Chapter Text
The next day, he wakes alone. It’s the first thing he thinks to do, actually – look for Eskel – but all he spots are some conspicuously folded clothes at the end of the bed. He flops back down to the bedding. Rubs at his eyes. What a mess he’s found himself in again.
Eskel is … an odd one. His behaviour is so unlike Geralt’s, it’s almost off-putting. He doesn’t know what to do with all of that attention. Certainly, Eskel’s overbearing. Jaskier, though he doesn’t announce it from the rooftops, is a middle aged man. Yes, yes, but his complexion so supple and wit so sharp etcetera and so on, but the truth remains: it’s not right for Eskel to be dressing him like an invalid. He supposes he might qualify, somewhat, for the category with this magic confusion going on, but – that’s not the point. He feels like Eskel takes the whole mile and then some, never mind if he even offered the inch.
Shuffling under the covers to hide from the chill, it’s not a bad problem to have, he supposes. Melitie’s grace only knows what he’d be facing if Eskel hadn’t found him, and it’s not like he was in a particularly good state before then, either. He’d been on his proverbial last strike at the inn, not able to find the motivation to move on but quickly running out of the good spirit of the innkeeper. Maybe it wasn’t helping that he was doing half of his sets tipsy and the other half feeling like he’d rather be anywhere else in the continent, even in the kitchen with that young sprig washing up. No, it wasn’t helping. But did his qualifications as a master wordsmith and court-renowned bard mean nothing? To those backwaters, very possibly. There’s not much pretty words can do without substance, in those kinds of places. It would’ve been better to orbit around cities, goodness knows he could’ve passed a quiet year in residence at Oxenfurt.
There’s this … rottenness … he feels at his core. Every time he passed through a town it’d felt like they’d all known, could sense something festering. He couldn’t teach like that, couldn’t compose.
He sighs into the pillow. Around the attack of panic, he wasn’t even sure if he was relieved when he’d heard Geralt wasn’t here. Geralt was the one who gave him this horrible feeling – surely shouting at him and maybe even getting to throw something at his stupid albino head would make it go away.
He feels bad as soon as he thinks it.
Ugh.
He lays there for some time.
Lays there until the door creaks, and Eskel pokes his head in. “Jaskier? Morning.”
“Good morning,” he says, playing like he’s still half-asleep.
“Sorry to wake you,” Eskel says, diplomatically – Geralt never let this kind of thing slide! “I got your bags I promised yesterday,” he says, nudging the door open further and piling them inside. “Ves is on a warpath with training this morning, can I help you down to breakfast before I have to run?”
“No, no, please don’t wait on me,” he says.
“It’s no trouble, really,” he says, not really making any motion like he’s going to leave. With the way his foot is edging into the room, it more so looks the other way.
“I shan’t worsen Vesemir’s mood further – please, Eskel, go on. I’ll manage just fine.” It’s easy to fall back onto courtly mannerisms, at least.
After a moment Eskel nods, “I left a change of clothes for you. Need anything, just yell,” and then he slips back out.
He rests for a little longer, like he’s trying to prove the lie, before he can’t stand it any longer and has to know what the damage is.
He takes it slow – padding over to the bags, dragging them one by one to the hearth side, and pulling some pillows down for his own comfort. But he gets it done. And then collapses onto said pillows, a little out of breath.
There are five bags in total; he’d only travelled with two and his lute case, which is present, and a little more rumpled than he remembered. Pulling it out – it’s in one piece.
He sighs, relief more potent than a shot going through him. Thank the powers that be, and all that. Strumming, a few of the tuning pegs were knocked out of place, and one of the strings has snapped, but those are easily fixed. He rummages in the case and even finds his slip of replacement strings. Good omens abound.
Turning to the other bags – only one of the rest of them are his.
It has his books, jewelries, and a few creature comforts but that’s it. Goodbye to his woodwind accompaniments, clothes, and everything else, apparently. He’ll miss those green mittens and that purple doublet.
