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When Geralt leaves the inn behind to continue on his way to Temeria, Jaskier follows without question. He’s got a mule now (“Tinsind is a noble steed, I’ll have you know! I snatched him up for a fantastic price from a renowned horse trader in Aedirn!”), and before they leave, he straps Filavandrel’s lute to the poor beast, who looks like he’ll readily collapse under any weight at all.
Of course, when Geralt gently and appropriately suggests this, Jaskier meets him with an offended sputter and wide blue eyes, as if he can’t fathom that his featherlight ass might be too heavy for a four-legged one to carry.
Though Tinsind trembles mightily when the bard swings himself up onto the saddle, he stays upright indeed. Geralt admires his fortitude and comments as such. “The mule has proved me wrong - his ability to bear your mass is impressive.”
He’s caught out when Jaskier fixes him with a glare the likes of which Geralt has never seen mar his features - furrowed brow, mouth gaping like a fish. The bard stares at him silently for a long moment, Geralt growing more uncomfortable with each second that passes between them.
Finally, Jaskier erupts, shouting loudly enough that a flock of birds is startled from their roost in the young maple tree that the pair are riding by.
“You think bearing my mass is impressive?!”
“Fuck,” Geralt swears.
Jaskier continues, “I’m sorry - I wasn’t aware of the great burden of my weight, o’ glorious witcher! What a hardship for you, to travel with such an encumbrance - ack!”
He yelps as Geralt reaches across the space between them and yanks, pulling him by the collar so that they’re nose to nose.
Tinsind brays crossly and steps closer, bumping into Roach to try and stay on-balance, but Geralt ignores it, focusing solely on the bard now scrabbling to stay upright. Jaskier finds purchase by taking hold of Geralt’s shoulder pads, and his slim fingers brush under the armor. Geralt can feel their heat through the thin material of his traveling tunic.
“You are not,” Geralt grits out, barely holding back a snarl, “a burden. Do not ever refer to yourself in such a way.”
Jaskier blinks at him in wonder, the blue of his eyes made more bright by the pink of his cheeks - first from indignation, now from embarrassment if Geralt’s nose is to be trusted.
The moment is sweet, stretches long in the inch or so between their lips. Geralt could bask in it all day, the sun warm on his back, Jaskier surprised and flattered at his front. It isn’t often that Geralt’s words have this effect on anyone, least of all a master wordsmith.
Then Jaskier says, “I didn’t actually refer to myself as the burden, more the abstract concept of what I represent in this -”
Geralt pulls him in that last inch, silences him with a kiss. And even though he had ulterior motives for quieting the bard, Geralt can’t deny the way that his chest loosens as their lips meet, the way his breath pushes out in a sigh, allowing Jaskier the opportunity to lick inside of his mouth.
Heat curls low in Geralt’s stomach at that, and he pulls back regretfully, rather roughly setting Jaskier back to rights on his mount.
Turning forward, Geralt nudges Roach on, and he could swear that she’s rolling her eyes at him now by the way she tosses her head. He hides a smile and pats her low on the neck, not turning back to see Jaskier hurriedly urge Tinsind to follow.
The day is beautiful, and Geralt can’t help but feel his heart soar in his chest as he hears nothing but distant birdsong and the clip-clop of their beasts' hooves on the road. Damned bard and his romance rubbing off on Geralt.
They ride in silence for a blessed few minutes before Jaskier pipes up from behind.
“You know, you can’t just shut me up by kissing me every time you feel the urge. The things I say carry great import!”
Geralt hums in response, closing his eyes for a moment to enjoy the warmth of the late summer sun on his face.
Jaskier continues obliviously, babbling himself into a tizzy. “Okay, okay - some of the things I say carry great import. Some are merely of remarkable gravity.”
---
They hear rumor of a werewolf in the countryside while on their way to Ellander and Geralt allows Jaskier to come along on the hunt on the condition that he carries a silver blade the entire time.
Geralt spends an inordinate amount of time searching for the perfect weapon at the next town with an armory that they pass through. He can’t figure out why the weight of it must be perfect in his hands, why the handle must be just so - stunningly attractive and with a deadly blade.
