Chapter Text
Geralt was never expected to survive the Trials. He wasn’t the first Child Surprise claimed by the witchers at Kaer Morhen to present as a submissive, but he was the first to survive the Trial of the Grasses, the first submissive to be unmade and reformed as a proto-Witcher without losing either his mind or his life. When Geralt survived, one of the few who did, the trainers were surprised, but simply assumed it was an aberration and that the young submissive would perish in the forthcoming Trial of Dreams.
Geralt survived the Trial of Dreams, survived the mutation of his body down to very marrow of his bones, emerging with enhanced senses and his life and mind intact. His survival was unexpected. Some of the trainers, muttering amongst themselves, even called it an abomination. A submissive Witcher had never existed and most of those overseeing Geralt’s training thought that one never should.
Still, when Geralt passed through the final Trial, the Trial of the Mountains, only to top his class in both physical ability and mental acuity, the trainers had to make a decision, with some wanting to allow him to graduate and others wanting him put down before his submissive nature got someone else killed. Eventually, they reached a compromise. Geralt showed extraordinary fortitude, both mental and physical, but there were those still unconvinced that a submissive could be a successful witcher. And so, Geralt would be subjected to additional, experimental mutations. If he survived, those who doubted him would allow him to graduate to walk the Path. If he didn’t, then he had clearly never been worthy to carry the Wolf Medallion.
The additional mutations were brutal, breaking Geralt down again and again, building him up each time a little more unnatural, a little more wolf-like. His bones thickened, his teeth elongated, and his stamina and his resistance to injury increased three-fold beyond that of the other witchers. His young body fought the mutations, burning with fever and purging every bite of food or sip of water he managed to choke down.
But, in the end, after weeks of suffering, Geralt survived the final round of additional mutations, his hair bleached white from the stress on his body, growing out of his scalp in stark contrast to his naturally dark brown color. The first thing he did was to shear it short, leaving only the white behind, close-cropped to his skull. Geralt knew he was a freak among witchers for his orientation and these additional mutations only made that more apparent. He couldn’t hide it, and so he wouldn’t try.
Mutations complete, Geralt’s final training began in earnest. Vesemir ran him through his paces daily, pushing him until he was able to utilize the full extent of his enhanced abilities. He was forced beyond his limits, muscles tearing and tendons straining, and then pushed further. He never knew a day free from pain after that.
He learned how to adapt the witcher potions to make them even stronger, granting him more substantial boosts and relying on his stronger system to handle the higher toxicity. The potions were so toxic his eyes turned black and his face drained of color, leaving only black veins crawling down his face as his body redirected as much blood and energy as possible to processing the toxins. The first time it happened, the alchemy master had only nodded. Geralt knew what he was thinking. A monster should look the part after all.
Kaer Morhen had built a being far beyond even the fabled prowess of a witcher. His only weakness was his nature. A submissive needed to submit regularly to remain healthy and functional, but Geralt could hardly enter into a contract with a Dominant like a normal submissive would to receive his required dose of subspace. Given the risk, the trainers at Kaer Morhen had attempted to mutate it out of him. When that failed, they tried to starve his nature, denying him relief for over a year, relenting only when his mind almost broke from the strain. At that point, they'd put too much time, effort, and expense into Geralt to allow him to die insane. They needed to come up with a solution.
Like all witchers, Geralt’s designation mark was covered by an elaborate tattoo. The mythos was that all witchers were Dominants, and indeed most were, but there had been the odd neutral here and there. Neutrals comprised the vast majority of the population, followed by Dominants and then submissives in roughly equal parts, so it was bound to happen. But the witchers of all Schools were happy to let people continue to assume all witchers were Dominants. The average person, a neutral, was wary of a Dominant and afforded them greater leeway and respect. The witchers capitalized on this to inspire both confidence and fear in their contractors, it helped them get paid.
