colours and promises

[deerna]

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier
Tags: Bruises, Marking, Background Relationships, Polyamory, Kink Negotiation, Implied Sexual Content
Wordcount: 1331
Notes: written for M2 @ COWT2022

Summary:

Excerpt:

Jaskier wrapped his hand around Geralt’s forearm, trying to fit it into the mark Eskel had left. The other witcher’s hands were so much bigger than his. “Well, of course,” he mused. “This is more about remembering the feeling, isn’t it? Having something to remind us of him when he’s not here.”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

Meeting at the Four Paths at the change of season eventually became a thing, for them.

Jaskier would show up a few days before Imbolc to take advantage of the flux of people pouring in at the crossroads for the festivals, and then waited for the frost to disappear; eventually, the inn’s door would darken with the familiar shape of wide shoulders and studded armours and twin swords of witchers.

That year was no different, with the exception that the cold weather had decided to stick around a bit longer, and it was hard to believe that spring was around the corner. Geralt was still wrapped in the fur-lined cloak Jaskier had given him when he walked into the inn, his loose silver hair lightly dusted with snow.

“You’re early,” the witcher greeted him as he saw him sitting at their usual table, with that pleased tiny grin-and-head-tilt of his that never failed to warm Jaskier from the toes up.

“And you’re alone,” Jaskier replied. “Eskel?”

“He went ahead. He had some previous arrangement.” Geralt sounded a little put off, but in a fond way. “He sends his regards though. He says he looks forward to giving you details of his endeavours next winter, if you don’t happen to run on him on the Path earlier than that.”

Jaskier chuckled. “You know I’m going to assume he’s off somewhere fucking something that shouldn’t be fucked.”

Geralt’s lip twitched. “You would assume correctly. It is spring, after all.”

Jaskier laughed again, harder. “Gods, it’s so good to see you. You look lovely.”

Winter was a good look on witchers; it depended on the years but it usually meant that they spent the whole month eating and resting and training, and Geralt’s hugs were softer and warmer when he and Jaskier met again. Because of his double-mutated metabolism he never truly got fat — that was more Eskel’s shape, where substance just built over his muscles like it was made to be there — but it was a whole different world from the usual haunted, always-starved appearance he got. It made his expressions more open, his smiles wider somehow.

Geralt dipped his head at the compliment, uncertain but looking pleased as always. “Thank you. Wanna eat?”

They swapped stories over dinner, Geralt bringing updates from the rest of the witchers and Jaskier complaining about his colleagues and students in Oxenfurt, but it was still pretty early they went upstairs, safe behind the closed door of Jaskier’s rented room.

Their reunion kiss tasted like the Four Path’s signature mushroom soup, terrible, too-bitter Kaedweni ale and longing; Jaskier let himself run out of breath on Geralt’s mouth before pushing the cloak off his shoulders.

“Oh wow, fuck.” A smattering of dark purplish bruises marred Geralt’s collarbones and just under the bump of his throat, startling him. “What happened to your neck?”

“Ah,” Geralt said. “Right. I forgot about that.” He sounded sheepish. “That’s—I did tell you Eskel said hello, didn’t I?”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Did Eskel leave these on you on purpose?”

“Well, not these—we kind of got carried away.”

“I can see that.” And he could also understand it, wanting to make up for all the time they spent circling each other, after fifty years of misunderstandings and longing and—”Wait, what do you mean when you say not these.”

Geralt’s chagrin seemed to intensify. He took a step back, letting the cloak fall on the floor, and started stripping out of his shirt and peeling his pants off; where his skin was usually too pale and too scarred, it was covered in a whole rainbow of marks. Some of them were very recognisably hand-shaped—and Jaskier realised that, from their placement, he could tell Eskel had been holding Geralt while he fucked him.

Unexpectedly, heat pooled in Jaskier’s gut. Eskel says hello.

He could see him gripping Geralt’s hips as he fucked him from behind; as he folded him in half, marking the back of his knees; as he squeezed his wrists together, the sound of bones grinding against each other; as Geralt gasped through his climax with Eskel’s hands pressed against his throat. And there were bites on the inside of his thighs, on the edge of his chest, on the back of his neck—hidden behind loose hair.

“When was this?” he asked, quiet. The darker bruises seemed very recent, but others looked half healed—greenish and yellowish and pink. Jaskier surprised himself with how badly he wanted to press his fingers into them.

“It takes a week or so to come down from the keep, so—” Geralt swallowed. “I can’t tell if you like them or not.”

Jaskier laughed a little. “I’m honestly not sure myself.” He stepped closer, hand hovering over the witcher’s discoloured collarbones. “Can I touch them?”

“Yes,” Geralt answered with no hesitation. “Can I undress you?”

Jaskier smiled. “I do feel a little overdressed at the moment.”

While the witcher peeled him out of his clothes, Jaskier let himself focus on his bruises. He rubbed them in little circles, starting from the edges and going in a spiral towards the centre, where he knew it had to ache; Geralt never stopped him—just hissed and gasped and groaned, eyes closing and pupils widening with every stroke, his hands twitching over the fabric. By the time he got Jaskier naked, he was half hard and Jaskier was wet.

He pushed Geralt to sit on the bed and leaned down to kiss him roughly, squeezing the tender flesh on the back of his neck where he remembered seeing the print of Eskel’s teeth. Geralt groaned in his mouth, an unmistakable sound of pleasure that pulled at Jaskier’s guts.

“I thought you didn’t like pain,” Jaskier told him, finally putting the finger on what was bothering him.

“I don’t,” Geralt confirmed, “but this—this is different.”

Jaskier wrapped his hand around Geralt’s forearm, trying to fit it into the mark Eskel had left. The other witcher’s hands were so much bigger than his. “Well, of course,” he mused. “This is more about remembering the feeling, isn’t it? Having something to remind us of him when he’s not here.”

“Do you mind?” Geralt asked, low and serious.

“No.” Jaskier surprised himself that he felt no hesitation about it. He wondered if Eskel had known. He could almost see him, a smug grin warping his scars and making his eyes twinkle, ready to poke fun at them for not realising how intertwined they all were. “Actually, you know?—I’m glad he left these for us.”

He touched the bruise on Geralt’s neck, and the witcher's expression softened. It was almost like having Eskel with them in bed after that, as they took each other apart with pleasure—something about the shared knowledge that Eskel had left those marks for them to enjoy together making the whole thing intense and more intimate. He had left behind more than broken blood vessels for Jaskier to find—like he’d wanted to let Jaskier know how he’d been missed during the winter, and how they’d been thinking about him too.

“You know, I think I am a little jealous of Eskel after all,” Jaskier said afterwards, running his fingertips from Geralt’s collarbones to his hips. “I can’t leave this kind of souvenir on you.”

“Human teeth can do more damage than one would think,” Geralt pointed out, carefully blank.

Jaskier blinked. “Are you asking me to bite you?”

“Not now,” Geralt acknowledged. “But maybe you can leave me with a parting gift of your own, when we go on our separate ways on the Path.”

Inexplicably, the thought of marking the witcher made him warm rather than hot like he expected.

“I can certainly try.”