Despite his growing irritation with himself, he plunks down far too much coin as soon as the blacksmith pulls out the weapon he knows in his gut to be right - a silver dagger, slender and lovely, with a handle of swirling ivory and lapis lazuli.
Geralt frowns at it on his way back to the inn that Jaskier has managed to get them a room in, unable to decipher the unpleasant knot coiled in his belly.
Surprisingly, Jaskier isn’t singing for their dinner when Geralt arrives - he’s tinkering around with a tune and his lute at the small table in their cramped room, the last bit of which Geralt hears as he steps inside.
It’s not nearly an entire ballad, just a few notes strung together really, but the words give him pause on the threshold of their shared space.
“- My hero left when the sky was as white as his hair,
and my bleeding heart froze cold as ice.
But he returned and brought the thaw of spring to the air -
his eyes of sun were well worth the price.”
Jaskier gives him a small smile in invitation, and Geralt crosses the room quickly, sliding into the seat across from the bard. He settles the small bundle on the table next to his hands, folding them together for something to do.
He’s suddenly awkward in the silence, unsure of what to say, how to start.
“It’s not for anyone besides me,” Jaskier admits quietly, setting his lute flat on the ground.
“I didn’t know,” Geralt starts, his voice oddly rough. He clears his throat and continues, the knot in his stomach turning painful. “I didn’t know that my absence affected you so.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, exasperation coloring his tone. Geralt frowns at him. “Geralt, I have dreamed of you since before I began my noble pursuit. Witchers are legend, and any bard worth his salt would kill for a muse with an ounce of your valor or bravery.”
Geralt looks down at the table between them, ugly guilt crawling its way up his insides. He wants to tell Jaskier that he’s not valiant - not brave at all.
“And then I met you,” Jaskier says softly, drawing Geralt’s gaze once more, his blue eyes sparkling and lively. Geralt is caught in their shine, trapped as an insect might be for examination. “And then I met you, and you were so much more than I could have ever imagined. How could the legends ever do you justice? All that nonsense about witchers carrying on with no feelings - ha! Tell that to the elves you gave your last coin to. Tell that to the farmer’s daughter you saved from a pack of drowners when all her family did was chase you out of town for your troubles. Tell that to Borch and his offspring.”
Jaskier’s voice cracks on that last bit, and Geralt can’t stop himself, doesn’t even try, from reaching across the table and taking the bard’s hand in his own.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the terrible knot in his stomach loosens. He continues haltingly, dropping his gaze to where their hands meet in the center of the table. “I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry - for everything that I’ve done. I don’t know how to - to care. I’ve never - felt - this before.”
He looks back up when Jaskier squeezes his hand encouragingly.
The bard sniffs and smiles wryly at him, speaking quietly. “You’re doing everything that I could ask right now, just trying. It’s more than enough. I - appreciate it very much.”
With that, he chuckles, clearly trying to lighten the mood, and says, “Now, is that an offering? Something befitting a man of my station?”
Geralt breaks into an uncharacteristic smile, small though it is, and pushes the package towards Jaskier, breaking their handhold so that the bard might open the gift that he spent the better part of an hour agonizing over.
Jaskier mutters something under his breath like, “finally, the good part of witcher courting” and tears into the heavy paper enthusiastically. Geralt feels the lump in his stomach tighten for a moment when Jaskier just looks at the blade in his hands, then it releases completely when the bard looks up at him with an awed expression.
He stares back down at the dagger, runs a finger down the delicate engraving of the handle, and lifts it experimentally. Geralt will have to find a sheath for it sooner rather than later, but he appreciates how it fits in Jaskier’s grip as if it was made for him.
“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier says in a hushed tone, all pretense of playfulness gone in an instant.
“Hmm,” Geralt answers thoughtfully, and looks upon the bard once more.
---
“Ah shit,” Geralt says to himself several nights later. He’s tracking the werewolf by moonlight and his witcher senses, and he thought he was gaining on it, but the beast has clearly backtracked and lost him at some point in the last hour.
