Chapter Text
The sun was already high in the pale sky when Jaskier first stirred. Geralt had heard the change in his breathing some minutes prior and was lounging at the bard’s side. He caught Jaskier’s flailing hand before it could smack his face and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
Jaskier’s eyes popped open and he blinked, peering around the room before he seemed to register where he was. “Geralt?” he croaked, then winced.
“It’ll be lunch soon,” Geralt offered in return. “Someone will come to check on us if we don’t get up.”
“Well we can’t have that,” Jaskier agreed. He rubbed his eyes ruefully with his free hand and stretched with a whine. “Ugh, Geralt, your family will think you’ve mauled me.”
Geralt admired the bruises he had scattered across Jaskier’s neck and shoulders. There had been no complaints when Geralt pressed teeth and lips against his lover’s skin, he recalled a bit smugly. The bard had sung rather prettily in fact.
He grinned and bent his head, placing another kiss on Jaskier’s wrist. This time he scraped his teeth across the fragile skin there. He could feel Jaskier’s pulse speed beneath his tongue.
“Down, boy. Or we’ll be here all day,” Jaskier murmured.
He rolled into Geralt’s space in spite of the protest, lifting his face expectantly for a proper kiss. Geralt couldn’t help but oblige him.
Jaskier’s strong, calloused hands traced up Geralt’s arms to clutch his bare back. Heat shuddered down his spine at the firm contact and he levered himself up, bracketing the bard beneath his shoulders and between his thighs. Jaskier gasped and dug his nails into Geralt’s skin. The sting of it was like a current straight to his cock.
He trailed one hand down the coarse hair on Jaskier’s chest and paused, teasing, at the sensitive skin below his belly.
Jaskier arched up into his hand. The muscles in his stomach jumped and twitched at the light touch. “Don’t stop now,” he gasped. “I thought this was meant to be a good morning?”
“It’s nearly afternoon,” he corrected. He rolled his hips and both of them moaned at the languid friction.
Jaskier’s answer was a sharp bite to his bottom lip and the scrape of nails down his shoulders. Geralt groaned and pressed down more fully upon him, stretching one hand down to grip Jaskier’s cock.
“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier pressed the words into his neck. “Fuck. You feel–”
He had never heard Jaskier sound quite so breathless. Liquid heat shuddered through Geralt’s whole body. The rhythm he had built between hips, hand, and mouth stuttered and spasmed. “Keep talking, Jas,” he commanded. His voice felt thick and heavy with need.
Jaskier pulled back and looked up at him. His eyes were all pupil, blown and glittering in the late morning sun.
“You’re so good, Geralt,” he whispered.
Geralt shuddered and spilled across Jaskier’s hip. He could feel Jaskier shifting, settling them both on their sides. He opened his eyes in time to catch the end of the bard’s own orgasm which had quickly followed his own.
Jaskier shuddered through the aftershocks, then lifted himself up on his elbow and grinned. “Oh, Geralt,” he said with a glint in his eye that promised terrible, terrible things. “We’re going to have fun this winter.”
His own eager reply was interrupted by someone hammering on the door.
“Oy, dickheads!”
Geralt rolled to his feet and crossed the room in a few quick strides. The towel from Jaskier’s evening bath was draped near the hearth. He took it up and wrapped it loosely around his hips as he walked.
Jaskier scrambled to pull the covers up in his wake. “Geralt, don’t–”
Geralt lifted the latch and the door flew open. Lambert caught himself before he overextended his hand, already mid-knock. He took in Geralt’s state of undress and leered.
Geralt grabbed the door, blocking most of his brother’s view inside. “Fuck off.”
“Eskel set lunch out. Time to stop dodging chores, Wolf.”
“Fine.” Geralt pushed the door closed on Lambert’s waggling eyebrows.
Jaskier was already out of bed and moving.
They cleaned and dressed with the efficiency honed by years. Jaskier babbled idly about the opportunity to interrogate other Witchers during their stay. Geralt listened, mostly quiet except to huff a laugh or make a comment when Jaskier paused for air. It felt like they were back on the Path together again.
The difference was that now Jaskier would pause and press a finger to the bruises on his neck with a glazed sort of smile. Now, Geralt allowed his gaze to linger on the curve of Jaskier’s ass and the muscles of his thighs. It took them longer to get ready than normal, though Jaskier’s growling stomach eventually won out.
Before they stepped into the hall, Jaskier paused for a moment with his hand on the door latch. “Geralt?”
“Hmm?”
“I do love you, you know.” He said it carefully, meeting Geralt’s eyes with some strain.
Geralt covered Jaskier’s hand on the latch with one of his own. He pressed closer, inclining his head into Jaskier’s space until they were temple to temple. His nose pressed against the crook of Jaskier’s jaw.
“Jaskier,” his voice came out rougher than he meant and Jaskier shuddered, fine goosebumps rising across his neck.
“Oh, good,” his bard said weakly, “just making sure.”
Geralt pulled back to meet Jaskier’s eyes. He was blushing. Geralt hummed thoughtfully, contemplating how long it would take for Lambert to come back.
