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Jaskier has one hand down Radovid’s trousers, wrapped firmly around his leaking cock, and the other tangled in Radovid’s hair, tilting his head back for better access to mouth sloppy kisses up and down his neck. Radovid, in turn, is clutching at Jaskier’s back, urging him impossibly closer, his hips moving enticingly against Jaskier’s own.
He moans, breathy and absolutely beautiful, when Jaskier noses away the collar of his tunic to suck a bruising kiss into the delicate skin over his collarbone. It’s incentive enough for Jaskier to abandon his neck entirely, and bring their lips back together, Radovid meeting him without hesitation and another keening, helpless moan that goes straight to Jaskier’s own, painfully hard cock.
“So sensitive,” Jaskier murmurs, around an almost giddy little laugh, still close enough for their mouths to brush as he speaks. “So pretty, so eager. You,” he nips at Radovid’s lower lip, delighted when Radovid cheekily returns the gesture a moment later, “taste divine, absolutely addicting, like the first breeze of fresh spring air after a winter of—”
The rest of his words are muffled between them as Radovid crushes his mouth back to Jaskier’s, trembling hands coming up to frame Jaskier’s face. “You talk like—”
“A writer?” Jaskier offers with a wink, then darts out his tongue to tease at the corner of Radovid’s mouth. “A poet? A bard?”
Radovid shakes his head, as much as he can, still held in Jaskier’s grip. He tips their foreheads together with a sigh that gives Jaskier pause. “Like you mean what you say.”
Frowning, and despite Radovid’s protesting whine, Jaskier pulls his hand out of his trousers. He brings it up to brush a thumb over Radovid’s cheek, instead, watches Radovid’s eyes flutter shut with a stuttering breath.
“No one,” Radovid swallows hard, grimacing a little, “talks freely around me. And no one,” his eyes are shining, wet and sad when he opens them again, “ever speaks what they truly mean. Everything is all—secrets, plots and conspiracies, and I’m so—I’m so tired of it.”
Before Jaskier has the chance to think of how to answer, of what to say, he hears the door of the cabin crash open, followed by Ciri’s hurried footsteps. Seconds later, she stumbles into the small shed, wide-eyed and breathing hard.
“Geralt’s in trouble.”
Jaskier lets his head drop to Radovid’s shoulder. “Of course he is.”
“I can feel it, Jaskier, the token, it—” she cuts herself off, there, but only for a moment before she continues, suspicious, “Who are you?”
With the most long-suffering sigh he can muster up, Jaskier straightens again, and reluctantly steps back from Radovid. He startles, just a bit, when Radovid, apparently similarly unwilling to separate, darts out a hand to hook a finger into one of the pockets on Jaskier’s vest.
Ciri watches them, hip cocked, her eyebrows raised higher and looking more judgmental than Jaskier thinks is currently warranted.
Gesturing at the other man, Jaskier introduces, “Prince Radovid of Redania,” then motions at Ciri, a warning much more than an unnecessary introduction, “Princess Cirilla of Cintra, the adorable burden of my existence.”
“Why—” Ciri starts, glancing between them, before shaking her head, very clearly and wisely deciding that she does not want to know. “Geralt. Trouble. We have to go help him.”
Which is how Jaskier finds himself standing outside the gates of Aretuza less than an hour later, Geralt’s pack of potions slung over his shoulder, holding on tightly to Ciri’s wrist to keep her from running right into the absolute mayhem that seems to have descended over the partially burning academy, while the godsdamned Crown Prince of Redania hovers just behind them.
This is going to end in disaster, he thinks, and then, when that doesn’t feel like enough, predicts out loud, “This is going to end in fucking disaster.”
Ciri scowls up at him. Radovid puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.
Jaskier takes a deep, steadying breath, then a second, and finally a third one. “All right. You,” he tells Ciri, giving her what he hopes is a suitably warning look, “stay close, don’t do anything idiotically heroic you’ve seen Geralt do before, and be careful.”
He waits until Ciri nods before letting her go. Then he turns to Radovid. “And you,” here he falters, before eventually settling on, “don’t get maimed or killed, I’m in enough trouble with your Court as it is.”
Radovid’s answering smile is breathtaking, even if not wholly reassuring. His hand moves from Jaskier’s shoulder to his hip, squeezing gently. “Don’t worry about my brother.”