He stills and listens for movement, spinning ninety degrees when he hears an ominous rustle from the bushes directly behind. He tenses, gripping his sword tightly.
The moment stretches.
The rustling stops.
The beast takes off in the opposite direction, following Geralt’s path right back to camp, where Jaskier waits.
Jaskier.
“Fuck, Jaskier!” Geralt swears and starts running through the thick underbrush. How a creature as large as a werewolf manages to move through the forest in near silence is a unknown to him.
Fortunately, the new growth thins out towards the edge of the woods, and Geralt begins to gain on the creature once more. He can see it under the moonlight now: great and hulking and moving with terrifying speed.
Geralt curses and pushes himself harder, now able to see firelight from the camp in the distance. He can’t let the werewolf get to Jaskier - can’t let any harm come to what’s his.
They break from the clutch of the trees with Geralt almost at the beast’s back, shouting loudly in warning to Jaskier.
His blood burns in his veins, adrenaline and the two fortifying potions he’d taken before the hunt spurring him on, and he leaps, swinging the silver sword in an arc over the creature’s head. The damned monster spins at the last moment, leaving Geralt with only a glancing blow for all his efforts. It roars in fury and pain, raising to its hind legs, and looms over him, blocking the moonlight momentarily.
Geralt steels himself against its putrid breath, raising the silver sword once more. At least it’s not running towards camp anymore, he thinks to himself, though a clean kill would have been vastly preferable to the raging beast he now faces.
It raises a clawed paw and Geralt readies to parry, but the werewolf feints to the side unexpectedly and knocks him off of his feet, digging sharp claws into his armor. No real damage is had from its hit, but Geralt is stunned for a moment, flat on his back on the hard-packed dirt.
Geralt’s breath is caught in his chest. He freezes for a vital second when the beast rears up again, its blood staining the air around them coppery and hot.
It’s not for himself that he feels fear, for he has just seen the unmistakable shadow of Jaskier behind the werewolf.
“Jaskier, no!” Geralt roars, rolling to the side to slip past the creature’s hungry claws. It cries out in pain again and he curses, popping up and spinning around just in time to see the werewolf smack Jaskier away, his small form sailing gracefully through the night air before landing with a thud that sends Geralt’s heart dropping into his gut like a rock.
He shouts incomprehensibly and slashes at the beast, his fury and fear burning white-hot. If Jaskier is seriously injured -
Geralt lands a crucial blow, hobbling the creature.
It howls and snaps at him, fear and pain evident on its animalistic face. Geralt feels no stirring of pity for it, his heart still settled somewhere in the vicinity of his belly button, and dispatches the beast with a final blow, cleanly severing its head.
He drops his sword on the ground by the corpse thoughtlessly and jogs towards where Jaskier landed in the tall grass. Geralt tries to call out for him, but his voice catches in his throat, burns the inside of his chest where his heart usually resides.
The bard is sitting up when Geralt finds him, and he nearly drops to his knees in stark relief, the barbs of worry mostly letting go of his insides.
“Jaskier - Jaskier,” Geralt finally says, gripping the bard by the shoulder and looking him over.
Jaskier turns wide eyes to him, dirt smudged over the right side of his face from how he landed, and wow, that’s an impressive claw mark over his left arm. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, but judging from the amount of color present in Jaskier’s face, he hasn’t lost too much blood over the course of the fight.
Geralt leans down, scoops Jaskier into his arms to transport him back to their camp. He seems to be in a state of shock, eyes wide open and mouth tightly shut.
The silence is more unnerving than anything, and Geralt breaks it, tries to comfort both himself and the bard.
“You, ahh, were quite valiant against the werewolf, Jaskier,” he starts awkwardly, almost immediately shutting himself down. But then the man lifts his head to look up at Geralt, and he tries again, dignity be damned. “Sustained quite the scratch as well! But do not fear - we’ll have you patched up in moments.”
Then Jaskier is screwing his face up, and Geralt is gripped by the fear that the bard is about to have a seizure, die right here in his arms, but he lets out an indignant shout and snaps at Geralt -
“You call this a scratch? A scratch?! My arm was practically torn off!”
