emptied it with two swallows. It tasted awful, but Geralt could feel his wounds heal up after, body fuelled by the food. The burning in his veins receded too.
“Better?” Jaskier asked.
Geralt rolled his eyes and then promptly steadied himself as to not fall off his chair. Not good. Black dots clouded his vision and the stew threatened to come back up again.
“Easy now Geralt, easy.” Jaskier sounded worried and he had every right to be. Geralt hadn’t felt this bad in ages.
“A bath, that might help. You good to undress yourself?” Jaskier was already reaching to the hem of Geralt’s shirt. The wet fabric still clung to Geralt’s skin and he growled low in his throat while moving away from Jaskier’s touch. “I can do it myself.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed. “Then do so.”
Another command. And again, Geralt obeyed. His mind felt a little hazy, but he didn’t mind much. It was kind of nice to not think of what to do next.
He hated the feeling of the wet clothes dragging on his skin that came with peeling them off, but he suffered through it. The clothes were tossed in a far corner of the room and while Jaskier sniffed with disapproval, he didn’t say a word. Geralt knew the Bard would probably hang them out to dry later on.
The shivering Witcher sat on a chair, waiting for Jaskier to tell him what to do. Usually, Geralt would be ashamed of his behaviour, but he was simply too tired and overstimulated to care. He didn’t have to wait for long.
“Geralt, be a dear and warm up the water with that handy spell of yours?”
Be a dear . Normally these flirting words of Jaskier wouldn’t be a big deal, but somehow they were right now. All Geralt wanted was to be a dear to Jaskier. The Witcher shook his head free from these strange thoughts. Witchers weren’t dear to anyone, nor should they be.
“Sure.” And he did as was asked of him.
With a groan, Geralt lowered himself in the tub. The water was steaming hot, just shy from boiling, and Geralt felt his bruised body relax. Jaskier was by his side quickly, a cloth and soap at the ready. While he was soaping up Geralt’s back, Geralt could smell cinnamon in the air. Jaskier was nervous.
“Can I try something?” Jaskier seemed strangely hesitant, nervous indeed. Geralt hummed, wanting to set the Bard at ease. The cinnamon stung.
“Okay, so you know about woman who like men to lead? They like to be ah-dominated?”
Geralt hummed again, he was no stranger to the concept. That was, from afar. No woman ever wanted that from him, they were too scared to get hurt by him.
“Well, if you’re open to it, I could do that for you. I could tell you what to do, to take care of you. I noticed that your eyes glazed over before, when I told you to undress? Is that-have I seen that right?”
What? Jaskier wanted to dominate him like he was a woman? Then Geralt thought back to the brothels. There they rarely cared for gender and had no concept of set roles. Did-was that what Jaskier meant? Simply to lead Geralt, no matter that he was a man? If Geralt was truly honest to himself, he wasn’t against the idea.
He had no answer for Jaskier, but he was sure the look on his face told him plenty.
“Words, Geralt. If we’re doing this, you need to use your words.” That unwavering voice of Jaskier send pleasant shivers up Geralt’s spine.
“Y-Yeah.”
“What do you want Geralt?”
He was a Witcher, so wanting things didn’t come easy to him. Yet, Jaskier was offered him something he longed for.
“Take care of me please. I’m-” He pushed down a sob that wanted to force its way out, “I’m so tired.”
“Oh darling.” Jaskier petted Geralt’s hair and then placed a kiss on the crown of his head. Geralt whined. He couldn’t help himself, Jaskier was so gentle and kind to him.
The Bard’s hands continued to soap him, but he had lost the cloth. That meant Jaskier’s skin was on his, Jaskier’s fingers tracing circles on his shoulders. It felt comfortable, the steady rhythm coordinating with Jaskier’s humming. This time, Geralt didn’t mind the sound of it. His head dipped down slightly and he rumbled out a tune or two himself, unable to stop himself.
Jaskier’s hands moved to his front, massaging and touching his collarbones and pecks. Occasionally, his hands fumbled over his nipples and that made him shiver. That wasn’t quite..pleasant.
Soon, Jaskier removed his hands, only to wrap them around Geralt to rub his sides. That was fine, if a little ticklish. Geralt heaved out a breath, he could do this, Jaskier was trying so hard to make this good for him.
He held onto that thought, until he couldn’t any more.
Jaskier trailed a hand down, over his stomach. And then even lower. Down to where his flaccid cock was resting between his thighs. Geralt flinched. “No, please.”
Jaskier’s hand stilted.