The other bags could have anything in them, good or bad, and he’s already in low spirits from the loss of the majority of his possessions, but it’s not as if he has anything better to do.
One has a scant wardrobe of a young woman, and the other two the writing materials of a scholar.
It takes him what must be the better part of the morning to catalogue his findings, to go through and mark each of the things he still has and to wrack his mind for any valuables yet unaccounted for in the “missing” list.
For he can’t be assed to the embarrassment of dressing himself and finding breakfast, he curls up even more resolutely by the fire, notebook in hand. He wishes for his journal, for any reminder of his own thoughts before this mess. Who exactly he was, because he feels more than a little unmoored.
He shouldn’t call it a mess, really, he’s been quite lucky.
Before this … upheaval. Of his life.
He’s doing naught but thinking himself in circles, so instead he writes down what he can remember from the stories told yesterday during training. A little for both Eskel and Lambert, and then it feels strange to have started forming archetypes for them in his mind without Vesemir, so he starts doodling turns of phrase at random about wolf packs, winter, and hunts.
Flipping through his recent pages, he makes some small edits but mostly finds a dearth of work, both in quality and quantity. It’s not surprising, most of his persistent low mood in recent months was somehow related to it. But to return with a fresher mind, it makes itself indisputable.
He crosses out all but a few promising bits across the pages; rhymes, themes, rhythms.
It’s then that his stomach protests its neglect with a lengthy growl, and he finds his back stiff and behind aching from so long hunched over.
It’s impossible to say what time of day it is and, in fact, from his excursions yesterday he hadn’t spied a single clock apart from those used in the laboratory, assumedly for keeping measure of alchemic projects.
He makes it maybe halfway to the kitchens before his overconfidence bests him and he goes listing sideways into the wall of the hallway, vision suddenly patchy and speckled with stars. He exhales both in surprise and with the force he hits it. It’s not so much of a conscious intention as it is an autonomous bodily function that he slides to the floor, slowed by friction with the wall, thankfully.
“Eskel?” He mumbles, mostly confused. Even as the sound leaves him, he knows it isn’t loud enough to summon any of the witchers – Eskel had said yell.
Well, he might feel better and not need to do something so undignified. He hangs his head between his knees and tries to recover his gelatinous sense of balance.
Deep breaths.
He remembers when he’d been panicking and Geralt ---
Deep breaths.
Slow, deep breaths.
It’s Vesemir who finds him – eventually, he’d given up and shouted, “Help!” after a best-forgotten attempt at standing.
“Oh dear,” Vesemir says as he walks over.
“Sorry,” is all Jaskier can think to say.
“None of that, good on you for calling,” Vesemir says, kneeling beside him. “Hows about I bring you along to the kitchens with me and we fix up lunch?”
“Sure,” he manages, head still spinning. “I’ll need help.”
“I’ve got you,” Vesemir says, taking the same grip beneath Jaskier’s arms as yesterday. “Ready?”
“Yessir.”
He’s hauled to his feet with what he’s sure is delicacy but feels like whiplash. He pants out a few breaths before the haze clears from his vision and he realises Vesemir is waiting. “Good to keep going,” he ventures, and starts walking with Vesemir’s support.
It’s a slow, silent walk.
Vesemir guides him straight to the kitchen and sits him at a small table behind the counters.
Once he’s satisfied Jaskier won’t also list sideways out of his seat, he turns and fetches him some water.
“Something cool might help,” he says as he hands it over.
He drinks. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Dizziness? Anything else?” Vesemir asks, already navigating through the kitchen and pulling out an assortment of containers and ingredients.
“Like being lightheaded with a headache, and the dizziness, yes,” Jaskier says, pressing the cup to his forehead.
Vesemir hums and doesn’t stop his prep.
There’s a plate placed in front of him, before he realises any significant time has passed.
He blinks down at a hearty sandwich, “Thank you.”
“Eat up, then we’ll talk more,” Vesemir promises. To a bard, it’s catnip, and Vesemir is far too wise to not know so.