To preserve the legend, centuries ago the witchers schools all began tattooing their graduates, inking elaborate, school-appropriate designs up each student’s right arm from wrist to shoulder, covering their designation mark. For a Dominant, the mark was a thick, black line that ran up the inside of the arm, dead center, from wrist to shoulder. For a neutral, there was no mark. And for a submissive, the mark was a wide, black cuff at the wrist.
The School of the Wolf covered its graduates in an elaborate design winding stylized wolves around runic symbols for strength, protection, and magical power to boost the strength of their signs. When the student was a Dominant, they left the mark mostly visible, allowing that to bolster the rumors. When the student was a neutral, the elaborate design made it impossible to tell what lay beneath. In the absence of contrary evidence, most assumed that neutral witcher was a Dominant.
For Geralt, however, to hide the thick, submissive cuff, the trainers burned his skin from wrist to elbow before laying down a dense, elaborate design. The burn scarred around the ink, the rough, shiny burn scar obscuring Geralt’s cuff in the detailed design tattooed above it. The designation marks could not be removed without removing the entire limb, but the burn scar combined with the intricate tattoo made it impossible to tell the cuff was there even upon close inspection. As an extra precaution, Geralt was instructed to wear bracers and gloves at all times. It was a common enough choice not to raise suspicion on its own as long as Geralt visited neither a brothel nor a bathhouse. Not that he was allowed to attend either, the risk of exposure was too high. The trainers could hide his tattoo and they could train him to suppress his nature, but they could not eradicate all signs of his submissive designation if a Dominant were observant enough to really look.
The final piece was finding a method to allow Geralt to drop into the submissive mind space, as his mental health required, without exposing his nature to anyone beyond Kaer Morhen. The tests Geralt had undergone in an attempt to rid him of his nature demonstrated how long he could go without the relief of subspace before becoming substantially impaired. He started to feel the strain at four months, it became constantly painful at eight, but he did not lose his reflexes or reason until roughly eleven months had passed. Fortunately, the trainers only pushed him that far once, deeming the risk of permanent damage to their asset too great. Even if Geralt arrived to Kaer Morhen for the winter at the last possible moment and left as soon as the path down the mountain was just barely traversable, the longest he would go between drops was roughly ten months. He would be a mess, but he would still be sane.
Based on that, the trainers came up with a plan. Geralt would be dropped into subspace by Vesemir twice every winter, once upon arrival and once before leaving. Every time was the same, an efficient, clinical procedure executed with Vesemir’s usual emotional detachment.
Geralt had been terrified the first time. While the trainers debated, the only other young witchers to survive the three Trails, Lambert and Eskel, both Dominants, had been allowed to help Geralt drop. Fortunately for all of them, the Trails and training left them too exhausted to need, or want, much out of their play. Eskel was content to have Geralt kneel at his feet, stroking his hair as they watched the sunrise, both drifting quietly. Lambert was a little more aloof and preferred to simply order Geralt to carry out tasks, anything from cleaning his armor to repairing a cracked wall at the Keep. It kept them all sane.
The trainers' plan was more traditional. When Geralt arrived for his first scheduled session with Vesemir, he had been without relief for eight months, the trainers having forbidden Eskel or Lambert from helping to simulate what Geralt would face on the Path. The strain of going without for so long caused him constant pain. His skin burned at every touch, whether it was a blow in training or the soft brush of his linen sheets. A headache pounded behind his eyes even when he slept and his stomach rebelled at the thought of food. But he never missed a step in his training and his reflexes remained sharp. To the trainers, his misery was not of concern beyond how it affected his functionality.
When Geralt entered Vesemir’s chambers, he saw a large, wooden cross set up in the middle of the cleared front room. Heavy, steel cuffs were nailed into the wood at the ends of the cross bar, at the center, and at the base of the post. Vesemir ordered Geralt to strip off his tunic and directed him to the cross, locking him to it by his wrists, ankles and neck. The rough steel chaffed at Geralt’s overly sensitive skin, immediately raising welts. Geralt’s breathing and heartrate rapidly increased, adrenaline spiking as he heard Vesemir behind him furling and unfurling a vicious cat-o-nine-tails.
