Everyone in the room ignores Jaskier’s insistence.
“Honestly, you’re all making such a—”
“Hush.” Geralt’s command leaves no room for argument.
Jaskier, pale and bright eyed where he lies in their bed, snaps his mouth shut.
Geralt hasn’t stopped pacing since he deposited Jaskier on the bed while Yen got Triss and Vesemir. Eskel, Lambert, and Aiden heard the commotion and followed the sound of Geralt’s bellowing to see what all the fuss was about, so now, all the keep’s inhabitants are packed into a room barely big enough for the two of them. Geralt nearly trips over Lambert’s feet every time he paces, but neither of them care to do anything about it.
Triss holds Jaskier’s hand, her brow furrowed in concentration while Vesemir holds an instrument up to his ear and presses the other end to Jaskier’s belly. They’ve been checking Jaskier over for what feels like hours in Geralt’s mind but has really only been a few minutes.
Geralt’s getting impatient. “Well?”
Triss looks up at him then to Vesemir. She’s frowning, but she’s not making any sudden moves to save Jaskier’s life, so it can’t be too dire. Vesemir shakes his head, lowering the instrument.
“They’re both fine,” Triss says.
Geralt does trip over Lambert’s foot, then. He catches himself at the last moment and stumbles to Jaskier’s side. The bard finds his hand and tangles their fingers together. Geralt squeezes as hard as he dares.
“Fine?” Jaskier asks. Gone is his bluster from earlier. Geralt can hear the too-quick thrumming of his heart, smell his worry in the air.
“You’re well, Jaskier,” Vesemir assures him. “And so is your pup. It’s just that your heart is working a bit too hard. Have you been experiencing any dizziness, black spots in your vision when you stand?”
Jaskier flicks his eyes to Geralt’s for only a moment. “Yes.” When Geralt rises again, prepared to yell at him, he corrects, “Only the past day or so, though.”
“You could have told us, Jaskier.” Triss’ voice is soft. She looks a bit peaked in the pale green dress she’s wearing. She’d hastily tied her hair up into a bun upon entering the room, and half of it is falling loose. She’s worried about him. It warms Geralt’s heart just the slightest to know he’s not the only one going frayed at the edges over this. “We’re here to help you.”
Jaskier pouts and starts playing with Geralt’s fingers. A few days ago, he’d taken one of his own rings and jokingly shoved it on Geralt’s pinky, and he’d yet to remove it since. Geralt likes the feel of it. Jaskier likes messing with it while they’re holding hands. “I didn’t think it was anything worth noting,” Jaskier murmurs.
Everything about you is worth noting, Geralt wants to tell him, but all that comes out is a grumble.
Jaskier avoids his gaze then asks, “What do we do?”
“You aren’t doing anything.” Vesemir rises from the bed with a parting pat to Jaskier’s leg. “You need rest. As much as you can get. You’re not to leave this bed for more than a few minutes until the pup comes.”
Again, Geralt tries to speak, to say I’ll strap him down if I must, but he only manages a low growl.
Triss drops Jaskier’s hand and backs away from the bedside. Lambert takes a reproachful step in front of Aiden.
Yennefer, who’s been hovering nearby in case Triss needed her assistance, steps forward and places a hand on Geralt’s arm. “Put your teeth away, Geralt. No one’s going to touch your little bird.”
With no small amount of shame, Geralt realizes he’s been snarling. He ceases at once and leans closer to his omega to press his nose in his hair.
Blessedly, Vesemir starts talking before anyone can make note of Geralt’s behavior. “This is relatively normal at this stage of pregnancy. We should be thankful it’s only becoming an issue now instead of earlier. We’ll make sure you have lots of water and meat to keep your strength up. You can go for a short walk once a day, but never on your own. Don’t even attempt the stairs. You’re staying within running distance of this room.”
“How long?” Jaskier’s voice is tense. Geralt can smell his worry wafting off him in waves. He growls softly, hoping the rumble of his voice will calm the omega. “Should I expect the pup tomorrow? Another month from now?”
Geralt’s head is turned away still but he can hear Vesemir shrug. “It’s hard to say for certain, but I would wager sooner rather than later. You said you conceived around Belleteyn?”
Jaskier nods, bumping Geralt’s nose as he does.
“Then it could be any day now. We pray you carry to term, but I wouldn’t hedge my bets on it.”
The bard’s hands stray to his belly and Geralt covers them with one of his own on instinct. The others shuffle out, giving them privacy.
Once the door closes, Jaskier drops his head and groans. “I feel like an invalid.”
Geralt frowns and presses a kiss to Jaskier’s ear. “You’re not.”
“Ah, so you can talk,” the bard muses. “For a minute there I was worried you’d gone full alpha on me. It’s very sweet, and possibly one of the sexiest things I’ve ever witnessed, but you’re rather a bore to talk to when you’re like that.”
Geralt snorts. “Can’t have you bored, can we?”
“It’s quite possibly the worst thing that could happen to me at this moment.”
Rolling his eyes, Geralt sits up. “And how can I ensure you’re entertained, my liege?”
“I can think of a few ways…” Jaskier drifts a hand down Geralt’s chest, across his stomach, to hook into the waist of the witcher’s trousers—
Geralt catches his wrist before he gets any further. “Anything but that.”
Jaskier pouts like Geralt’s just told him he can’t have dessert before dinner. “Can’t I just have you in my mouth? Nothing more.”
Geralt feels himself start to harden at the soft plea, but he ignores it. “You already had me in your mouth this morning.” His chest warms at the memory. Soft lips, hot tongue, stuttered breaths stirring the hair beneath his navel… “Besides, if standing is an issue for your health, I can’t imagine gagging will do you much better.”
Jaskier blushes, drawing his legs up under the covers. “I’m getting better at it, though,” he protests. His scent has mellowed back out, sour worry replaced with the sun-warmed honey of arousal and embarrassment. “I hardly choked this morning. Only once or twice.”
“Which is one or two times too many for my liking.” Geralt eases the bard back against the pillows, tucking a few more in around him to keep him secure. “Can I get you anything? Other than—” He cuts Jaskier off when he sees the glint in those pretty eyes. “—my cock.”
With a huff, the omega flops into the pillows. “I suppose a book will do. But only if you read it to me.”
Geralt rolls his eyes at the bard’s impertinence but goes to find a book of fables Jaskier adores.
⚘⚘⚘
Even with books, and a minimum of two guests to keep him company at any given time, it takes Jaskier all of three days before he’s complaining.
“Can’t I just go to the library?” he whines from the bed. He’s given up on asking to be taken to the hot springs. Geralt doesn’t want to risk taking him that far. Besides, his omega’s heart always beats faster in the hot springs, from the heat and the proximity of Geralt’s naked body. He’s not willing to risk the added stress to his heart.
But this? This he can do.
Geralt uncorks a bottle and upends its contents into the tub he’s been gradually filling with water. The scent of chamomile, a bit too strong for his sensibilities, fills the air of their room. “No.”
“But Geralt—”
“Jask, we’ve talked about this.” He sets the bottle aside and lifts a hand, casting Igni. There’s a ripple over the water, then steam begins rising from its surface.
“No, you’ve talked about this. I’ve had no say in it.”
Geralt turns his back to the tub (it will need to cool down for a few minutes before he lets Jaskier in) and puts his hands on his hips. “Exactly. Because if it were up to you, you’d still be strutting about the keep.”
Jaskier frowns. He looks ridiculous, frankly. His hair is fluffed up on one side from his post-lunch nap. He’s managed to acquire every unused blanket and pillow in the entirety of Kaer Morhen—and a fair few of the in-use ones as well—and has constructed himself a truly impressive nest. Geralt has to climb over its walls every time he leaves or enters the bed. It’s enough to make him smile, even with Jaskier’s near-constant complaining.
“I do not strut.”
Geralt snorts.
When he deems the water cool enough, he coaxes Jaskier slowly from the bed, making sure he doesn’t rise too quickly. He strips him efficiently, ignoring the bard’s waggling eyebrows, and gets him in the tub with little fuss.
Jaskier sinks into the water with a sigh, leaning his head against one end. Luckily, it’s large enough for him to lay back and stretch out his legs. It was made for witchers, who are tall and broad and often covered in unspeakable things, so it’s the perfect size for a man of average height and build to lounge in.
“I know it’s not the springs,” Geralt says, taking a seat on stool beside the tub. “But it’s still nice, right?”
Jaskier grumbles his unhappy agreement.
His discontent melts away almost as soon as Geralt gets his hands in his hair, washing it and brushing it out with his fingers until Jaskier’s purring drowns everything else out. Geralt tries not to be too smug about it. He’s been patient with Jaskier’s moods the past few days. He’s never carried a child, so he has no clue what his bard is going through. He’s seen how he winces when the pup kicks him, noticed how frequently he has to relieve himself these days. Geralt knows Jaskier’s not upset with him—he’s just upset. This is one of the small things he knows Jaskier loves.
He rinses Jaskier’s hair then runs his hands down the omega’s neck, massaging his tight muscles.
Jaskier melts further, his chin nearly dipping beneath the lukewarm water. He looks as if nothing can shake him from his peace.
Nothing, that is, except for a loud thud from the room next door.
Jaskier jolts, and Geralt turns his head to listen: there’s another soft thunk, a hiss of a voice, then a shuffle, then Eskel’s voice muttering an apology. From Jaskier’s curious eyes peeking back at him, he knows he can’t hear the voices and is trusting Geralt to relay any pertinent information. A soft chuckle—light and feminine—from the room next door makes Geralt decide it’s none of his business until someone makes it his business.
He shakes his head softly. If Eskel has decided to whisk a certain curly-haired sorceress to a more private room, it’s no skin off Geralt’s teeth. It is, however, a bit strange they’ve decided to dally in the room right next to the nesting omega. Odd choice, but who is Geralt to judge?
“Just Eskel,” he tells Jaskier. “Sounds like he’s finally getting around to replacing the chipped grout in the room next-door.”
There’s an innuendo there waiting to be picked apart, but Jaskier doesn’t pay it any mind. He reclines in the tub and tips his head, letting Geralt know he’d like to continue this little massage, please and thank you.
Geralt snorts and does as he’s asked.
⚘⚘⚘
The mysterious sounds from next door continue for the better part of the week before Geralt gets answers.
He’s dubious about his first assumption. If the constant clunks and scrapes are the sounds of Eskel’s lovemaking, he may need professional intervention—in the medical sense, not the professional sense. Though he supposes Eskel’s partner has all the expertise he would need for such an ailment.
The medical expertise, of course.
He and Jaskier are having dinner—roast quail and potatoes in some fragrant broth for which Vesemir refuses to share the recipe—with Yennefer keeping them company in the chair by the fire. None of them have dared trying to enter the nest. Geralt grits his teeth when anyone is within shouting distance of his omega, but Jaskier himself has begun showing signs of aggression common in nesting omegas. Everyone steers clear from his nest, not even daring to look at it for more than a few seconds, and no one besides Jaskier has touched Geralt since Lambert patted his arm in passing after breakfast one day and Jaskier exploded into a bone-chilling snarl. Geralt had been floored. He’s never even truly heard Jaskier raise his voice at anyone besides the occasional alderman who thought he could get away with shorting Geralt on payment for a contract. This snarl—primal and raw and wholly un-Jaskier—made him freeze in place.
So, Yen keeps her distance.
Surprisingly, she and Jaskier get along great. Geralt worried that now Jaskier knew about his romantic past with Yennefer, things would be strained. Quite the opposite. It seems both having had Geralt at one point or another is all the common ground they needed to become thick as thieves. He’s come to accept that if the two of them are in a room together, Geralt will be the butt of every one of their jokes.
He's letting their conversation wash over him, ignoring the muted whispers from the room adjacent to theirs with his empty bowl in his lap and his belly full. He’s warm. Content.
“Ah!” Jaskier’s soft cry catches his attention. Once, it may have scared him to hear such a noise, but he’s grown accustomed to the way his omega’s hand jolts to his side when the pup decides it’s time to move.
Yen, however, is on her feet before Jaskier can assure her he’s fine. “What’s wrong?” She’s gone pale beneath the dark blue wool gown she’s wearing—the nicest thing she’s worn since coming to the keep. “Do you need me to fetch Triss?”
Jaskier chuckles and sinks back into his pillows. “No, no. She’s just fidgety. Kicked me in the ribs. She’s rather fond of potatoes, I think. Can’t stop wiggling every time I have them. Which is frequently, by the way. Why these witchers grow so many tubers is beyond me—”
Geralt rolls his eyes and takes Jaskier’s bowl when it’s done. As he rises and takes their dishes to the tray on the table by the door (Vesemir will come fetch it soon, or Yen will take it with her when she leaves), he’s aware of Yen’s trouble gaze. She sat back down when it became clear Jaskier wasn’t going into labor at that very moment, but there’s still a frown resting firmly between her brows.
“Would you like to come feel?”
Geralt’s spine goes straight. His back is turned so he can’t see the look on either of their faces. He’s afraid to look and break whatever moment of intimacy the two of them may be having.
This is big, he knows. Though her ascension had changed her much the same way the Trials had changed Geralt, Yennefer is all alpha. She masks it with the coyness of her eyes and light perfumes that soften her scent, but it’s clear to anyone with half a brain what she is. Jaskier is in his own nest that he shares only with Geralt. Even when Triss comes in to examine him, she’s taken to easing him into one of the lounge chairs they’ve brought from the library instead of joining him on the bed. To invite Yen near, to touch him, is a massive test of faith.
He still can’t see Yennefer’s face, but he hears the tremble in her voice when she asks, “Are you certain?”
There’s a puff of air from the nest—the sound most commonly paired with Jaskier’s award-winning eye rolls. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. Come.”
Geralt tries to give them privacy, he really does, but the closer Yen’s footsteps get to his nest, the more tense his shoulders grow until they’re raised nearly to his ears. He bites down on a growl and spins, gripping the table behind him to keep from lashing out.
Yen’s smart enough to know not to enter the nest. She merely leans over and reaches out a hand, waiting for Jaskier to grab her wrist before touching him.
Jaskier’s face is passive, as neutral as it can be, but Geralt feels his apprehension as if it’s his own. Much of their arrangement hinges on how well Yennefer gets along with Jaskier and the pup. If he doesn’t trust her around his child, or if she isn’t willing to protect them both, then her training will fail before it ever truly begins. Geralt may have agreed to train her, but Jaskier is his first priority. If he’s uncomfortable or unhappy, or there’s even the slightest chance this could lead to him or the pup getting hurt, Geralt is pulling the plug. If they’re to travel the Path together, the four of them, as a unit, this needs to work.
Jaskier pulls her hand until it rests on the swell of his stomach over his shirt. He shifts her around, brow furrowed, until the pup gives another kick. He grins triumphantly as Yennefer jolts in surprise. Her eyes dart from her hand to Jaskier’s face, then back again half a dozen times in a few short moments.
“Do you—that doesn’t feel comfortable?” It’s the most unsure Yen has ever sounded.
Jaskier laughs, relaxing minutely and letting go of her wrist. “Sometimes I can ignore it. Every now and then she’ll get particularly rowdy and decide to pick a fight with my liver or what have you.”
Yennefer’s hand lingers for a moment before she finally steps away. “Sounds like she’ll make a fine witcher one day.”
The tension that had left Geralt when she stepped away from the nest returns in force. Jaskier’s eyes go wide then snap in Geralt’s direction for the first time since he walked away. The bard shrinks into the bed. His hand curls under the swell of his belly.
“No,” Geralt finds himself saying through gritted teeth. “Not that.”
Jaskier stares at him, his scent going sour in the air. He doesn’t speak.
Now a few paces away from the bed, Yennefer twists her hands together. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
Geralt glares at her. “You did, though.”
For the first time since he’s known her, Geralt watches Yennefer of Vengerberg drop her head. “I’ll leave you be.” Then she’s gone, the door left open in her haste.
Geralt is back in the nest in an instant. “She’s wrong.” Jaskier’s still looking at him oddly, so he continues. “I don’t want the pup to be a witcher. She needs a proper childhood. She doesn’t need to be able to wield a sword before she can climb a tree on her own, or hunt before she’s learned how to read. I don’t want her to grow up the way I did—”
He’s rambling, he knows. It’s something he’d never done before he met Jaskier. Just another one of the countless ways this man has changed him.
The man in question reaches out for him, halting him mid-tirade. “It’s fine, dear heart. Just Mumma brain going a bit wild.” He pulls on Geralt’s arm until he relaxes beside him, letting Jaskier curl up against him. “I don’t mind the idea of her witchering one day, once she’s grown.” When Geralt only blinks in surprise, he laughs. “What, did you think the idea was completely foreign to me? Of course I’ve thought about it. While she’s sure to have my share of musical genius and blinding wit, if you’re raising her, she’s bound to be tough. If it’s what she chooses, I have no qualms. Well, okay. I have several qualms, but they’re not too qualmy so as to be an obstacle.”
He's not lying. Geralt would know if he was. Still, it’s impossible to imagine. What parent would want their child going into a profession marred with blood and disgust of others? Geralt, for one, does not want this child to face what he’s had to face. He’s been beaten and bloodied, left at the brink of death for nothing but sheer luck to bring him back. He’s been scorned from entire cities, spat on, and cursed. And before the Path, he’d suffered grueling training and the horror of the Trials. The pain still haunts him sometimes, the screams of his dying brothers ringing in his ears long after he wakes.
