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Jaskier locked eyes with the legendary White Wolf, deadly Butcher of the High Seas and then quickly, he looked away. The thin slip of wool draped over his shoulders did little to shield his body.
He tugged it tighter around himself anyway.
“Where the hell did you come from?” One of the Witcher's crewmates shouted down at him, scraggly brown hair looking grim and oily. Not really Jaskier's type, but he supposed he could manage to service this one without gagging.
“Oi.” The man's boot collided with Jaskier's arm, but it was surprisingly gentle. Barely a tap. “I'm talking to you.”
Jaskier snapped his eyes up and then down again. He licked his lips. “My apologies.” His throat scratched like nails on a chalkboard. Jaskier winced. How long has it been since he last sang a note? “The vessel you blew up two days ago, the White Flame's envoy. I was on it.”
“A servant?” Another man, wretched scar streaking along the right side of his face – Eskel. He must be Eskel, the legendary right-hand of the White Wolf. All ambitious sea travelers, be they sailor or pirate, knew him from the infamous incident of Alderberg where he casually took down three rabid vampires with his bare hands while sipping ale in a sea tavern.
At least that was the story Jaskier heard from his brief voyage around the seas, before Mage Captain Rience found him.
“More of a whore, really,” Jaskier replied airily.
There wasn't much use in hiding it. The letters branded in exquisite cursive on his bare chest – Noble, turned whore – were concealed behind his woolen dregs, but they'd see it sooner or later anyway. Best to rip the bandaid off now, on his own terms.
Jaskier had been subject to a Witcher's cock once before. Some gruff sort, with a cat medallion. He'd been gentle at first, but was much less so when he realized Jaskier had only been sent to tempt him into a deal with the White Flame.
“Your pity act fools no one.” The scraggly one snarled, towering over him with folded arms. “How did you get here? When did you get here? Do not lie.”
Jaskier leaned his pounding head against the barrel he’d been hiding in before the Witcher lot found him, closing his eyes. “Can Witchers not smell lies?” They have nothing to fear, not with all that power in their hands.
It was a well-known fact that the White Wolf's main crew consisted only of Witchers and mages. He had allied fleets under his wing with people of all sorts, sure, but those aboard the ship mother Morhen were mostly of that variety.
Jaskier would be a flaming imbecile to even try a trick on this formidable crew.
“Answer the question.” When the White Wolf spoke, his voice was a dark, rumbling thing. The kind of aura that only emanated from a person who knew they would be obeyed no matter the cost.
Jaskier opened his cornflower eyes. “I saw your ship approaching first, Master Witcher. The captain was… there was a window in his quarters. I turned and saw your ship from afar while he was…” Jaskier trailed off. Strange, how easily his tongue could admit to being a whore but fumbled at the words ‘fucking me like a rag doll.’ “Anyway.” He shifted on his knees. “I saw your ship and knew a battle would come. So I prepared myself accordingly.”
“Prepared yourself how?” The scraggly one asked suspiciously.
Jaskier lifted a shoulder. “Holding my breath, seeing how long I could last without passing out.”
That wasn't so hard to test out, really. Rience had an intense preference for asphyxiation of both the erotic and non-erotic kind. It’d actually been quite nice to focus on something other than the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his head hitting the backboard.
Noticing the blank stares around him, Jaskier appended, “I had to swim here, obviously. Easier to go undetected if I stayed below the surface.”
“The commotion hid your arrival,” Eskel concluded, rubbing a thoughtful hand over his beard. Probably thinking about how he could throw Jaskier overboard without him crawling back. “But how did you come aboard? We had no rope down.”
Jaskier raised his fingers, blistered and bloody as they were. He tried not to think about ever playing a lute again. “I climbed.”
“You… climbed. While our cannons were firing?” The scraggly man had a bizarre look on his face.
Jaskier jerked his head in a nod.
“Why?” The White Wolf asked, looking at him intently. Too intently.
Jaskier swallowed. Witcher cock stung, with or without lubrication. The White Wolf certainly didn't look like he'd fare on the smaller side of things.
“To get away. Not every day your captain's ship gets burned along with its crew, you know.” Rience being bested by the very magic type his reputation boasted was a bit of poetic justice Jaskier could appreciate.
“Were you loyal to him?” The White Wolf placed a hand over the scraggly one's shoulder, guiding him slightly back, strangely giving Jaskier more space.