Jaskier can only stare back at him.
“Jask,” Ciri hisses, impatient, and Jaskier shakes himself, hitching the pack up a little more securely with a weary, “All right, here we go.”
In a stroke of unprecedented luck, the very first people they come across are a frazzled but mostly unharmed Yennefer, supporting an older, even more exhausting looking sorceress with an arm around her waist. Jaskier winces right along with her when Ciri crashes into Yennefer's other side, latching on and clinging firmly.
Yennefer kisses the top of her head, then nods at Jaskier, the quirk of her mouth relieved and grateful. Until she spots Radovid standing at Jaskier’s side, at which point—and Jaskier resents the fact that he can apparently read her so well—her expression morphs into one of annoyed exasperation.
“In my defence—” Jaskier begins, without actually knowing how to finish that sentence, but Yennefer only shakes her head, then inclines it in the direction of a set of stairs.
“He was in the banquet hall, the last time I saw him.”
Geralt turns out to still be in the banquet hall, which is great. Unfortunately, he’s surrounded by three incredibly angry sorcerers, plus at least a dozen ugly, snarling creatures that all, simultaneously, turn their heads in Jaskier’s direction as he skids into the room.
“Shit,” Jaskier breathes, and a moment later, once he’s caught up, Radovid adds, “Ah, fuck.”
It’s enough, combined with the quickly intensifying panic, to make Jaskier snort out an admittedly somewhat hysterical laugh. From the middle of the hall, Jaskier can see Geralt roll his eyes at him, which, honestly; rude.
“So,” Radovid says, the first to find his voice again, “I think this is when we run?”
“Yep, yes.” Jaskier reaches out blindly, and Radovid meets him halfway, firmly grabbing Jaskier’s hand. “This is definitely when we run.”
What follows are several minutes of mad scrambling and hiding behind pillars, avoiding sharp claws and bolts of magic, until Jaskier finally manages to fumble open the pack, and Radovid starts throwing potions in Geralt’s general direction. It’s enough to momentarily distract the sorcerers, and for Geralt to uncork and down the potion he actually needs.
One of the sorcerers flees in the face of an enraged, black-eyed Witcher, and another one gets skewered on Geralt’s sword almost immediately after. That, blessedly, makes half the creatures combust into clouds of dark smoke, though the others seem to redouble their efforts of chewing up the vulnerable—and, in one case, highly valuable—humans.
“Go,” Jaskier shouts, over the yelling and howling, pushing Radovid back in the direction of the stairs. “We split up, they have to split up.”
Radovid’s lips purse, obviously unhappy, but he does turn and sprint across the hall. Jaskier takes off in the other direction, at least two creatures at his heels, until he’s within sword-range of Geralt. There, he falls to his knees, sliding across the polished floor, and feels Geralt’s sword hiss through the air above his head, then embed itself in something fleshy. He doesn’t take the time to look, instead scrambles to his feet again, and zigzags away as fast as he’s able.
He glances around frantically, catches two dead creatures out of the corner of his eye, before he finds Radovid again. Only to see one of the remaining creatures take a flying leap at him, and tackle him to the floor.
It skids away unsteadily, bleeding from a cut on its hindleg, but heaves itself up again quickly. Cursing, Jaskier keeps running, lungs burning, and throws himself over Radovid without thinking. He has just about enough time to roll onto his back, push himself up onto his knees, and throw an arm across his face before the creature is on them again, sinking its teeth into the meat of Jaskier’s arm.
Jaskier screams.
His vision blurs, but he can still hear the creature screech, suddenly, feel it release his arm, and make out the dagger sticking out of its skull. Then the creature explodes, showering Jaskier in dusty ash.
With a grunt, Geralt pulls his sword out of the last sorcerer’s throat.
From behind Jaskier, Radovid reaches for the dagger, pocketing it again without any regard for the blood and brains covering the blade. When he catches Jaskier’s eye, he beams, cheeks dimpling.
Jaskier smiles back helplessly, heart fluttering.
*
The water is enjoyably hot and pleasantly scented, something herby and soothing that has Jaskier on the verge of dozing off. His bandaged arm is hanging over the side of the tub, out of harm’s way, made comfortably numb by the heat and half a flask of one of Geralt’s healing potions Jaskier had discreetly appropriated during the post-battle chaos earlier.