A finger jabs between his eyebrows, poking without mercy. “Stop that,” Jaskier tells the frown on his witcher’s face. “You’ve said it yourself. You witchers are making your own rules now. You’re bending them for Yennefer, and you’ll bend them again if one day our child decides this is what she wants, too.” His finger moves down the striga scar bisecting Geralt’s eyebrow that’s long since healed. “I know you’ll protect her, just as you’ve protected me. There’s no one I’d trust more with her.”
Geralt sighs and drops his head to his omega’s shoulder. His scent is stronger here, thicker. It grows more honeyed each day. It’s all he can do to keep from curling up and keeping his nose pressed right here all day. “You’re a fool,” he tells the bard.
“I know.” Jaskier’s reply is lacking the mirth Geralt had expected. “But it’s true. I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you. I’d let you lead me blindfolded over a pit of vipers if you promised we’d make it to the other side.”
“You have my full permission to push me in if it ever comes to that.”
The bard snorts, but before he can reply further, someone raps on the open door.
Eskel steps in, one hand covering his eyes. “You decent?”
“No,” Jaskier says. “But we are clothed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Eskel peeks between his fingers like he’s afraid Jaskier is lying, then drops his hand when he sees they are indeed clothed. Geralt rolls his eyes. “We have a surprise for you,” Eskel says.
“We?” Geralt asks.
As if summoned, Triss appears at Eskel’s side, draping a hand around his elbow. “We’ve got a present for you next door.”
Jaskier looks to him. Geralt shrugs and peels himself from the nest, reaching for Jaskier’s hands to help him up as well. It takes a moment to get him upright, mostly due to Geralt making sure he’s not rising too quickly.
Triss and Eskel lead them to the room next door—the one they’d initially put Jaskier in before he moved in with Geralt, the one Geralt had thought Triss and Eskel to be making very creative love—and as they do, the rest of the keep’s inhabitants appear in the hall. Yen still looks chagrined, but she’s smiling just the faintest where she stands against the wall between Vesemir and Lambert.
Triss stands before the closed door. “We’ve all been working on this for the past few weeks.” She turns to smile at each of the people gathered in the hall. “Vesemir had the idea, and everyone else has pitched in to make it happen.”
“Enough with the pomp and circumstance!” Lambert cries. “Just open the bloody door.”
With an eyeroll to rival even Jaskier’s, Triss opens the door and steps aside to let them enter.
Geralt eases Jaskier in front of him, letting him be first, and he’s glad he does. The second the bard steps inside, he gasps and falls back into Geralt’s chest. He catches him, prepared to sweep him up if he’s fainted, but he’s merely staring at the room with shining eyes.
When Geralt looks up, he can see why.
The whole room has been aired out and scrubbed clean. It no longer smells of dust and stale woodsmoke as these unused rooms often do. The wooden pallet bed has been removed and, in its place, sits a crib, carefully constructed with stars and moons carved into the slats. A wooden hoop hangs above it, more stars and moons carved from wood and painted silver dangling from it as it spins slowly—likely magic, of some sort. By the fire, there’s a new rug woven from various shades of blue. Beside that is a rocking chair Geralt has never seen, already draped with cushions and blankets, ready for use.
“Oh.” Jaskier’s voice comes out small but he’s holding himself upright again, now merely holding onto Geralt’s arm for support. He turns in a circle about the room, reaching out to touch the hoop above the bed. “I had a mobile like this when I was a child. Did you make it?”
“Eskel carved the stars,” Triss says. She and the others stand at the door, letting Geralt and his omega explore the nursery for themselves. “Yen painted it. I cast the enchantments. It will spin on its own, and it glows at night. Lambert and Aiden brought the fabric for the rug. Vesemir helped put the rocker together.”
Jaskier’s hands drops and grips the edge of the crib. He gazes down into it, eyes shining.
Geralt swallows a few times to clear the lump in his throat. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.
“It’s not much,” Eskel tells them. There’s a meekness to his voice, like he’s embarrassed to have been caught doing something sentimental. “But we’ve never had a baby in the keep, at least not as far as Ves can remember.”
Geralt looks to his father, who’s still leaning against the wall in the hallway, letting the younger witchers watch the events unfurling in the nursery. The old wolf shakes his head. “The youngest boy we ever had just turned three when we got him,” he says. To someone who doesn’t know him, the bitterness in his voice would be unnoticeable. Geralt and his brother’s clock it immediately. “Besides, your girl deserves more than a musty cot in a drafty hallway.”
The lump in Geralt’s throat returns, and he tries to hide it by draping himself around Jaskier, holding onto his belly and scenting him gently. “What do you think?”
Jaskier turns to press his cheek to the top of Geralt’s head. “Gods, it’s perfect. I’ve never—I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”
Geralt knows what he was expecting. Before Oxenfurt, Jaskier had waxed poetic about a basketweaver he’d once met in Rinde who made baby baskets that could be carried on your back. He’d talked about them so much that Geralt had looked for anything remotely similar every time they were near a market. Jaskier never expected a full room for his pup. He’d only ever thought of a single basket with which to carry her.
A shudder works its way up Geralt’s spine, but it’s not wholly unpleasant. Guilt over not thinking of this sooner loses out to gratitude for this family doing it for him.
This is what Jaskier deserves. He deserves a room for his child to sleep and play and grow and be loved. He deserves a home. Not a tent or a bedroll or a room at an inn. A home.
And Geralt hadn’t been the one to provide it for him.
Jaskier turns in his arms, running his hands up Geralt’s back until he’s clutching his shoulders, pressed as close as they can be with the pup in the way. “It’s perfect,” he whispers again, muffled in Geralt’s shirt.
Geralt lifts his eyes to his family once more, all watching him with wide eyes.
He smiles at them and pulls Jaskier closer.
⚘⚘⚘
Jaskier manages to convince Geralt to let him test out the rocker for a few minutes before he’s herded back to bed. He’s been upright too long. His heart isn’t putting up a fight yet, but Geralt isn’t willing to even give it the chance.
But try as he might, he can’t keep Jaskier out of the nursery over the next few days.
They end up moving in his favorite chaise lounge so he can keep his bedrest and be able to take in the space at the same time. Triss and Vesemir warn against moving, but Geralt, perhaps, is the only one who understands. His own nesting is getting bad—he’s been stockpiling food and water, even though he knows they won’t run out, and he finds himself growling every time anyone is nearby. He can’t imagine how bad Jaskier’s is.
He hides it well. Their nest in the bed is only partially dismantled so he can have some of his favorite blankets with him in the nursery. He’s been rearranging everything frantically, even going so far as to sew up the holes in the blankets. But he does find his moments of peace between redecorating and complaining of the heat flashes he’s been having. At times, the pup stills and Jaskier can find some respite, which is usually when he decides to pick his lute back up or put his head in Geralt’s lap so his alpha can play with his hair and read him stories.
Geralt loves those moments of quiet.
Which is probably why the interruptions put his teeth on edge.
Yennefer means no ill will—she merely raps lightly on the door while Jaskier is snoozing and Geralt is watching the rise and fall of his chest, one hand in his bard’s hair and the other on his stomach. But still, Geralt glowers at her, seething as she motions for him to join her in the hallway.
Later, he will apologize for his sneer and thank her for not setting foot inside. Frankly, he’s fed up with his own territorialism, but he’s so focused on keeping Jaskier and his pup safe, he’s fine with being a prick to the people he loves.
He leaves the door open a crack so he can come if Jaskier calls.
Yen shifts on her feet and crosses her arms.
“What is it?” Geralt keeps his voice low. Jaskier doesn’t sleep through the night very well these days, so his naptime is precious.
Graciously, Yennefer knows to keep her voice down as well. She frowns at him. “When were you going to tell me he has magic?”
Geralt sighs and leans against the wall. He was afraid this was coming. “He doesn’t.”
“I’m not stupid, Geralt,” she says, a corner of her mouth twitching upward. “You don’t have to hide it from me. I felt it when he let me feel the pup kick. He practically zapped me with it.”
“It’s not his magic, we don’t think.”
“We?”
He nods. “Vesemir knows. Eskel and Triss as well. At this point, Lambert and Aiden probably do as well.”
“Oh, so I’m the only one left out of the loop then?”
She’s upset. She’s hiding it behind sarcasm and prickly words, but Geralt knows her well enough to know what it means when her scent sours, like wine left out in the sun for too long.
He takes a step closer (he’s no longer so on edge, with a mostly shut door between his nesting omega and an unmated alpha) and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Yen,” he says softly. “We didn’t leave you out intentionally. None of us really know what it means yet. We’ve hardly had the time to talk about it. And to be honest…” He lowers his voice more, so that on the off chance Jaskier is awake, he won’t hear. “I’m not sure he knows about it himself.”
She blinks. “Are you serious? How can he not know?”
Geralt shrugs and drops his hand but keeps his voice quiet. “He’s never mentioned it before and I know he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t lie to me about this.”
“He never spoke of a change? Odd things happening around him? A conduit moment?”
“Never.”
Yennefer frowns even harder. “That doesn’t make any sense. He’s, what, twenty?”
“There about.”
“Something was bound to have happened by now. People with that much chaos bouncing around inside them don’t just sit inert for two whole decades, Geralt.” She stops, her violet eyes widening. “What if someone put a curse on him? Some sort of binding to keep his powers at bay?”
The thought makes Geralt’s chest tighten. He glances into the nursery just to make sure Jaskier is still snoozing happily, curled up around a pillow. “Wouldn’t you be able to tell that sort of thing?”
“Not always, especially if it was put in place by a powerful enough mage who knew what they were doing.” She purses her lips in thought. “Does he have any enemies? Anyone who might want to control him?”
“I don’t know.” The thought scares Geralt enough to have him reaching for his swords out of habit—but they’re in the bedroom. He’s safe. Jaskier is safe. Kaer Morhen is safe. He shakes his head at himself. “He left his family when he conceived. I don’t know all his motivations, exactly, but I do know his family had… influence.”
She nods, like it makes any sense. “Then they would have had access to a mage, most likely in court somewhere. And wealthy families have a myriad of reasons to hide their sons’ magic. Control, fear, prejudice. Money. If he’s their only son, in some places… well, you can understand why they wouldn’t want their sole heir running off to Ban Ard.”
“Vesemir mentioned the pup’s magic is stronger than Jask’s, that they’re both protected by it. He said that’s why they’re both so healthy when male omega pregnancies don’t… don’t…”
Yen taps her fingers to her chin. “I didn’t see that, but… well, I only noticed it when I touched him, and that was brief. It could have been her magic, for all I know.” She must see something on his face, then, for she sighs and pats him on the arm. “It’s all speculation, Geralt. All that matters is that they’re both safe, right?”
“Right.”
“Then the rest of it can be resolved later. It’s not life or death.” She clearly says it with more cheer than she feels, but Geralt appreciates the effort, nonetheless.
“I should talk to him about this.”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling for the first time. “I think you have to.”
⚘⚘⚘
Geralt waits until Jaskier is well-rested and recently fed to bring it up.
They’re in the nursery again. Jaskier reclines on his chaise, scribbling in one of his notebooks, and Geralt, on the floor, has drawn the bard’s feet into his lap and is rubbing out the aches Jaskier has been complaining about. They’re silent, save for the scratching of Jaskier’s pencil on paper and the occasional sigh when Geralt digs the hinge of his thumb into his arches.
“Jask?”
The bard hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t look up from his writing.
“Have you ever—that is, I mean…” Geralt’s stuttering catches his omega’s attention. He’s never been particularly composed around him, but Jaskier knows he only trips over his words when he’s anxious. Which he is. Very. He’s trying to keep his scent calm, neutral, but even as he thinks it, he can smell his own nerves rising in the air.
Jaskier setts his notebook aside. “What is it, love?”
Geralt frowns and runs his hands up to Jaskier’s ankle to distract them both. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. It’s… something Vesemir brought to my attention, then Yen…”
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice a smidge harder than it was a moment ago. “You’re making me nervous. What is it? You know you can ask me anything.”
“Do you have magic?”
Geralt keeps his gaze on Jaskier’s feet (pale and simple, peeking out the bottom of his trousers) and continues the slow, soothing motions of his hands. It’s not doing much for Jaskier anymore, he knows, but he fears what will happen when he no longer has something to occupy his hands.
He needs the answer. They all do. But he’s never asked anything like this of Jaskier. He’s always let the omega set the pace of their relationship. He let him tell Geralt of his pregnancy in his own time, even though he’d already known. He revealed bits and pieces of himself gradually, let Geralt puzzle it all together until he truly knows Jaskier. The only things he’s ever withheld from Geralt are his real name—which Geralt is honestly content never to know if that’s what Jaskier wishes—and his true feelings for the witcher. But even then, while he’d never said the words aloud until Geralt did, he’d shown it in countless ways before then. His songs, the way he defended Geralt to other humans, the way he remembered Geralt’s fondness for honey-glazed doughnuts—it all told Geralt what he needed to know before the words “I love you” even grazed his lips.
Jaskier’s hand comes into Geralt’s line of sight. The inside of his middle finger is stained black from charcoal. His thumbnail is broken from where he’d let it get too long and it had gotten caught on his lute strings. Geralt could pick out those hands from a lineup, he thinks. At this point, he knows them better than he knows his own.
Those charcoal-dusted, lute-calloused fingers hook under Geralt’s chin and tip it upright until he’s looking up into those cornflower-blue eyes that have followed him for the better part of the past year. There’s a line between Jaskier’s eyebrows, but he’s not upset like Geralt feared. He’s only confused.
“Do I have magic?” He repeats the question like he hadn’t heard Geralt properly the first time.
“Yes.”
“Dear heart.” Jaskier blinks, shakes his head. “Don’t you think I would have told you by now if I did? Don’t you have some sort of, I don’t know, sixth witcher sense for that kind of thing?”
Geralt snorts. He lifts a hand to touch the wolf-head medallion resting just beneath his collarbones. “Just this. It vibrates when there’s strong magic nearby.” He doesn’t add, however, that witchers can sense certain types of magic themselves. His sense for it isn’t as innate as Vesemir’s or Eskel’s, but he’s had moments where he’s looked at someone and known they’re a mage before they even open their mouths.
“But it’s never vibrated around me.” Jaskier’s hand drops from Geralt’s chin to the medallion, stroking a finger over it. “Why do you ask?”
Geralt notes he hasn’t yet said “no.”
“Vesemir noticed when you arrived, then Eskel,” Geralt says. “Then Triss and Yen once they’d touched you. They say magic… it’s all over you, Jask.”
He frowns harder, brow scrunching in confusion. “But I—I don’t have magic. I couldn’t. I would have known by now, right?”
His confusion eases the tension in Geralt’s spine. He’s telling the truth. This is news to him, just as much as it has been to all of them. “Possibly,” Geralt says. “There are ways you wouldn’t though.”
“Such as?”
“Yennefer mentioned someone may have limited your ability to access your chaos,” he says, skipping around the word “curse.” If it had worried Geralt to hear, he can only imagine what it would do to Jaskier’s nerves. “Or, it could be something benign. Latent Elder blood, for instance, or a blessing placed on you by a priestess—any number of things. Or…”
“Or?”
Geralt shifts to sit beside Jaskier on his lounge. Jaskier makes room for him easily, flipping his blankets back to settle over Geralt’s lap once he’s settled. “The pup’s sire. You knew him well?”
Jaskier nods. He looks away, his cheeks tinting. “Yes. His family has worked for our—for my father—for decades. He and I were raised together.”
“Is there any chance he had magic?”
Jaskier laughs, sharp and sudden. He catches himself quickly, pressing his fingers to his mouth. “I’m sorry.” He glances at Geralt sheepishly, then chuckles again. “No. Odard? No.”
“Are you certain?” Geralt asks. “Ves says the pup’s magic is… significant.”
The bard’s mirth melts back into confusion. He presses a hand to his belly like he’ll be able to glean the answers simply from touch. “I suppose… it’s not wholly impossible. But I don’t know… why wouldn’t he have told me?”
“It’s all speculation, Jask. It might not be his magic. Or, if it is, it could be so well hidden even he hadn’t a clue.” He catches Jaskier’s hand as he senses him tipping from confusion to worry. “Listen. Vesemir said the magic—whoever’s it is or wherever it came from—is protecting you both. It’s not a bad thing. Something that has kept you both whole and healthy could never be a bad thing, in my book.”
Jaskier’s face softens, and he cracks a smile, tipping forward to rest his forehead on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt makes room for him, moves his legs out of the way so Jask can cuddle up against him, and presses his cheek to the bard’s hair. They scent each other impulsively.
“I still want to know where it came from,” Jaskier murmurs after a few moments. Geralt had assumed they were done. “If this is something that could… help us or… harm us. I would like to know.”
Geralt hums. He agrees. Magic is something people kill and die for. Even latent magic has power that drives men mad. If what Vesemir said about magic attracting monsters is true, Jaskier and his pup could be in danger.
Geralt wonders what it says about him, that he’d been drawn to Jaskier like a moth to a flame.
“Is anyone in your family elven?”
Jaskier lifts his head. “I doubt it. My father…” He shudders and shakes his head. “He’s not the sort to keep the company of elves, even in his own family.”
“And your mother?” He’s never mentioned her, Geralt realizes. The handful of times he’s spoke of his family, it’s only ever been to complain of his father’s cruelty. Surely someone as kind and caring as Jaskier had a female influence on him growing up. He couldn’t have spawned from his dickbag of a father’s loins.
Jaskier’s scent sours and he drops his head again. “She… no. She wasn’t elven. My father would have… he wouldn’t have married her if she was.”
He speaks of her in the past tense. Geralt knows better than to pry. Instead, he kisses Jaskier’s hair and says, “Alright. Then it likely isn’t Elder blood. That’s one less avenue to explore.” He leans back into the chaise, pulling Jaskier with him until they’re both reclining again. “We’ll figure it out, Jask.”