The food, though he’s sure it’s well made and delicious, goes down like a mouthful of sand at a time.
Vesemir’s not without heart, though – he commentates as he works. Talking about this year’s crop of produce they’ve just finished putting into cold storage, the particular method to get the crackly crust on the bread, and the local lake he’d fished tonight’s dinner from earlier in the morning. Jaskier even manages to get a few questions in: and what about that seed mix, and, how on earth did you carry that thing back! It’s a giant, to which he learns in response, the secret ingredient is dried onion bits and that he’d brought a trailer – not because it was too heavy, but because he’s a decent hand at fishing and it’s easier to pile them in there rather than a sack.
Vesemir takes his empty plate and replaces it with a chopping board, a knife, and vegetables. “We’ll do a big, early dinner this evening. Those two have been at it all day, they’ll be hellions as soon as the sun goes down. We’ll roast those.”
“Yessir,” Jaskier says, and gets to it. He’s no chef, but after watching him peel and rough chop a few potatoes Vesemir deems him competent and turns back to his own task.
“So, tell me about yourself, Jaskier. I’ve heard plenty second and third-hand.”
“All entertaining, I hope?”
“No hope in asking if they were all good?” Vesemir asks after a moment, with a wry smile.
“I’m a bard!” Jaskier exclaims, finding energy in the well-worn refrain. “Attention is attention, good or bad. The worst sin a bard can commit is inciting boredom.”
“I cannot imagine how you and Geralt travelled together,” Vesemir laughs, reflexive.
“It’s a mystery to me,” Jaskier laughs, accommodating, but Vesemir’s punctured his good mood. “I had the upbringing of a minor noble, but didn’t do much with it, or myself, until finding a love of poetry and attending Oxenfurt for the four long years required to attain my professorship. I wandered out onto the road shortly after, and have been wandering ever since.”
“Four long years,” Vesemir sighs, mockingly consolatory.
“It’s a long time to be told one’s voice has a squawk,” Jaskier says, obligingly playing up his seriousness.
“It must have been terrible,” Vesemir agrees. “I can understand why it tempted you into the wilderness.”
He’s not sure what possesses him bar wanting to rip the bandage off, “I met Geralt on the road not long after I began wandering, actually.”
“Really? I bet you got along swimmingly, at that age.”
“Basically best friends from the moment we met, yes. We travelled together for quite a few of those years.”
Vesemir rewards his performance with a smile, which falls as he returns to kneading. “Geralt hasn’t been back for winter for two years now, but I assume it hadn’t ended well, when you two last spoke?”
“Quite right. He was the one who – who called it off.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Vesemir says. “We were all glad to hear he’d found himself a companion to spend the seasons with, he can be ... taciturn.”
“It’s both easy and difficult to imagine him here,” Jaskier confesses. “I see his behaviour in you and Eskel, but I’m realising just how distant he must’ve been with me.”
Vesemir wipes the sticky bits of dough from his hands, and turns to face Jaskier.
“That was a bit too dramatised, even for a bard. Forget I said it,” he says, gesturing Vesemir back to his task with the flat of the knife.
“I shouldn’t’ve prodded,” Vesemir says. “It’s certainly not your fault. If you’d like, feel free to talk about it more – but I don’t mean to put you on the spot.”
“Truthfully, I’d rather hear more about this place. So you have the hot springs, a lake, what else should I know about? I saw a few more buildings while outside yesterday.”
Eskel and Lambert only make a reappearance in the early evening at dinner. Vesemir’s helped Jaskier to the table, and they’d been talking about the history of the keep.
Eskel sits next to Jaskier once he and Lambert have finished ferrying the food to the table.
“How’d it go, with the bags? Sorry I had to run this morning,”
“Oh, alright, though I think you might’ve taken some other people’s bags in the rescue – I only had three with me, and two of them were with you.”
Eskel doesn’t seem too surprised, “Hm, I didn’t think some of them were yours, but I wasn’t sure if they’d shuffled things around. Your lute?”
