Archive of Our Own

The first thing Geralt noticed was how grand the town was — which was to say, rich. Stone buildings, solid roofs, glass windows, and a paved main street — a far cry from the straw and wood cottages of the farmhouses he’d passed on the way here. It was getting dark, and windows were well-lit with fires and an abundance of candles. But, despite the apparent wealth, the town seemed near deserted.

Was a curfew in place? He could hear people outside, but they weren’t lingering, and there weren’t many. Geralt walked past the town hall, and the market square, and a small church, but met fewer people than in the crossroads inn five miles out of town. No one selling pies, bread, and honey sweets on the street corner. No one hawking their wares. Two women didn’t even glance up as they squeezed past each other in a narrow shop door. Barely anyone was even looking at him, and that was definitely out of the ordinary.

He hadn’t known how big this job would be when he’d taken it. A courtier, some minor lordling of King Demavend’s court, had requested his services. The courtier, residing in his summer house, had heard of some trouble from locals petitioning him, but no one — the courtier or the locals — had apparently known what the issue actually was. Geralt also had the distinct impression that the whole thing was something of a secret to the king; if it turned out to be a real issue, then the courtier would reap the praise for his foresight in dealing with it. If it didn’t, and it probably wouldn’t, then it and Geralt would be quietly swept under the rug.

Either way, the courtier had paid a quarter in advance, and he’d been generous, so Geralt wasn’t too worried if it turned out to be the latter. It was more than enough coin to pay for a short trip out to the foothills of the Mahakam Mountains. He was, however, starting to get the suspicion that it wouldn’t be. A town this established and wealthy was hard to perturb.

He settled with the fourth coaching inn he found, a gruellingly excessive, three-story affair that was still the least excessive of the bunch. Going through the decorated archway into a central courtyard, he handed off Roach to the ostler who came out to meet him, glad that at least the ostlers weren’t hiding away out of sight.

There was someone strumming a lute inside, but it wasn’t Jaskier. Geralt sorted out a room then left again, wanting to find what was wrong, fix it, and be done with the town. It wasn’t his type of place.

Not that he knew what he was meant to be fixing. He asked the ostler who was brushing out Roach, and the baker with a shop on the street corner. He asked two children who were loitering, watching him, and then their older sister who hurried out to hustle them away from him. They all said different things.

‘My ma’s friend at the milliner went missing two weeks ago. Others’re gone, too.’

‘Guard captain went crazy, tried to take control of the town.’

‘Things are coming from the woods. Stealing away children and women. That’s what I heard.’

‘Elves. Them damn elves, I know it. Murderers.’

The night progressing, even fewer and fewer people stayed on the streets, and those that did were clearly trying to avoid him. Geralt obliged them, since the last thing he wanted was the town guard called on him, and took a break on the side of the road, sitting on the edge of a trough. A lilac tree grew in a garden just behind him and overhung the road. He moved away, because the stink from the flowers was overpowering, and for a split-second he thought he’d caught the scent of something. It confused him — now that he was paying attention he couldn’t pick it up again, or if he was picking it up he couldn’t tell what was wrong with it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing he could hear, either. And yet he’d been sure there’d been something.

Except — a heartbeat. A slow one, as slow as his own.

It occurred to him as soon as he recognised the heartbeat that what he’d smelt was himself, only coming from another direction. And now that he knew that, he could pick it up again.

He caught the doppler three streets away, trying to hide from him in a farrier’s workshop.

‘Get out,’ he told the farrier, who was only too pleased to do so, faced with two white haired witchers and their drawn swords. He shut the door behind him, and Geralt shoved a table in front of it.

The doppler stood his ground for two more seconds before buckling.

‘Please don’t!’ he said, holding up his hands in defeat. ‘I’m harmless. I swear it.’

‘Don’t whimper like that,’ Geralt said, and kept his sword out. Dopplers were usually harmless, but he didn’t trust this one. Not once it had chosen him as its form to harass and frighten the townsfolk, or worse. ‘Hurts my ears hearing myself sound so pathetic.’

The doppler looked at him for a moment, then shifted, turning into a young woman Geralt didn’t recognise, short and soft and fragile.

‘I’m truly sorry,’ she said. She had a low but pleasant voice, and her dark eyes managed to be deep and tearful without being watery. ‘I can explain — I don’t want to do this. But they have my children, and they threatened — you understand, don’t you? They treat you like a thing; they force you to do what they want, and if you don’t—’

‘Who’re forcing you to do what?’ Geralt said, cutting her off. But at least he was getting somewhere. He might be done with this sooner than he’d thought. And a doppler causing trouble solved the confusion of such varied rumors.

‘The soldiers. They’re camping out of the town, up north.’

‘Soldiers? How many, and who do they belong to?’

‘I don’t know! Hundreds, at least, about ten miles away, through the forest. There’s probably a hundred or about in the camp I know, and there’s at least one more camp, but who knows how many. They’re not exactly friendly with me. I just get my orders then leave. If they caught me snooping...’