It’s taken scrubbing at his skin until it turned red and pebbled to get all the monster grime off himself, but now Jaskier feels clean and calm, more than ready to take advantage of Tissaia’s generous hospitality. He shifts, the water lapping at his chin, and reaches his uninjured arm out to grab the goblet of vine from the stool beside the tub, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door.
The fact that whoever’s come by has actually knocked rules out Geralt and Ciri with their lack of tact, so Jaskier assumes it to be one of the Prospects with food or more bedding when he calls out, “Come in.”
Radovid is the last person he expects to slip into the room, softly closing the door behind himself before leaning back against it. He watches Jaskier, head tilted, and Jaskier can’t do anything but watch him back, take him in greedily.
He’s dressed down in flowing cotton trousers and a half undone tunic, hair falling loosely around his face. As Jaskier watches, still and silent, Radovid takes a few steps into the room, quiet on his bare feet. Jaskier’s throat bobs as he licks his lips, only half conscious of the movement.
“Hello,” Radovid murmurs softly, eventually, as he perches on the edge of the tub without a hint of hesitation.
“Hello,” Jaskier murmurs back, equally soft, tilting his head back to properly see his face. His fingers twitch around the goblet, before he brings it to his mouth for a fortifying sip. Radovid’s eyes follow the movement, dark and intent. Jaskier considers them for a long moment, before speaking the next words into the room between them. “You came back.”
Radovid plucks the wine from Jaskier’s grip to take a sip of his own. “Was I not supposed to?”
Considering the Continent is an utter mess right now, with the sorcerers and sorceresses more divided than ever, and the Royalty in panicked disarray, the answer to that is very obviously no. No, Radovid was most definitely not supposed to leave the relative safety of the Redanian palace, again, to come back to Aretuza.
Back to Jaskier.
And he knows it as well, clearly, going by the sheepish expression that steals over his face. “Vizimir will handle the situation,” he says, then amends, with a slight grimace, “Your friends and our Court will handle the situation, while Vizimir will complain and make a nuisance of himself, only to come out at the top in the end.”
Jaskier bites back a grin. “Spoken in true confidence.”
Radovid splashes some water at Jaskier’s face. “I love my brother, but,” he sighs, shrugs, and settles on, “I love him, but I do also know him.”
Chuckling, Jaskier holds his hand out for the goblet again.
Radovid hands it over, then uses his newly empty hand to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “You cut it.”
“Whatever those,” Jaskier wrinkles his nose, waving his free hand, “things were, they are frustratingly difficult to get out of hair. And clothes. And skin, for that matter.”
Humming, Radovid scratches at Jaskier’s scalp. “It suits you, like this.”
Jaskier leans into the touch, eyes squinting closed halfway.
Waits and watches, as Radovid’s fingers trail down his face, over his cheek until they hook under Jaskier’s chin, tipping his head even further. Lets his lips part, ever so slightly, as Radovid leans down and in to close the distance between them.
They kiss like this, unhurried, deep and slow, for long moments. Jaskier brings up his other arm to cup the back of Radovid’s neck, and Radovid gently takes the wine from Jaskier’s slack fingers before linking their hands together, settling them on Jaskier’s chest.
“You’ll ruin your clothes,” Jaskier mumbles against Radovid’s lips, twirling a strand of soft hair around his fingers, and laughs into their next kiss when Radovid breathes back, “Take them off me, then.”
They pull apart only after several more firm pecks of swollen lips, both equally reluctant to let go. Radovid stands, offering Jaskier his hands, and watches shamelessly as Jaskier rises from the water, steps out of the tub unselfconsciously.
Grinning, Jaskier walks backwards, towards the bed, and Radovid follows easily, pupils blown wide. He looks starved, enthralled, but still gentles Jaskier’s fall when his knees hit the edge of the bed, bracketing Jaskier between splayed legs and shaking arms. Jaskier arches, stretches, and Radovid’s hold shifts, from Jaskier’s hands to his wrists, pushing them into the bedding above their heads.
“Like the first breeze of fresh spring air after a winter of austerity and abstinence,” Jaskier whispers, finishing his thoughts from hours ago. “Delectable. Indulgent.”
The noise that tears itself out of Radovid’s throat is desperate, gorgeous beyond belief, and their next kiss is a wild thing, mouths insistent and teeth involved. Radovid is tugging at the laces of his tunic, while Jaskier makes short work of the ones on his trousers, and then Radovid sits back, strips off the tunic and rises only enough to do the same with his trousers, before he’s pouncing.