“Whole and well, was wanting for a tune but she’s singing beautifully once again – thank you.”
“Would you consider performing for us, at some point?” Eskel asks, with such a tone it sounds like he thinks he’s being cheeky. “Though, I wouldn’t want you to feel like you had to work.”
“Would I consider it – Eskel, you flatter me. A captive audience all winter long? You had no hope of escaping it,” Jaskier confirms, more than a little smug at the prospect.
“Goody,” Lambert mutters darkly.
“No need to be bitter,” Eskel chides, heaping more meat onto Jaskier’s plate. “Just cause you can’t hold a note, Lamb.”
Jaskier retires early that evening after they spend the afternoon playing cards and gwent, mentioning that he clearly still needs his rest.
Eskel joins him in bed late into the night, rolls Jaskier over onto his belly, hips on a roll of blankets for easier access. Jaskier’s got a pretty face, fitting for a bard and all, but all Eskel needs now is his body. Makes it easier to focus on the task at hand.
He pulls Jaskier’s pants down around his thighs and brings him to consciousness with axii as he presses the open tin of lube into his palm. “Finger yourself open, don’t rush and don’t move too much,” he instructs, watching Jaskier’s eyes blink and take in his limited field of view.
He loosens the fastenings of his own pants and sits back to watch the show.
Jaskier collects some of the thickened oil on his fingers, and goes immediately to pressing one in. He hadn’t been anticipating that, for how Jaskier had flinched from him the previous night, but can still see how tight Jaskier must be. “How’s it feel? Pain or discomfort?” He cautions.
Jaskier’s voice is muffled against the bed, “No pain, uncomfortable because it’s been a while.”
He wants to ask more and instead gets distracted by the pull of Jaskier’s rim as he withdraws. Fuck, it’ll be a long time before he can take his dick.
But it’s not long at least before he’s thoroughly fucked the oil into his skin and everything’s gliding easier, his breaths deepening. “Eskel?” He starts, because Eskel had him well trained under axii as soon as he took him.
“Yes, Jaskier?” He answers, giving Jaskier permission to speak.
“My erection is hurting, against the sheets,” Jaskier says, and yes – his hips are looking particularly stiff.
“Stop moving, hips up,” Eskel says, and palming underneath Jaskier finds his cock trapped awkwardly under his pelvis. “Hm, there we are,” he murmurs, giving it a few strokes just to watch the involuntary shivers ripple down Jaskier’s back. “Better?” He asks.
“Yes, thank you Eskel,” Jaskier’s voice is nearly a sigh.
Eskel tugs it into position back between Jaskier’s thighs, so he can still pet it while Jaskier fingers himself. “OK, lay back down and keep going,” he says.
Jaskier returns with more lube and a second finger to fuck into his softened hole. His hips are rocking better back into his fingers, now, and Eskel’s got the perfect angle to watch him spread and scissor his fingers open. He rubs his thumb against the underside of the head of his dick, just to encourage the pulse of pre out at Jaskier’s thrusts over his walls.
Then, because he’s already touching, he thumbs over Jaskier’s hole. Pliant and slick now, as he should be, he knows with some kind of certainty that Geralt hasn’t fucked Jaskier. It would’ve been too long since they were in contact to make any defensible argument for it, but he doesn’t need that when he knows how Geralt leaves his fucks – raw, red hot, and sloppy. He just knows that Jaskier hasn’t had the pleasure yet. This hole hasn’t been touched by a witcher at all, he’d go so far to guess.
Drunk on this vision of Jaskier in his bed, fingering himself, he barely hears himself say, “Fingers out,” and replaces them with his own index.
It occurs to him, only when he’s up to the second knuckle, that he’s likely taking this first from Geralt.
He nudges his finger deeper until his knuckles press into the barely-there plush of Jaskier’s ass. It lights a long simmering instinct in him – that of rivalry and selfishness they’d left behind when they took out on the path. There haven’t been many times since their grassing that he’d gotten one up over Geralt; was able to make him grind his teeth.