“I don’t want that.” Geralt’s voice shook. Please, don’t let this be what had Jaskier rejecting him.
“I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t want that with me.” Jaskier removed his hand and Geralt could breath again. He used that breath immediately to correct Jaskier. “No, I do! Just not now,” he rushed out, “Too vulnerable.”
“Oh.”
“Is that-Is that required?” If it was needed for what Jaskier had planned, Geralt had to stop this. He trusted Jaskier more than anything, but this he really didn’t want.
“No.” Jaskier placed his hand back on Geralt’s body, but nowhere near where he’d been. “Absolutely not.”
Geralt slumped down in the tub, finally relaxing completely. It had been weighing on his mind. Jaskier held his hands still. “Are you okay with me touching you? I should have asked that way earlier,” he said.
Geralt rumbled out a chuckle. “If I really wasn’t okay with it, you’d lost your hand. Just-No sex. No sexual touch. Please? It’s-It does not help me relax.” It never had. He was fine with it, but only if he knew a person really well. Then he was willing to compromise. Otherwise, he did not like it. It fucked (Ha!) with his senses.
“Sure. There are many other ways to help you towards subspace.”
What ?
“What?”
Jaskier picked up the tracing again, like he had said something completely normal. “That’s the hazy feeling you get when you obey something I said. At least, I suspect it is. I’d be honoured if you let me find out if I’m right.”
Geralt couldn’t help but blush. He thought it hadn’t been that obvious. Subspace. Huh. It had felt rather nice, now that he thought about it.
“Okay.”
“Really?” Jaskier couldn’t contain his excitement and splashed water everywhere when he dropped his hands down into the tub. Geralt growled a warning at the feeling of the water making waves against his skin.
“Hey now, no need to growl at me.” It was not an order, yet when Geralt stopped growling he felt something. He shivered with the feeling of it.
“Thank you darling. That’ll be all, you can get out of the tub.” Jaskier stood up and got a towel to dry his hands on. He towered over Geralt like this and Geralt found he liked it. Not in a strange way, just that it felt rather save to not be the biggest person in the room.
He gulped. A pitiful thought for a Witcher to have. The anger that still shimmered somewhere, reared up it’s head. He frowned, this experiment of Jaskier’s might prove to be a hard thing to accept.
When Geralt climbed out of the tub and dried himself off, Jaskier had already picked out his nightwear. Geralt’s softest pair of pants and one of Jaskier’s shirts. Not one of his normal size, but a shirt that he’d bought several seizes too big. Jaskier liked sleeping in big shirts. It came in handy now, as it fitted Geralt perfectly.
The shirt smelled like Jaskier and when he subtly tried to bury his nose into the fabric, Jaskier smirked knowingly at him. It almost had him pull off the shirt. Yet he didn’t.
“Jask,” he said, looking at the Bard with a frown on his face. Jaskier was sitting on the bed, observing him. “This is going to be hard. I get angry when I don’t believe I’m save.”
Jaskier’s gaze on him was unwavering. “I know. You were quite obvious earlier. Try your best? For me?”
Geralt felt it crumble between his fingers. His last resolve. “Always,” he mumbled.
Jaskier nodded and then looked at him with uncharacteristic nervousness. “You promise to tell me if you don’t like whatever I’m doing, right? If you don’t feel like you want to continue?”
It was a hard promise to be made, Geralt was not all that confident he could keep it, but he’d try. “Yeah. I’ll let you know. Don’t-don’t be scared to-” he lifted his upper lip and flashed his teeth in annoyance. “-to tell me off. I don't always have a hold on my anger.”
Jaskier quirked a brow at him. “You don’t say. I’ll be fine, I know what to do.”
Gods, Geralt wanted to believe him. He was just so scared he’d hurt Jaskier. With his arms crossed, he stared at Jaskier. A clear sign that he was ready and had braced himself for what was about to happen.
“Come here.” Jaskier demanded.
Geralt did so, albeit hesitant. He towered over Jaskier and Jaskier tilted his head to look at him. It irked Geralt to be higher than Jaskier.
“Kneel please.”
Geralt scoffed. The hell he would.
“Geralt,” Jaskier warned him.
“Fuck off, I won’t be kneeling at your feet like some dog.”
“You will, because I tell you to. Kneel Geralt.”
An itch spread between his shoulder blades. Defying Jaskier felt like an awful thing to do and he hated being above Jaskier anyway. What was holding him back from obeying the simple command?