“Be silent.” Vesemir commanded, threading Dominance into his voice. Geralt felt the command at his core and immediately complied, breath stilling in his chest. No one had ever used the Dominant Voice on him like that before. At the same time as he was terrified by the compulsion, something deep inside him felt fulfilled by obeying the command. He felt ill. He knew he needed this to survive, but he didn’t want to enjoy it.
“I’m going to strike you fifty times. You will count. If you lose count, I will begin again.” Vesemir ordered, Dominant Voice battering Geralt.
Geralt felt the first wisps of subspace enter his mind, but it wasn’t calming like it had been with Eskel or Lambert. Fear soured the feeling. Still, he knew what response was required. “Yes, Sir.”
Without anything further, Vesemir raised the cat-o-nine-tails and brought it down hard on Geralt’s back, raising deep welts. Geralt felt as if his back were on fire, but he choked down the gasp of pain, and forcing his voice to remain calm and level, said, “one.”
The punishment felt endless. Vesemir’s strikes split the skin across Geralt’s back and shoulders, causing blood to flow freely and pool on the floor beneath him. Despite his fear, Vesemir’s Voice, combined with the pain and the repetitive task, forced Geralt down into subspace, his mind clinging to the comfort brought by the mild dissociation.
He lost count once. Vesemir started again. Geralt thought he might cry if he were still able. The disappointment in Vesemir’s Voice when he lost count cut deeper than the whip ever could.
Finally, it was over. Fifty strikes had become close to eighty. Geralt’s back was a mess of bloody strips, skin hanging off where the wounds overlapped and exposing the muscle beneath. Geralt panted, hanging from the restraints, but made no sound. Vesemir removed the cuffs, carefully supporting Geralt as he sank to the floor at the base of the cross. Geralt’s pupils were blown wide, subspace starting to slowly fall away as the pain became more and more present.
Vesemir pat his shoulder once, careful to avoid the whip marks. “I’ll send the healer to see to your back.” He said, before turning to leave, voice back to normal.
Geralt watched him go, cold seeping into his chest. He didn’t expect praise, he knew he didn’t deserve that sort of consideration. He should be pleased Vesemir allowed him to rest here a moment, grateful that Vesemir would send the healer to him so he didn’t need to traverse the Keep with his bloody back exposed. He knew that, and yet it didn’t stop the wave of shame that washed over him. He felt in that moment as subhuman, as insignificant, as the trainers who doubted him believed him to be. If a simple, clinical drop session could drive him this low, perhaps they were right.
Geralt had been hiding his nature for decades, dropping only in those two controlled, brutally clinical sessions with Vesemir each winter. He had grown accustomed to the pain of denying himself more frequent drops. His body learned to filter out the headaches, the over-sensitivity to touch, and the muscle-tearing tension caused by his forced abstinence, pushing it aside so he could focus on his job. While his Path was unimpeded and his efficiency at monster killing unparalleled, the strain made itself known in other ways.
Geralt suffered from constant insomnia. Driven to wakefulness by dreams of soft touches, gentle drops, and a hand carding through his hair. The ache in his heart brought on by those dreams, the soul-deep longing for someone to tell him he’d done well, that he was good, was enough to stop the breath in his chest and keep sleep away for days. Geralt knew he could never have the sort of relationship he saw other submissives enjoy. No one would want him to kneel at their feet, no one would want bring him down slowly, gently, lovingly, and then build him back up again.
Even if he could safely seek someone out for such a service, even if he could trust someone not to use his nature against him, Geralt knew no one would ever want him like that. He was a tool, used to kill monsters and then shoved away until he could be of use again. He should be grateful Vesemir was willing to help him drop so he could keep his sanity. He knew Vesemir didn’t enjoy the chore, he saw the grimace on his face and the hesitation in his body language each time he bound Geralt to that wooden cross, and yet he did it anyway so that Geralt could live. Geralt should be grateful. He was grateful. But that didn’t make it easier to stop wanting more.