Jaskier nods silently.
Neither of them speaks again for a good long while.
⚘⚘⚘
Over the next few days, something grows inside Geralt.
Not in the literal sense—Jaskier is the one doing all the growing, after all. But each passing moment sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. He’s not content until he and Jaskier both are in their nest and everyone else in the keep is far, far away.
He forgets that these people would rather fall on their own swords than harm Jaskier or the pup. He forgets they’re here to help. He forgets they spent the last few weeks preparing a special place just for Jaskier and their daughter. The second he hears footfalls in the hallway, he’s on his feet, steel sword in hand and ready to defend his pack.
It comes to a head when Triss comes to check in on Jaskier. She’s the only one Geralt will tolerate in the room with Jaskier. Aiden, even though he’s an omega, is too much of a threat even unarmed. Witchers are trained killers. Geralt would rather hurl himself off the parapets than let any of them close to Jaskier.
Jaskier is fed up with Geralt’s constant growling and pacing, but even he bristles when Triss enters. Still, he smiles at her and goes when she beckons him to leave the nest. Geralt places himself at the door, far enough away to not crowd them but close enough to intervene if necessary. It’s all he can do not to growl the entire time someone else is in the room.
Once Jaskier’s to his feet, Triss slips an arm around his waist to steady him. Looking back, Geralt knows the wince his omega lets out has nothing to do with Triss’ touch and everything to do with the pup’s weight pushing down on his bladder, but he can’t think of that in the moment.
Geralt sees red.
He can’t recall what happens next, only that he’s rushing forward, there’s a flood of snarling in his ears (only some of it his own), then Eskel’s shoving him up against the wall with an arm across his throat.
Geralt snaps his teeth and shoves his brother, not seeing him as anything other than a threat, an intruder, an unmated alpha when Geralt’s omega is right there—
“Enough!”
Geralt and Eskel both snap their heads to the doorway as Vesemir shoulders his way through. Geralt has no clue when either of them arrived. Vesemir pulls them apart, then hauls them to the hallway while Jaskier and Triss watch them go with wide eyes.
The cord in Geralt’s chest that ties him to Jaskier pulls as the door shuts between them. He lunges, trying to get back in, but Vesemir steps between it and Geralt. “I said enough,” the old wolf growls. “Back off, Wolf.”
Even with Geralt’s instincts screaming at him, he eases off at his father’s command. “But I—”
“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Triss has him. You know she’d sooner pluck out her own eyes than harm your boy. I won’t let anyone inside. Go. Take a walk.” He turns to Eskel, who’s stopped growling under his breath but still hovers nearby. “And you. You have no right to be here.”
“But Triss—”
“Can handle herself. Go. Back to your work. I expect the north corridor to be spotless by dinnertime.”
Eskel huffs and sets off down the hallway, sparing one last glance to the closed bedroom door.
Once he’s gone, Vesemir sighs and looks at Geralt again with no small amount of exasperation. “What did I say? Go. Get some air. Your omega will be just fine. We’ll send for you if you’re needed, but right now, you’re just getting in the way.”
The rational part of Geralt’s mind agrees. He’s being ridiculous. Jaskier is safer in that room than anywhere on the Continent. They’re miles away from any other living soul. The keep is protected by five (and a half) witchers, two sorceresses, three layers of rock, an iced-over mountain, and a hefty handful of enchantments. If Geralt can’t leave Jaskier in this room, in this keep, with someone he trusts with his own life, where can he leave him?
He takes a deep breath, willing away his alpha rage as the air floods his lungs, and nods.
As Geralt leaves, Vesemir plants his feet and folds his hands in front of himself—a sentry pose. He’s not going anywhere.
Geralt relaxes just the slightest as he makes his way down the hall, to the stairs, then down to the Great Hall. Yennefer is sparring with Lambert—and losing horribly, based on the tang of bitterness on the air and the scrape on her chin—while Aiden keeps watch. They watch Geralt as he passes them and slips out the door and into the cold winter air.
It’s gotten even colder in the past few weeks. The mountain is quiet. Everything—from the birds and deer to the thin streams carving scars into the forest—has begun hibernating until spring.
Geralt won’t be able to stay out here for long. He didn’t bring a coat, and even witchers are capable of getting frost bite.
But, he’ll admit, the fresh air is nice. It stings his lungs on the way down, cleansing his pheromone-addled brain. He hadn’t realized how entrenched in Jaskier’s scent he’s become. He can still smell him, of course. Even if he hadn’t rubbed himself all over Geralt’s chest earlier in the day, he’d still be present in every pore of Geralt’s skin.
He wonders how much deeper that will go once they’ve bonded—if they bond, Geralt corrects himself. He still half expects Jaskier to come to his senses once the pup has arrived and realize he’d merely clung unto the nearest alpha able to protect him and his pup.
Geralt should give him more credit than that, he knows. Jaskier has no reason to lie to him about his feelings. And he does care for Geralt. You’d have to be blind and deaf and have no sense of smell to think otherwise. But can he truly want a future with a witcher? A man more than four times his age who’s likely to outlive him. A man trained from his youth to fight and kill and be only one step above the monsters whose lives he claims. A man unable to give him a home, unable to give him more children. He’d be a fool to want that.
He takes another deep breath and lets it go, watching it cloud out from between his lips.
Geralt would be a fool to let him go.
As long as Jaskier is willing to love him, he’ll take it. He can’t imagine his life without him anymore. He’d once thought of the Path as lonely, the quiet only interrupted by bloodshed and the occasional political spat he’s found himself in the middle of. Now it’s anything but lonely. The politics and bloodshed remain, but everything else has changed. Instead of loneliness, there’s Jaskier’s voice, writing epics about Geralt’s battles. Instead of pain, there’s Jaskier’s cool hands stitching him back up. Instead of the metallic tang of blood and the cloying stench of death, there’s Jaskier’s honey-sweet scent flooding Geralt’s senses.
Geralt touches the medallion at his chest, still warm despite the weather.
You’re making your own rules these days.
Jaskier had said that a few days ago, repeating something Geralt had once said to him before Oxenfurt. It’s true—once the witchers were held by a creed that forced them to live by the whims of men and die at the hands of monsters. Now that there’s no way for them to make new witchers, the humans couldn’t care less what they do. And there will always be monsters, more than a handful of mutated men can take care of themselves.
Who says they can’t write new rules? Who says the witchers have to be mutated versions of the boys they used to be? Why can’t normal people—courageous people, but normal—take up arms against the monsters hunting them in the night? If anyone can fall victim to them, why can’t just anyone learn to fight them?
Yennefer could be just the first of many. Sure, she has her magic and years of fighting to back her up, but she could be the beginning of a great experiment.
Witchers have long been isolated creatures, and not solely due to the unkindness of men. There’s enough knowledge within the walls of Kaer Morhen and the remaining Cat and Griffon keeps to equip the whole Continent with the tools they need to take care of monsters. If they only opened their doors to the public, lent their own wisdom to those tired of being driven from riversides by drowners and forced out of their cemeteries by ghouls—what would happen?
The door to the Great Hall opens then shuts behind Geralt but he doesn’t turn. He knows the boot falls approaching him like they’re his own.
Eskel sighs as he takes his place at Geralt’s side. “Remember that winter before the Trials we tried climbing the south wall in a blizzard?”
Geralt snorts. “Don’t you have a corridor to be scrubbing?”
Eskel ignores him then jabs an elbow into his side, grinning. “I thought Ves would skin us alive.”
“Guess he figured the broken bones were punishment enough.”
Eskel chuckles, a cloud of white forming in front of him. They both look up at the sky. Clouds gather on the horizon, dark and foreboding. They’re in for another storm. Based on Eskel’s comment about the blizzard, it’s not likely to be a light one.
“Can you feel it?” Eskel whispers, his humor from the moment before gone.
Geralt nods. He can. The wind picks up, carrying with it the scent of ozone and snow. “We should try one more hunt before it starts.” The kitchen and cellar are stocked with more than enough flour, vegetables, and dried fruits to get them through the winter, but they’ll be short on fresh meat for a while. Anything they can get now, skin, and preserve will only serve them in the coming months.
Eskel nods, and soon they’ve both gone back for their coats and weapons. Jaskier decided to lay down for a nap after Triss’ exam, a hot water bottle settled low on his belly, so Geralt only feels a small pang of guilt leaving him for a few hours.
The cold is much more manageable with fur-lined leather encasing him from head to toe. Eskel’s presence is a comforting one beside him, their footsteps nearly silent as they march through the snow.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Geralt says as they break into the tree line. He keeps his voice low and his ears open in hopes of catching any trace of animals. The deer will have bedded down for the winter, but rabbits and squirrels often stay out this far into the snow. If they’re lucky, they might even find a wild boar or turkey. “With Triss. I didn’t mean to harm her. It’s just when Jask winced, I thought—”
Eskel doesn’t let him finish. “I know.” He drops a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he steps over a fallen tree. It’s fresh, having given way under the weight of the snow they’ve already had. Doubtless this next storm will claim many more. “You didn’t hurt her. And I’m sorry as well. I shouldn’t have been there. It’s just the past few weeks, I feel like… like she’s a part of me. Like if I’m not in the same room with her, the sky will start crumbling.”
Geralt snorts softly. “I know the feeling.” He glances at his brother sidelong. His golden gaze is focused on the forest, searching for tracks, but there’s a softness to his face that makes no sense for a hunt. Geralt imagines his own face looks much the same. “So are you…”
“Yes,” Eskel says, not letting him finish. His cheeks darken just a shade or two beneath his scars. It’s good to know Geralt isn’t the only blushing witcher these days. “Before the end of winter, I’d guess.”
“I’m happy for you.”
Eskel turns, catches him looking, and grins. “And I for you, brother.”
A twig snaps nearby and they both fall silent.
Within two hours, the dark clouds have gathered overhead, rumbling steadily as the sky spits bouts of snow down on them. There’s a trio of squirrels hanging from Geralt’s belt and Eskel’s plucking the feathers off a turkey; it’s a bit scrawny, likely left behind when its family traveled down the mountain for the winter, but it’ll serve them well.
Geralt is about to suggest they go further south, try to flush out some rabbits before the snow worsens, when a sound echoes through the forest.
It’s not an animal sound—that would have thrilled him, given him a direction to look for food—or a monster sound—which would have had him reaching for his swords.
Those sounds are predictable, manageable.
This one makes his stomach turn in an instant.
It’s Yennefer. Yelling Geralt’s name.
It’s hard to run uphill through nearly two feet of snow but Geralt manages. They’d wandered quite a distance from the keep in search of game, so it takes him a few minutes to follow the sound of her voice.
She’s descending the hill in front of the gate, trying to follow in Geralt in Eskel’s footprints. She’s in only a cloak over her day clothes, which are soaked up to her hips. She’s shivering, but relaxes when Geralt comes into view, Eskel hot on his heels.
“Geralt! Come quick!” She rushes to him, stumbling over her own half-frozen feet. “It’s Jaskier.”
Geralt’s blood goes cold. No. No, no, no.
“What’s wrong?” he grits out, his voice scraping along his vocal cords like sandpaper. He shouldn’t have left him. He knew he shouldn’t have left him alone. Any number of things could have happened to him. Is he sick? Dying? Did something happen to the pup—
Yennefer reaches him and grips his arms, tipping her worried face up to him. “He needs you. He’s in labor.”
⚘⚘⚘ End of Part one of the Chains of Fate Series ⚘⚘⚘
It takes them both a few days to get back on their feet.
Vesemir and Eskel are attentive but not smothering. They seem to understand Geralt and his omega need space, so they only stop by a couple times a day to bring food, water, and firewood, and to bring in Jaskier’s belongings from the room next door.
“We weren’t exactly sure what the nature of your relationship was at first,” Vesemir explains, with a look to Geralt that clearly means a message ahead of time would have been nice. “So, we put his things elsewhere. But clearly, this is where he wants to be.”
Jaskier smiles and nods thankfully at that.
Ves leaves again, shooting another look at Geralt. They’re going to have a very long, serious discussion once Geralt and Jaskier are both well again.
Once Vesemir clears Geralt, he takes on the mantle of Jaskier’s care himself. Jaskier pretends to be miffed, complaining when Geralt bundles him in furs even when the fire is roaring and bitching when Geralt insists on carrying him everywhere. Secretly, he loves every second of it. He’s taken to purring when he’s being carried about the keep by his witcher, getting the grand tour and discovering all the places he’ll no doubt be biding his time for the coming months.
They’re both particularly fond of the hot springs.
The springs are a little-known treasure of Kaer Morhen—not that it would become a popular tourist stop if they were advertised. They’re one of the reasons the keep was built where it is. Turns out, when you have a keep full of sweaty, smelly warriors, it’s beneficial to all to have enchanted hot water at your disposal no matter what time of year it is.
At first, Geralt is hesitant to bring Jaskier into the pools any hotter than lukewarm baths. When Jaskier complains that he’s cold (he’s not, he just knows how to get under Geralt’s skin), he acquiesces and moves them closer to the spring’s source where the water is warmer. Jaskier purrs happily when the heat seeps into his bones, and crawls into the witcher’s lap to show his thanks.
That’s a new development in their relationship.
Geralt is still firm in his belief that he will not be fucking Jaskier until he’s no longer pregnant and fully recovered from the delivery—a belief Jaskier tries relentlessly to dismantle.
There’s little need for modesty in the keep. It’s just the two of them, and Eskel and Vesemir, who have taken to giving them a wide berth after Eskel walked in on them with Geralt’s lips wrapped around one of the soft, perky buds of the omega’s nipples. It had been totally innocent, he swears! Jaskier told him his nipples were sore and he read somewhere that having your alpha suck on them eases the ache…
Which Geralt now realizes was definitely a line to lure him into bed.
Tricky minx.
Said minx has taken to swanning about their room—because it’s no longer just Geralt’s room with Jaskier’s clothing pushing his own out of the wardrobe and his lute taking up space on the chair by the fire, his notes and books strewn on every flat surface—in next to no clothing. If he is clothed, it’s only in one of Geralt’s shirts, which are still big on him even with his belly. He makes it a point to bend over right in Geralt’s line of sight, which must be difficult with his center of gravity thrown off, but he handles it with grace. At night, he’ll push back against Geralt until his cock is slotted between the fat of the omega’s thighs.
And damn him, but Geralt’s self-control can only go so far.
After their first time in the warmer springs, Jaskier drifts off to sleep quickly. Geralt isn’t as tired, so he stays up to take in the familiar sounds of his home, admiring the rise and fall of the bard’s shoulders where he’s tucked in close.
Sometime long after the sun has gone down, Jaskier arches against him with a whine.
Geralt nearly panics, fearing the bard is sick again. Then the scent of Jaskier’s slick rises between them and a soft pair of lips start pressing kisses to his neck.
“Jask,” he warns lowly.
For a moment, he thinks Jaskier may still be asleep, but then he lifts his head and aims a wet kiss vaguely at Geralt’s mouth.
He’s incredibly tempting, all soft and pliant and smelling divinely fertile. Geralt is far from unaffected—he is an alpha, after all, and Jaskier could tempt him even covered in viscera and smelling of sewer. Still, he pushes at the omega’s waist to get some distance between Geralt’s thigh and Jaskier’s wet cock that he’s begun dragging against him. “Jask, just go back to sleep.”
“Had the loveliest dream,” Jaskier mumbles, smooshing his cheek up against Geralt’s shoulder but not ceasing his efforts at humping his leg. It wears away at Geralt’s resolve, slowly but surely.
Geralt grits his teeth. “That so?”
Jaskier hums and lifts his head again. “Yeah.” He reaches for Geralt’s face, clumsily thumbing over the witcher’s lips. Geralt kisses his finger, unable to deny himself that one soft pleasure, and Jaskier smiles. “You were fucking me into the mattress.” It’s such a turn from the sweetness of the moment before that Geralt chokes on his breath. Jaskier soldiers on like he’s reciting poetry he’s had memorized since his youth. “Had to cover my head with a pillow so your family didn’t think we were being attacked. Then I woke up before you could knot me. I’m a little upset it was just a dream.”
Geralt growls, an unintentional sound that makes Jaskier’s pulse spike and the scent of slick grow heavier in the air. “Jaskier…” he warns. “We’ve talked about this.”
“Please, Geralt?” he whines. “Just once? I’m all better now. Please, I’m so horny all the time now. If you knot me, maybe it’ll go away?”
Geralt’s being manipulated. He knows this. Subtlety is not a virtue Jaskier possesses.
But Geralt’s tired. The scent of his bard’s desperation is sopping up any common sense he had left. Jaskier is so warm and soft in his arms.
So, he gives in.
“Fine,” he growls.
Jaskier is so pleased, he makes a sound that’s nearly a chirp, but before he can straddle Geralt fully, Geralt’s grabbing him by his hips and turning him on his side, facing away from him.
“Geralt?”
“Shh.” Geralt noses under Jaskier’s hair, scenting him. He can practically taste him on the air. His blood is pulsing hot and quick under his skin. Jaskier is always enticing, but here, in Geralt’s bed, surrounded by the things Geralt has provided him, his scent singing for Geralt, he’s ambrosia crafted solely for Geralt’s downfall.
Jaskier squirms until his backside is nestled perfectly in the crook of Geralt’s hips, grinding against him with the barest pressure that has them both purring, nonetheless. They’ve taken to sleeping in the nude since coming to the keep. It soothes both their baser instincts to have so few barriers between them. If Geralt wanted to, he could merely spread Jaskier’s cheeks and slip right inside. He can feel his slick wetting both their thighs—it would hardly be painful for the omega, even if he’s been untouched for nearly half a year.
