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Thunder cracks the skies to bits as rain falls thick and heavy down over him. Viktor is somewhere in Velen, treading the territories of no-man's-land in search. It's been hours since he's come upon a village, and the path Fawn treads turns to mud beneath her hooves, making stumbles more and more frequent. Viktor longs for shelter. He wishes he’d stopped earlier that morning. Whenever they come to a crossroads, he takes the path most travelled and hopes for the best.
Viktor would get out his map and trace the path from his previous pit-stop, up the lane to see where he's going, but with the rain as heavy as it is, he needs to be careful - it's already in tatters from navigating the Dismal Swamp last week.
So he holds out, and as he rounds a knoll, he is rewarded for his patience with fences sprouting up along the worn path, buildings in the distance, and a smoky glow coming from a nearby chimney. Immediately he can tell the village is large enough for a place to stay.
An Inn. His exhaustion and chill become three times more unbearable just at the notion of some warmth and food. Witchers can endure a lot, and Viktor is far from his breaking point, but it's been days since he's had a warm place to stay, and hours of chilly rain.
As they come up to the stables, Viktor slides off of Fawn's back, a twinge of pain lancing up his thighs as his heels hit the ground. His boots are not for riding nor walking; they’re built for a light tread in battle, and his feet hurt from an entire day in stirrups. But with his leg, he can’t afford a day of walking. He needs Fawn just as much as she needs him.
The Inn’s stables have fresh hay and grain for the horses boarded. Viktor leads her right up to it, makes sure it isn't rotting or full of insects, makes sure the water barrel is full and that her neighbour, a stately black beauty, is polite enough, before deciding it's a good enough place for her to stay. Sliding her bridle down her broad neck, he makes quick work of her tack and stashes it in the provided hanger. Then he gives her a good scratch beneath the jaw where she likes it the most before setting off into the Inn.
Stepping inside any public building is always an ordeal. It shows Viktor either the kindest or harshest face of whatever city he’s in. It seems like today is the latter: the tenants go quiet, even the musicians, as he steps inside. Almost every face looks at him with disdain. They see his hair - snow white, tied away from his face - the medallion, heavy against his chest. They see the handles of swords on his back - steel for man, silver for monsters. Those close enough, leaning against the walls or brushing past him on their way out, spot his slitted pupils, the cat eyes that he knows reflect the lamplight in an unnatural way.
Viktor is suddenly glad for the rain, which has washed away the blood and gore left over from this morning’s contract.
He makes his way to the bar, limbs stiff and stilted. He would reach for his cane, were the bar not close enough for him to sit down at after a few steps. The wooden stool beneath his ass is far less welcoming than Fawn’s moulded leather saddle, but it is dry, it is stationary, and comes with the promise of food, so he sits and enjoys the warmth, stretching his legs out.
His neighbours stare for a few lingering minutes, but eventually they return to their games and conversation, and the music starts up again. After a few more minutes, Viktor realizes he isn’t going to be thrown out, and a well of relief flows through him as he truly gets comfortable, dropping his rucksack down beneath his feet.
As he leans down to dig at the various buckles and straps keeping his brace tied tight to his leg, a large glass of water is placed promptly before him. Viktor doesn't get a good look at the barkeep, busy as he is craning his head down to unlatch a buckle, but he's pleasantly surprised to receive something on the house before he's even offered up any coin. His brace soon comes free, eliciting a deep sigh, and he stuffs it unceremoniously into his rucksack.
He downs the water in a few long, indulgent gulps, looking around the well-lit bar. People have truly already forgotten about his presence; they're deep enough in either their cups or conversations to keep their eyes to themselves. He isn't quite comfortable enough to shuck off his armour plating and reveal more skin, but he tugs off his vambraces and unlaces his soaking boots, letting them fall to the floor one by one.
"What'll it be?" Chirps the barkeep, and Viktor looks up to answer. His response dies in his throat straight away.
The bartender is so far from what Viktor was expecting. For one, he's young. He's also stunning, with a kind and welcoming face, chestnut coloured beard, and light, twinkling eyes. And he's built - his fetching green tunic leaves little to the imagination in terms of chest and bicep mass. His beard is short but a little wild, softened by the even smile on his face. It's marred only slightly by the faintest scratch on his lower lip, a scar from some injury perhaps, but Viktor finds himself helplessly fascinated by that one little point.
“Err- are you okay?”
"I'm sorry-?" Viktor wrenches out.
The barkeep blinks. "You have to buy something if you want to stay here."
"Y-yes, right-" Viktor says quickly. His stomach growls wantonly, and he dips his fingers back into his rucksack. "A hot meal, please, whatever you've got with lots of meat." He sets out a little pile of coins.
The barkeep brushes his fingers over the coin, quickly counting up the amount, before giving a short nod and sweeping it off the counter onto his side. "Coming right up."
"Thanks," Viktor sighs, watching him go with what almost feels like greed. His strong, full physique narrows into a trim waist and buttocks as round as could be. Viktor thinks there might be more than one reason why his mouth is watering tonight, and it has nothing to do with the smell of the stew on the fire.
The barkeep disappears into the kitchen, so while he waits, Viktor limps to the hearth to crouch before it and properly warm his bones. He stretches out his fingers, combs through his dirty white hair, scrunches his socked feet. He massages his leg, half-heartedly watching a game of Gwent being played on a low table on the other side. He hisses as his fingers drift over delicate tissue, long-healed scars and more recent slashes. His wounds from today aren't dire - just some shredded fabric and light bruising along his shin. Nothing that needs true mending. But his body is nearly always sore, bruised or bitten in some place or another. He chews on some swallow's herb from his pack for the pain, it’s bitter, but it goes down easily when he's so hungry.
