Jaskier stares.
And stares some more.
”You know,” he says slowly, ”When you said you are from the Wolf school of Witchers, I didn’t expect you to actually act like wolves.”
The White Wolf is curled on his side on the furs in front of a massive fireplace and pretends not to be awake. But he is, Jaskier can tell from the slightly tense tilt of his neck. Ciri lets out a sleepy sound and raises her head from Geralt’s shoulder and her tangled curls make her look like a half-feral thing, a proper wolf cub.
”It’s comfy,” she mumbles and flops back against Geralt’s chest. ”Warm. Nice.”
”So, when Eskel and Lambert come back from their romp in the woods, they’ll pile right next to you?”
Geralt doesn’t comment.
”If I scratch behind your ear, will you thump your leg?”
”He might try to thump something else,” Yennefer suddenly says drolly from behind him. She pronounces ’thump’ as ’hump’ and shoots him a sharp grin as she glides past with a goblet of wine in her hand. Jaskier has so far seen neither goblets nor wine in Kaer Morhen but he guesses what Yennefer wants, Yennefer gets.
Geralt lets out a low, annoyed growl.
”Perhaps you should go and join them, bard,” Yennefer says as she settles on a low, wide chair lined with furs. ”You might enjoy the experience.”
”Well, my dear witch, what if I wanted to sit on a chair like a civilized person?”
She takes a delicate sip and leans back, making the chair look like a throne instead of just a chair in front of a fire. ”You would not enjoy the experience.”
”Is that a promise?”
”I will stab you,” Yennefer says.
Jaskier snorts. ”With what? You don’t carry a knife.”
She gives him a lazy smile. ”And what makes you think I don’t? Or that I even need a knife to stab you?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. ”Ah—” he then says.
Yennefer takes another sip of her wine.
Jaskier wanders off to the side and sits on the bench to idly pluck his lute without a tune in mind.
To be fair, this wasn’t how he’d imagined this winter to go. This, or any other winter, for that matter. He’d planned on settling down in a small town somewhere and hunkering down for the off-period and then move on with spring. He’d done it countless times. But this time, something—be it Fate or coincidence—had decided to throw an obstacle in his way.
An obstacle in the shape of one very exhausted, burned-out witch unconscious in the alley.
So, Jaskier had done the sensible thing: he’d hauled Yennefer in from the street, cleaned her up, and fed her thin broth and honeyed mead when she woke up. And then he practically dragged her ass to Kaer Morhen with the full intention to hightail out of the keep before Geralt realized he was there.
His plan was good but it blew the moment when Geralt was the one to open the door.
Geralt, who for some befuddling reason left Ciri to watch over Yennefer and trailed after Jaskier.
Geralt, who apologized. It was stilted and awkward and absolute rubbish but it still made Jaskier feel warm.
Geralt, who snapped at Eskel and Lambert when they tried to stir shit (and who then retreated to sulk in the corner when Jaskier was more than delighted to trade thinly veiled barbs with them both).
Geralt, who is confusing and irritating and will probably drive Jaskier mad during the long winter months.
So, Jaskier bites his lip and plucks away with his lute.
In front of the fire, Geralt curls around a sleeping Ciri. It does look comfy, though.
That has to be the juiciest bit of the roast (right after the bit Geralt cut out for Ciri) and it’s right there, on Jaskier’s plate.
”Thank you, Geralt. You do know I can actually feed myself, right?”
”Just take the food, bard,” Geralt scowls and shoves the plate closer.
He looks at his plate, up at Geralt, and then back at the plate. ”Am I part of your pack?” He asks, delighted. ”Wolves give the best bits to their pack, don’t they?”
”No,” Yennefer says. She’s taking very visible delight in cutting into her meat. Jaskier shivers.
”No?”
”No, bard. The pack gets to eat. The best bits are for the cubs and the wolf’s mate.”
”It’s just some fucking food,” Geralt says through clenched teeth.
”You growled at me when I tried to take that part and you said it was for Jaskier,” Eskel points out with a shit-eating grin.
”He growled?” Jaskier gasps, eyes wide. ”Geralt, you brute!” If he’s being honest, he’s feeling a bit left out. He’d love to hear Geralt growl in a non-combat situation. For research! Yes. That.
”Your bard stinks,” Lambert drawls. ”You might want to do something about that.”
”Excuse me! I took a bath this morning,” he says.
Lambert chortles. ”It just makes it more obvious,” he says and lowers his voice into a stage whisper. ”Witchers can smell emotions, remember.”