But Geralt still has some resolve.
He lifts one of Jaskier’s trembling legs and slots his cock between his thighs. Jaskier arches, his breath catching as he tries guiding Geralt inside him. But Geralt gently lowers his leg until his cock is nestled in the soft, soaked space between his legs, and Jaskier whines.
“No,” he pants, wiggling to try and change the angle Geralt’s pressing against him. “No, no. Inside me, please.”
“Hush.”
Jaskier settles. HIs disappointment colors the air, but Geralt quickly urges it away by sliding his hand over the swell of the omega’s belly and taking his leaking cock in hand. Then he presses forward to fuck himself between the omega’s thighs.
One of Jaskier’s hands flies back to tangle in Geralt’s hair, pressing his face to the bard’s neck. Sharp teeth scrape against the scent glands there, and Geralt revels in the whine of desperation it earns him. He squeezes the cock in his hand—hardly big enough for a handful, the head just barely poking out from Geralt’s fist—and Jaskier nearly sobs.
“You’ll have to deal with just this,” Geralt tells him. “I won’t break my promise to you.”
Jaskier pants for several moments, fucking into Geralt’s fist then back onto his cock. Geralt can feel the tight furl of his hole every time he pushes forward, slicking him up and making the slide smooth as butter on hot bread. He’s sure the friction is enough to drive Jaskier insane.
“I don’t care about the promise,” the omega grunts finally. He’s dripping over Geralt’s fist so much, he can’t tell if he’s come yet. If he hasn’t, it’s a testimony to how worked up he must be. In all his years, no one’s ever gotten this wet for Geralt. Granted, he’s never fucked a young male omega who’s apparently smitten with him. “You made the promise to yourself, not to me. Promise be damned, I want your knot!”
Geralt nips at his throat in warning. “I made it to myself for you. I won’t hurt you when you’re carrying the pup, Jaskier.”
His pulse quickens under Geralt’s teeth. “But you’ll hurt me when I’m not?”
Geralt growls. That hadn’t been his intent, but he can taste what his words did to Jaskier. He throbs between Geralt’s fingers, every inch of his skin alight with pleasure. “You want that?” His voice comes out grated and rough, like he’s just swallowed a gallon of venom. “Want me to hurt you?”
Jaskier’s heart pounds harder. “Yes,” he whispers. Another spurt spills over Geralt’s knuckles, and given the way Jaskier trembles, he is coming this time. He speaks through it, shaking all over and barely able to take a breath. “Yes, yes. Please, I want you to hurt me.”
“How?” Geralt takes Jaskier’s mating gland into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth but not biting down. Not yet. Not now. But gods does he want to. He channels his frustration into the pace of his hips pushing his cock between the omega’s slick thighs. It must be too much for Jaskier, all that friction so soon after cumming, but Geralt allows himself this moment of selfishness. As long as Jaskier isn’t pushing him away, he lets himself take. “How should I hurt you?”
Jaskier whimpers, but his cock hasn’t softened in the slightest. His free hand reaches back to dig his nails into Geralt’s bare hip, spurring him on. “Want you to take me, stretch me open on your cock whenever you please.” His mouth is hanging open, unable to control his breaths as Geralt squeezes his cock again and digs his thumb beneath the head. “Don’t even need to use your fingers. I’ll always be ready for you. Even if I’m not wet yet. Want to feel it inside me dry. Want your hands to leave bruises on my hips. I want your bite, on my neck, on my thighs, everywhere. Want you to smack my mouth when I misbehave, smack my face after you spill on it, smack my arse so I remember who I belong to. Want you to hold me to the bed and fill me until I’m—I’m begging you to stop—oh, Geralt—”
It’s by the grace of whatever gods still watch over witchers that Geralt moves at the last moment before he releases so his teeth sink into the nape of Jaskier’s neck rather than the side. He’s not gentle about it. He can feel the moment he breaks skin. Jaskier’s blood spills on his tongue. Jaskier cries out, but Geralt’s own blood is roaring in his ears as he spills between the omega’s thighs, so he barely hears it.
It’s not as fulfilling as knotting, but something in Geralt calms with his cum smeared on Jaskier’s hole and his bite slowly leaking blood on his neck. Their scents are both so heavy, he can hardly pick them apart anymore. Jaskier’s sweet, sticky honey scent and Geralt’s own woody musk mingle until they’re one heady perfume. Geralt would bottle it if he could. Drench himself in it and let it be the only thing he smells for the rest of his life.
Geralt licks his lips, catching his breath, then freezes at the taste of copper.
No.
No, no, no, no, no—
“Geralt?” Alarm colors Jaskier’s voice as he turns around and takes Geralt’s face in his hands. “Geralt? Deep breaths, dear heart. I think you’re hyperventilating. Melitele’s sweet cunt, I didn't know witchers could do that. Deep breaths, love, come on.”
Geralt grabs Jaskier’s wrist and reaches around him to touch the wound on his neck. He winces, and Geralt wants to fling himself from the nearest parapet. “Jask. Jask, you’re hurt. I hurt you—”
“Hush.” Jaskier rolls his eyes then tips his head to kiss Geralt. Just licks his own blood from the witcher’s lips like it’s nothing. “I’m fine, love. I—I enjoyed it. Perhaps too much.” He blushes and looks between them.
Geralt follows his gaze. The omega’s cock is still dripping, clear omega slick and pearly cum smearing over the both of them where they’re pressed together. Some of Geralt’s spend is there, too, and he marvels at how much there is. It’s been months since he’s… taken care of things. He hadn’t realized how pent up he was.
He licks his lips again. Jaskier’s cock jumps.
“You can’t do that, Geralt,” he whines. “Not fair.”
“Do what?”
“Want me like that with your eyes.” He buries his head in the pillow, thighs pressing back together. “Look like you’re about to eat me whole.”
“Can I?”
Jaskier blinks at him. “What?”
“Can I eat you?” Geralt says it without thinking, then shakes his head, amazed at his stupidity. “I—I mean, can I clean you up? With my mouth.”
Jaskier doesn’t respond. He only turns onto his back, stealing the pillow from beneath the witcher’s head, and props himself up so he can watch Geralt crawl between his legs. He kisses apologies into his pale legs, lavishing them with his affection. Someday soon, Geralt thinks, when the pup is born and the sun comes back, he wants to get Jaskier naked and laid out on sun-warmed rocks or hot sand. Get between them just like this, hear Jaskier’s moans spilling out into the open air.
He’s not sure which of them spreads Jaskier’s thighs (perhaps it’s a joint effort) but soon, Geralt’s tongue meets their combined spend.
He sighs as he cleans his omega. His eyes close. His pulse slows. A taste of heaven meets his tongue—it’s their perfume, the one he wants to bathe in. Their scents, the flavor of them both, are mixing. Becoming one. He’d never realized something was missing from his own scent until he tasted them mixed like this.
Jaskier lets out a breath, and with it goes any tension remaining in his body. He melts into the bed. There’s not a single iota of worry or pain left on him—and looking back now, Geralt realizes there was never any to begin with, at least before Geralt began to panic.
He’d never been scared. A witcher had growled and pinned him down and bit him like an animal, and he’d only gotten scared when Geralt did. When the taste of his love’s blood had sent him reeling.
Jaskier gasps when Geralt noses at his cock then licks across his taint. “That’s it, love.” HIs hand fists in Geralt’s hair, gently urging him down. “Fuuuuuck. Yes, please.”
Geralt hums; at the omega’s begging, the hand in his hair, and the taste of new arousal and prior satisfaction blooming across his tongue.
He licks their combined taste from Jaskier’s cock then spears his tongue against his still-leaking hole. Jaskier moans, his knees drawing further up to give Geralt access. There’s only so far he can bend with his belly in the way, but he does as well as he can.
It takes little more than Geralt’s tongue inside and a thumb brushing his cock for Jaskier to cum again. While he’s still whining his way through it, Geralt licks away the fresh wave of slick and the cum spilling across his belly.
When he brushes his cock again, Jaskier hisses and pulls him away with his grip on his hair. “Enough, enough.”
Geralt grins, licks his lips, and crawls back up to settle beside him, tracing over him with both hands and eyes, making sure he’s content and relaxed. “Tuckered out, are we?”
Jaskier huffs and pushes him weakly. Then he leaves his hand there on Geralt’s chest. “Yes,” he finally agrees. “You’ve worn me out. Can we go back to sleep now?”
Geralt snorts and moves them back to a comfortable sleeping position, with Jaskier’s legs stretched back out and both of them sharing a pillow. “You’re the one who woke up begging for my knot.”
The omega’s blush is vibrant in the low light, but he lifts his chin proudly anyway. “And I’ll get it one day.”
“You will.” Geralt presses a kiss to his bare shoulder, his eyes finally growing heavy with sleep. “You will.”
⚘⚘⚘
The next morning, they join Geralt’s family for breakfast for the first time.
Jaskier walks of his own insistence but doesn’t complain when Geralt keeps a hand on his back the whole time, just waiting for him to collapse. He never does. Truth be told, he’s stronger now than he has been in quite some time. His fruitful stay in Oxenfurt, plus Geralt’s attention, plus an inordinate amount of rest have all left him glowing and happy, his skin flushed and supple and his eyes bright.
Much improved from his pale, clammy skin when he was ill.
“Good morning,” Jaskier says cheerfully to the other men at the table. Vesemir nods at him and pushes a basket of still-warm bread his way.
Eskel only smirks, his gaze fixed on the bandage Geralt had insisted on putting on Jaskier’s wound from the previous night. “Morning.”
Geralt knows both his family members are eyeing his omega’s neck, but he ignores them in favor of grabbing a plate for himself and Jaskier. The bard immediately nestles into his side, picking bits of food off Geralt’s plate even with his own right in front of him. Geralt doesn’t say anything about it. He lets him take what he wants.
“How are you both feeling?” Vesemir asks, then pauses. “The three of you, I suppose.”
Jaskier smiles through a mouthful of bread and jam and presses a hand to his stomach. “We’re much better. Rowdier and rowdier by the day.” He swallows, and for a moment, grows serious. “I can’t thank you enough. I can’t imagine what would have happened if—” Geralt puts a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. Jaskier takes a breath, blinks rapidly a few times, then continues. “Thank you. Truly. Whatever I can do to repay your kindness—”
Vesemir waves a hand. “Nonsense. Family doesn’t pay family for taking care of one another. I may not have known you existed two weeks ago, but my son has clearly staked a claim on you and your pup. So long as you mean him no harm, you will always find a home here at Kaer Morhen.”
Jaskier turns watery eyes to Geralt, who also finds himself uncharacteristically choked up. “Thank you, Ves.” He nods at his brother. “Eskel. Thank you for taking care of him when I couldn’t.”
Eskel snorts. “Nearly took my eye out trying to get to you when he woke up. If you weren’t so clearly enamored with him, I would’ve put a leash on him.”
The bard finds that funny, but something green and ugly rears its head in Geralt’s chest. He growls, too low for Jaskier to hear. His family hears it, though, and offer him equal looks of exasperation and surprise. He ceases the noise immediately, his face growing hot.
Eskel quickly changes the topic before Jaskier can catch on. “Has Geralt showed you around yet?”
Jaskier nods. “A bit. Mostly the hot springs, and one of the old armories.”
“You haven’t seen the library yet?” Eskel asks in surprise.
The bard turns to glare at the man plastered to his side. “There is a library in this keep and you haven’t shown it to me yet? I thought you cared for me, Geralt! How will my poor, tortured soul ever—”
Geralt hauls him into his lap, making him cease his complaining with a giggle. “I was focused on getting you well again, and I knew the second you were aware of the library, you’d never lie down to rest.”
“You are correct.” He seems pleased with his new seat and sinks back into Geralt’s chest happily. “Will you take me?”
There’s a double-entendre there waiting for Geralt’s attention, but before he can point it out, Eskel’s cutting in again. “I could show you,” he tells the omega. “And the greenhouse.”
“Not the greenhouse.” Geralt’s tone leaves no room for argument.
Jaskier argues anyway. “Why not the greenhouse? You would deprive me of a glimpse of nature in this cold, rocky castle?”
Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s an alchemical greenhouse. Mostly herbs and grasses we need for our potions, spell components, magical flowers for research. There are plants in there that could kill you from a five-foot radius without so much as releasing a spore. You are not going in there.”
“Fine.” He has the gall to look affronted. “But I expect a tour of the entire grounds in return.”
“I don’t think you have the energy for that.”
Jaskier frowns at him. “You think I can’t?”
“I think you’re, what, six months pregnant?” Geralt asks. “And it’s winter. You’re not stepping foot outside until the sun returns.”
His frown deepens, but he makes no argument.
Geralt knows Eskel only volunteered to show Jaskier the library so Geralt would have no excuse to continue avoiding talking to their father. He’s still giving Geralt looks across the table that make him feel like he’s a child running about the keep again. And Geralt is old and grown, but that look from the man who raised him makes him feel about as tall as an ant.
They finish eating and Jaskier rises from Geralt’s lap with a parting kiss to the cheek. “See you at lunch?”
Geralt nods and squeezes the omega’s hand before Eskel sweeps him away.
The vast Great Hall is left nearly silent at their departure. A single sound rises above the crackling fireplace at the center of the room: the steady tap, tap, tap of Vesemir’s finger against the table.
“Well,” the old witcher says after a long, painful moment. “Have you nothing to say?”
Geralt’s no longer hungry but he picks up a piece of bread Jaskier had left on his plate regardless. “I won’t defend myself if that’s what you’re wanting. I have nothing to be guilty about.”
“Geralt.” Vesemir rises. He’s not as tall or imposing as he had once been—time and grief have taken their toll on the set of his shoulders, the slope of his spine—but when he stands and Geralt sits, he’s every inch the warrior he still is. “I am aware your beliefs about witchers have been tainted by the world. But we are not the sort to go around stealing omegas and mating them without a thought.”
Geralt rises too, suddenly so angry he can’t see straight. “Do not speak of things you know nothing about.” There’s a growl in his voice he’s never used against Vesemir. He’s never dared to. He’s his father, an alpha, and a seasoned witcher to boot. Only a fool would dare raise his voice against Vesemir.
Ves only narrows his eyes. “Fine.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Then explain it to me.”
“We’re not mated,” he begins, but Vesemir raises an eyebrow and points to his own neck. Geralt’s face heats. He’d seen the bandage Geralt had wrapped around Jaskier’s throat, smelled his blood. “It’s on the back of his neck. It was… an accident.”
Vesemir says nothing.
Geralt takes a breath. He doesn’t want to be angry with his father, but his accusation hurt, no matter that Geralt knew what he would think. It’s what people have been thinking all along: innocent, naive Jaskier was whisked away by some brutish witcher and mated before he could string two thoughts together, the poor dear. He knows how it looks. But he is guilty of no crime beyond wanting Jaskier all for himself. And while that will inevitably lead to heartbreak on all sides he hasn’t quite brought himself to consider, he isn’t breaking any high moral code. A few social norms and expectations, sure, but he’s done right by Jaskier at every turn.
“We met in Posada,” he says evenly. “He wanted to write songs about my heroic exploits—his words, not mine—and we got tangled up in this ordeal with the elves—”
The old witcher barks a laugh. “He wrote that? You must have liked the attention an awful lot to pup him so quickly.”
Geralt’s eyes go wide. “The pup isn’t mine, Ves.”
This information doesn’t seem to surprise Ves, but the tightness in his jaw eases just the slightest. “But the omega is, yes?”
Silence stretches between them.
“No,” Geralt finally says. His voice shakes. “No, he’s not.”
Vesemir snorts. “Does he know that?”
Geralt sinks back onto the bench and puts his head in his hands. “I can’t—Ves, he’s insistent that I’m going to claim him before the pup even comes. I can’t do that. He’s not thinking clearly. There’s all the hormones and the pheromones—”
“Give him more credit than that, son.” Vesemir takes a seat next to him. Now that they’ve done their bristling and posturing, the closeness is nice. Familiar. The proximity of another alpha, his pack, eases Geralt’s worries minutely. “He’s pregnant, not enthralled.”
Geralt snorts. “You’d think he was.”
“Do you really find it so strange that he would be interested in you?”
Finally lifting his head, Geralt meets his father’s eye. “You don’t think it’s… You don’t think I’m taking advantage of him?”
“If anything, he’s taking advantage of you.” When Geralt bares his teeth again, Vesemir laughs and holds up a hand. “Not that you’re going along unwillingly. Geralt, you’re as good as bonded to that boy. Rejecting him will only cause unnecessary pain to the both of you at this point.”
“Why are you—you’re not angry?”
Vesemir huffs. “Now that I know you didn’t manage to somehow defy the laws of nature to put your pup in him?” Geralt blushes full-on, but Ves graciously moves on. “No, son. He’s young, but he’s old enough to make his own decisions. And he’s chosen you. Gods know why.”
Geralt snorts at the half-assed insult. “I’m sorry I didn’t send word ahead. I meant to, but—”
“I understand. New pairs always seem to lose track of things when they get together.”
“You’ll help us? With the—” He makes a vague hand motion.
Ves rolls his eyes and claps a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “The delivery? Yes, of course I will. But you’re going to have to get a lot more comfortable with the terminology if you’re going to be a father.”
Geralt’s heart stutters, nearly stops, before jumping back into rhythm. “A what?”
The old witcher gives him an odd look. “What did you think was going to happen when the pup came? Did you think you could get the omega without his child?”
“No, no. I never intended for that to be the case. I promised to protect him and the pup with my life. I just… never thought of it like that.”