He growled at Jaskier, too scared of what he felt. This went against all the Witcher-training he’d received.
Jaskier stayed seated, not impressed nor scared by Geralt’s display. Geralt pulled up his lip and growled louder. He didn’t break eye-contact. Neither did Jaskier.
“I know you’re scared. But I’ve got you. Kneel Geralt, now.” He didn’t yell at Geralt, didn’t even raise his voice.
Whilst growling, Geralt lowered himself slowly to the floor. Each knee in front of one of Jaskier’s feet. If he wanted to, he could have moved to kneel in between Jaskeier’s legs, but that felt too intimate. He felt small like this, having to look up to Jaskier to meet his eyes. He hated how that made him feel better. He had no used for his hands, and without a clue what else to do with them, he placed them behind his back, right hand clenching his left wrist.
“Good. You’re doing good Geralt.”
Geralt opened his mouth as he felt his teeth sharpen. The need to bite struck, just as it had before. He ignored the fuzzy feeling that the praise evoked inside his chest. Fuck, what was happening to him?
Then, Jaskier reached for his neck. Because Geralt was too busy fighting his own mind, he didn’t see it coming. Jaskier’s warm and firm hand wrapped around his throat and rested there lightly. Not squeezing, not hurting. Just there. A reminder.
Geralt shut his mouth and stopped growling.
“Good boy.”
The fuzzy feeling was back and Geralt couldn’t stop himself from blushing. And Jaskier saw. “Hmm,” he hummed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Geralt held himself tense, the hand on his throat a threat to not growl again. He waited silently for Jaskier’s next move.
“Relax darling, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Jaskier moved his hand from Geralt’s throat to his chin, gripping it firmly. Even if Geralt wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to move his head without a struggle. He still waited, curious to what Jaskier was going to do.
With the hand that wasn’t holding Geralt, Jaskier grabbed a bowl from the bed. It was filled with fresh, green, lush-looking grapes. Food for the riches and Geralt had no idea how Jaskier had gotten his hands on them. He found that he didn’t quite care at the moment. The only thought that really mattered was that he couldn’t eat the grapes. Well, more like shouldn’t. Such fancy foods weren’t meant for Witchers.
Jaskier picked a grape from it’s stem and brought it to Geralt’s lips. An inch away he waited, expecting Geralt to take it in his mouth.
“I can’t-”
Jaskier’s grip on his chin turned bruising. “You can and you will.”
Geralt felt his anxiety rise. “I-”
“You will.” Jaskier repeated, he clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Still, Geralt had to tell him.
“Witchers don’t deserve such delicate foods,” he rushed out. Then he waited, for the disgust, the rejection, the agreement.
“Said who? I think that, at the moment, what I say is most important. Don’t you think? And I say, eat the grape Geralt.”
Involuntarily, Geralt flinched. Jaskier was overruling centuries old masters that had taught Geralt all that he knew. Only, they were dead and not here.
Jaskier’s eyes turned soft and he held Geralt’s chin gentle. “Dear Witcher, you are allowed fancy things. Take the grape.”
Tears shone in Geralt’s eyes, tears that where trained not to fall. To hell with it all. He parted his lips.
With a tender, proud smile, Jaskier popped the grape inside his mouth.
The skin of the grape felt tight in his mouth. He shivered from the feeling, so terribly over-stimulated. Jaskier’s brows furrowed in concern.
Geralt put just enough pressure on the grape with his teeth that the skin broke and the fruit released the sugary juice that was inside. The rich flavour seeped onto his taste buds and he couldn’t help but moan. His eyes slipped close as he focussed on the sensation in his mouth. Jaskier let out a wavering breath that Geralt could feel on the heated skin of his face.
“Tell me how it tastes.”
Geralt moaned a second time, so overwhelmed. Then he gathered his thoughts to answer Jaskier. He really wanted to answer Jaskier.
“Sweet,” he rumbled. “Juicy.” He’d never been a word-smith like Jaskier.
“Hmm, wonderful.” Jaskier popped a grape inside his own mouth, humming while he chewed. “You’re right. Very sweet.”
When Geralt opened his eyes, there was a second grape waiting for him. That one he took without protest, wrapping his lips around it. Jaskier sighed. “You are a marvel Geralt. So good. So good for me.”
The feeling was back and, while still uncertain of it, Geralt lingered in it. It was nice. Kinda...floaty. He rumbled a little. Obeying Jaskier wasn’t so bad.