Geralt studied her. Hundreds of soldiers, hiding out in the forest, giving orders to a doppler to confuse and frighten the nearby town. Well, there went his easy coin. ‘So who gives you your orders?’

‘A man,’ the doppler said. She seemed almost fervently eager to tell Geralt everything, yet had basically nothing to tell. ‘I don’t know his name, but he’s the lieutenant, they can always point you to him. He just tells me what to do and I do it. I don’t have any other choice.’

Geralt sighed and sheathed his sword. He could tell she was being honest, just… useless. He sat down on the table by the door, thinking. Hundreds of soldiers were well beyond his abilities to deal with. Or his desire to be caught up in, if he had to be honest. They were, however, a very serious issue for this town, at the very least. Soldiers didn’t just form camps and send dopplers out to fuck with the neighbours for the fun of it.

The town was obviously rich. They had money flowing in from somewhere — precious metals or stones from the mines? Soldiers seemed too aggressive for Kaedwin, for the moment anyway, and too far from the northern border besides. An attempt to stir up trouble and pin it on the elves, in support of yet more suppression? Or squabbles between the Aedirn nobility?

He could go back to the courtier and tell him about soldiers, who’d then get to pass it on to the king, though that would risk him looking ridiculous if the doppler had exaggerated or otherwise fucked up her description, not to mention professionally sloppy. He could detour to the camps to see for himself, and try not to get caught.

He could also go himself, not hiding. If he acted as the doppler he could go meet this lieutenant himself. If they were expecting a witcher; he might as well give them a witcher.

‘Where are your children?’ he asked.

The doppler looked at him, cow-eyed, face blank with confusion. Then: ‘Oh — I — I don’t know. They don’t trust me. Why’d they let me know? But they’re young, both of them. I haven’t seen them in weeks. They tell me they’re alive but I haven’t seen them in so long, I don’t know, I’m sorry. I don’t know.’

That was unfortunate, but predictable. Geralt grunted. ‘Fine. I’ll do what I can, but you stay away, and don’t interfere. And don’t take my form again.’

.

It was almost night before he got his first glimpse of the camp. Or, the first camp — now he was closer, he could tell that there were multiple encampments, at least three, probably more. Far more than could be waved aside as some kind of training exercise, albeit not enough to be an invasion. Still, definitely reason enough to head back and inform his worried courtier that someone was planning on a fight. Wash his hands of it before it got messy.

The king’s army wouldn’t care about two little doppler children.

Geralt shouldn’t care either, really. It wasn’t his business.

He went into the camp anyway, keeping his head up and hands off his weapons. He’d hidden his medallion in a pocket, on the off-chance that anyone knew it was silver and thus ruin the disguise. He kept his silver sword on him, though, strapped to his back, on the basis that he didn’t need to take it out until something went very wrong, and by then a disguise as a doppler wasn’t going to help him.

The soldiers looked, more or less, experienced, keeping their fires low and free of smoke, their tents and carts neat and well maintained. They wore plain clothes — no heraldic colours or flags. Almost all of them looked at him as he passed, aiming for the largest, most ornate tent. Most of then sneered, or spat, though no one did more than jeer or throw a small rock, which he was more than capable of ignoring. They didn’t act surprised to see him, or about to attack, and that was about as much as he could ask for.

There were two guards standing at the door of the tent, a good-sized room and about as permanent as tents came. How long had they been here for? ‘The lieutenant in?’ he asked.

The guard closest to him curled his lip, and Geralt recognised the look on his face. Fear, and anger at being afraid.

‘Where’ve you been? You’re late.’

‘I got lost.’ Geralt shrugged, and brushed past them to enter. The doppler probably wouldn’t act this way, but then dopplers also took on mannerisms of whoever they copy. Well, no one had attacked him for insolence, or trickery, yet.

The lieutenant — Geralt was willing to bet that the man sitting at the table, dressed in good quality wools and fresh-dyed linen, looking at Geralt like he were a long-dead rat the dog had brought in, was the lieutenant — only paused briefly before resuming his letter writing. He had brown hair and a clean-shaven face. His eyes were hazel, deep-set, with hooded lids. He looked unremarkable, but then most people did.

Geralt considered helping himself to the second chair and putting his feet up on the table, but decided against it. He needed to make some effort pretending to be the doppler, after all, and not endanger her children. He did sit down on the chair, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, because it looked like the lieutenant was going to go the tiresome route of making him wait. That was fine. He didn’t have anywhere else he needed to be.

There was the added benefit that, now that he was in middle of the camp and could concentrate, he could also listen for the children. Only the expected sounds of soldiers filtered through the walls of the tent. No small children sounds, no small children scent, though that didn’t mean much. Despite the professional lack of rowdiness, the camp was still filled with over a hundred men in close quarters, and no doubt any children would be staying quiet and out of the way. Possibly entirely out of the way — it would make sense to keep them in another location entirely, if the doppler’s compliance was that important to their plans.