A whisper of a smile tugs at his father’s face. “Parenthood hits you hard, I suppose. Especially when you’re raising another alpha’s pup.”
That strikes a bitter chord in Geralt’s heart. He grabs the hand Ves had left on his shoulder and squeezes it tightly, his lips pressed to a thin line. “Getting a taste of my own medicine, eh?”
Ves, much to Geralt’s surprise, brings their intertwined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of his son’s hand.
No more words are exchanged between them.
They’ve said what needs to be said.
⚘⚘⚘
Jaskier is late to lunch, which should come as no surprise to Geralt, yet worries him immensely.
He scoops out a bowl of stew big enough to feed two Jaskiers and cuts half a loaf of bread for him then sets out in search for the omega.
He finds him exactly where he expected: bundled up on a sofa in the library, a stack of books beside him, a handful more spread across his lap, a fire raging in the fireplace. He looks up when Geralt shoulders the door open and nearly blinds the witcher with his grin. “Hi, love!”
Eskel, who was set up by the window with a book of his own, catches Geralt’s eye and leers at him. Geralt’s face flames but he ignores it (and Eskel) to come to Jaskier and drop a kiss on the top of his head. “Hi.”
Jaskier hums that near-purr that makes Geralt want to sit at his feet and languish in his happiness and wrestles the bowl from his hands. “You didn’t have to bring me lunch,” he says as he scoops a big spoonful into his mouth.
Geralt chuckles and scoots the books out of the way so they don’t get stewed, making sure to mark Jaskier’s place in each so he doesn’t bitch at him for it. Jaskier’s ability to read several books at a time without issue constantly astounds Geralt. He settles in next to him, letting the warm little omega snuggle up to him while he eats.
“You were late,” Geralt says. “Ves and I already ate and cleaned up, so I figured I’d bring your food so you didn’t have to move.”
Eskel pipes up from across the room. “And you didn’t bring me any, brother? I’m hurt.”
“Yeah, look at him wasting away over there,” Jaskier says through another mouthful. He doesn’t look willing to share, despite his words. “Poor dear.”
Eskel makes a face at him, to which Jaskier merely rolls his eyes.
Clearly, Jaskier and Eskel have bonded in his absence. Eskel hardly ever jokes like this unless he’s fond of someone. It’s nice to see two of the people he cares most about getting along, but still, that monster in the back of his head roars.
“The second someone pups my dear brother, I’ll wait on him hand and foot as I do you,” Geralt says, then turns to Eskel. “Tell me, do you prefer lavender or chamomile oil for me to rub all over your—”
“I’m starving!” Eskel proclaims, springing to his feet and abandoning his book by the window. He’s out of the room, the door shut behind him, before Geralt can continue his teasing.
Jaskier digs an elbow into his side. “You don’t have to be a bitch about it. He’s been kind to me.”
Geralt chooses not to share that he and Eskel have fought over partners before, and instead pulls Jaskier closer. “I know,” he says. “And I’m thankful. I just don’t like sharing you.”
The bard raises his eyebrows, a pleased flush taking over his cheeks. “You’ll have to get used to it soon.” He grabs Geralt’s hand and places it over his belly, moving him around until he can feel the babe kicking against his palm. “Ah—there it is, the little bastard.”
“You can’t call your unborn daughter a bastard!”
Jaskier tips his head back against the sofa, giggling. He rests his bowl on top of his belly—it’s just big enough for him to be able to do that with some success—and watches Geralt caress the bump fondly. “I can so!” he insists. “It’s what she is, esp—ah! Especially when she kicks my ribs like that, sweet Melitele.”
Geralt frowns, gently cups either side of Jaskier’s belly to steady him as he shifts. “You alright?”
Jaskier waves him off. “I’m fine. Just takes some getting used to. She’s rowdy when I’m hungry.”
“Better feed the beast, then.” Jaskier tucks back into his stew now that the pup has settled. Geralt keeps his hands where they are, feeling Jaskier’s steady, unworried pulse and the thrum of the pup’s as well. After a moment, the bard slides a hand over one of Geralt’s. “What is it?”
Geralt takes a breath, smiling reassuringly at him. “Nothing. Everything’s perfect. I just like… feeling you both. Knowing you’re alright. Especially after…”
“Me too.” A shadow passes over Jaskier’s face as he laces his fingers with Geralt’s. “For a bit after I woke up, I was afraid I’d lost her. She stopped moving. It’s been only a couple weeks since I first started feeling her move, but I’ve grown so used to it in such a short time. When I stopped feeling her… it scared the shit out of me.”
“When I woke up,” Geralt says. “My first thought was for you. For her. I couldn’t calm down until I knew you were okay. Nearly took Ves’ head off trying to get to you. If Eskel hadn’t brought you when he did, I probably would have fought them both until I found you.”
“I know what you mean. Eskel heard you waking up. As soon as he told me, I just… I had to see you.”
Geralt sighs and rests his head on the couch, content to watch Jaskier eat and feel his daughter shifting every couple minutes.
“Ves agreed to help with delivery,” Geralt tells him as he’s finishing his stew. “I knew he would, but…”
Jaskier sets his bowl aside and beckons the witcher closer so they’re sharing the same space on the couch, entwined in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable but somehow is. “You had your talk, then?”
Geralt winces. “You noticed?”
With a roll of his eyes, Jaskier says, “You clearly get your subtlety from your father. I thought you were going to sweat through your shirt. Eskel practically carried me out of the main hall. Figured you needed some long-overdue father-son bonding time.”
“Hardly,” Geralt snorts. “He thought I’d bent the laws of magic to knock you up. Or, I don’t know, bewitched you somehow.”
“But you have bewitched me, witcher.” Jaskier tips his head, looking at Geralt through his lashes in the way that makes him short of breath. “Perhaps not in the way he thought, but you have a pull to me I can’t explain otherwise.”
Geralt knows what he means. He feels the same. It’s the reason he hadn’t left him in the street in Posada. It’s why he hasn’t been able to shake him since. It’s why he came back to Oxenfurt and carried him up a mountain in a snowstorm.
He can’t lose him.
But he’s not quite ready to say any of that out loud.
Instead he clears his throat and says, “He was fine once I assured him you were here of your own free will and the pup isn’t mine.”
Jaskier hums contentedly. He’s growing warm—not feverish, but sleepy and full. He finished the entire bowl of stew and a good amount of the bread. He’s tiring easier these days, so he must be winding down for his afternoon nap.
Geralt has something to ask before that.
“Jask?”
He hums again, inquisitive even as his eyes are slipping shut and his cheek is smooshing against Geralt’s arm.
“What role do you want me to have in her life?”
The bard stirs a bit at his question. His eyes flutter back open, alert. He studies the witcher’s face intently for a long moment. “What role would you like to have?”
Geralt shrugs, looking to the fireplace. He’ll need to get up and stoke it soon. He can’t have the room going cold if Jaskier plans to take a nap.
“Geralt, this isn’t one of those times I let you get away with nonverbal responses.”
“Vesemir mentioned… well, he made a comparison to him raising me and my brothers and…” Geralt gives up, sighs, and says, “He said I’m going to be a father. I thought he was joking at first, but then…”
“Do you want to be a father?”
It would be easier if Jaskier wasn’t looking up at him with those big blue eyes, more trusting than anyone he’s ever met. Not for lack of knowing him—he’s seen Geralt at his worst and still hasn’t run away. If anything, he likes those bad parts. Wants to make them better. Cherishes them.
Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. “I just need you to tell me, Jask. I’ll be anything, just don’t… don’t make me choose.”
“There’s no choosing to be done, dear heart.” Soft hands cup Geralt’s cheeks, brushing beneath his eyes until they open and are met with a beautiful, gentle smile. “I’ve considered you this pup’s father since before Oxenfurt. The second I knew I wanted to be with you, something just clicked. She’s yours as much as she is mine, love.”
Something takes flight in Geralt’s heart, leaving him lighter than he’s ever been. “But I’m not her sire,” he says. “I could never be. It’s not in the stars for me.”
“Did I say you were her sire?”
Geralt frowns. “No.”
“I’m not asking you to be that for her. She has a sire. She may meet him one day, if I decide it’s right.” Jaskier’s face tightens. It tends to do that, when the subject of his past comes up, but it’s gone in an instant when Geralt brushes his fingers against the inside of his wrist. “I’m asking you to be her father. The person who will teach her to be strong and kind, who will protect her and teach her how to fight for what she believes in.”
“You can do all that much better than I can,” Geralt says. “You’re her blood. You’re human. You’re intelligent and talented and compassionate.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Human? No, I’m not.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes and bites Geralt’s arm in retaliation. “The other things. Vesemir isn’t your blood, yet you call him your father. You and Eskel share nothing but a childhood and a lifestyle, and yet he’s your brother. You, of all people, should know that family isn’t blood.”
“I can’t give her a normal life. I can’t give you a normal life.”
“Did I ask for one?”
Geralt smiles in spite of himself. “No. Quite the opposite.”
“Then the rest of it can wait until we need to figure it out.” Jaskier snuggles closer again, sighing. “Now, is the father of my child done with his emotional crisis, or can I finally get some sleep?”
Geralt laughs as he wraps him in his arms, his chest full of too many things to name. “You’re the one who woke me up in the middle of the night with all your begging.”
The omega’s face heats where it’s pressed against Geralt’s neck. “Shut up. I’ll do it again, just to spite you. You’ll see.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it.”
⚘⚘⚘
Lambert arrives four days later with Aiden by his side and a letter from Yen in his pocket.
While Jaskier busies himself with the former (since he was unable to greet Eskel or Vesemir with his usual charm, he’s determined to make up for it with the rest of Geralt’s family, significant others included), Geralt turns his attention to Yennefer’s message.
“She found me a week ago in the pub where I was meeting Aiden,” Lambert tells Geralt. “Creepy, that. Don’t know how she found me.”
“I’ll let her know you said so.” He slips open the seal and is utterly unsurprised when the parchment unfolds on its own, dropping what appears to be a piece of cloth with runes drawn in red-brown ink across it into his waiting hand. Lambert snorts in surprise. Geralt clutches the cloth, his medallion humming softly, and reads the missive written in Yennefer’s elegant, precise script.
Geralt,
I have considered your generous offer of a place to spend the winter and have decided to take you up on it. However, present affairs prevent me from joining you and your new bard on the mountain for some time.
Triss Merigold will be traveling ahead of me to look after your brood. Since your keep is well hidden even to the eyes of all-powerful mages such as Miss Merigold and myself, I ask that you burn this token to grant her safe passage. I will join you when Destiny allows.
Regards,
Yennefer of Vengerberg
P.S. - Do not burn the token near your little bird. I fear it may impede his ability to sing for you.
Geralt grits his teeth at the mention of potential harm to Jaskier and clutches Yen’s token in his fist. He’s sure it’s nothing dangerous before it’s set alight—Yennefer would have made mention of it, if it’s powerful enough to harm Jaskier—but something in him says to keep it far, far from his omega.
“I don’t like that look,” Lambert says. “Did she send bad news?”
Geralt schools his scowl back into something marginally friendlier. “No. The opposite, actually. She and Triss will be joining us.”
“They will?” Jaskier chirps, appearing at Geralt’s elbow as if he’d been summoned. On instinct, Geralt moves a step away to keep the token away from him. The bard frowns at his retreat. “I’m only trying to read the letter, my love. I wasn’t trying to bite you.”
It’s the wrong choice of words. Jaskier knows this the second they leave his mouth and Geralt lets loose a growl that silences the entire main hall.
Geralt’s family, stunned to silence in the midst of their hellos, turn to look at him in unison.
“Eskel,” he says gruffly, holding out the hand with the token blindly, fighting the blush on his face. Eskel, who’s been standing by silently, blinks and steps forward. “Take this outside and burn it. Yennefer says it will help Triss find her way.”
His family members catch on at once and graciously ignore his outburst. He relaxes the second the token is out of his hand.
“Sorry, Jask.” He hands Yennefer’s letter to the man beside him. “Yen says that token would be harmful to you, so I…”
“Ah.” Jaskier smirks up at him sidelong before perusing the letter, mumbling something about the sorceress’ lovely penmanship. “This Triss Merigold? That name sounds familiar. We haven’t encountered her on our travels together, have we?”
“No,” Geralt says. “I haven’t seen Triss since… last Belleteyn? Yes, I saw her at Yen’s birthday celebration.”
“Ah,” Jaskier says once more, but this time there’s a pinkness to his cheeks that wasn’t there before.
“What is it?”
“Belleteyn. That’s when, um…” He brings a hand to his belly, almost absentmindedly.
“Ah.”
“Well!” Lambert proclaims, appearing behind them and slinging an arm over each of their shoulders. “No one can blame you for partaking in the festivities!”
Geralt doesn’t intend to fling his brother on the floor, and yet he does.
Lambert clatters to the ground with a mighty thud that shakes the floor and catches the attention of Aiden and Vesemir, who barely pause to make sure the youngest wolf hasn’t been brained before returning to their conversation. Jaskier covers his mouth, but it does nothing to hide his smile.
Lambert pushes himself onto his elbows. “What’s gotten into you? I was only joking!”
Eskel, having returned from his brief trip outside (thankfully without the token that had made Geralt so jumpy), teases, “Perhaps it’s best not to joke about our new friend with Geralt in earshot.” He reaches a hand down to help his youngest brother off the floor. “He’s a bit touchy about it.”
“As he should!” Aiden chimes in. He seems unconcerned that Geralt’s just thrown his mate to the floor with all the ease he would do so with a sack of grain. He shares a conspiratorial look with Jaskier. “You should see little Lamb when I’m nearing my heat. Nearly bit the head off some poor woodsman who came across our camp a few summers back.”
Jaskier’s cheeks are still pink, but his eyes widen in curiosity. “You’re an omega? I thought all witchers were alphas.”
“A difference in the magic used to make the different schools of witchers, I’m afraid,” Vesemir says. “Wolf Witchery forces you to present as an alpha. The potions taken by the School of the Cat left more room for natural presentation. Omegas had lower rates of success, but they weren’t wholly uncommon.”
“Fascinating. Would you mind if I picked your brain about how your presentation and witcher abilities interact?” he asks Aiden, who raises his eyebrows. “I’ve had months to study Geralt, to see where the witcher ends and the alpha begins. I’d love to see how it works for an omega.”
“You’ve been studying me?” asks Geralt, partly surprised but mostly amused. Leave it to Jaskier to make a research project out of him.
Blue eyes flick his way briefly. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Lambert barks a laugh as he straightens his jacket after returning to his feet. “What he means is he’s been making mooneyes at you for months and just so happened to make some keen observations while he was at it.”
“I’ll have you know—” Jaskier steps forward, cocks a hand on his hip. “—there are a great deal of scholars who are interested in witchers. So many that I was asked to present my findings to the faculty of Oxenfurt University during my stay the past few weeks.”
“You were?”
The bard looks at Geralt sheepishly. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I know you get embarrassed when I write songs about you—”
“Because they’re vain and inaccurate—”
“It’s called artistic liberty, dear heart. And I took none when I spoke with the faculty. I used only the facts.”
Vesemir raises an eyebrow, and though his expression hasn’t changed much, Geralt can tell he’s impressed (and more than a little amused). “Which are?”
The bard blinks but smiles, pleased to have someone as wizened and academically bent as Vesemir ask for his input. “Witcher mutagens don’t have any effect on biological presentation—aside from the different schools having different odds of presenting as omega, apparently. As I didn’t have that information when I gave my thesis, I’ll have to write to the board to correct my findings.” Jaskier goes on evenly as Geralt leads him to the benches at the table in the hall, not seeming to notice he’s being herded into a seat. “Anyway, as with most things, biological processes aren’t changed by the mutagens. They’re merely enhanced.”
Aiden takes the seat next to him. “How so?”
Geralt’s about to sit opposite his bard, but Lambert catches him by the arm and tips his head to the door. Jaskier is blessedly ignorant, talking with his hands as he explains his findings to his new friend, who acknowledges their departure with a small nod.
Eskel follows Geralt and Lambert back into the courtyard. The snow has stopped coming down so heavily, but the temperatures remain far below freezing. There’s a layer of snow cover thick enough to strangle a dragon. The sun is doing its best to make an appearance through the thick gray clouds, but all it manages to do is bless them with a few thin rays of light.
The token is still smoldering in a pile in the middle of the courtyard. The acrid tang of sorcery wafts their direction, and Geralt makes sure the heavy, enchanted wooden doors of the keep shut firmly behind them.
Lambert crosses his arms and turns on Geralt. “You’ve got some explaining to do, brother.”
Geralt sighs. “I’ll give you what I’ve told Ves and Eskel. The pup isn’t mine, for obvious reasons. We met on the Path after he conceived, and he’s been with me since the early days of his pregnancy. He’s a bard by trade. Yes, you have him to thank for Toss a Coin. His name is Jaskier. No, we’re not bonded.”
Lambert simply gapes at him in the wake of this flood of information. Finally, he laughs. “I was just going to throttle you for not sending me an invitation to the bonding ceremony, but I suppose that will do as an apology!” He claps Geralt on the shoulder hard enough to bruise had he not been a witcher, then strong-arms him into a hug. “I’ve never seen you so absolutely smitten, brother!”
“Wait until you see him when Jaskier gets all cozy in his lap,” Eskel says, grinning off to the side of their hug, which Geralt is vehemently trying to escape. “He practically melts.”
“Alright!” Geralt wrenches himself free and tries to hide the heat in his cheeks by straightening out his shirt. “Like you’re any better, Eskel. I saw how you lit up when a certain sorceress’ name was mentioned.”
Eskel shoots him a look that could make—and has made—a lesser man wet his trousers.