He was seven months out from his last drop the first time he met Jaskier. The flamboyant young Dominant had bounced right up to his table, babbled some ridiculous line about bread in his pants, and had sat down directly across from Geralt, holding his unnatural gaze without fear. He wore his dominance like a fine cloak, draping it over himself and everything around him, mark proudly on display by sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Geralt felt himself leaning forward without a thought, catching himself just in time to change it to an intimidating gesture instead of a needy one.
Geralt had never felt so drawn to a Dominant before. Something about Jaskier made him want to drop to his knees, bury his face in Jaskier’s thigh, and never leave. That was dangerous. Unacceptable. He had to get rid of him.
And yet, despite Geralt’s punch, his growling, getting kidnapped by elves, and almost dying, Jaskier stayed. Days turned into weeks and Geralt began to lose any hope of getting this annoying – alluring – Dominant to leave voluntarily. He told himself it was all right to allow Jaskier to tag along as long as he could control himself. He could always leave him behind in the night, he reasoned. But he never did.
As winter started to descend on the Continent, the golden days of autumn a distant memory, Geralt and Jaskier sat in the tavern in White Orchard after finishing Geralt’s last contract of the year. After this, he would need to head to Kaer Morhen quickly if he wanted to arrive before the snows covered the mountain pass. In the deepest winter, those few weeks at the beginning of the new year, even witchers could not traverse the frozen path to the Keep and Geralt was cutting it especially close this year. It had been almost ten months since his last drop and Geralt was barely holding it together. His reflexes were still strong, his sword arm still true, but his emotional control was starting to slip.
He started to want Jaskier in a way he couldn’t control, eyes tracking him as he flit about the tavern with his lute. Maybe he could sit on the floor by Jaskier tonight. They shared a room after all, and a small one. Maybe while Jaskier sat on the bed to compose, he could sit on the floor below him to polish his armor. It was perfectly normal for him to sit on the floor and wanting a backrest wasn’t too out of place. He could get just a taste of Jaskier’s Dominance without him ever suspecting what Geralt was really doing.
Geralt’s plan crumbled away as he spotted Jaskier take an interest in a young submissive across the tavern. It wasn’t unusual for Jaskier to pick up a submissive for a little play before he retired for the night, but this time, Geralt couldn’t stomach watching Jaskier draw the young submissive into his orbit, running his hands through her soft, curly hair and allowing her to crawl into his lap. He chastised himself for his weakness, for his foolish thought that he could steal even one small piece of Jaskier’s brilliance to sooth his aching heart. He tossed back the last of his ale, dropped a couple coins on the table to cover their meal, and headed upstairs to bed. He nodded to Jaskier on his way up, keeping his face carefully blank.
Fortunately for Geralt’s fraying control, the room they rented for the night had two small beds, one on each side of the narrow room. Geralt had claimed the bed closest to the door, as always. He took his time removing his armor, carefully oiling each piece before stacking it in the corner. He sharpened his swords as well, meticulously oiling the leather on the guards and checking each one over for any signs of wear. Finally, he went over Roach’s tack, which he had brought up to inspect while he had the luxury of a safe room, taking it apart, cleaning and oiling each piece until it gleamed.
Satisfied, Geralt put away his cleaning supplies and washed his hands, arms, and face in the small basin provided. He could call for a bath, but he didn’t trust himself to hold it together if Jaskier came back in while he was still vulnerable. Removing his boots and outer clothes, Geralt crawled under the covers in his smalls, pinching out the candle next to his bed but leaving the one next to Jaskier’s burning. Wouldn’t do for him to trip and hurt himself in the dark.