”Lambert, for fuck’s sake,” Geralt growls. ”Shut the fuck up.”
”Ooh, why don’t you come and make me,” Lambert quips back, his grin full of teeth.
As Ciri giggles, Lambert vaults across the table and tackles Geralt and they smash on the floor in a snarling, growling, and barking heap.
Jaskier ignores Yennefer’s knowingly raised brow and adjusts his pants slightly.
”Get behind me,” Geralt growls, slowly drawing his silver sword from its scabbard.
”What is it?” Jaskier asks. ”I’d like to know if I should pay attention to it.”
”The only thing you should be paying attention to is staying out of trouble.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. ”I would like to let you know that I’m staying out of trouble. It’s not my fault the trouble likes me so much.”
Geralt grumbles something under his breath and shoves at him without looking.
Whatever has Geralt all huffy and puffy is big, gnarly blackish-brown, and smells horrible. It lumbers from the woods like a drunkard on stilts and its beady, red eyes zero in on them immediately.
”What the fuck is that?” Jaskier breathes out, eyes wide.
On top of being ugly as fuck, the thing is also fast, which Jaskier absolutely didn’t see coming. He yelps and dives to the side as Geralt downs a potion and whirls around to confront the monster. In a flash, it turns into a breathtakingly terrible (and thrillingly arousing, if Jaskier is honest with himself which he tends to be) battle. Geralt’s face is drawn into a snarl and his eyes are black—and, truly, that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is—but he stays surprisingly silent, the only sounds his low grunts as he swings at the monster.
And then Jaskier’s heel catches to a root and he stumbles with a pained sound as his ankle twists.
Geralt’s head snaps up and he glances at Jaskier, and—
Look. Jaskier shouldn’t be held accountable for what he perceives in the heat of a battle where his brain is twisted in a confused mess of fear, arousal, and poetic disposition. It looks like Geralt grows in size but that might just be because Jaskier is on the ground. It also looks like Geralt’s face ripples and turns feral and that his canines grow longer but that might just be because Jaskier finds his snarling face unfairly attractive. But the low growl he lets out? That is definitely real. It’s wet and furious and promises bloody and painful death to everyone around him.
What happens is that Geralt goes absolutely unhinged and tears into the monster, hacking off bits and pieces in a more violent spray of blood and gore than Jaskier has so far seen. When it’s over, he stands still for a while, breath heaving and monster guts steaming in the cold air, before turning around and staggering to Jaskier.
”I’m alright, Geralt. Truly,” he tries to placate the Witcher. ”I just twisted my ankle. That’s all.”
Geralt doesn’t seem to hear him. Slowly, he falls to his knees next to Jaskier and reaches out his hand, hovering above Jaskier almost as if he’s afraid to touch.
”Geralt,” Jaskier says again and sighs when Geralt’s black eyes turn to him. ”Honestly. I’m fine.”
”I thought—”
”I was clumsy,” Jaskier interrupts gently. ”It was my own fault.”
Something in Geralt’s face twists at that and Jaskier has a sinking feeling Geralt is actually blaming himself for this. And that just won’t do.
”I should’ve—” Geralt starts, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions and—nope. Jaskier grabs Geralt’s bloody shirt and yanks him close enough to kiss. It’s disgusting because of, you know, blood and guts, but it’s also glorious because it’s Geralt! And they’re kissing!
”Well. If I’d known the bard had a thing for gore, I would’ve dragged him into the woods earlier,” Lambert says from behind the carcass.
With a growl, Geralt rips himself away from the kiss and shifts to shield Jaskier behind him.
”Yeah, yeah, he’s yours, White Wolf,” Lambert drawls. ”Just don’t fuck him here. He’ll get frostbite.”
Jaskier really can’t help it. He flops on his back on the mushy snow and laughs.
That’s it. Jaskier has died and ascended to Heaven. That’s the only explanation for this—this—whatever this is.
Because he’s had a lot of fun in bed with both women and men and even multiple partners at the same time but he’s never—
Nothing like—
Yes, he’s known Geralt’s size for almost as long as they’ve known each other. You cannot share a room and not learn about these things, it’s just natural, but not even the knowledge has prepared him for this. Geralt is massive and Jaskier has just realized that he’ll never be able to bed anyone else because this is perfection, this glorious feeling of being overstuffed and filled to the brim and—
”Shut up,” Geralt grunts and yanks Jaskier’s hips up and closer, pressing deeper and—Sweet Melitele this is it, he’s now really dead—flattens himself on Jaskier’s back.