Lambert cries out in shock. “Her? You fancy Yennefer of Vengerberg? The same Yenna who had our dear White Wolf’s balls in a strangle hold some ten years back?”
Geralt bares his teeth at him, but Eskel only laughs. “Not that sorceress.” He shakes his head fondly and looks to where the magical token is still smoking gently. “Triss Merigold and I have been tiptoeing around something of a courtship for the past three years.”
Geralt raises his eyebrows at that. “I hadn’t realized it’s been going on that long. I only just saw the look on your face when I read Yen’s letter.”
“We’ve been discrete,” Eskel says simply. There’s a look in his eye that Geralt knows well. It’s the same look he got when they were mere pups running about the keep and they finally got caught for some horrible ruckus they’d caused: sheepish, secretive, and only a little coy. “I had no idea she was coming. I doubt she took that into consideration when she decided to join us—”
“Horseshit!”
Eskel barely blinks at Lambert’s exclamation. “Since we agreed we would see each other when the ground thaws again,” he finishes. “I’m sorry, Lambert, did you have something to say about my relations with Miss Merigold?”
“Yeah!” He sidles up to his brother, gets right in his face. “Horseshit!”
The barest tightening of Eskel’s fists betrays his anger. “What’s horseshit?”
“That oh, she probably didn’t even think about me before deciding to come to my ancestral home shit! Of course she thought of you, brainless. Yennefer isn’t so frail as to need company on her trip here.”
“To be fair,” Geralt adds. “Yennefer is shit at healing magic. It’s Triss’ specialty. I only invited Yen because she seemed like she needed company.”
Lambert just frowns at him. “Why the fuck would we need a healer?”
When Geralt only returns the frown with twice the ferocity, Eskel elbows Lambert then makes a terribly unsubtle gesture to his stomach, holding his arms out to mimic Jaskier’s bump.
“Oh!” Lambert says. “Right, that. Yes, I imagine a healer would be quite helpful then. When’s he due anyway? Tomorrow?”
“Nearly two months,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. It’s truly a blessing that Lambert and his mate were both sterile. He fears what dull monstrosity would come from that union—though with Aiden diluting Lambert’s defunct genetics, the pup would have at least some common sense.
They’re all saved from Lambert saying something terribly stupid by the sudden rush of wind and dizzying whirl of a portal opening across the courtyard.
Before Triss Merigold can even set foot on the cobblestones, Eskel’s there, holding out a hand to steady her. She meets his eye, her wild auburn hair whipping about them, not seeming to care that she’s utterly bogged down with a stack of books in her arm and an overfull bag slung across her shoulders.
Even from half a courtyard away, Eskel’s brothers see the affection between him and the sorceress. Geralt feels a fool for not seeing it before. He’s been around them in the past three years, both together and separately. The more he thinks about it, the less subtle he realizes they’d been. Eskel had been awfully distracted all last winter, whisking away to write letters when he thought his family was otherwise occupied. Triss had asked after Geralt’s family when he stopped by her shop in Rinde to refill his potion supply some months before Jaskier came into the picture, and she’d been particularly interested in how Eskel was faring. And now that he’s thinking about it, when Eskel got winged by a golem last summer, Triss had dropped everything and ran to them when she got Geralt’s fire message. The trembling of her hands as she’d healed him had only ceased when Eskel, still delirious from blood loss, grabbed them in his own and held on until they stilled.
Discrete, my ass.
“As I live and breathe!” Lambert caws, shamelessly breaking the tension between Triss and Eskel, who’ve just been standing and staring at each other, her hand in his, as the portal swirls shut behind her. “Triss Merigold, you are a sight for sore eyes!”
Triss blinks, as if she’s coming out of a stupor, and pulls her hand from Eskel’s before turning her blinding grin on Lambert. “Little Lamb! How are y—oh!” Lambert scoops her up like she weighs nothing and spins her in a circle around the courtyard. Once she recovers from the shock, Triss laughs. “Put me down, you oaf! You can’t have missed me that much.”
“Missed you?” Lambert sets her on her feet by the doors to the keep, having accomplished his goal of making Eskel go red in the face as he picks up the books that had spilled from the pretty sorceress’ hands when Lambert swept her up. “I worship you, Triss Merigold. If you can take someone as morose as my brother and—”
Geralt cuts off his brother before he can make more of an ass out of himself (and start a bloody battle with Eskel, who’s watching from a distance with fire in his eyes). “Triss.” Geralt reaches for her hand, which she offers kindly, and raises it to kiss it in greeting. “You look well. Thank you for joining us.”
Her face softens. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She hooks her arm in Geralt’s and lets him steer her toward the doors. “When Yen told me you’d picked up a pregnant omega, I thought she was joking. But I can smell him on you.” Triss is too polite to pull down the neck of his shirt to look for a bite, but not too polite to avoid giving his throat a cursory glance. If she’s curious about the lack of a mating bite poking out from his shirt, she doesn’t comment on it. “Is he… how is he faring?”
“Come see for yourself.” Geralt pushes the door, which gives easily under his touch. Triss’ warm brown cheeks regain a bit of their color the second the rush of heat from inside hits them. “We had an eventful trip up the mountain in the storm, but he and the pup both recovered well. Restless, both of them, but in good spirits.”
Jaskier is still explaining his thesis to Aiden and Vesemir (Geralt makes a note to ask about it later when they’re alone) but he looks up when Geralt returns. He stops mid-sentence, his expression souring when he sees Triss on his witcher’s arm, but then after a moment of scrutiny, surprise steals away the jealousy. “Oh. It’s you!”
Triss frowns at him for a moment before recognition overtakes her face. “Julian!” She leaves Geralt (and her bag with him) at the door and rushes to Jaskier’s side as he rises. Her eyes scan him from head to toe as she takes his hands and spreads them to get a good look at the bump beneath his clothes. “My, you look wonderful! How you’ve grown!”
Jaskier is beaming as he guides her hands to feel the pup. “I thought your name sounded familiar, but I didn’t think much of it. I can’t thank you enough for your help last spring.”
“Think nothing of it, love.”
Geralt exchanges a look with Eskel as he and Lambert join them inside, shutting out the cold behind them once more.
“Geralt!” Jaskier calls, urging him closer. “Remember the sorceress I told you about? The one I spoke with when I first left home?”
Geralt looks to Triss. “It was you?”
She nods. “I hardly did anything. He already knew he was with child. I merely confirmed it for him.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You did more than that. I was scared out of my wits, and you talked me down. You convinced me I wasn’t making a huge mistake and told me I wasn’t going to die a horrible, gruesome death at the hands of my unborn child.”
“Every parent has the same doubts. You weren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.” She lifts one of her hands to Jaskier’s cheek. A faint yellow glow spreads beneath her palm and her brow furrows in concentration before smoothing over nearly immediately. “You seem strong. Healthy.” Her eyes flick to Geralt, who realizes he’s hovering. “Happy.”
“I am.” Jaskier turns his gaze unsubtly to Geralt as well. “All of the above.”
“Triss,” Vesemir says, both a greeting and an instruction. “Why don’t you examine Jaskier yourself. I’ve done a cursory look, but it’s not my area of expertise. I’m sure all our minds would be more at ease if you took a look.”
She nods, smiling warmly at the eldest witcher. Jaskier offers his arm for her and leads her out of the hall, chatting amiably the whole way.
When their voices fade into the keep, Eskel rounds on Geralt. “Did you know they knew each other?”
Geralt shakes his head. “He never said.”
“Small world, I suppose,” Lambert declares, swinging a leg over the bench to join Aiden at the table. His mate watches him in mixed exasperation and fondness as he reaches for a loaf of bread on the table, rips off a chunk, and scarfs it down like he’s half-starved.
“Or,” Aiden offers. “There are only a few mages who specialize in healing magic and omega male pregnancies.”
“It’s good fortune, either way,” says Vesemir. “It’s best that they’re well acquainted before your bard progresses in his pregnancy any further.”
Geralt frowns. “Why’s that?”
The old witcher sighs and steeples his fingers together in front of himself. It’s the closest he ever gets to a nervous tick. “Male omegas rarely carry to full term. It’s a miracle he’s made it as far as he has, especially with the stress he’s been under. I suspect it will only be a matter of weeks before dear Triss’ services are needed.”
Geralt’s mouth goes dry. A matter of weeks. He’s not sure why in his head he and Jask had so much more time left. He knew Jaskier would deliver before spring came (if he didn’t that would be a whole other issue) but the reality of the pup being there, in their arms, before the month’s end, made a swirl of emotions overtake Geralt so strongly he has to sink onto the bench before his legs give out.
“Have I done the right thing?” He doesn’t intend to voice it. His family’s faces reflect his own surprise at his admission, but none of them move to answer, so he continues. “He’s not even twenty. He’d have a much happier life, a much safer one, if I left him with his friends in Oxenfurt, or somehow convinced him to return to his parents’ home. I don’t know how to interact with children. They don’t tend to like me.”
“What about that little girl in White Orchard last summer?” Eskel asks, looking down at his brother with no small amount of compassion and bemusement. “She wouldn’t leave you alone until you picked her up and put her on your shoulders.”
Geralt pressed his lips into a thin line. “She only wanted to see the parade over the crowd, and I just happened to be the tallest one there.”
“Really? Is that why she insisted on putting little braids in your hair while she was up there?”
“Fine. So, one child liked me. That doesn’t mean I’m capable of raising one.”
Lambert rests his chin on his fist and stares at Geralt. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve never seen you care this much.”
As a rule, witchers didn’t get involved with humans. Countless humans had tried using witchers for their own political gain, so to circumvent that, they’d taken up the habit of only getting involved when they had to. They weren’t expressly forbidden from making human friends—they were making their own rules these days, after all—but when one’s life expectancy is more than three times that of the average human, one tends not to get too attached.
“I tried to discourage him,” Geralt says. Though not very hard, or for very long, he adds silently. “But he just sort of… clung to me.”
“And you to him,” Vesemir grumbles. “If any of you have a problem with Geralt’s bond with his omega, you best get over it. Severing it now would only lead to more pain than necessary. And speaking of pain, it won’t be long until Jaskier begins getting territorial. We don’t know how he will react, so I expect all of you—” He cuts his gaze to Lambert, who immediately drops his head. “To be on your best behavior. If he asks for something, give it to him. If he snaps at you, leave him be. Omega male pregnancies are rare and volatile. We cannot let him lose this child. Am I understood?”
Silently, the younger witchers agree.
Vesemir nods, then leaves the table. Geralt watches him go, something nagging at him. He springs to his feet and follows him.
He doesn’t acknowledge Geralt until they’re in his study with the door closed behind them. “What’s wrong, wolf?”
Geralt crosses his arms and leans against one of the tables Ves uses for potions. “You’ve taken a keen interest in Jaskier’s health. Is there something I should know?”
The old witcher sighs and sets about tidying the books and papers strewn about his desk. “Can I not simply show some care for the man my son has chosen as his mate? Can I not ensure both he and his child are safe?”
“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?” Geralt squints at him. To anyone else, it would seem Vesemir was merely busying himself with cleaning, but to Geralt, and anyone else who knows him well, his worry is obvious. Vesemir doesn’t fidget. “What are you not telling me?”
With another, mightier sigh, Vesemir sinks into his chair and folds his hands on top of the desk. “You should sit.”
Alarms ring inside Geralt’s head, but he does as he’s told. “Is everything alright? Is there something wrong with Jaskier, with the pup—”
Vesemir cuts him off with a chuckle. “You’re howling at the wrong moon, wolf. They’re both in perfect health.” He cocks his head to one side. “Which is why I’m concerned.”
“You think they’re… too healthy?”
“Don’t make it sound as if I’m complaining, Geralt.”
“I’m only repeating what you’ve said!”
“Geralt.” Ves leans across the desk. “Listen to me. Omega male pregnancies rarely last. Men typically are not built for the strain on their bodies. And since male omegas are only fertile the first ten years after their presentation, they’re often young, scrawny, and depending on where they live, underfed. Your bard is lucky he found you when he did. I think the exercise and your care for him have helped him remain healthy.”
A knot in Geralt’s chest loosens at that. He remembers the change he’d seen in Jaskier after his time in Oxenfurt—the weight he’d gained, the color of his cheeks, the pup’s new habit of kicking his spleen at every given moment. In all his years, he can’t claim to have seen such a healthy pregnant male omega—not that he’s encountered all that many. But the ones he had met were as Vesemir described: thin, pale, often bedridden. And here Jaskier was, mere weeks from delivery, healthy as he’d ever been, even after his scrape with death.
“What are you getting at?” Geralt asks. “I’m taking too much care of him?”
Vesemir laughs, but there’s little mirth in it. “No. I’m glad you have been. But there’s something else I think may be sustaining your bard and his child.”
“Which is?”
“Magic.”
Geralt blinks at him for a long moment. “What?”
“Magic,” Ves repeats, as though Geralt had simply misheard him the first time. “I’m surprised you haven’t picked up on it yet. It’s all over him. Even Eskel felt it before I did.”
Geralt sits up straighter in his chair. “And neither of you have said anything to me?”
“Settle, pup.”
At the admonishment, Geralt huffs and returns to his slump. “So, someone’s cast some sort of spell on Jaskier?”
“Not quite,” Vesemir says with a slight squint. “I haven’t figured it out yet. It’s more like the magic is Jaskier’s himself, yet he seems to have no knowledge of it.”
Sure, there are things Jaskier has kept from him for various reasons (his family situation being the foremost) but the fact that he has magic would certainly have come up by now. If Jaskier has magic, he surely doesn’t know about it.
“What’s more,” Vesemir continues. He’s got that glint in his eye he gets when he’s found something that fascinates him. Though that usually includes an ancient tome untouched by human hands or a creature none of them have seen before, it’s never extended in such a context as this. “While the magic is all over Jaskier, it’s doubly powerful inside him.”
“Meaning?”
“The pup has magic. Much stronger than your bard’s.”
“But—” Geralt stammers. “But he said the sire was just a stable boy. No one remarkable.”
“Unremarkable stable boys can still have magic, Geralt. Although perhaps…” He pauses, reluctant to continue. “Perhaps he lied to you.”
“He didn’t.” There’s no hesitation in Geralt’s tone. “He wouldn’t.” He doesn’t make note of the fact that he would have known, since he’s been in touch with the changes in Jaskier’s scent for months. He can tell when Jaskier’s lying just from being within fifteen meters of him.
“Very well,” Vesemir says. “If you trust him to be truthful, then so do I. Regardless, some twist of fate, or some machinations Jaskier himself is unaware of have granted him a clandestine pregnancy.”
“Meaning?”
“He and the pup are protected, both of them, with magic I’ve never seen in my long years.”
Geralt slumps in his chair, gnawing on his knuckle. Leave it to him to find the one pregnant omega bard apparently blessed by the gods. Though in his humble opinion, if anyone is worthy of such an honor, it’s Jaskier—biased though Geralt may be, he can’t deny the bard has a certain appeal beyond his looks and his musical talent. He makes friends easily. He’s got a silver tongue that’s gotten him out of trouble countless times. He could flirt his way into a nun’s heart. Animals love him—even Roach, the traitorous little wench, perks up when he’s nearby. He can turn even the most boring encounters into grand epics about Geralt’s heroics. He pretty much single-handedly restored the reputation of the Butcher of Blaviken in only a few short months.
Would it be so outlandish to believe Jaskier really has magic?
He ponders this as he leaves Vesemir to his tasks and wanders about the halls of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is safe and content in Triss Merigold’s capable hands. Though that invisible thread tugs at him to climb the stairs to wherever the bard’s been whisked away to, he ignores it and walks the perimeter of the keep.
Vesemir does a good job keeping the place from crumbling to dust year-round, and it’s clear Eskel has taken on some of the tasks Vesemir doesn’t care for. His brother’s hand is evident in the repaired benches, re-sanded door frames, and newly carved wooden bowls and spoons in the kitchen. The cracks in the walls have been filled. The whole place could use a good wipe down. Geralt’s not sure the keep even has enough buckets required to mop this whole place before—
Before what, Geralt?
The thought shocks him so thoroughly that he grinds to a halt in the middle of an unused hallway, his own chuckle of surprise echoing around him.
He’s nesting.
Gods be damned, Geralt of Rivia is nesting!
Alphas—because that’s what Geralt is, whether or not he can sire a pup—nest in different ways from omegas. Omegas will often horde soft things, pillows and blankets and furs to line their nests. They tend to seek out sweet-smelling things, like fruits and baked goods. They’ll steal clothing and blankets from their pack members, anything that will help them feel safe and their nest fortified. Alphas, however, get protective of their pack. They make sure there are no unseen dangers lurking nearby and ensure their mates are content and provided for.
He’s a fool for not seeing it sooner.
Geralt humors himself and allows one last lap around the keep before seeking out Jaskier.
He’s not hard to find.
Geralt’s meeting with Vesemir and his subsequent survey of the grounds took longer than expected, so Triss has concluded her examination and moved onto more pleasant pastimes.
The sound of laughter echoes down the halls. It’s not a sound Geralt’s used to in recent years. He’s well-versed in the hearty guffaws of his family over too many pints of White Gull, but bright giggles are somewhat foreign to the walls of Kaer Morhen. He follows the sound to the hot springs, where he finds Jaskier and an equally naked Triss Merigold soaking in the hot springs.
Face flaming red, Geralt turns around once he enters. “Apologies, Triss.”
“Oh, don’t be such a monk, Geralt,” Triss huffs. “Join us. We’ve both seen each other in worse states.”