‘Well?’ the lieutenant said, eventually, putting aside his letter to dry. His voice has the sort of cousin-of-nobility accent to it that Geralt disliked on principle, as well as an arrogant sneer that Geralt took a deeper, personal dislike to.

‘Well what?’ Geralt said, leaning forward, wanting to make the man look away first. ‘I did what you told me to. What next?’

‘Don’t get uppity with me,’ the lieutenant snapped. ‘The witcher?’

‘Already moved on,’ Geralt said. ‘Back west, far as I could make out.’

‘Guard!’

Geralt didn’t give him the satisfaction of startling at his shout. He did tense, if only impercibly, until the lieutenant simply folded and gave his letter to the guard.

‘Get out,’ the lieutenant told Geralt, as if he’d had suggested settling in for the night. Geralt raised his eyebrows and got out.

With no other orders, he took it upon himself to circle the camp, just out of sight from the soldiers. Again, no trace of any small children, the closest being a couple of younger servant boys hurrying about with cleaning supplies and grain for the horses. Not likely to be the doppler’s children. An hour of prowling and listening later, he was fairly sure that they weren’t in this camp. Hopefully they were still alive. He couldn’t smell any dead, at least.

There were trails into the forest, made by men, soldiers wearing leather, carrying supplies, and they spread like spiderwebs. Trails to the other camps, he presumed, or supply trains. He could try and follow each one, but that would take days, and he didn’t want to be considered suspicious. Better to sit tight and wait for prey to come to him.

There wasn’t any point in heading back to the town. He didn’t have anything on him to make any sort of decent camp, and he doubted any of the soldiers would lend him anything of theirs, so he found a dry spot, sat down, and meditated to pass the night.

He waited until the second bell the next morning before heading back to the lieutenant. When he got to the tent, the guards blocked him.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ one said, and spat at his feet.

‘Getting my orders, like I was told to,’ Geralt replied, keeping his voice mild. It felt odd to be spat at for being a doppler, rather than a witcher — though, he supposed, there really was no difference when it came down to it.

‘The lieutenant is busy,’ the man snapped, putting a hand on his sword. ‘He’ll call for you when he’s ready. Now move on, filth.’

The man was trembling. Not entirely with fear, but not entirely without it, either. Geralt couldn’t resist standing there a moment longer, towering over him. Then he left. No point in making a scene.

He was called back soon enough after that he wondered if the lieutenant had been ready to see him, but hadn’t simply because he’d wanted to call Geralt, and not the other way around. It was a tiresome, time-wasting song and dance, but Geralt could be patient stalking a vampire halfway across a kingdom. He could be patient dealing with half a morning in the company of a petty, unpleasant human.

When he entered the tent, the lieutenant, however, seemed discomfitingly pleased. Geralt didn’t like the look on his face — though, he supposed, he didn’t much like any look he’d seen thus far, and was unlikely to in the future. The lieutenant was also clearly waiting for him to make his the first move, just so he’d be able to deny whatever it was.

‘Here I am,’ Geralt ended up saying. He noticed the second chair was gone. The table was clear. Perhaps the lieutenant had been concerned he’d try and read or take something from it.

‘On your knees,’ the lieutenant said, with a wave of his hand. Another show of dominance for the wretched doppler, then, whose sudden new form was proving to be more intimidating than anyone would’ve liked. Or maybe they were always this insecure.

‘I’d rather not,’ Geralt said. ‘It doesn’t look it, but this body is surprisingly old, and, well. The joints, you see.’

‘On your knees,’ the lieutenant said, with a much more nasty voice. ‘Or you’ll be getting back one of your spawn without its skin.’

Geralt surveyed the man. Well, he had him there. He could fake or hide whatever he was meant to be doing in the town, but there wasn’t any way to do that here. He could try to fight his way out, and very likely succeed, but if they went straight for the children he wasn’t sure he could save them.

Well, it wasn’t as if the man knew it was actually him. His pride could take a couple of gentle knocks.

Geralt knelt.

‘Weapons off.’

Geralt raised his hands in supplication at that. ‘They became part of me when I took this shape,’ he said. ‘They’re still part of my body. I can’t let them go any more than I could take off a hand.’

The lieutenant took a moment, but he didn’t call Geralt’s bluff. He’d learnt something about dopplers, then, and had simply forgotten until Geralt reminded him? It hadn’t been a test, had it?

‘I’ve been hearing about you disrupting the camp,’ the lieutenant said, finally. He stood up, paced behind his table, then sat down again. He wasn’t agitated. He seemed more… excited? In anticipation of something.

It wasn’t a question, anyway, so Geralt didn’t bother to answer. He didn’t like where this was going.

‘Causing all sorts of problems. Not respecting your betters. So I think it’s due that you’re ready to be taught another lesson.’