He spots the handsome barkeep setting a steaming plate in front of his place at the counter, and nearly trips over himself in his haste to claim his meal: a hot bed of mash, the meaty stew from the fireside blanketing it darkly. Alongside it is a half-slab of bread and a quarter-cheese wedge. The bartender sets down another plate just as Viktor tucks in - a small vine absolutely heaping with glistening grapes. A generous addition for the mere ten crowns Viktor had afforded.
"Thank you," Viktor says, speaking through his mouthful of food without a care.
"You're a Witcher, aren't you?" the barkeep asks, an edge of suspicion in his tone.
Viktor's hands twitch. He feels protective of his meal, defensive of it. "... I paid you up-front, and I don't take contracts for meals."
The man grins. "Relax. The food is all yours, Sir."
Viktor doesn't know if he's being made the butt of some sort of jest, but he takes him at his word, too starving to do much else than enjoy his meal. It's hot, meaty, salty, and filling. He tries not to make a fool of himself, noticing the bartender's eyes on him even from across his bar, but he wolfs down half of it in just a couple of minutes.
Once his stomach eases he's able to go more slowly, taking the time to slice the cheese and actually taste it on the dark, hearty bread.
Already the food warms his whole body, eases his spirit. The inn feels a lot less hostile, more accustomed to his presence, so he takes a moment to look around. The patrons are cheerful now, forgetting the strange newcomer. Women dance jovially on tabletops while men holler at them. Several little groups play Gwent or knucklebones. A fiddle and lute play in tandem in the corner.
"How about a feisty Tamerian?"
Viktor blinks, caught watching one of the women dancing. The barkeep is in front of him again. His accent is strange, certainly not from here, nor is his tanned complexion - too even, too complimentary to be the sun's influence. He, like Viktor, is a foreigner in this land, and yet he looks as comfortable as if he were at home in his bed.
Viktor manages to scrape some wit from the depths of his exhaustion. "Lass or Pint?"
The barkeep laughs a little, his eyes crinkling in delight. "Pint, but, I can recommend a lass if that's what you seek."
Viktor weighs the risk reward of honesty, and decides to throw caution to the wind. It’s truly been a while. "... Not quite my type."
"A pint it is then," the barkeep says, eyes twinkling. Viktor reaches into his pack, but the man shakes his head. "Don't worry about the coin."
"Goodness," Viktor says, his suspicion only growing. The generous meal. Base kindness. And now, a pint on the house. "You must be in need of extermination."
The barkeep pauses, bites his lip. "Honestly, I'm mostly just curious. It's been so long since a witcher has come through here… Much less a witcher like you."
Viktor sighs. Normally he would shy away from curiosity; it almost never leads to good places. It leads to setups and hair-brained schemes. It leads to business proposals or advice he sure as hell does not need. But this man is beautiful. Viktor is so very tired, and as always, weak-willed.
"It's Viktor," he says quietly. "That's my name. And yes, I'm a Witcher." His hand coming to his chest where his Medallion rests, grimy as it is.
"Jayce," the bartender says eagerly, reaching out a hand to shake. They do, and Viktor feels Jayce’s sudden strength as he turns their hands over. Upon Viktor’s exposed knuckles lies a deep, raw red scar, crossed over itself in ancient language.
"I've seen witchers who carve runes into their swords,” Jayce says. “Their gear. My dad would forge weapons for them. Plates of armour. Legendary swords. But I've never seen one carve them into his very skin."
It glows incriminatingly between them. The sign carved onto Viktor’s cheek, below his left eye, is usually mistaken for a tattoo. But this pattern on his knuckles has been all but gouged in - traced and re-traced into what is undeniably a self-inflicted wound.
Viktor feels hot - at the touch, at the shock of this man being more knowledgeable than he would expect. It's both discomfort, and the intimacy of being known. Of being highlighted. It's far closer than he's been to anyone in a very, very long time.
"I'm not like most Witchers," he says finally, slipping his hand back out of Jayce’s grasp and taking another bite of his meal.
"Clearly," Jayce says softly.
The heat lingers in Viktor's throat, in his chest. It's probably partly the ale - though usually it takes a lot more for him to start to feel tipsy. He can smell Jayce’s scent - iron and rosemary. He resists the urge to bring his wrist to his nose and sniff.
He feels like the conversation between them should be over, but Jayce doesn’t leave.
"Where are you from?"
Viktor takes a deep drink of his ale. "Cat School."
A flicker of recognition. "Oh, fuck."
"It's… I'm as young as I look. I was created long after all of the… Eh, betrayal and corruption."
"Is there an after, from all of that?"
"For those that deserve one," Viktor says softly. His Witcher school has probably the worst reputation of all of them. And if Viktor had had his choice, he wouldn't have gone to The Cats. But as it stood, it was the only school that would accept, and train, little girls. "You're not from here either."
"I'm from Kuasta, like my mom. My dad was originally from here. We sailed back when the war started."
"There's war here too," Viktor grunts softly around a mouthful of heavenly mashed potato.
"Yeah, but nowhere near as bad. It's not… It's nothing like that, here in Velen."
Viktor believes him. Jayce’s jovial face is suddenly gaunt with the haunted look of those who have seen horror and death and come to terms with it.
He continues, "when the soldiers come, I just serve them and they move on. They're so far out of their territory that I can fly my colours. When they get too rowdy, I can force them out on my own. The locals sometimes help me, wrestle them out, kick them to the curb. It's… It's manageable."
"I understand."