Jaskier kept feeding him grapes and praised Geralt constantly. That grew the strange, fuzzy feeling and after six grapes, Geralt was beyond words. His sight went hazy and his eyes drooped. That didn’t alarm him, certainly not as Jaskier kept up the kind words. He felt save. Finally.
“Geralt?”
Geralt waited for the next grape, but it didn’t come. He whined, not understanding what had changed.
“Geralt.” His chin got tilted up. “Are you with me?”
“Hmpf?” he grunted inquisitionally.
“You’ve had your bath, you ate, but you haven’t had anything to drink. I’d like you to have some water.”
Water. Geralt huffed, he didn’t think he was thirsty.
“What’s with the attitude Witcher-dear?” There was a warning in Jaskier’s voice.
Geralt backed down immediately, knowing that his attitude came from not wanting to take care of himself. He knew Jaskier didn’t like that. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and tried to hide his face from Jaskier’s penetrating gaze. The shame of it all downed on him and he wanted to curl up and never move again.
“Shit.” He heard Jaskier whisper. “Geralt, you’re alright.” Jaskier sounded uncertain and Geralt keened. He could not be strong for the both of them. He was so tired and he felt small in a way he hadn’t since he went through the trails and became a Witcher.
“Oh, oh. No,” Jaskier let go of his chin and as fast as he could, Geralt pushed his face into Jaskier’s thigh, seeking comfort. “Hey, hey darling. Look at me.”
Geralt shook his head. He was done, he didn’t want to obey Jaskier any more.
“Darling,” Jaskier pleaded in a low voice. The timbre buzzed through Geralt’s bones in a pleasant way. He let out a heavy sigh and relaxed. Jaskier wasn’t angry. They sat there for a while, both simply breathing for the sake of it. Neither of them broke the silence, needing a moment to collect their thoughts.
Then there was a hand on his cheek, caressing it. “That went wrong quickly. Are you okay to continue?”
Now that the pressure to be good was gone, Geralt calmed down. Jaskier’s thigh was warm against his face, comforting. He took a deep breath. Just minutes ago he had felt the most relaxed in days, if not months. Indeed, that went wrong quickly. “I want to continue. I’m just- I’m scared when I feel this vulnerable.”
“Scared of what?”
Geralt shivered. “Disappointing you.”
“You couldn’t, even if you tried.” There was so much love in Jaskier’s voice, Geralt didn’t know what to do. Jaskier went on.“Geralt, you are so good. You try so hard, even so that you neglect yourself. And you worry, constantly. I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
Geralt let go of the tension that still lingered in his shoulders. “Can’t help it. But it makes me so tired.”
Jaskier hummed. “Can you sleep upright? Properly, I mean?”
Yes. Yes he could. It wouldn’t be ideal, but he’d take all the sleep he could get. He nodded against Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier let out another hum. “Okay. I do think it would do you good to drink some water, could you try?”
A bone-deep exhaustion kept Geralt from moving. He sighed.
“Don’t want to move.”
A Witcher, refusing to move. He felt the shame creep up, the burning of his ears told him they went red with embarrassment.
Instead of laughing or scoffing, Jaskier petted his hair. “I’ll help you.” His hand moved and cupped Geralt’s jaw tenderly. The cold feeling of the rim of a cup startled him a little, but once he drank a mouthful of water, he only wanted more. The cup was empty within seconds.
Jaskier was reading to him, but not really. There was no expectation that Geralt would listen, some words were even mumbled too softly to understand. His head was still resting on Jaskier’s thigh and Jaskier’s hand petted his hair. The other hand was flipping the pages of the book, which was spread out on Jaskier’s other thigh.
It was a story on a young maiden getting lost in the forest. Geralt was pretty certain that Jaskier had written it himself and that it ended with the maiden getting rescued by a noble prince. Knowing the ending helped letting go of having to listen. Jaskier mumbled on, his voice drowning out any other thoughts Geralt had.
He let himself drift away with the currant of Jaskier’s soothing words. The petting and scratching of his head gave him something to ground himself with, without it he was sure he’d float to the stars to never return. Gods, he was so tired. His eyes drooped and he felt his heartbeat slow down. A yawn broke free. Jaskier didn’t even stutter in his reading. The bard paid no attention to him and somehow that was the best thing to Geralt.
The taste of sweet grapes lingered on his tongue and his sleepwear was soft against his skin. He let out a rumbling breath, being very close to purring.
The dazed feeling of being good, being protected, beckoned him to sleep. He didn’t resist. All was finally well and the fight left him. Sleep, much-wished-for sleep, there it was.