Geralt obeys, toeing off his boots and stripping easily before slipping into the water. Jaskier meets him halfway. He’s barely taken a seat along the low stone outcropping on the edge of the pool before the bard’s legs are slinging up over his own, one arm thrown around Geralt’s shoulders.
“How was your examination?” Geralt asks them both, politely ignoring both their states of undress. Triss, beautiful as she is, is easier to ignore. Geralt’s a gentleman, despite what others might say, and with Jaskier completely nude and in his lap, it’s hard to focus on much else.
Triss pushes a stray curl back into the haphazard bun she’s tied her hair back into. “Right as rain,” she chirps. “Both of them are strong and healthy. Jaskier needs to up his protein intake, but other than that, everything is going swimmingly.”
Geralt frowns at Jaskier, worry finally dragging his thoughts from the hairy thigh dragging against his own. “Is that bad? Should I have made sure you were eating more meat?”
Jaskier visibly bites his tongue at the joke he clearly wants to make at that. “No, darling,” he says instead, cupping Geralt’s cheek with a warm, wet hand. “It’ll be good for the pup’s development in the last couple weeks and help me gain some more strength. Triss also says I should try and walk more. Rest is good, but it’s also good to get my blood moving.”
Geralt nods faintly.
“Geralt,” Triss says softly, grabbing his attention. “You’ve taken care of Jaskier amazingly well. There isn’t a single thing I would have advised you to do differently.”
That soothes him more than the warm water or Jaskier’s hand stroking down his neck could.
Before any of them can continue the conversation, the door to the springs opens, and Eskel enters. He cries out when he takes in the scene, slaps a hand over his eyes, and in a perfect mimicry of Geralt when he’d entered, spins to turn his back to them. “My apologies, om—Triss. I should’ve knocked.”
The sorceress’ cheeks redden deeper than they had been before, but she rolls her eyes. “You witchers and your propriety. How half the Continent thinks you’re all brutes is beyond me.”
Lambert appears from the hallway and ducks under Eskel’s arm and begins stripping himself of his traveling clothes, leaving them in a puddle on the floor before jumping into the pool. He makes enough of a splash to soak the current occupants of the springs. He surfaces and shakes his head to rid himself of the water, further baptizing them all.
Geralt turns to Triss, who has merely watched the whole affair in open-mouthed mirth. “Does that answer your question?”
⚘⚘⚘
Unsurprisingly, Jaskier pulls him into bed again that night, absolutely soaked and nipping at the witcher’s throat.
“Are you sure you won’t mount me?” he moans, his hand already down the front of Geralt’s trousers before they reach the bed. He seems to have accepted Geralt’s unwillingness to fuck him for the time being, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a bitch about it. He brings it up every night they fall into bed together, unable to leave Geralt to his convictions.
Geralt growls softly, which he’s come to realize Jaskier really likes, if the spike of his scent is indication enough. Jaskier seems adamant to bend over the side of the bed, but Geralt can’t stop thinking about putting strain on the pup, so he eases Jaskier onto his back on the pillows. He loses his pants somewhere between the door and the bed, his shirt hanging loose over his cock, his knot already swollen at the base just from Jaskier’s hand. He looms over Jaskier, pins him to the bed with only his stare and his arms boxed on either side of his head. “Are you testing me, Jask?”
“I’d never!”
Geralt doesn’t need to see the flutter of his pulse at his neck to know he’s lying.
Geralt strips him gently, soaking in the scent of Jaskier’s skin and the oil he’d put on after his bath. Witcher senses have made it hard to appreciate such luxuries as scented soaps, but whatever it is Jaskier brought with him from Oxenfurt is sweet and soft and just tempting enough for Geralt to want to sink his teeth in. Though all that could also be accredited to Jaskier spreading his now-bare legs and drawing Geralt between them.
They don’t take their time with it. Jaskier’s worked up from pregnancy hormones and Geralt’s worked up because Jaskier’s been worked up for hours. It only takes a hand around each other’s cocks for only a few minutes for them both to spill, panting into each other’s mouths.
Geralt rolls off him after cleaning him with his tongue—the part of this he insists upon every night. The omega sighs in content, rolling up into a blanket and tucking himself against Geralt’s side.
He can tell Jaskier’s drifting into sleep already, his soft little huffs and sighs as he gets comfy lulling Geralt into restfulness as well. But there’s something clawing at him, keeping him from slipping off.
“Jask?” he whispers.
There’s a low fire burning in the grate—he’ll have to stoke it shortly when he’s sure Jaskier won’t wake when he moves. It gives him just enough light to see the shine of the bard’s eyes when he blinks them open, humming softly. He’s never looked so soft, so sweet, so open.
Geralt hates to ruin it.
He needs to.
“Triss…” Geralt begins softly. “This morning. When she first saw you… she called you another name. Not Jaskier.”
Two dots of pink rise high on his cheeks, but Jaskier makes no move to extricate himself from Geralt’s embrace. “Ah,” he sighs, turning onto his side a bit so Geralt can see more of him. “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that.”
“It’s none of my business,” Geralt says, then doubles down when Jaskier side-eyes him. “Truly. I’ve vowed to protect you and to love you, but you are now, and always will be, your own person, Jask. Your secrets, your past, are yours to keep. Either until you wish to share them with me, or beyond the grave. Nothing about you could ever make me want to stop being right here, beside you, for as long as you’ll have me. I just… wanted you to know that.”
Jaskier goes a bit misty-eyed, but he frowns into the distance, pulling the blanket higher on his shoulder. “I love you, Geralt,” he says, and it’s not an answer, but Geralt would let him leave it at that. However, Jaskier continues. “Jaskier is the name I’ve chosen for myself. It’s the one I prefer, the one I wish to be called. But it is not the name I was born with.” His jaw works like he’s trying to gnaw through bone. “And if it’s all the same to you, I think I would like to just be Jaskier for some time. I will tell you my real name, one day. When I’m ready. But for now… I just want to be Jaskier.”
“My Jaskier.” Geralt reaches up and tucks his love’s hair behind his ear. It’s fruitless—his hair is too fluffy and just the slightest bit too short to stay where it’s put—but he likes how Jaskier’s eyes soften when he does it, how he turns to press his nose to Geralt’s wrist. “Jaskier the Bard.”
His lips brush against Geralt’s pulse as he speaks. “And His Witcher.”
And that is enough for Geralt to draw the omega’s legs around himself once more.
They don’t hear from Yennefer for nearly a fortnight, and Triss is the only one who seems concerned.
“She said she only had a few things to wrap up then she would contact me so I could help her portal.” She keeps her voice low so only Geralt can hear. She’d pulled him to the side after dinner while Jaskier was entertaining their party with songs he deemed too bawdy to sing in public—which is certainly a feat, Geralt thinks, though he doesn’t disagree when the bard pulls out a whole series of ballads about seamen with horse cocks. “I haven’t heard from her, and she’s either ignored my fire messages or she hasn’t gotten them.” She bites her lip, leaning in closer. “I’m worried, Geralt. She only goes off the grid like this when something’s wrong.”
Geralt frowns. “There was something off about her when we met outside Oxenfurt. I assumed it was the bloedzuiger attack making her edgy. Has she been… getting involved in things she shouldn’t be, lately?” Aside from Geralt, Triss is probably one of the only people on the Continent who truly knows Yennefer of Vengerberg. And considering Triss is a great deal less hotheaded than him, she’s usually on better speaking terms with her fellow sorceress. If Yen’s involved with something she shouldn’t be, Triss would know.
Triss shakes her head, then pauses. “Well, perhaps. I don’t know how much she told you about…”
“She said she’d given up on trying to regain her fertility,” Geralt says.
Triss nods once, looking grim. “She has. And I believe her. But it’s Yen. She needs something to pour all her energy into. Her search to restore her womb was a long and misguided one, but at least it kept her busy. And believe you me, there is nothing worse than a bored Yennefer of Vengerberg.”
Geralt snorts but can’t help but agree. “So, you think she’s taken up something else? She told me she’d tried hunting, but it… didn’t suit her.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Last time she came to visit, she gifted me a pair of enchanted knitting needles. She said she didn’t need them anymore. They didn’t do what she needed them to do.”
“Which is what?” Geralt snorts. “Disembowel a man from thirty paces?”
“Gods help us if I’m right, Geralt, but I genuinely think she’d tried knitting with them.”
“Fuck. We need to find her.”
Triss nods and looks like she’s about to say something more when Geralt’s medallion thrums against his chest. It’s faint, and brief, but it’s enough to set him on edge. At once, he and the other witchers are rising to their feet, weapons drawn as they face the doors to the Great Hall.
As they turn, an unseen force begins lifting the latch from the other side.
Geralt casts out for Jaskier (safe, huddled by the fire with his lute and approximately three dozen blankets as Vesemir, Lambert, Aiden, and Eskel bristle before him) and edges in front of Triss. She hadn’t felt the surge of magic like the witchers had, but she’d certainly noticed when they all fell silent and drew their swords. She has her hands out, ready to defend if necessary.
The latch on the door rises out of the way smoothly, then a lone figure pushes the doors open and saunters in, their slight frame dwarfed by the massive wooden doors—
“Yennefer!” Triss’ hands fall, then she’s rushing across the room to embrace the other sorceress, whose appearance has left all of them aghast.
To Geralt’s utter shock and dismay, she looks like shit. She’s in casual leather traveling clothes under her heavy cloak, far less put-together than Geralt’s ever seen her. Her hair is in a braid that’s falling apart. There’s dirt and blood and gods know what else streaked across her face. Her cloak is torn and she’s struggling under the weight of a bag that’s nearly half her height strapped to her back.
But she’s grinning, widely and madly, as Triss rushes to hug her. She drops her bag to the floor and catches Triss about the waist, nearly lifting her off the floor as she returns her embrace.
Geralt spares a glance to the other witchers, who look just as perplexed as he is.
“Who is that,” Lambert hisses just loud enough for them all to hear. “And what has she done with our Yenna?”
“Oi!” Yennefer cries, setting Triss back on her feet. “I heard that.”
“You were supposed to.” Lambert steps forward, sheathing his sword and crossing his arms, drawing himself up to look more imposing. “I’ve never seen you with a single hair out of place. Lose your magic, perhaps? Or just your marbles?”
Yen rolls her eyes and flicks her hand. The rug Lambert had been passing over slips at her beckoning, sending the witcher tumbling to the floor with an undignified “augh!”
“Magic, no,” she declares. “Though the state of my marbles has yet to be determined.”
“I’ve been worried sick about you!” Triss cries, the shock of seeing her friend giving way to anger. “And here you are, a week late with no notice, and you look—well, I’ll be honest, you’ve looked better, Yen.”
“Apologies,” she says, first to Triss, then to the rest of them. “Truly. I decided at the last minute I didn’t want to portal all the way, so I set out on foot. Took longer than I thought it would.”
Geralt raises his eyebrows. “You… climbed the mountain? On foot? Alone?”
Yen grins wider and nods. “Got a bit lost on the way and fell down a cliff—don’t worry!” She interjects at Triss’ cry. “It was a short one. I’m fine. Nothing I couldn’t fix on my own.” She rolls back the sleeve of her coat to show the long, jagged line she must have knit together using her own magic. The skin is pink and wrinkled—it’s likely to leave a horrible scar. Yen doesn’t seem bothered by it in the least.
Triss frowns at her for a long moment, cradling Yen’s wrist as she inspects her work. “I think I can fix this,” she declares. She turns to the rest of them, who have merely been watching in dismay. Her eyes light on Eskel, softening when she sees him already stepping forward. “Take her bag, will you? Let’s get you cleaned up, Yen.”
Eskel hoists Yen’s discarded bag onto his back and follows the sorceresses into the corridor.
“Ah,” Jaskier chirps at Geralt’s elbow, nearly startling him. He hadn’t noticed the bard rise and make his way to Geralt’s side, so rapt he was in Yen’s perplexing appearance. “Well, now I see why Triss was asked to be our healer instead of dear Yennefer.” He lifts his eyes coyly to Geralt’s, trying and failing to hide his laughter. “It appears she is, perhaps, short of a marble.”
⚘⚘⚘
Triss delivers a clean bill of health for Yen, both in body and mind. She managed to fix Yen’s shoddy healing magic, so now the scar will likely only be noticeable if one examines her arm closely.
It’s Yennefer herself who explains to Geralt what possessed her to take one of the most perilous journeys known to man. On foot. In the middle of winter. Alone.
“I am, gods help me, Geralt,” she mumbles into her fourth mug of ale later that night. “Soul-searching.”
Assuming she’s joking. Geralt frowns and sips his own ale carefully. “Who are you looking for?”
She snorts, unladylike and more than a little tipsy. “Myself.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“It means, you daft old man—” She elbows him, spilling both their drinks in the process. “—that I’m turning over a new leaf. Trying to find what pleases me.”
“And what pleases you is hiking?”
“As it turns out, no.” Yen wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think I’m built for it.”
Geralt hums. “That’s the one thing you’ve said since you got here that makes any sense.”
He expects a rebuff for that, perhaps a wayward spell thrown his way, but Yennefer merely sighs. “I know. Not much is making sense to me these days.”
“Yen,” he begins softly. “You know no one expects you to change who you are.”
“I know, but I do.” She rises from the bench they’d been slouched on and begins pacing in front of him. Their companions, who had been chatting and singing snippets of songs back and forth in front of the fire, fall silent at her movement. She doesn’t seem to care. “I’ve done it twice now, changed who I am and what I want. Who’s to say I can’t do it again? I wasn’t suited to be a court mage, so I went rogue, started doing what I wanted. Then when that failed, I began searching for a way to undo the enchantments after my ascension. Now I’ve decided that particular dream makes no sense anymore. It wasn’t even that I wanted my womb back—I don’t know what I’d do with it if I managed to get it back. It was all about taking back control of my life. I’d never been able to make decisions for myself until now. I won’t tie myself to another lousy king or half-baked rebellion just because I’m bored and need something to keep me busy.”
Triss joins Geralt at his table, sliding into the spot Yen had vacated. “And what have you decided to do? You had a shop for a while. You could go back to that. You’ve made a name for yourself, and not just among the mages. I’m sure there are people all over the Continent who could—”
“Bugger that!” Yen throws up her hands then sets about rolling up her sleeves. She’s in another rugged set of trousers and a linen shirt, though they’re a touch nicer and a great deal cleaner than the ones she’d arrived in. At least these don’t have holes in them. “I was bored out my skull the whole time, waiting for something exciting to happen. I need action. I need adventure.”
“You could become a poet,” Jaskier adds, not at all subtle about the fact that he’s been eavesdropping from half the room away. “The pay is good, and I’m sure a woman such as yourself has stories to share.”
Geralt makes a face at that. “If you’ve heard her singing voice, you’d regret suggesting that, little lark.”
“Oi!” Yen snaps at him, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “But no, you’re right. I’d be a lousy bard.”
“Then what’s taken your fancy?” asks Triss.
Yen stops her pacing and sets her hands on her hips. She lifts her chin, violet eyes blazing in determination, and Geralt is reminded once again that this is not merely a woman having a crisis of faith, but one of the most powerful mages the Continent has ever seen. A force to be reckoned with, even soused and half-mad. If he were standing, he would take a step back.
“I’d like to be a witcher.”
Geralt blinks at her for a long time.
Triss sputters before finally getting out, “I beg your pardon?”
Yen meets Geralt’s eye and pushes on. “I’ve been thinking about it since the dragon hunt. I was misguided in my pursuits, but I enjoyed the process, nevertheless. And when we met on the road, with the blood—the blue—oh, what the hell is it?”
“Bloedzuiger,” all the witchers in the room reply at once.
“Right. Anyway, I nearly had it handled when you intervened—”
“You were about to poison an entire acre of woodlands and yourself along with it.”
“Perhaps.” She crosses her arms. “But it was nearly dead.”
Geralt can’t argue with that, so he huffs instead.
“And that’s not the first time I’ve fought beasts,” Yennefer goes on. “You and I fought together no fewer than a dozen times.”
“Only because you happened to be with me when trouble came.”
“And,” she presses on, ignoring Geralt’s remark. “I saved a young man from being eaten by a wyvern outside Kerack some months back.”
“Yennefer,” comes Vesemir’s reproach. Geralt relaxes when his father ambles up to their table, looking gruff and mildly concerned beneath his usual blank stare. “Our ability to make new witchers was lost decades ago. That knowledge died with our fathers. Surely you know this.”
Because it was the mages who brought about our end.
Yen uncrosses her arms and faces the old wolf with a straighter spine. “Of course I know that. I mean no offense, Vesemir. I don’t mean I want the mutagens. I’m aware the trials have been laid to rest.”
Aiden snorts from a table over, where he’s propping up a sleepy Lambert. “Thank the gods for that.”
Yen plunders on. “What I mean is I’d like to take up your profession. Join your ranks, if you’ll have me, train under you, learn all you know about monsters and the things that go bump in the night. Teach me how to fight.” A muscle flexes in her jaw. “How to protect people.”
“A witchering witch…” Jaskier muses from his nest of blankets. He taps his chin then scrambles for his notebook that’s been lost amongst his furs. “It sounds lovely, at least.”
“Mages have fought monsters before, out of necessity, but there’s a reason they always call us in to do the dirty work, Yen.” Geralt leans forward and braces his elbows on his knees. “And it is dirty work. It’s painful. Dangerous. You’re bound to lose more than a few nights’ sleep.”
Lambert, who is apparently not asleep, grunts, “And a limb or two, mos’ likely”
“I’ve weighed the risks,” says Yen. “I’ve traveled with you before, Geralt. I’ve fought alongside you. I’m strong and quick and capable, you know that. If you would only share with me your wisdom, imagine what could be done!”