"I wanted to ask… Sorry if it's dumb, but could you carve me up with one of those runes?" Jayce points to Viktor's hand, looking hopeful. "Just… Strength, or something? Do you think it would work?"
The sheer vulnerability in his voice has something long forgotten softening inside of Viktor. The Witcher mutations dulled his emotions somewhat, but didn't obliterate them completely.
"It wouldn't work," he is sorry to tell the barkeep. "Even if you had Witcher mutations. The runes draw upon the existing magic in my blood. My magic lies dormant, as I'm only a quarter non-human. This is the only way I know to access it." As Viktor speaks, he tucks the stream of white hair at his temple behind his ear, turning so the light falls upon it. It isn't recognizably elven - nor does he possess the stop-and-stare level of beauty or agility that most elves do. But there is an unmistakable point there, one that marks him as non-human. As other.
"I see," Jayce says softly, looking genuinely surprised. Viktor falls silent, unsure what to say. With that, Jayce walks off to tend to a person calling to him. Once again, Viktor watches him go. There's a rag tucked into his apron, the end of it resting against the swell of his ass.
Viktor sighs and slides a few grapes into his mouth. They burst sweetly on his tongue, ripe and fresh. They must not be imported - taken straight from the vine. He finishes up his meal, as well as his ale, and before long, Jayce is back, topping up his drink.
"I actually do have a contract for you." Jayce starts. "And almost no coin to pay you with."
Typical. "The contract better be for a housefly, then."
Jayce laughs lightly, "no, it's… A werewolf, actually."
With a frown, Viktor sets his ale down. A werewolf is no small matter. He has his silver sword, but would be much more comfortable with silver daggers as well as some extra supplies of herbs and bombs. Not to mention the battle itself - dangerous. Exhausting. Risky. There could even be more than one - though werewolves are not known to travel in packs.
"So you plan to pay me in ale. And if I'm lucky you'll take advantage of my drunkenness later and treat me to your bedroom," Viktor guesses, the boldness tasting risky on his tongue.
It lands, though. Jayce laughs again, that beautiful sound shaking his shoulders and turning his head.
"No, no... It's way, way better than that, I promise." He drums his fingers on the table. "I have a residence next door - my parents used to take it up. There's a bed, a washbasin, pantry, and a scullery. You're welcome to use it all for as long as you're staying."
Now that gives Viktor pause. His job is basically that of a travelling merchant - his wares are his very life, his body and his steel. He has no home, the halls of the Cat School full of too many a bad memory to truly comfort him anymore. He has no family to host him. He can't remember the last time he was able to stay in one place for longer than a week. He can't recall ever having a home.
So getting to stay for a while… To bathe himself and sleep until the roosters wake him, morning after morning… To wash and repair his clothes. To sit on the stoop and mend. To forage for food and cook it over something more than a campfire.
"And I'll shoe your horse," Jayce murmurs. "That new mare outside is yours, isn't it? I've never seen her."
"Fawn," Viktor admits softly, glancing in her direction, though there is a wall separating them.
Jayce's eyes sparkle, like he's already won Viktor's favour. That damned smile - damn it to hell - is back and making him look so handsome. Viktor could not possibly look away. Not when such beautiful sights are so rare.
"You're sure it's a werewolf?" Viktor asks, "not a berserker? Not a fiend?"
"It's a werewolf. Howls at the moon and everything, I promise."
Viktor stares at him for a few steely seconds, weighing options. Finally, he sighs. "Werewolves are able to shift for several days during, before and after the full moon. I realize tonight is full, but I'd be putting myself in harm's way by going after it tonight. I'll hunt tomorrow."
"Yes! Thank you, Viktor."
"And I still want coin. I will have to eat after your hospitality wears thin," Viktor gripes. If he's laying down roots, it had better be worth it. Even if they're bound to be ripped from the ground within days.
"I can spare about thirty crowns," Jayce says after a moment.
"Fifty."
"Viktor… I don't have fifty crowns to my name, being honest," Jayce insists. “Night monsters are… Bad for business.”
Viktor rubs his face tiredly. The hour is growing late, and, more than anything, he wants to soak in a tub and crash in the promised bed.
"Fine, thirty. But I want more of these grapes. A lot more.”
༒︎
The house is as humble as Viktor had expected. There are sparse decorations, and with the hearth empty, it’s a little chilly. But it’s a break from the rain and the chill, and it has a door that bars the outside world. Though it consists of just three rooms, he gets a full tour.
Jayce had taken off his apron and coat and left them at the bar, leaving his second in command, a maiden named Skye, to watch over the tavern. He looks gorgeous with less on, his shoulders bulging through his tunic, his stomach just a touch soft, his legs thick and muscled. A body that is used to working - in the kitchen, on the road, with metal, with animals. A jack of all trades. Precisely the kind of physique that draws Viktor’s eye every time.
Viktor strongly considers inviting him to bed. When he looks at this barkeep, his lust writhes inside him like a beast. The mutations leave most Witchers with a wild and excitable libido, and Viktor is no exception. But he’s so exhausted and unkempt. Perhaps tomorrow, after slaying the beast, he’ll feel well enough to slake his lust.
Jayce lingers like he can read his mind. He shows him the washbasin, the wood storage for the hearth, the tub, all of the tools he could possibly need, and a sharpening stone kept in the scullery.
The house is complete with an outdoor cellar, which is dug deep in the earth beneath the house and laden with pickled vegetables, dairy products, and chicken eggs. Jayce opens it for him with a key around his neck, hands the key to Viktor, and generously tells him he can have his fill of preserves while he’s staying.
“There’s no way you’ll get through it all in a few days.”