Jaskier caught his golden gaze, and held it. “Is there any world where a single doe can hold loyalty to a lion's pride?”
The White Wolf hummed, then gestured for someone behind him to come forth. The person walked forward and–
Mage.
Jaskier didn’t know how he could tell just by one look, but he could, and he didn't know what he said wrong and there was nothing but cold, sudden ice panging through his veins, his heart, consuming him, all of him, and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe–
The mage crouched down in front of him. Her eyes were kind, but they always looked kind before they–
“Nice handiwork,” Rience peered over the shoulder of the mage who was working on Jaskier. “You have great handwriting.”
Fringilla sniffed the air with disdain, erasing the letters and carving again. Jaskier howled under her.
“It needs to be just right,” She said. “Keep him bound to us and his network will–”
“–ster. Mister. Mister.” Her hands, held up in the universal sign for peace.
Jaskier eyed her warily, twisting his woolen sheets in balled fists. He'd scrambled back so far back his torso was pressed up against the ship walls instead of the barrel.
“I'm Triss Merigold, a healer.” She continued speaking in that disarmingly soft tone. “I'm here to help you.”
Jaskier flexed his jaw. “You're a mage.”
The mage tipped her head to one side. “I am. Is that what's bothering you? We could get a non-mage healer in here, if you'd like.”
That– what?
Jaskier’s confusion must have been scribbled all over his face because the scraggly one opened his scowly mouth and said, “We're not going to kill you, you dunce.”
Jaskier knew that. Of course Jaskier knew that. Killing him was giving him the easy way out and of no incentive to the Wolves, especially once they figured his last name out. Plus, even if he wasn't a noble, no one could possibly punish the dead.
“Don't think you're helping much, Lambert,” Eskel clapped the scraggly man on the back, visibly amused. “But nice try.”
“Would you like your wounds treated by someone else?” Triss repeated.
“Who else?” Jaskier asked cautiously, just to see where this was going.
“I could.” The White Wolf volunteered.
The other two Witchers stared at their captain like he'd just grown a second head. Even Triss turned to raise her eyebrows at him.
But Jaskier wasn't surprised. It made perfect sense. He knew this game. Take it at the hands of a mage or at the hands of a Witcher. A choice that wasn't really a choice.
Jaskier let his head fall back against the ship boards, eyes falling shut once more. He was too tired for this. “You.”
There was some shuffling, some whispers of what the hell? and do you even know what you're supposed to do, Geralt? and a lot of other words that Jaskier didn't have the wherewithal to register or process. He felt himself being carried onto a tarp and shuffled along the decks.
When he next opened his eyes, he was on a cot, the Master Witcher sitting beside him, carefully tending to the wounds on his back. The rigorous climbing had undone most of the stitches he'd gotten from Rience's trigger-happy whip-play session a couple days ago.
“What's your name?” The Witcher rumbled.
“Does it matter?” Jaskier asked without much thinking.
The Witcher's hand stopped moving abruptly. Jaskier froze. He shouldn't have snarked like that.
“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, if you're looking for a ransom.” The words came spilling out of his mouth without caution. “But I doubt the Pankratz family would fork out much for me. You've seen the words on my chest, yes?”
“Hmm.” The Witcher continued his stitching. Jaskier released a quiet breath.
“We're a couple weeks away from land.” The Witcher said as he moved from the stitches to the blisters on Jaskier's fingers. “Nowhere near Redania. We'll drop you off there.”
Land. Nowhere near Redania. That was. What?
“I have no coin, Master Witcher.” Jaskier said in the most polite tone he could manage without sounding like he thought the White Wolf was a little dull in the head.
The Witcher pulled back. “Did I ask for coin?” His dark voice dripped with exasperation.
“Oh.” Did he think Jaskier's body alone would suffice as payment?
Jaskier hadn't thought he'd be that lucky. Most captains liked to charge for both money and sex. Then again, most captains Jaskier knew were under Emhyr's flag, so perhaps his judgment was a little skewed.
But that wasn't very efficient, was it? Why stitch Jaskier up when he was just going to get fucked up again? Maybe the Witcher had a caretaking kink?
Oh well. At least his body was Jaskier's type.
When the Witcher ordered him to turn around, Jaskier followed his command fluidly, rolling his hips subtly upwards.