Geralt narrowed his eyes. The soldiers outside were relaxed, but not entirely unprepared, and if under orders they’d have had time to get ready for a fight while he was distracted in here. They were clearly experienced soldiers, not just a rag-tag group of conscripted farmhands, which would make getting out a lot more difficult. Only, he would have heard men approaching and preparing to attack. He tried listening, reaching out for any out of the ordinary sounds, trying to scent the air for poisons or potions. Nothing. Until—

The sound of something being dragged towards the tent. Heavy breathing. Muffled grunts of pain that sounded far too familiar.

Geralt closed his eyes. ‘Fuck,’ he said.

‘Exactly,’ the lieutenant said, cloying with smug cruelty. ‘Ah, not so high and mighty now, are you, you stupid bitch?’

When they dragged Jaskier in, bound and gagged, Geralt tried not to look at his face and the clear, triumphant relief on it. Jaskier thought that now Geralt was here, he’d be safe, but Geralt knew whatever was about to happen, it was probably going to end badly. It would’ve been possible but difficult to escape on his own. Protecting Jaskier while he got the both of them out would be problem enough. He couldn’t escape with Jaskier and find the children before the soldiers got to them.

The soldiers left Jaskier on the floor in the middle of the tent, between Geralt and the table, and left. The lieutenant wasn’t saying anything, only waiting. Geralt hoped distantly that he wasn’t about to be ordered to kill Jaskier. Even someone who threatened to skin doppler children might consider fellow humans worth treating better. Or… probably not. Someone whose entire purpose here was probably to end up murdering a lot of civilians wasn’t going to play nice with the man he’d had kidnapped, bound hand and foot, and dragged back to his tent.

And Geralt had walked right into it. Fuck. Fuck.

‘You recognise this man, don’t you?’ the lieutenant said. Where he’d been dumped on the floor, scraped up but otherwise apparently fine, Jaskier was making unintelligible mmmm-mmmf sounds. ‘From your grotesque powers of transformation, hm? What’s his name again?’

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt ground out. Perhaps the longer he played this game the more relaxed the lieutenant would be, and more likely to be caught off guard. But without knowing where the doppler’s children were, he’d be at a disadvantage. Breaking his role now would be to leave them to suffer at the hands of these men.

Instead, was he going to do whatever the man wanted him to, and have Jaskier suffer?

The lieutenant might want to keep Jaskier alive, so he could use him more than once. How alive, and how whole, was another matter.

‘He came looking for his witcher, you know,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Right into the town, merry as you please. If not for you, he would have… what did you say? Moved on back west, after his dear friend?’

Jaskier was looking between them, bafflement clear on his face. No fear, yet. He was, ridiculously, completely at ease.

‘All right,’ the lieutenant said, clearly growing bored of his own monologue. ‘Since I’ve heard songs of a witcher’s — hm, prowess with a blade, shall we say, then let’s settle with that. Fuck him, and I won’t have one of my men poke silver needle holes in your disgusting litter’s eyes.’

Jaskier’s previous confidence turned confused. Still not afraid, though.

A fuck was… if it were the only thing Geralt had to do, it wouldn’t be so bad.

The doppler was gentle, weak, and desperately empathetic. That’s just what dopplers were like. This would indeed be torture for anyone of that disposition. For Geralt, though? He was already a monster.

‘Hurry it up,’ the lieutenant snapped. ‘Or I’ll kill him, too. Make it nice and I’ll let him go, not a hair harmed on him. But take out his gag first. I’m sure you want to hear him greet his friend who he came so far to find.’

What was the lesser of two evils? Given it was just a fuck the lieutenant wanted, and nothing permanent, the answer to that was fairly obvious. Assuming the doppler’s children were still alive. That they wouldn’t kill Jaskier afterwards anyway.

Geralt stood, and picked Jaskier up by the back of his doublet. Jaskier made a pathetic sound, surprise and trepidation, but let Geralt place him face down on the table and untie his gag, tearing out a few hairs that’d been caught in the knot.

‘Say, Geralt,’ Jaskier said, turning his head so he could peer awkwardly over his shoulder, and Geralt wished fervently that he could stuff the gag straight back in. ‘I’m, uh, not sure you’ve noticed, but you seem to be very obliging to this clearly evil man. Is, ah, everything all right back there?’

‘Shut up,’ Geralt said. He was sorely tempted to say, I’m not Geralt, if only he wasn’t confident that the lieutenant would be displeased at that, and take it out of someone’s hide, whether Jaskier’s or the children’s.

‘No, really,’ Jaskier said, and squirmed under Geralt’s hand between his shoulderblades. ‘This is — no, hold on, I’m sure there’s just a simple mixup here — a basic misunderstanding—’ Geralt tugged his breeches, reaching below him to unbutton them. Jaskier yelped, and squirmed harder.

The lieutenant was sitting behind the table. His arousal was clear in the air without Geralt having to look at him. He’d castrate him later, he thought. It didn’t help much.