“It’s been a while since you’ve hosted the appetite of a Witcher,” Viktor says good-naturedly, inspecting all of the goods. The cellar is enormous, almost the size of the house above it - shelves upon shelves of goods, all high up off of the ground to discourage rats. It’s also cold as death inside, though Viktor doesn’t much mind the temperature. Jayce seems to, and hurries them out quickly.
They head back up the rope ladder from the pantry and into the house, locking the cellar door behind them.
“Why is it that you’re the one paying for this werewolf business?” Viktor asks back inside, arms crossed as he watches Jayce light the hearth.
"People have been scared to come out in the evening, after the sun sets. Even if they come before dark, they’re having a hard time thinking of how to get home… It's been seriously affecting business."
“How many has the werewolf killed so far?” Viktor frowns.
“None. But more than a dozen sightings. Missing dogs and sheep.”
Strange. Unusual for a werewolf who should love the flesh of man. “Or it’s getting its meals in another village,” Viktor muses out loud.
“What’s your plan to go after it?”
“Probably hunt around for clues. Silver traps. Question the locals. And if I don’t find it by eve, lay a trap just before sundown. Camp out near it and catch it by surprise. Silver sword and dagger.”
Jayce looks at him closely, and Viktor feels that pull again, that desire to get closer, to ask him to stay. To indulge a bit.
But attachment is danger, so he bids Jayce farewell.
Alone at last, Viktor heats water for a bath and sharpens his tools, soaks his gear. He treats them with a couple of basic new runes, carved into their hilts with refreshed symbols. He does not spend long on it, only enough time for his bathwater to scald.
When he finally settles into his bath, the hot water burning away the soreness and exhaustion of the day and the grime and muck in all of his pores, it’s a beautiful thing. He nearly falls asleep, watching the full moon appear outside the window and slowly drift higher into the sky.
The only reason he doesn’t fall asleep is how rowdy the tavern is next door. It’s so loud that it drowns out the very thoughts in Viktor’s head.
After he dries off and settles into bed, he wraps his head and ears with cloth, muffling the sounds from the neighbouring buildings and sinking into blessed sleep.
༒︎
He wakes hours later to the full of night. Dawn is but a few hours off, and Viktor would have slept to it, but he can hear whimpering, muffled cries nearby. In his sleep, his cloth wrap has shifted off, and the noise is too noticeable now.
The sounds from the tavern are long gone. Something isn’t quite right. Viktor searches his witcher senses and finds the cries are coming from somewhere below.
The… Cellar?
Anxiety and suspicion well in Viktor’s chest, and slowly he gets up. He pulls a tunic on, a short garment that falls to his knees. He debates grabbing a lantern but decides against it - the light would be unneeded, for appearances anyways. He leaves his swords, which are still adjusting to their attunement, and steps outside barefoot.
The night air is freezing, but grounds him to his senses powerfully. Strangers have walked by not long ago, he can smell them. The chill teases through his chemise, hardening his nipples. His breath exhales in a visible puff of fog. The rain has given way to an icy chill.
The cellar’s lock is smashed open, tossed aside carelessly. Viktor looks closely, and finds a rock with metallic residue on it a few steps away.
“A burglary… Someone from town?” Viktor whispers out loud, drawing his fingertips over the smashed edge of the latch. He finds many footprints around, all of them leading in different directions away from the tavern. A veritable mess. The smell of strangers again. He narrows his eyes, focusing on the different traces and treads he can see to make out who had been standing here.
He can hear the whimpering, though, loud and prominent through the door. Someone is down there.
“A drunk fell in?” He hypothesizes quietly. “Broke his leg?”
Viktor slowly lifts the cellar door, despite his instinct to retreat and get his armour. Whoever this is, he can face them with his bare hands, show them a lesson. How dare they break into Jayce’s cellar and betray his generosity?
The room is silent as the door creaks open wider, and Viktor slides himself down the ladder. As he goes, his tunic slips up enough to expose his ass to the frigid air for a moment, but he endures the chill.
His toes meet the soft earth and he turns, peering through the dark. At first, he thinks he sees a tapestry, hung up on a wall where it wasn’t before - but the mass of fur he sees shifts and Viktor realizes he’s come face to face with a werewolf.
With a cry of shock, Viktor stumbles back against the cold, earthen wall, his heart rate picking up fast, his witcher senses going berserk.
The werewolf barks and roars, a deafening sound that melts into the earth. It’s a roar that would likely sound meek through the cracks, he realises, resonating like a whimper through the layers of earth and the reinforced stone door.
Viktor shrinks back, and for the first time in a long time he feels genuine fear.
Because the werewolf is Jayce.
Transformed, he’s nearly unrecognisable, but Viktor has seen a lot of werewolves, and he can tell. Those huge eyes are exactly the right shade. The scruff on his chin, his throat, is Jayce’s beard. The ruff on the back of his neck - his chestnut hair. There is wilderness in the way he carries himself, but also determination, rising agitation. The smell of him is wild and animal, but beneath that… iron and rosemary.
Jayce had seen him, recognised him as a witcher, plied him with a contract, hefty reward, and then lured him to his doom. The house. He broke into and sealed himself in the cellar, where Viktor would surely hear and come to his aid - and to his own death.
And now, just like earlier, they are alone in the cellar together. But there is no friendly lamplight. There is no barkeep’s smile. There is just the cold, dead darkness that Viktor can see through with witcher senses, and Jayce can see through with werewolf eyes, and in that darkness Jayce’s form is hulking and furred. Long-limbed with razor sharp claws - deadlier than any dagger Viktor has left upstairs.