Geralt lets out a relieved breath and loosens his grasp on Jaskier, just in time for the bard to vomit all over the both of them.
---
The coin that they receive in return for the werewolf head is significantly more than Geralt expected, but that doesn’t stop Jaskier from bitching about it to anyone within earshot (i.e. mostly Geralt, but also the odd barkeep) for the next week, exaggerating the story of his bravery in the heat of battle, the looming terror of the monster, the climax of his brush with death!
Geralt rolls his eyes as Jaskier launches into yet another retelling of the tale, certain that this adventure will soon become the subject of one of his continent-wide ballads.
He takes a long pull of his ale, turning to his plate more fully while Jaskier gleefully recounts to a wide-eyed kitchen girl how he watched his own insides pour out onto the ground in front of him, how his warrior companion cried at his feet and begged him not to die, swore that Jaskier was braver than any witcher he had ever met.
Geralt signals for another drink and pinches the bridge of his nose, pain throbbing behind his eyes.
“I’m going up to our room,” he says to Jaskier once he’s gotten his refill. He speaks slowly, steadfastly ignoring the way the fair maiden presses her bosoms into Jaskier’s arm. No reason to jump straight to murder, he tells himself. “You can come or not, but I’ll be having a bath.”
Jaskier, to his credit, immediately turns to face Geralt once he hears the word bath, fair maiden forgotten in an instant. “A bath, you say? Sounds i - interesting. I suppose I must join for - for my work, yes.”
Geralt leaves Jaskier stuttering through an explanation necessary for exactly no one and returns to their room, confident that the bard will follow.
Though he forgoes the full bath, he does strip down as soon as he’s inside and washes all of the important bits. He’s just finishing up by the time Jaskier makes his way inside and straightens to greet the bard, unashamed in his nudity. He knows what his form looks like, and he knows that Jaskier finds it plenty pleasing to the eye.
The bard stops in the middle of their shared room, halfway between the washing basin and the two beds. His eyes track slowly over the curves and lines of Geralt’s body, and he visibly lets out a shuddering breath. Geralt tries not to preen.
“Good gods, I could climb you like a tree. Get over here and ravish me!” Jaskier says with a flourish, holding his arms out, presenting himself like a particularly delectable meal.
Geralt hides a smile and busies himself wetting a rag to wash Jaskier with. “Not so fast,” he says lowly. “You’re still recovering. You almost died, remember?”
Jaskier’s jaw drops, and he shoots Geralt an overly wounded look as he crosses the room, unbuttoning his doublet and shucking it off of his shoulders all the same. “I can’t believe you’d hold my injuries against me. And all that bravery I showed - wasted on an ungrateful traveling companion.”
By the time he reaches Geralt, the witcher isn't even trying to push down the fondness curling up his chest, blurring out any vestiges of irritation with the bard.
It probably helps that Jaskier is stark naked at that point, has already lost his pants and smallclothes. He takes one of Geralt’s great hands in his only to place it directly onto one of his ass cheeks, giving Geralt a perfect handful and a wink for good measure.
Geralt heaves a sigh and puts on a show, squeezing Jaskier’s bottom before answering in a rumbling tone. “I suppose I’ll just have to show you precisely how grateful I am.”
Jaskier winds his arms around Geralt’s neck and lifts himself onto his toes so that they’re almost eye level with each other. He responds, his breath puffing out over Geralt’s mouth, “yes, I suppose you will.”
Geralt lifts him effortlessly, one hand supporting his ass, and Jaskier wraps his thighs tightly around Geralt’s waist, affording them the stability needed for Geralt to carry him to one of the beds while still clutching the wet rag in his hand.
Jaskier doesn’t make it easy, as he’s taken an interest in Geralt’s neck and jaw as of late, and is currently nipping and leaving open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach. Each mark left builds the fire growing in Geralt’s loins, and he stumbles when Jaskier bites particularly sharply at his pulse point.
“Gods, Jas - let me get to the bed first,” he growls out, because now he’s hard against Jaskier’s ass, and he wants to take this slow, worship the bard’s trim body all evening.