His hands skim over Jaskier’s ribs, exploring, and his mouth can’t seem to decide where to lick and bite, leaving what Jaskier is sure will be bruises come morning all over his belly and chest. Jaskier tangles one hand in Radovid’s hair and, emboldened by the stuttering moan that earns him, pulls until he can get at Radovid’s mouth again.
The movement has their cocks rub together, making Radovid whine and shudder. Jaskier lets go of his hair in favour of splaying both hands over the globes of Radovid’s arse, urging him into a lazy, rutting rhythm. And Radovid allows it, if only for a few minutes, before he shifts and sits back on Jaskier’s hips, chest heaving and face flushed.
Jaskier reaches up to wipe a bead of sweat from his temple. Radovid catches his wrist, impossibly gentle, and presses a line of kisses along the edges of the, thankfully still dry, bandages.
The mindfulness of it, the sweetness of the gesture, hits Jaskier square in the chest. And then Radovid shifts, again, and reaches behind himself for Jaskier’s cock, lining it up with his hole, hovering there with a tiny, enticing smirk on his lips, and one brow raised in question.
“Sin personified,” Jaskier breathes, awed, and Radovid takes that as the permission it is, sinking down on Jaskier’s cock with a drawn out groan. He’s warm, tight, and wet, and Jaskier thrusts up almost despite himself, clutching at Radovid’s hip. “You—”
“Came prepared,” Radovid agrees, excited laughter in his voice.
He leans back, bracing his hands on Jaskier’s thighs, and circles his hips in a way that has them both moan shakily. They fall into a shared rhythm with ease, Radovid setting the pace and Jaskier matching him, nails digging crescents into his hip and neck.
Entirely without his permission or say-so, Jaskier finds his mouth running, though he doesn’t mind, not in the least. Not when it has Radovid keen above him, trembling in his lap with every whispered word, eyes glassy and lashes wet with unshed tears of pleasure.
“I want to ruin you,” Jaskier grits out, fingers moving lower and lower, touching at the place where they’re connected, “and put you back together again with my bare hands, worship at the altar of your impossible beauty, taste every part of you, see every part of you, all of you—”
Radovid reaches his climax with a cry, Jaskier’s name on his lips, and the last of Jaskier’s always thin patience dissolves into thin air. He surges up, curls his uninjured arm around Radovid’s waist, and flips them over, biting at Radovid’s jaw as he pushes back inside. His pace is punishing as he chases his own release, in stark contrast to the delicate kisses he brushes against the corners of Radovid’s eyes, his Adam’s apple, his heaving chest.
Beneath him, Radovid is all hitching breaths and trembling limbs as he stares up at Jaskier. His hands clutch at Jaskier’s shoulders, his lips are parted around frantic whines, and when he blinks, when the tears finally fall, Jaskier falls as well, teeth finding Radovid’s neck to muffle his shouts.
They pant together, sweaty and sated, for long minutes, before Jaskier finds the strength to roll them onto their sides. Radovid’s eyes are closed, but he finds Jaskier’s mouth anyway, lips slack and quivering against Jaskier’s, hand a comforting presence on Jaskier’s lower back.
Allowing his own eyes to shut, Jaskier nudges their noses together, then stays there; close as possible, tangled up in each other. Basking in the intimacy of the moment.
He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, doesn’t remember doing so, but the events of the night must have taken their toll on him at some point, because when Jaskier wakes again, the grey light of morning is shining in through the gaps in the curtains, and the room is freezing, the fire having gone out long ago. Jaskier shivers, blindly fumbles for one of the furs, only to twitch in surprise when they’re suddenly pulled up and over him.
Which is when he notices the line of warmth against his back, the fingers rubbing idly over the skin above his navel, the mouth open against the back of his neck. Radovid sprawled mostly on top of him, breathing slow and steady, lazy with the early hour.
Jaskier covers the hand on his stomach with his own. Radovid hums and slots their fingers together.
Quiet, softly, Jaskier murmurs, “You stayed.”
There’s a lingering kiss pressed to his shoulder. “Was I not supposed to?” Radovid asks, and this time, Jaskier can feel him smile.
Helpless, once again, Jaskier finds himself smiling back.