Viktor’s hand itches for Brisingr, his silver sword, but were he to make a move towards the rope ladder he knows Jayce would pounce on him.
The frigid air has him nearly shudder in just his tunic. Jayce’s maw leaks with drool, a low snarl slipping into the air between them.
“You monster,” Viktor accuses, going for the last resort: provoking the humanity of a man out of his wits.
Jayce snarls harder, his fingers twitching, his body shrinking. “Call me what you will,” he growls out, words spat through a long tongue, through a mouth of overgrown teeth, “waste your final breath on insults.”
“I don’t plan on dying,” Viktor retorts, even though he is so extremely out of his depth. “I’ve never failed a contract. And it sounds like the completion of this one now grants me an entire Inn.”
At this taunt, Jayce barks and lunges, but Viktor was expecting that; he leaps down and forward, rolling beneath Jayce, who smashes into the entrance wall.
Viktor recovers quickly and takes off running deep into the cellar as his mind scrambles for what to do. He reaches up to a high shelf, grabs the biggest jar he can immediately spot, and turns on his heel to throw it as if it were a moondust bomb.
The jar of preserved peaches shatters on Jayce’s shoulder, soaking his fur and scattering fruit across the ground. Jayce roars, a deafening sound to Viktor’s highly attuned ears. This time, as Jayce charges on all fours, there is nowhere for Viktor to dodge, so he holds his strong stance, ducks beneath a swipe, and throws a punch with all of his might.
His fist thuds dully against Jayce’s jaw, knocking his head all the way to the side. Viktor presses his advantage, stepping forward and aiming for his solar plexus next, but as Jayce recovers from his stumble he gets his paws around Viktor and slams him to the ground.
The runes on Viktor’s body glow as he draws on them, strength and agility working together to wriggle free, to twist out of those tearing claws. The tunic he’s wearing shreds under razor-sharp claws, leaving his flesh at the mercy of Jayce’s attack.
Viktor kicks his face, but it only makes Jayce double down, snarling and grabbing his flesh instead.
One of his speed runes sputters out as Jayce claws through his skin, wrecking the magical sign and rendering it useless.
The pain drags a yell from him. Viktor lifts his hand as he remembers he can sign with it to perform magic, but before he can form a shape, Jayce knocks his arm to the ground and wrestles him into submission.
Viktor cries out as his back is shredded with claws, blood seeping into ruined fabric. He throws his weight against Jayce and manages just a meager shift, fighting back weakly.
There’s something about wrestling in the dirt that has his body heating from the core, that has his cheeks darkening and sweat breaking out over his brow, on his thighs. The weight behind him has his body trembling already, struggling to stay strong beneath Jayce.
Something hot and wet rolls over his ear, and Viktor’s eyes snap shut, his mouth open in disbelief. Jayce, tonguing his ear. Nipping at it.
Tasting what will be his meal.
Viktor steels himself through it, takes advantage of it, elbows him as hard as he can in the gut. While Jayce howls, Viktor twists around, throwing his weight against him and going for the throat instead. He manages quite an effective choke, throwing all of his weight into it, until Jayce places his paw on Viktor’s chest and shoves.
And suddenly, Viktor is on his back with his legs spread, staring up at Jayce with wide and wild eyes. He’s breathing hard, a knee bent, his brow knit, his heartbeat a frantic kicking in his chest. His mind races with what to do next, but comes stuttering to a halt as Jayce grasps him by the ankle.
He’s drooling, hot wet puffs of air hitting Viktor’s skin as he noses along the arch of his foot, and then laps at it a few times.
“H-hey!” Viktor cries, pulling in vain. Jayce’s long tongue seems to hit all of the most sensitive spots of his foot, coating it in hot saliva. It sends riotous shivers up Viktor’s legs, straight to his belly.
Panicked, Viktor manages to kick him in the face and retrieve his leg, crawling back in one desperate lurch, before his eyes slide down and his heart skips a beat.
Jayce stands on his hind legs, his bulk crowding the entire narrow cellar, enormous and furred. His eyes are locked in on the spot between Viktor’s legs, and his cock is engorged, peeking out of its fur-covered sheath.
Viktor swallows down a flood of saliva. He thinks I’m his mate.
Jayce grips one of Viktor’s legs yet again, dragging him closer. But rather than twist and break his bones, Jayce leans down and sniffs curiously at Viktor’s cunt.
Breathing hard, Viktor slowly widens his legs. Could it be that as a human, Jayce has attraction to him that is manifesting more strongly right now, as a beast? Is it werewolf breeding season or something? Why isn’t he biting him, to make a new werewolf then? Why-
Viktor’s thoughts are shaken apart into dust as he feels that sleek, broad tongue, laving over his cock, tasting him. Viktor trembles, going completely still as his head hangs. It’s been so long since he’s been touched, let alone-
He utters a small little huff through his nose as Jayce’s teeth graze against his flesh, dangerous and hot and slick, dragging through his folds. His face burns with shame, as he tries to get his wits about himself, tries to think. If he were to strike out with his leg-
If he were to hook his ankle around the wolf’s back, he could hug him more prominently to his cunt, rub himself against that muzzle-
Wrong, that is so wrong, he tells himself, trying to twist out of the wolf’s grasp and away from his eager, hot tongue-
Instead, Viktor’s other thigh is grasped and he’s dragged down onto the werewolf’s face more properly. He can feel its wet snout, pressed to Viktor’s cock, his cunt at the mercy of that rough tongue once more.
Viktor moans and rolls to one side, succeeding only in getting a delicious bit of friction of his cock on that wet patch of Jayce’s nose.