He’s trembling on all fours and barely able to breathe but it doesn’t matter, because Geralt is a hot weight on his back and his hands cage him in and he’s picking up his pace and Jaskier has come once and he might come again very soon and—
Geralt is now almost frantic, letting out a barely audible whine and Jaskier drops his head on his pillow and—
Two, no, three things happen: Geralt bites down on his neck, goes absolutely still, and inside Jaskier, something grows.
”What—Geralt!” Jaskier yelps. ”What—ahh fuuuuucckkk—” His voice turns into a breathy groan as that something keeps growing and it actually hurts up until Geralt somehow pushes even closer and shivers. It transfers into that something lodged in his ass and hoo boy, now it press-vibrates relentlessly against Jaskier’s prostate and he gasps helplessly as he comes almost against his will. His twitching makes Geralt shiver and nudge that still massive something inside Jaskier and the pain-pleasure loop continues until he whites out.
(Fucking knots. Fucking Wolf witchers have fucking knots. For fucking. In their cocks. Knots.
”I have to say I’m relieved you’re not from the Cat school,” Jaskier slurs when his tongue finally obeys him again. ”Cats have barbs in their cocks.”
Geralt sighs. ”Go to sleep, bard.”
Yeah. Heaven.)
”I’m not dying,” Jaskier says.
Or more likely, tries to say. It comes out like ”Mmbotgying,” accompanied by a hacking cough and a feeling he’s about to pass out, and not in the sexy way.
”You sound like it,” Ciri says. She sounds judgmental, which, rude.
”At least it would give us some peace and quiet in the night,” Lambert snorts and then takes a step back when Geralt turns to him and growls.
If Jaskier didn’t feel so terrible, he’d enjoy Lambert’s bewildered look. Or, you know, if he could open his eyes without feeling like someone pushed a hot poker through his eye into his brain.
”Do we need more firewood?” Eskel says. ”We need more firewood. Yeah. Come on, Lambert.”
Their familiar bickering fades away as they walk out, leaving behind the crackling of fire and Ciri’s low humming. And the wheezing in Jaskier’s lungs. It’s terrible. Absolutely not in tune with whatever melody Ciri is almost-butchering.
”Drink this,” Yennefer says which is odd because she wasn’t there the last time Jaskier opened his eyes. But now she is, and the fire has burned low and the light is dimmer. Or perhaps it’s just his eyes finally giving out?
”Jaskier. Drink,” Yennefer repeats. She brings the goblet to Jaskier’s lips and carefully pours a bit of liquid into his mouth. It’s pleasantly warm in his mouth and burns on the way down, leaving a tingling feeling on his tongue.
”Finally poisoning me, witch?” He asks and then starts to cough.
”Don’t talk,” his back grumbles. Oh, it’s not—it’s Geralt and Geralt’s chest, his lovely chest, and Jaskier is leaning on him.
”Jaskier,” Yennefer says again, drawing his attention back to the drink. She slowly helps him down it all in small sips and the effort leaves him drained and dizzy.
”What is it?” Geralt asks.
”Mulled wine with turmeric, ginger, cardamom, cinnamon, and honey,” Yennefer says. ”And some other stuff. Helps fight congestion and fever.” She pauses and a cool hand wipes sweaty bangs from his brow. ”He should sleep now.”
The next time he wakes up, the hall is dark and the fire has died down to dulled orange embers glowing. The room is cold—it is winter in Kaer Morhen, after all— but he doesn’t feel cold. It takes him a moment to realize why, and when he does, all he can do is huff and shake his head slightly.
He’s still held snugly against Geralt’s chest with Ciri snoring lightly on his other side. A warm weight that turns out to be Lambert rests against his legs and the arm slung across Geralt’s hip has a familiar ridged scar across the thumb, telling him exactly where Eskel is. On top of him, Geralt, and Ciri is the fluffiest blanket Jaskier has seen since he left Lettenhove.
A small sound makes him raise his head, only to see Yennefer sitting in her customary chair with her goblet in hand, eyes glimmering in the low light.
”Yes, bard,” she murmurs, amused. ”You’re in a wolf pile.”
Huh.
Well. There certainly are worse places to be, right?
Letting out a contented sigh—that doesn’t end in a cough, progress!—he wiggles closer to Geralt and smiles as his Wolf’s arms tighten around him.
Yes. Definitely, there are worse places than this, he thinks and drifts back to sleep.