The Witcher gave him a cursory glance. Then, he started dabbing alcohol on the few abdominal scrapes Jaskier had gotten while climbing the ship.
What the fuck?
Jaskier frowned. Could the Witcher not at least do him the courtesy of speeding things along so he could sleep in peace?
The Witcher in question remained diligent in his faux focus on Jaskier's wounds. Jaskier sighed inwardly. Seems he was expected to initiate things himself around here.
“Master Witcher.” He pitched his voice high, breathy and eager, reaching out towards the bulge in the Witcher’s breeches and– Fuck. He was big.
Jaskier got about half a second before the Witcher zipped five feet away from him. Jaskier blinked.
The Witcher's gaze was thunderous.
Jaskier's brows furrowed. “Do you not want to fuck me?”
“No.” The White Wolf growled vehemently. “Not when you smell so strongly of fear and resignation.”
Touché. It's a little depressing how well that description fit Jaskier, actually. Everyone's entitled to their preferences, Jaskier supposed. He gave a brisk nod at the ground, then sank down gracefully to his knees.
The Witcher growled again. That was a good thing, right? More animalistic instincts means more happy to get sucked?
The Witcher made an aborted gesture towards Jaskier but stopped shy touching him. “What are you doing now?” He asked instead.
Jaskier was getting tired of talking. So, he wet his lips and opened his mouth wide, inviting, patiently waiting for the Witcher to get with the program.
“No.” The Witcher turned away, growling some more. “No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Get up.”
Jaskier's never done it standing before.
“And close your mouth.”
Now, how would that work?
“Listen– Julian. Is that your name?”
Jaskier clicked his tongue mildly. “I prefer Jaskier.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to clarify. Why he thought it would matter at all.
The White Wolf nodded seriously. “Jaskier.” He jabbed a finger at the cot. “That bed is only for sleeping. The regular kind. No one here is allowed to touch any part you against your will. Is that clear?”
Jaskier squinted at the cushy cot mattress. “How else should I repay you, then?”
“We don't make victims at sea pay for food, board or medical care.” The White Wolf answered plainly. “We're not that kind of pirate.”
That didn't make sense. “But for the ride? Surely I must do something to be allowed passage?”
The White Wolf gazed down at him, before finally spitting out, “Work.”
Jaskier arched a brow. “Work?”
The Witcher grunted like he was pulling teeth. “You can work for us before our next stop once your wounds heal. Swab the decks, check the riggings. You can do that.”
That was… easy. Jaskier could do that. Liked doing that, in fact. When he was the Sandpiper, manning his own ship had been one of the greatest joys of his life. Not above smuggling enslaved elves to safety, of course.
“Good.” The Witcher jerked his chin back to the cot. “Lie back down.”
Jaskier walked over to the cot, still slightly apprehensive. The Witcher did nothing to hurry him, only hovered beside Jaskier quietly while he returned to his original position.
He continued tending to Jaskier's wounds. His touch was firm, but gentle. The sort of touch that… the sort of touch that Jaskier hadn't been recipient of without the expectation of sex for a long, long time.
Unbidden tears sprang forth from his eyes. Melitele's tits. Jaskier scowled. The Witcher hummed.
He scrubbed the moisture away with the back of his palms. “Thank you, Master Witcher.” He muttered softly.
The Witcher's hand hovered over the last scar on his chest. The brand. “Just Geralt is fine.” He rumbled, sounding like liquid gold as he smoothed back Jaskier's hair, idly thumbing the last of his tears away.
Jaskier squinted at him. Call the Butcher of the High Seas by his first name? Was he quite sure he didn't want to fuck instead?
The Witcher Geralt coughed awkwardly and pulled his hand away. “Get some rest.” He hastily turned out the door with his medical supplies.
Jaskier stared after him for half a beat. That was... peculiar.
There was a fresh tunic and a pair of new braies left at the foot of the cot. Jaskier couldn't think of a reason not to dress up, so he did. If they wanted to punish him for this later, he'll deal with it then. Right now, he much preferred not freezing to death, thanks.
He didn’t know how much of this peculiar kindness he could trust, but hey, perhaps Morhen really was in dire need of a simple swabbie. Whatever his job was to be, Jaskier had a feeling it would at least be better than when he was with the Mage Captain.
Thus, for the first time since Rience, Jaskier closed his eyes without a siren blasting the back of his head. Just him, his breath and the long-assured safety of quick, quiet rest