Viktor grabs helplessly at the earth below him, at the soil. “J-jayce-”
At his name, the werewolf drops him. He clambours on top of Viktor, who stares up at him, dazed and confused.
Jayce’s enormous hand grips him by the throat, and lifts him - and then he’s licking the Witcher’s mouth with a wicked hunger.
Weak to the insistence of his supposed mate, Viktor finds his mouth coaxed open, welcoming that thick, hot tongue, the way Jayce delves inside of his throat deep enough to gag.Jayce licks into him, explores him and tastes him thoroughly. Just like his cunt, he claims him with his curious, possessive laps. Viktor’s jaw widens, a weak little sound leaving him as he offers his tongue - and Jayce eagerly accepts. He laps at Viktor’s tongue, their shared drool mingling, slicking down Viktor’s chin. Viktor struggles to keep up, struggling to breathe as he’s breached down the throat once again. But when Jayce pulls away, his whole entire body is hot, limp against the dirt and the earth.
Jayce presses his chest down, licks at his mouth again, and Viktor finds himself this time going slack-jawed, opening wide for Jayce’s probing tongue.
And below, beneath- Viktor’s thigh catches on Jayce’s belly, pushed apart-
He’s mounted, the hot, red girth of Jayce wet on his belly, on his white shock of pubic hair, and then he’s being entered-
The sheer size of the beast’s cock threatens to split him in half. His narrow hips, his small cunt, even wet as it is, takes so much convincing. But the barbed tip finds him and notches home, forces its way inside. He howls almost as loud as Jayce, filled so full he can barely breathe. He yells at the agony of being entered, but the tail end of it melts into a much more humiliating sound.
Jayce shifts, and Viktor can feel the pointed tip of the werewolves cock, pressing deep within him, shifting and rubbing him raw. He feels so full it's difficult to draw breath. But jayce barely hesitates before he's moving, and the next sound blooms for longer in Viktor’s throat.
Jayce drills into him, drool cascading from his mouth and onto Viktor’s neck. Each time he bottoms out, his rounded belly slams against Viktor’s cunt, his cock, sending full-body spasms through his whole body. Violent stabs of pleasure lance each time, which Viktor can do nothing to prepare for.
His hands find purchase on the rough of Jayce’s mane, burying into the thick plushness and holding on for dear life.
“Oh, gods- oh, gods- oh gods-” Viktor cries out, the sensation of getting fucked unlike any he’s felt before. His eyes roll back into his head, organs he didn’t know he had getting pulverized by the cockhead of a ravenous werewolf in heat. And Viktor - the bitch taking it.
“Jayce- Jayce, I’m- fuck!” Viktor throws his head back, hips kicking up of their own accord as his orgasm comes crashing down on him. Jayce roars, feeling the rhythmic clenching on his swollen cock and fucking the Witcher right through it.
Tears wet the corners in his eyes, the sheer instinctual response to such a rapid forced orgasm. Viktor can barely catch his breath, the fucking continuing well throughout. In recovery, he’s oversensitive, his body struggling to re-gain his faculties.
But Jayce stills. At first, Viktor thinks it’s to also reach his orgasm - but instead, he withdraws, sitting back on his haunches. He grasps Viktor in both clawed hands, lifting him like a doll onto his lap.
“Ngh, what-” Viktor weakly looks down, seeing the wolf’s cock just as rigid as before. If anything - his cock looks larger, like it’s come to its full hardness only just now. It doesn’t seem like a size that could realistically even fit inside of Viktor anymore.
But Jayce positions him just so, using both hands on his mate, nestling the head of his dick among Viktor’s swollen folds and easing him back down on it. Viktor utters a small cry, feeling the swell and stretch. One of his arms slide down and brush his stomach, which is entirely distended by the presence of Jayce’s cock.
Jayce growls with happy pleasure, even as Viktor squirms and writhes while his organs struggle to accommodate at this angle. Inch by inch it nudges inside, demanding to be felt, to be embraced and serviced.
Viktor’s gut protrudes, but Jayce squeezes overtop without a care, fingers and claws holding him like a doll and jostling Viktor up and down over his cock again. Using him.
Gagging at the sheer stretch, Viktor holds onto his furry forearm for dear life, nausea and pleasure screaming through his body with each movement. Each time he bottoms out, his body impossibly accommodating Jayce against all odds, it feels like he might pass out.
But his cunt drools, long strings of it dripping down Jayce’s furry balls each time they smack Viktor’s folds. It’s moans that sound from Viktor’s throat, gasps of pleasure so big he’s breathless.
And each time he’s brought down, the furry, rough base of jayce’s pubic bone rubs Viktor’s clit, giving him those bursts of sweetness. His tongue lolls as he pants harshly, anticipating it each time and moaning wantonly when it comes. Jayce leans down and laps up Viktor’s drool, delving into his mouth once more as if invited.
Viktor’s brain is mush - pulverised mush that wants nothing more than fucking and pleasure - and he gets it.
Jayce starts to get rougher with him, slamming Viktor down to the base with every single stroke It sends the witcher completely off the edge, his runes glowing as they struggle to keep up with what his body is facing.
“Gh-” Viktor chokes as he climaxes a second time, his limbs shuddering and seizing up. He struggles, squirms through it desperately, so Jayce presses Viktor to his furry body, holding him tight. A flood of wetness drips from Viktor’s spasming cunt and soaks into Jayce’s fur. Jayce growls, clearly happy about this, and lets Viktor sag downwards onto his cock.