‘Geralt?’ Jaskier was struggling more earnestly now, not that it did him any good. ‘Okay Geralt, you’ve had your fun, jolly good, but how about we stop? Is this for that time last year when I scared off your ghoulie? Ha-ha, good one, old friend, you really got me.’ His legs were kicking, feet scuffing the dirty rug that carpeted the tent. His voice had gone high, real panic starting to creep in.

Geralt got his breeches down, fallen around his knees, and pulled away the loose fabric of his chemise from between his legs.

‘Geralt? Please stop?’

His patheticness was infuriating. He couldn’t even fight back, pinned by one hand only, helpless against anything that was about to happen to him. If only he’d been stronger, Geralt could pretend to lose control of him.

If only Geralt had been stronger, or better in some indeterminable way, he could have prevented this altogether.

Geralt’s cock was flaccid, but that wasn’t a surprise. He pulled at his limp flesh in the hand not holding Jaskier down, trying to tug any amount of life into it. He tried to think of the last whore he’d laid with. The simple acts of sex that he enjoyed — a warm, wet mouth, a talented tongue, the overpowering scent of arousal, hot tightness around his prick — Jaskier whimpered, plain frightened now, panting hard and still struggling to get away. Not that he’d get far, with his breeches down and hands tied behind his back.

Geralt tried to stop thinking about that and start thinking about whores again.

It was the physical pressure, the rough pleasure of mechanical force, that finally gave Geralt an erection. It felt dirty in a way that he didn’t often feel, not any more. His heart beat a little faster, his face and neck flush, and he despised the lieutenant for the off-chance that he might be able to see it. He spat onto his hand and slicked his cock, then again, because at least spit was better than nothing, and he doubted he’d have any luck asking for an oil. It felt better, rubbing himself off with a little wetness. His hips jerked forward into his hand, and Geralt gritted his teeth and stopped. He was erect enough.

Jaskier flinched, hard, when Geralt’s fingertips pressed at his hole, and then pushed in. ‘You can stop now!’ Jaskier bleated, struggling so uselessly and frantically that he was banging his face down on the table, probably hard enough to bruise. ‘I’m sorry for whatever I did! Geralt? Stop? Please stop? You’re not really under this stupid man’s control, are you? Geralt?’

Geralt didn’t stop. He did withdraw his fingers to spit on them, fore and middle finger, wet and thick, before pushing them back inside Jaskier. Jaskier’s hole was a tight, hot vice, clenching down around Geralt’s fingers. Forcing his prick in would hurt the both of them — but Jaskier considerably more so.

The lieutenant moved, and Geralt’s head snapped to look at him. He was grinning unabashedly, and he stared Geralt in the eye as he moved to flick a lock of hair from Jaskier’s face. ‘Almost didn’t think you’d do it,’ he said. ‘But you creatures always are pathetic, miserable little things, aren’t you? You just need is a bit of guidance from someone like me and you’re almost useful.’

‘Don’t touch him,’ Geralt said, low, almost a snarl. It rang hollow when it was his own fingers pushed into Jaskier, stretching him out and getting him slick enough he probably wouldn’t tear open on Geralt’s cock.

The lieutenant raised his hands in mock surrender, sitting back in his chair. ‘I’ll just enjoy the view, then,’ he said.

It occurred to Geralt, as he worked his fingers in and out of Jaskier, wondering when he could push his cock in without damaging either of them, that everyone outside the tent would be able to hear, as well. Jaskier was moaning, pitch rising and falling in time with his pain, the motion of Geralt’s fingers.

It wasn’t going to get easier. Geralt withdrew his fingers and spat to slick up his cock, giving it a few extra strokes, since it had gone half-hard. Or maybe he was just wasting time.

He lined his prick up with Jaskier’s hole, already reddened and sore, and pushed in with a sharp thrust of his hips. Jaskier shrieked and thrashed, trying to push up on his toes and off Geralt’s cock, but failing, completely helpless.

The tightness and Jaskier’s struggling stopped Geralt from pushing in much further than his cockhead. He grunted at the pressure like around his prick, both painful and distressingly arousing. With his cock in, though, he could put both hands on Jaskier’s hips to hold him down and stop him from struggling and making it harder for the both of them.

‘Geralt — fuck, that hurts, stop, stop—’

He leant forwards, pushing in with the force of his weight. It was grindingly slow; he attempted to focus on the pleasure of tight friction, the sinking into soft, slick flesh. Beneath him Jaskier whimpered, the words spilling from his mouth garbled, barely words at all. Withdrawing to the swell of his cockhead, he thrust to force his way back inside. He kept it shallow, though, no more than a few inches. His cock was thick, and long — thicker and longer than most any human. There wasn’t anything he could do about the breadth of it, skewering Jaskier and forcing him wide open, but at least he could save him from the length. And if he set up a slow, steady rhythm, it would make it easier to just get it over and done with, and that would be kinder for Jaskier, too.

‘Don’t fuck with me,’ the lieutenant said. His voice was roughened. ‘Do it properly. All the way in. And if I’m not satisfied I’ll have all my men line up and take their turns.’