He wonders again where Geralt might be, what he might be doing, and what he might do if he knew Eskel was on track to be the first wolf to fuck Jaskier. Has a finger hooked into the heat of him, now. For all of Geralt’s levelheadedness, he gets as territorial as the rest of them when they can rile him up right.
He tugs back, pressing the pad of his finger as he withdraws, then rocking back in before the taper of his fingertip. Jaskier clings, still too tight by a mile for much more than a leisurely fuck. “Relax,” he remembers to say, and sees Jaskier’s shoulders slump down. Doesn’t do too much for his hole, but he doesn’t need Jaskier waking tomorrow and complaining of mysteriously sore muscles.
He takes his own cock in his other hand. He gets into a rhythm; forcing his finger into that clutch at the same time as he brings his grip down over the length of his cock.
Unbidden, a memory comes to him from decades ago, when he and Geralt had first shared a human. It’d been in the first few years they were fully fledged witchers, when they were a little less reserved around others and still so desperate for every second they could have together. Unused to not living in each others’ pockets. Geralt had arrived in the small town tavern first and tucked himself one of the far corners, away from idly straying eyes.
Eskel had known it was him from the white in his periphery before he even saw Geralt’s face, and when he did look over and they met eyes, he found Geralt paused in conversation with a young man.
He’d wandered over slowly, waiting for Geralt to give him a signal to leave him be with this sweet thing for the night, but Geralt didn’t move from where he faced Eskel.
The human boy’d caught sight of Eskel by the time he rounded over to their table, and quite naturally his eyes went wide with fear at his scarred face and stature. Though, when Geralt said, “Eskel, it’s good to see you”, and taken Eskel in a quick hug before moving to give Eskel space to sit, he only looked between them with curiosity.
The boy wanted to bed Geralt, it was clear, and thought it was a sure thing – but then wasn’t sure how Eskel might change those plans. Geralt’s attention had shifted onto him now, and yes, it’d been six months since they’d last seen each other, but they were going to have all winter together. Geralt should branch out if he had the opportunity, right? It’s not something Eskel was ever going to get.
He remembers rolling his eyes, and saying behind his tankard quietly enough for only a witcher to hear, “For fuck’s sake Wolf, go give the poor kid the night of his life,” and then when Geralt glowered at him, “I can’t even enjoy my ale like this.”
The boy was at least attentive enough to know something was going on, and had jumped up with a promise to get another round of drinks. “No,” Geralt had enunciated sharply, suddenly moody. “Who cares about him. I’ve not seen you in months.”
“Melitie’s tits, do you need me there to hold your hand?”
Geralt had flashed his teeth, “Yes.”
In those days, Geralt had taken it as a personal mission to prove to Eskel, in whatever ways that he could, that his scarring wasn’t so hideous. He supposes it helped over the years, but it was downright annoying at the time. “You’re gonna scare him off.”
“Then let him be,” Geralt had shrugged.
He’d known it was irrational even at the time, but still couldn’t help himself from feeling it, “So this is your plan to get rid of him anyway? With my face in the bedroom?” He’d bit out, as if Geralt had ever had the cruelty in his heart to use Eskel’s disfigurement like that.
“Not what I meant,” Geralt said quickly. “We go together, if two witchers are too intimidating for him, he wouldn’t have been much fun anyway.” Then, coaxing, “Are you sure just the two of us can’t…?”
Eskel had glanced at the boy across the bar, pleasing enough on the eyes and certainly eager to please, too. He’d shaken his head, “Go get a headstart with him, I’ll meet you.”
Geralt stood, locking eyes with the boy across the bar and nodding in the direction of the stairs, and had given Eskel a lingering look before he’d left, saying “You’d better come, I won’t go easy on him.”