“Fuck! Jayce-” Viktor gasps. He can feel the base of Jayce’s cock swelling, and that’s when he remembers a very particular part of werewolf anatomy. Of canine anatomy. “You- you can’t knot me-” he warns breathlessly, his voice slurring a little. “You- you’re too big-”
Jayce stands, pulling his cock abruptly out of Viktor. The relief he feels is fleeting, the sheer gape of his swollen cunt is a wound he cannot patch. Viktor shakily reaches with his legs to stand, and finds himself immediately wrestled down into the dirt instead, hands behind his back.
“Wh- oh… Oh-! Fuck, yes, Jayce!” Viktor cries out as Jayce bottoms out once more inside of him. His thighs tremble, but he stays strong on his knees, ass in the air so Jayce can stuff his cunt full yet again. His own cock points eagerly downwards, glistening with moisture, pleading for attention.
Jayce ruts inside of him steadily, and Viktor pants, feeling his stomach distend with each stroke. Claws close around his waist once more, holding him right where Jayce wants him. With each thrust inside, his stiff knot kisses Viktor’s hole, just barely breaching it, teasing at him.
“F-fuck- you’ll break me-” Viktor whispers desperately, squeezing his eyes shut. “D-do it-!”
Jayce punches in, pressing harshly against Viktor’s entrance. Viktor can feel his cunt yield, stretch and tear to accept Jayce inside, bit by tiny bit.
Once he’s almost halfway, Jayce rips out, drawing backwards with a soaking wet sound. Viktor trembles, and when Jayce fucks into him once more with that same brutality, he keels over onto the ground properly.
And Jayce keeps going - fucking into him with violent presses, bullying his cunt with the knot each time. Drool wets Viktor’s chin as he cries out, his entire body burning up.
Viktor can feel the continued distention of his stomach, hitting the earthen floor when Jayce bottoms out inside of him. His chin digs into the dirt, but he pays it little mind. With every slam of Jayce’s cock deep inside, he kisses Viktor’s cunt with the fist-sized swell of his knot. Each slap hints as to what is coming, to the girth that Viktor is forced - bit by bit - to take. Viktor yells as it crushes against his hole, pressuring him to take more and more. Demanding entrance into his body, forcing itself to fit. Viktor arches his back as he feels his cunt widening to accept it. Bolstered, Jayce shifts above him, adjusting his stance and pressing down into him even harder.
And with a final, painful pop, he slips fully inside, ballooning inside of Viktor. Jayce throws his head back and howls.
His semen floods inside of Viktor, forcing his cunt, his womb, his guts, to take more and more. With a fucked-out moan, Viktor climaxes again, his whole body arching. Trembling and pulsating as heat floods him entirely.
Jayce bucks inside him, but he’s locked within, unable to do much more than pressure Viktor’s cunt from the inside as he comes, and comes, and comes.
A swell forms in Viktor’s belly, bursting with semen and distending against the ground. Jayce holds him tight and pumps him so full that every last crevice tingles with hot, thick cum. So full that Viktor is drowning in it.
Viktor feels wetness on his chin, his upper lip, and has the deluded fantasy that semen is gushing from his mouth and nose, leaking out of every hole with his cunt stoppered and stuffed beyond its limits. Everything hurts, and yet it feels so fucking good that he’s so thankful for it.
Jayce ruts into him one last forceful time. Viktor’s vision dulls and flickers, and slowly, he slips under, his eyes sliding closed and body going limp.
༒︎
Viktor wakes to a soft rustling. He eases his eyes open, his whole body lighting up with aches and pains.
Beside him, Jayce is slowly transforming back to human, his fur shrinking back, his limbs shuddering back into place. He rolls onto his back, breathing raggedly, tears leaking down his cheeks.
The transformations must hurt. It reminds Viktor of when he’d undergone his mutations.
His body screams as he forces himself to his knees and crawls across the earth and cobbles. When he reaches Jayce, he finds him limp and barely responsive. He lets Viktor do what he wants with him. So Viktor straddles Jayce’s shoulders, sits on his chest, and reaches down to clutch his neck with both hands.
Gritting his teeth, he mutters, “why. Why give me the contract. Why lure me down here with your whimpering.”
Jayce is still for a few moments. His human form is weakened, after a night spent as a werewolf, and he pants slowly, regarding Viktor with those eyes. So intelligent, so focused. So clearly remembering their night.
“You would’ve discovered me tomorrow morning, the moment you started your hunt,” Jayce breathes, voice hoarse, “and cut me down in my weaker form.”
Viktor wants to clutch his fingers as hard as he can, to crush Jayce’s human-soft windpipe. But he can't bring himself to do it.
“Why.”
Jayce relents, his hardness melting, looking at him with such stark honesty. “I like my life,” he says softly. “And I don’t want it to end.”
The words have bitterness curling in Viktor. Guilt. A horde of other emotions. “So you lure hunters to their death?”
“No. No. You’re the first one.” He rests his head back on the dirt, resigned. “And I deserve this death for believing that I could best a witcher.”
Viktor stares at him for a few long, hard moments. His fingers don’t tighten, nor slacken. Despite the night’s events - he’s won. He won this fight.
But he doesn’t snap Jayce’s neck. Can’t find it in himself to.
“I knew I couldn’t kill you,” Jayce whispers. “Even if I tried.”
“Why’s that?” Viktor hisses back, voice just as soft.
“Because you’re like me. Even as a werewolf, I… I saw that. And I loved you for it,” Jayce utters. “So, do it. Kill me, Witcher. Fulfill your contract.”
Viktor stares at him, his hands still loose on his neck. He stares him down for a few more heavy, withered seconds, before withdrawing. Slowly, he gets up off of the ground, standing straight in spite of his weak knees.
“I’m not like most Witchers,” he says again softly.