“Hmm, interesting thought,” Jaskier mumbles into the soft skin under his ear, and Geralt’s grip on his tender flesh tightens. “Interesting thought, but no. I think I want it against the wall tonight, witcher.”
And Geralt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that, because on one hand, he has a very romantic plan to take Jaskier apart over and over (using various mouth-centric methods) until the morning comes... but on the other hand - they’ve never fucked against a wall before. And shared firsts are romantic in their own light, right?
Then Jaskier does this little thrust with his hips like he’s so eager to get Geralt inside of him that he can’t wait to be prepped, and so the decision has been made.
In three long strides, Geralt has Jaskier pinned against the wall nearest the bard's bed, flushed and squirming, and so very hard. Geralt takes a second to admire the bard’s body, knowing he’ll be too preoccupied to do so very shortly.
Jaskier’s been slender the entire time that Geralt has known him, but he’s put on muscle during their months on the road together.
A soft dusting of chest hair, the curve of a slim waist, and a cock that Geralt wants in his mouth every time he sees it - these are just a few of his favorite things about his companion.
“Geralt,” Jaskier rather rudely interrupts, tapping his shoulder impatiently. Geralt raises his gaze to meet Jaskier’s eyes. He’s pink in the face and his lips are swollen from where he’s been exploring the witcher’s neck. Geralt wouldn’t hesitate to give him anything he desires at this moment. “The oil, Geralt! It’s on my bedside table.”
Geralt nods dumbly and reaches down, barely shifting Jaskier in the process, retrieving the small vial that Jaskier doesn’t have the decency to keep in either of their packs.
He’s truly Geralt’s match in every way.
Geralt slicks his fingers, tossing the glass bottle carelessly onto the bed, and grips Jaskier’s cock, stroking him once and drawing out a satisfying “fuck, Geralt!”
“Touch yourself,” he commands and reaches under the bard’s ballsack, stopping to fondle for a second before Jaskier smacks his hand away with a hissed, “inside me now -”
And then he’s pressing in, one long finger into Jaskier’s tight wet heat, and Geralt has never been a sentimental being - in fact, he’s pretty sure that the mutagens pulled that emotion from him successfully - but this, right here? This is the closest thing he’s come to feeling like home in decades. Maybe ever.
Jaskier, on the other hand, is such a cock slut that he can barely hold himself together with one finger in his ass.
“Geralt - more,” he demands, tangling his free hand into Geralt’s hair and pulling almost painfully. Geralt’s balls tighten and the fire in his stomach licks up his spine, his cock jerking in response.
Geralt nods and adds another finger, holding back a groan at the easy way Jaskier’s body yields to him, as if that’s where he belongs. He thrusts in experimentally, brushing against the bard’s sensitive spot, grinning when Jaskier jerks around him, legs kicking out for a moment.
Jaskier yanks his hair and Geralt is hit with a shot of lust that skitters down his spine, coaxes a thick drop of precome from his cockhead.
“Your cock, now,” Jaskier grits out, and Geralt almost protests, but the bard beats him to it.
“I want to feel you inside of me while we’re on the road tomorrow, Geralt. I want your cock, please let me have it,” he pleads, and Geralt has never heard the bard’s voice sound so sweet.
“Yes,” he manages, pulling his fingers free from Jaskier’s silken heat, and shifts them, rearranges so that Jaskier is still pinned against the wall, his entrance right above the blunt head of Geralt’s erection.
He pauses for a moment and meets Jaskier’s eye, raising his brow in question. Jaskier gives his own cock a tug and his eyes roll back into his head, nodding as he goes.
Geralt absently nods back and steadies himself with his free hand, guiding his cock into the press of Jaskier’s body.
It’s almost overwhelming at first, as it always is.
Jaskier is brutally tight, and Geralt thinks that he might lose control with each inch deeper that he sinks in. Geralt grips his hip with bruising force, as he knows the bard likes, and holds still until Jaskier’s breathing returns to normal speed, his pulse fluttering temptingly under pale skin.
Instead of moving himself, Geralt lifts Jaskier almost entirely off of his cock and slides him back down until his ass is snug against Geralt’s hips.