Geralt dipped his head like a plough horse, as if it would make it any easier as he pushed his was deeper and deeper in, impaling Jaskier on his prick. He found a rhythm, easing himself in further with each short thrust. Jaskier’s cries had turned increasingly wet and wobbly, until, shortly after Geralt had pushed in almost to the base of his cock, they broke and become sobs. Proper sobs, wet with tears, heaved from the bottom of his chest out on the full strength of his lungs, hitching in rhythm with the apex of Geralt’s thrusts. His hands were bloodied from where he fought against the rope binding his wrists. His feet thumped uselessly against Geralt’s shins, a rabbit still trying to get out of the snare that had broken its back.

Geralt closed his eyes. It made him vulnerable, he knew, but he was already vulnerable. He was already doing exactly what they wanted him to do, like he was just the miserable creature these men thought dopplers were.

Ignore it. Just finish the job.

Focus on the pleasure, the arousal he could feel distantly, in his cock, his balls, deep in his guts. Thrust, withdraw, thrust, ignore the sticky feel of blood, the stink of it, the bitter-salt smell of Jaskier’s sweat and tears. Think of how tight his body was, but loosening up as it molded to accommodate him, his cock pushing deep into him. Picture the puffy red rim of his hole, well-used, stretched, taking the whole of him in so obediently. Don’t think of Jaskier’s soft, defenceless body, far too easy to break, not yet given up on its futile attempt to struggle free. Or maybe he was just shaking from pain and fear.

‘Geralt — Geralt please—’

The tightness of Jaskier’s body around Geralt’s cock was undeniably arousing, pulling and pulling spools of heat inside him, winding it up to become unbearable. Geralt grunted in pleasure, then stifled himself as guilt needled through him. He was fucking — yes, and of course it had to be arousing, but it shouldn’t be pleasurable. He shouldn’t sound pleasured, even though he was, Jaskier’s taut little hole clenching his cock, squeezing him, that friction driving him to orgasm.

Jaskier went limp. He still shook, tremors that gripped his whole body, but mostly he just lay there, rocking with the motion of Geralt’s thrusts. He panted, and moaned, low and miserable most of the time, high and sharp when Geralt managed to thrust in a way that, he supposed, hurt more than usual. Geralt tried to avoid that, but he couldn’t always. He realised Jaskier had stopped trying to speak, too.

If he could just focus on the physical pleasure, heat and tightness like a bow, drawn but not released, then he could get this over with, have it be just another black mark against him. He could feel the arousal take hold of him. He wasn’t sure he could stop thrusting — hands gripping Jaskier’s hips to hold him in place, to yank him down, deeper onto Geralt’s cock — even if he wanted to, now.

He couldn’t stop hearing Jaskier’s pathetic, soft moaning, weak and sobbing, either.

‘Shut up, Jaskier,’ he found himself saying, in desperation. ‘Shut up.’

Jaskier didn’t shut up, though he didn’t become any louder, either. Geralt squeezed shut his eyes. He just needed to focus on the pleasure. Get it over with.

He came, exhausted, feeling bruised, like he’d just lost a fight. The arousal left him, yanked out violently, but the orgasm itself was feeble, collapsing in on itself with the weight of the revulsion and shame that came flooding in to replace the arousal. When he pulled out and stepped back, come and blood dripped from Jaskier’s swollen, abused hole. Without anyone to hold him up Jaskier slipped down off the table, crumbling to the floor, where he curled up as best he could.

The lieutenant was clapping. The stench of Geralt’s orgasm and Jaskier’s blood swamped the room, but still couldn’t mask the stink of the lieutenant’s arousal.

‘All right; let him go,’ Geralt said. He did up his clothes, and his hands seemed clumsier than normal, even if there wasn’t any good reason for it. He felt hollowed out inside, like his orgasm had torn out some internal organ he hadn’t known about until now.

‘Mm.’ The lieutenant rapped his knuckles against the arm of his chair. ‘Maybe. But I think I’ll keep him for the time being. You have a lot of tasks in front of you, after all. I think it’s best if he enjoys our hospitality for a while longer, don’t you think?’

Geralt had to take a deep, shuddering breath in to stop himself taking his sword and running the man through. He didn’t dare look at the finely trembling form of Jaskier. After all, with Jaskier in such a state, his hands were tied even worse than before. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘My task, then. At the town. What is it?’

The lieutenant grinned again, and told Geralt a brisk list of instructions that Geralt memorised grimly. If he seemed eager to get Geralt out of his tent, Geralt didn’t want to think about it. He knew he could trust the lieutenant’s word on keeping Jaskier alive — after all, he’d proved to be both a very effective punishment and incentive. He couldn’t trust that Jaskier would be unharmed between now and when Geralt freed him.