Jayce watches him, those hazel eyes careful, turning watery as, slowly, Viktor reaches down and offers his hand.
༒︎
Viktor wakes with the dawn a week later.
He’s put off this day a few too many morns, but now it’s time.
He stands in the weak light that streams in from the windows, putting his freshly laundered clothes and polished armour on piece by piece. Cloth, leather, padding, straps, buckles. He tucks his codpiece into his pants, the piece affording him just the right amount of bulge for intimidation. He leans against a chest and pulls his boots on one by one. Not even a speck of dirt cakes the soles.
Before the mirror, Viktor combs his hair backwards and braids one end back over his ear. He accepts his swords, held out to him one by one, strapping them over his shoulder alongside his cane.
Outside, Fawn paces impatiently. She looks ready for a royal parade - groomed meticulously and hosed, her hair soft and light and clean. Her hooves shine with new shoes and a coat of gloss. She chews happily on the bucket of oats left out for her, eyeing Viktor hopefully.
Viktor pats her flank. He’s eager to go, too. But first, he turns, his hand sliding up Jayce’s bare elbow, his neck, his jaw.
It’s early enough that Jayce leans into him in the open field with no onlookers, kissing him deeply. Viktor kisses back slowly, but indulgently, savouring the taste. The scent.
Iron and rosemary.
If only he could bottle it.
But the kiss is satisfactory. More than. For the first time, the touch of another body doesn’t wake the slumbering beast of endless lust within Viktor. He’s had his libido fucked out of him thoroughly.
As it turns out, giving a werewolf a mate is more than enough distraction during a full moon phase. And a mate who has the body of a witcher, the magic of one who won’t break into pieces, and instead pleads for more… It makes for a perfect match.
After those four nights, Jayce had been exhausted, injured, and spent. But he doted on Viktor. Wrapped the scratches and bite marks he’d left. Massaged out the Witcher’s tired, sore muscles. Brought him hot meals between his work at the Inn.
Viktor had recovered from the sex almost entirely in one day, but he’d indulged in bed for a while. After all, Jayce was eager to apologize by any means, and found that the soreness between Viktor’s thighs was in great need of soothing. An activity best enjoyed in bed. And indeed, it helped. Jayce worked tirelessly for as long as that entertained them both, sharing his werewolf’s appetite for a drooling cunt.
So Viktor is more than satisfied. The lust in his bones has settled, leaving a deep and profound sense of relaxation that he hasn’t felt in years.
But the truth is, while he’s come to like the werewolf, he adores Jayce.
Jayce’s plan to kill him had been an act of fear and desperation. And it will not be forgotten anytime soon, but he’s been very… Generous, with his apologies. Cleaning and polishing each piece of Viktor’s armour, free food and board, the constant attention and massages, and a surprising appetite for Viktor’s stories of the road. He sleeps late in the mornings, which Viktor spends meditating, reading, and quite surprisingly… Staring at Jayce’s sleeping form.
How could he not, with those eyes and that mouth… The beautiful shape of him at ease in bed… The scars that litter his body nearly as plentifully as Viktor’s. The ability to touch him at any moment, lean down… The soft tickle of his beard, and the strong smell of his neck.
This morning, Jayce’s eyes are incandescent in the sun’s weak light. He’s exhausted, being a creature of the night, but insisted on seeing him out. Viktor can’t look away, even when he mounts Fawn and finds a comfortable seat in his saddle. She stamps impatiently, but Viktor keeps his voice low.
“I’m still awaiting my thirty crowns, you know,” he murmurs, finding his reins.
Jayce gives a little laugh, shaking his head. His hand comes to Viktor’s knee, palming the soft leather there. “You shall have it and more, as soon as you come back to me.”
“Look at you.” Viktor murmurs, “worrying like a wife sending her husband off to war.”
“Of course I worry.” Jayce answers. “If you fail to return, I’ll always have my cellar. But who will take up most of the room of my bed? Who will eat all of my grapes, my porridge, use up all of the firewood?”
Fawn shifts impatiently, and Viktor shrugs, feeling quite the frivolous flutter in his chest. A feeling he thought long gone.
“I suppose you’ll have to get the salt and summon up a demon. Or perhaps steal a cursed ring and procure yourself a noonwraith. That’ll summon Witchers far and wide.”
“But I don’t want just any Witcher.” Jayce practically purrs.
Viktor bites his lip. Perhaps his lust isn’t completely eradicated. He squeezes his hand over Jayce’s on his knee. “I’ll be back in a fortnight. I’ll come straight to you. And if the hour is late… I shall wake you.”
“Go, then. Before I decide to re-shoe her, or re-sharpen your daggers, and strand you another day.” Jayce sighs, stepping back.
Viktor nods to him. He kicks Fawn on, and she bolts beneath him, cantering across the field to the path beyond. “Hyah!” Viktor coaxes her on, standing up in his stirrups, letting her run. Together they chase the rising sun, heading off to seek out danger.
Before he rounds the knoll, he turns in his saddle, lifting his hand to Jayce, who waves in turn, standing in the sea of golden wheat beside their house. His other hand rests on the door, which stands slightly open. Jayce gets smaller and smaller in the distance.
Viktor turns back to the sunrise, riding hard up the dirt-caked lane as Fawn kicks up dustclouds and snorts with excitement. For a few minutes, Viktor holds on tight, his mind blank, lost in the familiar cadence of hoofbeats and clinking metal and the gentle creak of his saddle. The sensation has his heart aching with comfort, contentedness. And all too soon, he’s distracted with thoughts of Jayce. Viktor pants, as his hair whips across his face wildly, he finds an unbidden grin spread across his face, bright as the sun.