Geralt’s confusion about Yennefer’s motivations fades. There’s that wicked glint in her eye he remembers well. It’s the same one she’d worn while chanting over a jinn’s vessel and trying to take down a whole bloody dragon: she won’t stop until she gets what she wants. What she wants, this time, is apparently exactly what she’s saying. She wants to help people, to kill monsters, to bring things back into order. She wants control over her own life.
“I’ve never taught a woman before.” Vesemir says it as a statement of fact, not as an insult or a diminutive. He’s pondering the idea. He knows Yen is plenty capable. “It would be different from the training you lot did in your youth.”
Eskel speaks up for the first time, then. “I’ve trained women before.” He shares a look with Triss, who had left him at their table with a handful of cards and a raised brow that tells Geralt exactly how their game ended. “Or, one woman. Miss Merigold asked for some information on the gargoyles that kept infesting her garden.”
“Nasty little things,” she agrees quietly from beside Geralt.
“I taught her how to get rid of them,” says Eskel. “It wasn’t any different than when you taught us in the past, Ves.”
“Geralt’s taught me plenty over the years,” Yen says.
Geralt frowns at her. “I have?”
She merely rolls her eyes at him. “Do you really think I dealt with you for that long without picking something up?”
“It’s true!” Jaskier chirps. “You’re a very good educator when you want to be, dear heart.”
Geralt blushes at that, though no one without witcher senses can tell. He speaks before any of them can comment on it. “Forgive my bluntness, Yen, but how am I supposed to know you’re not going to get bored after a couple months? Decide you need some other occupation to fill your time? I heard how your foray into the arts ended.”
Yen sends a glare Triss’ way. “Yes, well it appears I haven’t found favor with the muses the way some have.” Even from across the room, Geralt can tell how flattered Jaskier is by that remark. “But I do have a knack for finding trouble. I wasn’t lying to you when we met weeks ago, Geralt. I was earnestly hunting for deer when that blue—blow—oh, give me a moment, I’ll get there. Bl—bloedzuiger. Ha! Yes, the bloedzuiger. It found me. I wasn’t looking for it.”
“That does make sense,” Vesemir muses. “Many monsters are drawn to chaos the same way others are drawn to large populations of people or animals. Everything preys on something.”
“So, they’re trying to eat my magic?”
The old witcher chuckles. “No. They merely see you as a potential source of energy. A guide, if you will.”
“Ah!” Jaskier heaves himself out of his chair and waddles over to Geralt, who makes room for him on his lap without question. The bard slips onto his favorite perch and wraps his arms around his witcher’s shoulders. “Like the little fish that hang on to bigger predators so they can eat the plants and whatnot that grow on them.”
Everyone blinks at his observation, save Triss, who snickers and shakes her head at him.
Geralt looks up from where he’s been watching Jaskier exchange a smile with Triss to find Vesemir looking at him. “Up to you, wolf,” his father tells him.
“Me?”
Ves shrugs. “You know her the best out of all of us. She trusts you. I’ll bestow whatever wisdom I have, but her training will be yours to oversee.”
Geralt thinks it over for a long moment as Jaskier snuggles back into him. Some time ago, he would have said no straight away. But things have changed in recent years, he thinks to himself as Jaskier settles his head on Geralt’s shoulder and sighs, perfectly content where he is. And not just in his own life. Yennefer is a wholly different person than the one who left him on a mountain however long ago. Her motivations, her desires, her view of the world—they’ve all changed.
He looks at Yen. She’s already watching him, her brow furrowed and her hands clenching into fists at her hips. She’s nervous. She thinks he’ll say no.
He has every right to. She has a history of getting him into trouble. She never listens. She abandons him without notice.
Jaskier sighs again and presses a sleepy kiss to the underside of Geralt’s chin.
Geralt himself has changed since the mountain. He’d still been wallowing in his self-doubt and guilt over the situation with Yen, even though years had passed, when a rowdy little omega cornered him in Posada. He’d nearly forgotten about his heartbreak in the whirlwind of emotions Jaskier brought into his life.
If Geralt can change this much in a span of half a year, how much can Yennefer of Vengerberg change over a period of a few years if she set her mind to it?
“Fine,” Geralt says. He can tell by the way Yen’s spine relaxes and her scent—usually fruity and floral—spikes sweetly that she’d been preparing to be disappointed. “But I’ll only do it if you agree to trust me.”
She squints at him for a long moment before agreeing. “Alright. I trust you. You’re in charge.”
Eskel huffs softly. “Never thought I’d hear those words coming from you, Yen.”
She whips her head to glare at him, rankling once more. “Only in the manner of my training.”
“Not just that,” Geralt corrects. “If you’re going out on the Path with me, I need to know you will listen to me when I tell you something isn’t safe. I don’t need a liability, Yen, but I will take a partner.”
“Great,” Yen says. “Fine, I agree.”
“Well, now that’s all settled,” Jaskier butts in, lifting his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “I’d like to go to bed.” He turns wide, pleading eyes to Geralt, unsubtle in his seduction.
“I think we could all use some rest,” Vesemir declares. “It’s been an eventful day.”
Everyone makes vague sounds of agreement and begins making their way to the corridor.
“So,” Lambert pipes up from the back of the pack where Aiden is doing his best to drag him up to their room. “How much you wanna bet she wakes up with a hangover and absolutely no clue what she agreed to?”
⚘⚘⚘
“I’m just saying, dear heart,” Jaskier complains, his voice relatively even considering what Geralt’s up to. “If you were getting bored of traveling with me, you could’ve said so. You didn’t have to invite Yen to join the f-fun.”
“Yen’s getting nowhere near the fun,” Geralt growls, knowing when he does it makes Jaskier whine. Not that the omega needs much encouragement to whine, what with three of Geralt’s fingers inside him and his mouth gradually making a mess of his cock. He’s challenged himself to see how many times he can make his bard cum before he taps out—or passes out… whichever comes first. So far, he’s up to two, and Jaskier’s only trembling a little bit.
“There will hardly be time for thi-this with her on the road with us.”
“There will be plenty of time for this,” Geralt insists, lifting his head to watch Jaskier’s eyes roll back when he crooks his fingers and strokes right up into his soft spot. He gushes around Geralt’s fingers. “Yen knows how to make herself scarce.”
Jaskier makes a vague sound of agreement through his moaning—though Geralt could be mishearing and that’s just another moan. He’s a bit distracted.
“And there will always be someone to watch the pup,” he adds, absently tipping his head to kiss the underside of Jaskier’s belly. “She’s surprisingly good with kids.”
“Sounds like you’re—you’re trying to sell me on her.”
“You brought it up.” Geralt travels back down and nudges the leaky head of his omega’s cock before slipping it into his mouth.
Jaskier’s hips jerk at the sudden sensation and his hands fly to Geralt’s hair, pulling him down until the tip of his cock is in his throat. “Ah! Fuck, Geralt.”
Geralt growls again in approval. He could genuinely spend all day here, listening to Jaskier moan, tasting his desperation, feeling his thighs shake beneath his hands. It would hardly be a chore to stay here. His cock, on the small side as omega cocks tend to be, barely hits Geralt’s throat even when his nose is pressed into the hair at the bottom of Jaskier’s tummy. His scent is stronger here, headier—not that Geralt needs help finding it. He’s not sure if it’s the bond between them, so strong even without a bite, or Jaskier’s hormones, but Geralt can quite literally sniff him out blindfolded and deaf.
It doesn’t make the effect here any less enthralling. Geralt finds his eyes fluttering shut as he takes Jaskier into his mouth again. The bard’s knees draw up as he does, fighting the intensity of his touch, but Geralt pins him back down and aims a nasty jab at his prostate as punishment.
Jaskier’s back snaps into a deep arch and he lets out a keen like a wounded animal. If anyone in the keep hears him, they’ll think something awful has befallen them.
Geralt can’t bring himself to care.
Let them come, he thinks. Let them see what I do to Jaskier, how I can please him better than anyone else ever could. Let them see he’s mine.
Geralt growls again. He can feel his baser instincts rising like a tide at the back of his mind, but he can’t tamp them down. Why would he? Here, in his nest, with his omega whining for his knot, he has nowhere he’d rather let his alpha side take over.
Jaskier yanks on his hair, panting, “Enough, enough. I need a moment.”
The alpha considers ignoring his request—he’s supposed to be taking care of his omega, giving him what he needs whether he thinks he needs it or not. But then he relents, lifting his head and gentling the crooking of his fingers. He’s glad he does, since the purr Jaskier huffs out is nearly soothing enough to make Geralt go cross-eyed.
“Gods,” Jaskier sighs, lapsing into a laugh at the tail end of his exhale. “You make me dizzy when you do that.” He lifts one hand from Geralt to run shaking fingers through his own hair, pushing the sweaty strands from his forehead.
Geralt eyes the head of Jaskier’s cock again—it twitches as he watches and lets out a little blob of translucent slick. He nearly ignores the omega’s plea and takes it back into his mouth again to taste it, but he turns his head and sinks his teeth into the meat of Jaskier’s thigh instead. The bard gasps but doesn’t stop him.
“Do you trust her?”
Geralt hums around the flesh in his mouth at the question.
Jaskier chuckles and tugs his witcher’s hair again, making him release his thigh. “Yennefer,” he clarifies smoothly. “Do you trust her? With me? With the pup?”
Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier, pressing his cheek to his stomach. He can feel their heartbeats against his face like this—both Jaskier’s and the pup’s. They’re steady, even. Healthy.
“I do,” he says. “When we first met her on the road, I protected you from her because the last I’d seen her, she would do anything to have a child. Anything.” He doesn’t specify, but the tightening of Jaskier’s hand around the back of his neck is telling enough. “But that’s not this Yennefer. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s… searching for meaning, I think.” He turns his head to meet Jaskier’s eye again. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about it before I agreed to train her.”
The bard is shaking his head before he can even finish. “No apology necessary. I knew you would say yes the second she asked.”
Geralt blinks. “You did?”
Jaskier nods, letting go of his own hair once again to stroke a finger down the bridge of Geralt’s nose, across his lips. His face is still flushed, his pulse still thrumming with arousal. But there’s something soft in his gaze Geralt was unused to in bed before Jaskier came along. Lusty stares and heated gazes, he had those. But not this—a wide-eyed look of adoration. It unlocks something inside him, nearly makes him want to weep.
“You are not a man who is meant to be alone, Geralt,” the omega says. “I know there’s history between you and Yennefer—don’t.” He stops Geralt when he goes to protest. “You don’t have to explain. I can see it. I know whatever affection you have for her doesn’t go beyond friendship. I could feel it if it did. It’s not the same way you feel about me.”
Geralt doesn’t have a response to that. It’s true, every word of it. He loved Yennefer, once. He loves her still. But even when Yennefer was the embodiment of all his desires, when her scent turned his head and set his pulse thrumming, it was never like it is with Jaskier. She didn’t steal his breath like Jask does. She was never the center of his world the way Jaskier is.
“You have history,” Jaskier repeats. “She knows you. You know her. Your brothers are too independent to work with you long-term. Vesemir has the keep to look after. You need someone by your side, Geralt. To fight on your team, to watch your back. And gods know I’m useless in a fight.” He pinches Geralt’s chin between his fingers, making sure he’s listening. “I need the father of my pup in one piece. And if that means we take on a stray who can watch your back and make sure you always come back to me, then I’ll do whatever I can to make this work.”
Geralt swallows. There’s a thought he’s been having, one too big and scary to spend much time on, one he’s afraid to even consider himself. It’s been nagging at him for months, since he left Jaskier in Oxenfurt and went back onto the Path. He’d been miserable. He’d been slow and distracted and itching for danger. He knows life on the Path isn’t suited for a child. He knows he will only be more distracted until one day, his love for his family costs him everything. He knows there are only two ways to keep them safe, to let them live normal lives.
One, he could leave them. Let them live out their days without him. Geralt would miss Jaskier, miss the pup like he’d miss a limb, but he would be fine. They would be fine. They would live and breathe and be far, far away from the kind of danger a witcher attracts.
Or.
Or.
What happens when a witcher decides he doesn’t want to be a witcher?
What if he decides he wants a home, a house, with a little garden and a stable and a lake nearby where they can swim and fish and take their child on walks? What if he decides to hang up his swords? To leave behind his creed, his brotherhood, for a man who will age and die while Geralt remains whole for decades more?
It's too much to fathom.
Geralt ducks his head again, taking Jaskier down his throat again with purpose.
Jaskier’s hands clench in surprise before finding Geralt’s hair again. Right where they belong.
Geralt doesn’t want to think about the future. He only wants this, right now. Jaskier’s hands in his hair, his ankles knocking against his back, his cock throbbing against his tongue every time he strokes his fingers against the spot inside him that makes him keen Geralt’s name like a one-word symphony.
Jaskier doesn’t press the conversation further.
Geralt gets two more orgasms out of him before the bard is fighting to keep his eyes open and pulling Geralt into his arms.
⚘⚘⚘
The snow returns in force the morning after Yennefer’s arrival.
Now solidly stuck for the winter, the occupants of Kaer Morhen settle into a new routine. They all rise whenever they please; though for Vesemir and Eskel that’s sometime around dawn, and for Jaskier—and Geralt, by extension—it’s closer to midmorning. Geralt ignores his brothers’ pointed looks when he and Jaskier make their appearance after everyone else has gotten up and dressed and eaten breakfast. He can’t be bothered too much, since Jaskier has taken to apologizing for keeping Geralt in bed with his mouth around the witcher’s cock.
So what if he has to lay awake for a few hours before Jaskier finally unsticks himself from his side?
After they’ve all eaten, Triss and Jaskier take to the library and the witchers—which now includes Yennefer, bizarrely—take up residence in the Great Hall, where they make use of the empty space beyond the tables to spar.
Geralt dives head-first into Yennefer’s training. She’s halfway competent with a sword, but she’ll need much more training to handle herself against any monsters. But she’s quick and hard to hit. She manages to land a few blows with a blunted blade to Aiden’s side before he can spin and put her to the floor.
There’s no use in teaching her signs. Her magic is plenty enough help in a fight. But she insists she learns how to fight without her magic, which her sparring partners readily agree to. Witchers are strong, and their signs are powerful in their own right (Eskel’s especially so) but if Yen decided to unleash all the chaos at her disposal, even Geralt would have issues keeping up with her.
“I’ve been separated from my magic before,” she explains one day, with a grim look on her face that keeps Geralt from prying. “I’d like to know how to defend myself if it ever happens again.”
Geralt doesn’t argue.
Yennefer is just as stubborn a student as he thought she would be. They learned quickly that she only responds well to criticism if it comes from Geralt, who knows her well enough to know she’s capable of more, and Vesemir, who she respects more than Geralt has ever known her to respect anyone—save, perhaps, Tissaia de Vries.
Her aim in life may have changed, but her temper is exactly as Geralt remembers it.
“Perhaps you should reconsider taking her under your wing,” Jaskier tells him several days into her training. He’s frowning hard enough for a line Geralt’s never seen to appear between his eyebrows and he’s practically in Geralt’s lap on one of the benches in the Great Hall. Yennefer had headbutted Geralt and split his lip. Jaskier had nearly fainted when he saw it. He frowns as he dabs the blood from Geralt’s face. “If this is her response to criticism.”
Geralt snorts and doesn’t mention the fact that Yennefer quite literally stabbed him once when he questioned her methods of gathering intelligence. “It’ll be fine,” he assures Jaskier. “I’ve known Yennefer longer than you’ve been alive. Trust me, if I think it’s too much, I’ll back out before she can cause any permanent damage.”
He can tell by the quirk of his lips that Jaskier knows he’s kidding about the permanent damage bit, but his scent is still sour.
Geralt tips his head forward to knock his forehead delicately against the bard’s. “Trust me, little lark,” he purrs. “It’ll take more than an angry sorceress to take me from you.”
Jaskier’s eyes flash and his scent turns smoky in an instant. He drops the cloth he’d been using to wipe off Geralt’s face on and crushes their lips together. Geralt grunts in surprise and at the sting from his split lip, but he wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, holding him as he returns his fervor.
“Perhaps I should have chosen another teacher,” a miffed voice declares somewhere nearby. “If my current one is so distracted.”
Geralt merely releases Jaskier with one hand to show Yennefer exactly where she can shove her remark, but Jaskier pulls away with a red-cheeked snort. “My mistake! Simply wanted to ensure the father of my child is unharmed by your lessons.”
Yen rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “I’ll go easy on your old man,” she tells Jaskier, then nods at Geralt. “You ready to go again?”
Geralt nods before pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek and rising. “I’ll see you at dinner?”
Jaskier nods and lets him go.
Once they’re out of Jaskier’s earshot, she points to Geralt’s lip. “I am sorry about that.”
“It’s already closing. Witcher healing, and all that.”
“But still.” She picks up her practice sword and tosses Geralt his own. He takes it, tests its weight in his hand. It’s not as well-balanced as the swords he uses, but it’s close enough. Besides, it won’t make any difference sparring with Yen. “I’ll try to be more careful.”
Careful. Geralt nearly snorts at the idea until he catches the scent of her worry. Careful and worried are not two words he ever thought he would associate with Yennefer of Vengerberg.
“You’ll see worse if you stick to this, I’m afraid.” He raises his sword and plants his feet. “Remember what I said about keeping your core tight. Your lunges are messy and poorly aimed. If you pivot from the hips—”
There’s a soft thud back at the tables and Geralt bristles at once. Yen’s eyes go wide as she gazes over his shoulder, and she’s moving past him before he can even fully turn.
Jaskier has collapsed in a heap of furs half a step from the bench Geralt left him on.