In the time it took Eskel to unwind and trail them up the stairs, Geralt was giving the boy just what he wanted. They were both on their knees, and he was pink faced and gasping for air as Geralt’s thrusts pushed them up the bed. He was out of it – there’s not much else he could’ve been when Geralt was set about ruining his hole with such focus, but he’d cracked a wobbly smile when Eskel approached, exhaling “Eskel!” through tremors. The bedding beneath him was sticky with release, already.
Eskel took his face in hand, kissed that wet mouth and felt the buzz of his moans against his skin. “Been taking Wolf so well.” He’d slid a hand between their bodies, felt for the drag of Geralt’s cock on his raw hole. He’d shuddered beneath Eskel at the touch; at his fingers feeling out the swollen flesh of his rim. “Give you a break, just for a bit, otherwise you’ll be more than sore tomorrow.”
The boy nodded, delirious. Eskel wasn’t sure if he understood.
He shifted on the bed until he was behind Geralt, able to lay a kiss on the protrusion of bone where Geralt’s spine met his neck. He’d taken a hip in each hand and tried to slow him, saying “Easy, easy. Fuck his thighs now.”
There were broken whines from the two of them as Geralt pulled out, just barely far enough to free his cock and then thrust it between slicked and shaking thighs with Eskel’s guidance. Geralt was panting by then, chasing the edge of pleasure he’d been so close to.
The slap of Geralt’s hips against the man’s ass had told Eskel just how needy Geralt had gotten for a half-decent orgasm, even if he hadn’t been seeing for himself the tense clench of Geralt’s jaw and how his hands grasped at the bedding. He’d offered his arm to bite down on, and Geralt had drawn blood as he groaned through an orgasm.
Later after they’d had some time to breathe and still interested despite all of Eskel’s expectations, the boy had looked hopefully at the line of Eskel’s erection, hidden by his clothes. “Won’t you fuck me too?”
He can’t remember exactly what he’d said, something like “I shouldn’t; it’s big,” and had fought the urge to bat Geralt’s hands away as he’d started fondling him over the fabric.
Undoubtedly having heard this many times, he’d rolled his eyes – well, got halfway through rolling them before re-valuating the people he’d found himself in bed with. His tongue darted out to wet his lip and he’d directed to Geralt, “Witcher, would you show me?”
Geralt had smirked meanly at Eskel as he undid the fastenings of his pants and pulled out the heft of his cock. The boy’s eyes went wide. “So, really, I won’t be fucking you tonight,” Eskel had said.
He’s sure Geralt had taken the lead then, because he remembers having both of the boys working together on blowing him. One of the moments sticks to his memory; Geralt’s hand massaging his knotting band, his head tiled to the side as he’d laved his tongue along the shaft. His hair had fallen across Eskel’s lap and his pupils were near black. The human’s eyes were shut, blissfully mouthing at the slit as he fucked his glans through the tight grasp of his hands.
He also remembers Geralt getting snappy later, and cursing at him as he hauled the boy off and up to kiss him instead, saving him from Geralt’s apparent possessiveness. He’d been so soft, so sweet, against Eskel’s side. Fucked out beyond most thought, wanting only for touch and nearness to them.
The memory is too distracting – he’s hard and aching like a bruise, already on the precipice of orgasm.
He presses the head of his cock against Jaskier’s hole. Not firm enough to try to breach it. Melitete knows they’ve got plenty more stretching needed before he could take it, but it’s enough to kiss against his rim. His knuckles strike his pale bottom on most strokes, giving it just the barest flush; another thing he’d like to do properly but that needs Jaskier’s waking knowledge.
When he cums, coating Jaskier’s hole and getting more on his skin than even inside, it feels like he’s seeing double with that memory – of Geralt having drenched that human’s ruined, gaped hole like he’s covered Jaskier’s, just barely open.
It’s a mess very quickly, cum sliding down his crack to drip to the sheets. He gathers it on his index again and presses what he can back into Jaskier. It feels like he’s righted something which should’ve been done a long time ago, was neglected by Geralt in all of his self-sabotaging misery.