Jaskier’s dilated eyes snap open at that, and he cries out, holding Geralt’s hair for dear life. “Fuck, yes,” he starts swearing as Geralt begins moving in earnest, great thrusts that throw his back against the wall over and over, “Fuck me on your cock - fuck - give it to me - yes, Geralt, please -”
Geralt thinks to himself that he was wrong before, that this is the sweetest Jaskier’s voice has ever sounded. He thrusts deeper - his bard, singing a tune for his ears only.
“Oh, I’ll sing you a tune alright - fuck, right there!” Jaskier gasps and Geralt realizes that he must have been speaking aloud.
“Touch yourself,” Geralt commands again, as Jaskier has gotten lazy in the midst of being fucked, and his hand only hangs limply around his cock.
“Yes sir,” Jaskier says, and starts stroking himself again, short and choppy, trying to keep in time with Geralt’s quickening thrusts.
Heat hurtles down Geralt’s body, moving under his skin, coiling tightly in his belly. Jaskier’s tight and hot and silky and he smells like home, and just the visual of the way he moves on Geralt’s cock could sustain the witcher for weeks on end.
He’s flushed down to his chest, and Geralt can’t help but pinch a dusky pink nipple, delighting him when Jaskier drops his head back against the wall with a thunk and spills all over himself, crying out loudly.
Then Geralt’s coming, the electricity coiled under his skin snapping and dragging him under waves of pleasure, and he’s filling Jaskier again and again, spilling until he’s not sure Jaskier can hold any more, his stomach stretched tightly.
Jaskier lets out a pathetic little sound when Geralt lifts him from the wall, lays him on the bed. When he pulls out, Jaskier shudders and trembles, pulling his legs up to his chest to try and keep Geralt’s spend inside.
He’s oddly silent, as he often is after being bedded so thoroughly. Jaskier likes to refer to it as having his soul fucked out, though Geralt is reasonably sure that during these times Jaskier is slipping deeper into his body rather than away.
The sight of Jaskier’s abused pink hole and Geralt’s come dripping out of it awakens something primal in the witcher, pulling at his gut. His cock twitches interestedly, and Geralt ignores it, instead going for the rag he tossed aside at the beginning of their encounter. When he’s done wiping Jaskier clean of both of their spend, the bard seems to have recovered some of his faculties.
“Next time,” Jaskier starts, sounding dreamy, and Geralt suppresses a roll of his eyes. Not five minutes post tumble and Jaskier is already making suggestions for improvement. Geralt is certain that his insistence on critique would make a lesser man (or - a man in general, rather than a mutant) insecure about his performance.
Jaskier continues obliviously, and Geralt listens despite himself. “Next time, I want all of your seed in my mouth and on my face.”
Geralt’s heart stutters in his chest and his cock plumps, undeterred by its recent exertion.
“Can you imagine?” Jaskier asks, scooting into a comfortable position on the bed and patting the space next to him.
Geralt nods and agreeably climbs in, automatically curling around Jaskier. He shifts them so that Jaskier’s head is pillowed on his chest and his arm is wrapped around the bard’s back protectively.
Strictly speaking, witchers don’t actually need to sleep. Geralt can survive for an undetermined amount of time by meditating for just a few minutes each day. It’s miserable, sure, but much of witcher life is.
Nonetheless, Geralt must have fallen asleep at some point while holding Jaskier, because he wakes a few hours later, slowly blinking back into consciousness. Jaskier is no longer by his side, though the space next to him in bed is still warm, so the bard couldn’t have left long ago.
Geralt rolls over to see his companion sitting - stark naked - at the table next to the washbasin, plucking away at his lute.
He smiles when he sees that Geralt is watching him, and Geralt smiles back at him, uncharacteristically open and vulnerable. The smile drops off of Geralt’s face immediately when Jaskier begins to sing to the jaunty tune:
“Oh, my hero of old -
His hair silver, those eyes gold.
Into the hay, we rolled -
And at long last, I was boned - ack!”
Jaskier cuts off with a shriek and bolts as Geralt lunges across the room after him, fully naked. “Geralt, stop! It’s just for you! Don’t you like the melody?”