Geralt lay in the semi-darkness, enhanced eyes still able to see as if it were full daylight, and prayed for sleep to come. He ran through alchemy ingredients in his head in an attempt to calm himself to sleep. When that failed, he tried meditative breathing. Nothing worked, his nerves shot and his body oversensitive to everything around him, chafing against even the unexpectedly soft sheets on the rented bed. He resigned himself to another sleepless night, his fifth this week, and settled into a light meditation instead.
It was after midnight by the time Jaskier returned to the room, smelling of sex and contentment. He hummed under his breath as he undressed for bed, carefully wiping himself down with the cloth provided along with the wash basin. It was a familiar scene, but it hurt all the same that Jaskier would spend the night ravishing another submissive just before they separated for the season. Or forever. Jaskier said he planned to meet up with Geralt again in White Orchard come spring, but Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. Jaskier could have anyone he wanted, there was no reason he should waste his time and his youth on Geralt.
“If you’d like to sleep in tomorrow, I can tell the innkeeper not to disturb you.” Geralt said quietly, forcing his voice to remain neutral.
Jaskier jumped, spinning around to face Geralt. “Geralt, you startled me! Did I wake you? Forgive me, I tried to be quiet.”
“No, I wasn’t sleeping.” Geralt said, quick to reassure him.
Jaskier frowned. “You haven’t been sleeping much lately. Are you all right?”
Geralt blinked, startled he had noticed, but pleased all the same. He stamped down that warm feeling of pleasure, he had no right to it. “I’m fine.” He said brusquely. “Meditation is sufficient.”
Jaskier looked doubtful, but didn’t push. “If you say so. Just promise you’ll tell me if there’s something wrong? I’d like to help if I can.”
He sounded so earnest Geralt almost told him the truth but caught himself just in time, biting his response back and letting out a simple hum of acknowledgment instead.
“And no,” Jaskier said, returning to the original question, “it’s our last day together until spring, so I will join you for breakfast before we part.”
Geralt was glad the darkness hid his soft expression from Jaskier. “As you will,” he said.
Jaskier huffed, shaking his head affectionately at Geralt’s reticence. “I see right through that whole stoic façade of yours, you know.”
Geralt doubted it. Things would be very different if Jaskier knew the truth.
Jaskier climbed into his bed, pulling the covers up to his chest and snuffing out the candle before turning to face Geralt.
“Geralt?”
“Hm?”
“Feel free to tell me to shove off, but why do you never take a submissive? Do you not feel the need?”
Jaskier’s question was said in the tone of a true inquiry, neither judgmental nor condemning, simply curious. That was perhaps the only reason Geralt was able to answer around the sudden fear clutching at him. He felt his left hand involuntarily curl around the burned cuff on his right wrist, the reflexive movement thankfully hidden by the dark and the blanket.
“I haven’t felt the need, no.” Geralt’s training was the only thing keeping his voice level.
“Hmm, so is that a witcher thing or a you thing?” Jaskier asked.
“A witcher thing. The training inhibits our emotions, including the need to fulfill our orientation-based drives.” That was true, but not in the way Jaskier would understand it. But Geralt was a poor liar at the best of times and knew he needed to stick to true statements to make it through this inquisition unexposed. Geralt’s fingers tightened around his cuff, worrying at the exposed burn scar.
“Huh. I can’t decide if I think that’s nice or terrible.” Jaskier rolled back over to stare up at the ceiling, clearly lost in thought, before abruptly sitting up and facing Geralt again. “I’m not asking for a song, you know. I was worried about you.” Jaskier said forcefully, wanting to be sure his intentions were not misunderstood.
Geralt turned toward Jaskier, knowing Jaskier couldn’t see him well in the low firelight, but wanting to be clear all the same. “I know, it’s not in your nature to exploit something that personal for a song.”
Jaskier flushed, clearly touched. “Well, yes. I mean, no, I wouldn’t do that.” Jaskier flopped back down onto the bed, readjusting the covers. He heaved a sigh before settling. “Good night, Geralt.” He said quietly.
Jaskier’s breathing settled into sleep quickly. For Geralt, however, sleep remained elusive.