Jaskier shook himself and stepped away, apparently understanding his meaning perfectly. “Absolutely not, you menace. I’m fucking starved. Let’s go.”
As he followed his bard through the halls of Kaer Morhen, Geralt tried to tame the warmth blooming in his chest. His fingers twined through Jaskier’s and the sound of Ciri’s laughter echoed up through the halls. For a moment, it felt like he might burst.
It wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to lasting long. He tugged Jaskier closer as they walked.
“Do you think the other Witchers will have any news about Nilfgaard?” Jaskier asked as they approached the main hall, “or did you already discuss it last night?”
“They may know something. We didn’t speak on anything of consequence last night.”
“Will they help? With Ciri, I mean,” Jaskier asked, slowing their steps to extend the conversation before they joined the others.
“Maybe,” Geralt said with a shrug. “They’ll protect the sanctuary of Kaer Morhen. When winter lifts, we’ll need to have a plan. I don’t know if they’ll want to be involved.”
Jaskier frowned, thoughtfully. They had slowed to a full stop outside the doors to the main hall.
“Vesemir is excited to speak with you,” Geralt offered after a moment.
“Me?”
“He maintains the Keep’s library. We don’t have many records of mortals mingling with the Fae.”
Jaskier smiled blandly. “Well it doesn’t happen often. But there have been a few notables. Including myself, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Nauczyciel had a collection of books authored by a mortal guest of the Summer Court. He used to assign me readings when I was still settling in.”
“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, interested in spite of himself. Witchers didn’t have faerie tales. Not in the same way humans did, at least. But he couldn’t help but be intrigued at what stories the Fae would find worth recording.
“I might be persuaded into a poem,” Jaskier offered magnanimously. “If you ask nicely.”
Geralt hid his smile and lifted the door’s latch. He stepped aside for Jaskier to enter first, noting how the bard squared his shoulders before the threshold.
“Geralt! Jaskier!” Ciri called, clear voice cutting over the others. She patted the bench next to her invitingly.
Jaskier perked up as he made his way to her side. “Thank you, my dear! And how did you sleep?”
“Quite well,” she said firmly. Her chin stuck out in a stubborn point, belying her statement.
“How was your room?” Geralt asked as he dropped into the seat across from Jaskier.
Ciri frowned and glanced up the table to ensure no one else was paying attention. “There were rats.”
“That’s a good sign,” he told her, hiding a smile. “That means you got one of the warm ones.”
“Lovely,” she muttered, soft enough that he could pretend he hadn’t heard.
“Have you done any exploring yet?”
“Yennefer said I should wait for you.”
Geralt nodded. “There are things here that are dangerous to the unaware. I’ll show you – show you both,” he added with a look at Jaskier, “– after lunch.”
Eskel joined them, two bowls of stew in hand. He sat next to Geralt and offered the bowls to the latecomers. “And then you’ll come up to the North tower with me. Some of the stonework needs to be repaired.”
“The cub and the bard can chop and stack wood,” Vesemir suggested.
Lambert grunted, “If the princess can handle it.”
Ciri glared at him, back rigid. “Of course I can.”
“I’m afraid I’m the one you’ll need to coddle this winter,” Jaskier cut in with a blithe smile. “I’ve spent the past year languishing at court. But between the two of us, I’m sure Ciri and I can manage whatever chores you name.”
Geralt, who had first-hand experience with Jaskier’s callused hands, privately doubted that Jaskier’s time at court had been anything close to languishing. He kept this thought firmly to himself. Ciri’s shoulders had loosened slightly, so the comment had served its purpose.
Lambert still had the furrow between his brows that spelled trouble. But trouble with Lambert was inevitable.
Yennefer, seated beside Vesemir at the head of the table, cleared her throat pointedly. “Whatever chores you name, as long as they can be completed before supper. Ciri will spend her evenings with me. We’re finally in a position to begin her magic lessons, and I won’t waste the opportunity.”
Ciri lurched, head whipping between Yennefer and Geralt. “Magic lessons?” She asked, eyes wide.
Geralt frowned at Yennefer. He had been planning to speak with Ciri about her training in private. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You have the power. You need a teacher.”
“I’ll be able to do sorcery? Like you?” Ciri asked Yennefer.
Yen smiled. “Let’s start with lessons and we can see what comes of it, hmm?”
Ciri nodded. There was a brief moment of quiet, then she pinned Geralt with a considering look. “What about the mornings?”
“We can study in the mornings instead if you–” Yennefer began.
Ciri shook her head. “No, I mean… In the mornings, if I don’t have chores to do, can I learn other things?”
“Like what?” Jaskier asked, already scraping the bottom of his bowl.
“Like fighting. I want to learn to fight like Witchers do. So no one can ever best me.”
The table seemed to erupt as five voices began speaking at once, too intertwined to even determine who spoke in favor and who against. Ciri’s chin jutted out still further, muscles in her jaw ticking away at the rising tension. A headache bloomed behind Geralt’s eyes.
It was going to be a long winter.