A pair of soldiers escorted Geralt nearly all the way back to the town. So he didn’t try to follow where they were taking Jaskier, he presumed, which wasn’t an issue except that it meant for hours longer that Jaskier would be in their hands. But, hours later when he did return, Jaskier would be put away nice and safe.

In the town, Geralt made a perfunctory circuit round the main streets. It wasn’t worth it to check up on Roach — his absence had presumably been good enough proof that Geralt the witcher had moved on, but there wasn’t any need to make anyone suspicious by reminding them he still had a horse here. There wasn’t any point in trying to do what he’d been tasked with, either. Even if there was someone watching him to make sure he did follow orders, and him not doing them immediately was suspicious, they wouldn’t be able to get a message to the camp faster than he could get there.

Still, he waited until he couldn’t detect anyone close enough to be spying on him before leaving and reentered the forest.

He stopped at a brook first, to wash himself of the stink of that morning, at least as best he could. It was mid-afternoon; hours after he’d left Jaskier lying in a heap in the lieutenant’s tent. He shouldn’t have done that, he couldn’t help but think. He should have killed the escort and returned immediately.

It’d only mean having to see or hear what had happened to Jaskier after he’d left.

Geralt’s mind buzzed, full yet blank at the same time, as if filled with flies. He ran most of the way, only slowing as he neared the camp, so he could move silently around it. The lieutenant seemed to have knowledge of dopplers, and something of witchers. He didn’t seem to know about the extent of witchers’ senses, and how Geralt could detect the smell of Jaskier — and himself, and the lieutenant — on the ground, dragged through the undergrowth. Along a deer trail, with trampled undergrowth, booted footprints, and broken twigs. Spots of blood, smeared sweat and snot and tears. It was almost insultingly easy to follow. A human could follow it, if they were skilled enough.

It wasn’t hard to follow on the trail, and then slip off it, silent, when five men came down the opposite direction. They smelt of Jaskier’s blood and sweat, too.

There were a dozen men at the cabin. Half were on guard, the other half sleeping and sitting about a fire. It only took a few seconds for Geralt to hear the quiet voices inside the cabin, and another few for him to make up his mind. He killed the soldiers, quickly and ruthlessly, and then broke down the cabin door.

Jaskier startled in the sudden light, even though he’d had to have heard the commotion outside. He smiled, though, a wide, toothy grin, even though his lip was split and his cheek swollen and bruised. He was dressed, more or less neatly, but not bound. He stank of sweat and blood and other men. The lieutenant.

‘Geralt!’ he said, brightly, and shuffled on his feet, stiff and awkward. He didn’t come out from the back of the cabin, though. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’

Geralt found himself lost for words. He couldn’t see the children — they must be hiding, perhaps under the table — but he could hear the rapid patter of their heartbeats.

‘It is you, isn’t it?’ Jaskier said, and his voice wobbled. ‘You see, I had a not very nice run-in with someone earlier today, and I just wanted to make sure…’

It took a moment for Geralt to find his voice. ‘It’s me,’ he said, finally. ‘Now come on. We need to be out of here before they realise and bring the whole army on us.’

It would make sense, of course, for Jaskier to connect the dots, if incorrectly. Especially since his cellmates were dopplers. He was stupid most of the time, but he could still occasionally think things through.

‘Oh, goody,’ Jaskier said, and stepped past Geralt to get outside. He stumbled a little on the uneven ground, limping heavily, but seemed to catch himself. Geralt started to reach for him, to give him something to lean on, then reconsidered and withdrew.

‘You know,’ Jaskier was saying, and held up something small, white, metallic. A little silver coin. He had blood under his fingernails, as well as all across his wrists and hands. ‘I had this in my pocket all along. It would’ve been pretty good defence against a doppler, wouldn’t it? I put it there to impress you…’ He made the motion to flip it, then clearly reconsidered, and slid it back in his pocket. ‘Oh well. Next time, eh?’

It wouldn’t have worked; that was me — the words sat on Geralt’s tongue, like a stone. But what would telling the truth do?

They made their way, agonisingly slowly, back to the town, where Geralt saw just enough of the reunion between children and parent to know that it happened, but couldn’t say how. Jaskier tagged along silently behind him, and thankfully no one questioned why there was a bruised and bloodied man limping after the witcher around town, from coaching inn to guardhouse, where Geralt told the men of the soldiers in the forest. Their messengers could go faster than he could, and now he could wash his hands of it. Stop interfering, like he should have to begin with.

There wasn’t anything left for him to do but leave. Like a wounded dog, Jaskier did his best to keep up, while staying just out of reach. He barely made it a furlong out of the town gates before Geralt got off Roach and ordered Jaskier on her instead.

He could tell that was painful, too. Maybe even agonising, given the way Jaskier’s breath hitched, soft little sounds of pain forcing their way through his teeth, punctuating his inane chatter. But at least it was better than walking.

Geralt didn’t have anything for pain that would work on a human. He should have got something in the town, but it was too late now. He’d keep an eye out for willow trees, but it wasn’t the right climate for them.

They stopped at a roadside inn, a few miles out from the town. Jaskier bathed, continuing to chat, and Geralt only stayed because he could tell that Jaskier was desperate not to be left alone.

‘I was thinking, as you do,’ Jaskier said, sloshing the water. Geralt sat with his back to him and tried to pretend that that was normal. ‘A doppler — and I dearly hope those children don’t turn out like their parent — but anyway. I digress. As I was saying, I was thinking, and what I was thinking of was a song. What else could one need but a song?’

Geralt grunted to show that he was listening. He wished he’d ignored Jaskier’s desperation and gone to tend to Roach. The ostlers in the town had looked after her very well — and charged him accordingly — but even if he did nothing but fluff up her straw, at least he’d be away from the smell of Jaskier and everything that clung to him. Maybe the innkeeper or someone else would sell him some willow bark.

‘A fine song about a doppler. A lovely doppler lady and the beautiful maiden she transforms into, and their wonderful… fruitful relationship. And the intrepid hero, of course. Did you know, despite its firm place in the classics, some people object to the venerable tropes of twins jointly bedding a well-deserving hero? Which is rubbish, of course, but don’t you think that a doppler could get around such a prudish audience?’

‘No,’ Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed. ‘Oh, you,’ he said, fondly, and flicked a little water at Geralt’s back. ‘I thank Melitele’s wonderful tits that you’re not the arbitrator of good taste.’

.

The next morning they got ready to set off again. Jaskier, limp not improved by anything the innkeeper had to sell, hovered by Roach’s side and not taking the liberty of inviting himself on. The sight of him standing there — still bruised, still pathetic, smiling brightly — infuriated Geralt.

‘Get on,’ he said, and Jaskier scrambled to obey, babbling on about something. Geralt didn’t bother listening.

They needed to go back to the courtier, if only so Geralt could claim his bounty. Or at least part of it — the courtier might object to handing over the entire amount since Geralt hadn’t actually fixed the problem. He didn’t care. The sooner he could put this whole ordeal behind him, the better.

The day passed uneventfully. Geralt calculated that they’d take almost twice as long going back as he’d taken to get to the town, at the rate they were going, with longer rests during the day and shorter days on the road. It was clear Jaskier couldn’t even ride for even a few hours without being in such obvious pain that Geralt could neither ignore it, nor pretend to ignore it.

Not that Jaskier was saying as much. He talked about anything and everything, but wouldn’t ask to for them to stop, even when his knuckles were white with the strain he was grasping the saddle, and sweat sat like dew on his blotchy face.

It sent anger like hail through Geralt. A quiet pain sat in his chest. Of course he wouldn’t ask Geralt to stop.

They made camp; Jaskier held his lute and lay on the ground, even though it was damp and dirty, and Geralt got the fire started, and simple pottage going, and cleared space for their bedrolls. He took care of Roach, and when the food was ready he made a bowl and took it to Jaskier.

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt said, when he didn’t get a response. Jaskier was plucking at his lute, muttering to himself, eyes closed.

Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier flinched, hard.

Snatching his hand back, Geralt floundered. ‘Your food,’ he said, stiff, asinine, but Jaskier only took a deep breath and smiled.

‘Thank you! Such wonderful service,’ he said, brightly, placing his lute back in its case and taking the bowl. ‘You should look into this as a career if the witcher-ing fails. You know, I’m sure there are a lot of very lovely but weary travellers who’d adore to have you on the road with them. Cooking, preparing camp, waking them up with those bright, warm eyes of yours…’

‘Do you want it or not?’ Geralt said, and immediately defanged his threat by turning and retreating to the far side of the camp.

Jaskier started to eat, somehow even more animated than he usually was. ‘’S good!’ he said, mouth full, waving the spoon at Geralt. Geralt pointedly avoided looking at him, instead picking up his own bowl. He should just leave and let Jaskier make his own way, at his own pace. It wasn’t as if Jaskier couldn’t survive happily on his own. The area was safe enough, and had plenty of places for Jaskier to play and earn his living.

He ate grimly and barely tasted it. He should leave Jaskier again. Let him recover in a nice town somewhere, where he got praise for his music and wasn’t forced to travel all day.

It took a moment for him to notice that Jaskier had stopped eating. The sounds coming from him no longer enthusiastic eating, but the wet sound of food being moved around a bowl. Geralt focused harder on finishing his own meal. There was still time to go back and murder that lieutenant, except that what he really needed to do was put it behind himself. What had he done here that he hadn’t done worse elsewhere?

‘Say, Geralt, I know it wasn’t you,’ Jaskier said, scraping the spoon around the sides of the bowl. He looked up. ‘You know that, right?’

Without meaning to, Geralt caught his eye.

What was the point in telling the truth? What would the truth do? Jaskier dealt in stories; this was much a better fit to the kind he liked.

The pain in his chest turned over, spilling up his throat.

‘I know,’ Geralt said. ‘Now shut up, and eat.’