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The hot, high noon sun beams down on Geralt, and only his wide-brimmed black cattleman’s hat keeps the punishing rays from slowly burning his unfortunately pale visage, the bandana over his nose and mouth protecting him from the ever-present dust as he rides.
Summer is always brutal on the Frontier, but monsters unfortunately only hibernate over winter. So, Geralt travels the Path even in the heat, though he and his trusty mare, Roach, often take rest in the shade during the warmest part of the day, and return to their travels once things have cooled off in the evening.
But Geralt knows that if he doesn’t return to town quick enough with proof of his completed bounty for a nest of nekkers he’d just cleared out of a nearby gold mine, that the sheriff is much more likely to stiff him of his pay. And as much as Geralt is used to sleeping rough like any witcher, the hopes of a bath and a bed(not to mention a stiff drink and a hot meal at the saloon) are tempting prospects.
So, Geralt rides into town on horseback with the roughspun sack of nekker heads at his side, hopping down once he’s reached the jailhouse to hitch Roach to the post outside. He nudges the jailhouse door open with the toe of his dusty boot, pulling the bandana down from his face as he strides inside with the monster trophies, and he unceremoniously drops them on the sheriff’s desk while levelling an unimpressed look at the portly man sitting there with a golden star badge pinned proudly to his dirty shirt.
The sheriff has to scramble to drop his feet from where they were previously perched up on his desk, lest he get ichor on his boots and trousers. A look of disgust crosses the man’s face as he pokes at the bundle with morbid curiosity, and the disgust lingers as he looks up into Geralt’s face obscured in the shadow of his hat.
“There were twice as many as you said there would be,” Geralt says without preamble as he hands over the flyer for the nekkers that bears the details of the bounty along with the sheriff’s own signature, the witcher trying not to let his annoyance overly color his usual monotone growl.
“Well, good thing bullets are cheap,” the sheriff retorts acerbically, leaning over to hock a wad of saliva and chewed tobacco into a nearby spittoon on the dusty floorboards.
Geralt tries not to let show his own revulsion at the messy habit and he crosses his arms over the black leather of the vest he wears over his long-sleeved black shirt, looking down his nose at the scowling sheriff. “Silver bullets aren’t cheap. You owe me twenty dollars.”
The sheriff scoffs in indignation and his hand moves closer to the pistol holstered at his hip. It is likely an unconscious twitch, but Geralt carefully clocks the motion as the lawman turns red with anger, his mouth screwing into a vicious frown beneath his handlebar mustache.
“You must be a greenhorn of a witcher, thinkin’ I’ll pay you that much for a couple a’ lousy nekkers. The bounty was ten dollars, and I shouldn’t even be payin’ you that much,” the sheriff argues, shoving the sack of ogroid heads to the side of his desk to poke a puffy finger at the handwritten flyer in question.
“Ten dollars for a standard nest of five nekkers. There were ten. Count them,” Geralt fires back, his very thin patience growing even thinner as he senses a losing battle.
The sheriff stands to his feet in order to intimidate, though he’s nearly a head shorter than Geralt, his expression of defiance puckering the man’s unpleasant face further. “You listen here, mutant. I’ll give you fifteen dollars, and you take your yellow-eyed, yellow-bellied, whoreson ass out of my town by dawn, or else I’ll send out a posse to encourage you to leave,” the sheriff says, the threat in his tone so thinly-veiled that it is quite clear he’d rather shoot Geralt than to pay him what he’s owed.
Geralt sighs and accepts the terms of the barter, shoving the handful of half-dollar silver coins into his coinpurse while ignoring the vicious swearing of the sheriff under his breath at Geralt having left the monster heads on his desk as he leaves. After unhitching Roach, Geralt leads his horse over to the saloon, tying her up by the water trough out front before making his way into the bustling building.
He could already tell the locale was busy, as the swinging bat-wing doors do nothing to muffle the din of the midday lunchtime crowd already drinking and socializing as Geralt strides inside the saloon. He tries to ignore how the crowd falls largely silent upon his arrival, the soft metallic clink of his spurs seeming overly loud with every fall of his boots on the worn floorboards.
Only the sound of a musician playing the piano in the corner covers the hush that fell across the room, and Geralt spares no glance for the brave piano-player who doesn’t seem phased by the change in atmosphere, as the witcher’s eyes are set upon the bartender.
“What d’ya want, witcher?” the bartender asks gruffly, almost spitting the title as he speaks while he polishes a glass with a dirty, threadbare rag that has seen better days.
“I’ll take a beer, and whatever’s for lunch,” Geralt grunts as he gestures to the hand-painted sign that proudly proclaims “Free Lunch with Purchase of Drink!” as he tosses a dime onto the bartop and glances at a man nearby halted in the act of digging into his own lunch of beans and salted pork along with his own beer.
“Free lunch isn’t for witchers,” the bartender quips, and Geralt frowns before adding another silver ten cent coin to the first, not feeling up to dickering a second time today already, although the bartender still glares at him as if he’s considering not accepting Geralt’s money at all.
Geralt hadn’t noticed the piano music stopping behind him, though he is acutely aware of someone suddenly piping up from behind his shoulder, the distinct scent of dried lavender and rosin tickling the witcher’s nose with the man’s presence, “Put it on my tab, James.”
The voice is amused and warm, an attractive tenor, and Geralt glances over his shoulder to regard the blue-eyed brunet now at his side. The man is uncommonly attractive, smiling easily as he leans on his elbows on the bartop beside Geralt, who carefully takes back his money while the bartender despondently sets down a bowl of beans and a glass tankard of beer.
Unused to the show of kindness, Geralt nods and grunts out a thanks to the handsome man before taking his lunch to a darkened corner far from the open-air windows at the front of the saloon. There isn’t much wind today, and the shutters have been left open so that any errant breeze might cool off the sweltering interior, the light coming in more than enough to illuminate the whole room of people looking at Geralt like they wish he would leave.
Geralt takes his seat at an empty table with his back to the wall, his yellow eyes flicking briefly to the man who bought his lunch, and the beautiful stranger smiles, gesturing to the open chair across from Geralt. “Mind if I join you? I have a few minutes before my break is over,” the man says cheerfully, and Geralt’s gaze darts between the man and the now-empty piano bench, realizing this slender-fingered and confident stranger must be the piano player.
“Knock yourself out,” Geralt grunts, taking a drink of the even-warmer-than-usual beer and trying not to make a face.
He fucking hates summer, and misses winter in the north.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you carry not one, but two pistols, friend. Dual-wielding is usually rather rare outside of the occasional bandit or lawman, and you’re certainly no marshal. The bartender called you ‘witcher’, is there truth to that?” the musician says with barely-disguised intrigue, and Geralt spares a glance down at the revolvers holstered on each of his own hips.
“Silver bullets for monsters, lead for humans,” Geralt says between bites of his food, gesturing first to the gun at his right, and then his left.
The musician claps in delight, his blue eyes sparkling like a kid let loose in a confectionery store. “So you are a witcher! I don’t believe I’ve ever met one, your trade has become quite rare indeed!”
“Monsters are going extinct, so are witchers,” Geralt grunts by way of explanation, wondering if this musician was dropped on his head as a child; the common man usually hates anything he doesn’t easily understand, and the mutated monster-hunters of yesteryear fall firmly into that category.
“So I’ve heard, and yet here you sit, my good sir! Where are my manners!? Allow me to introduce myself,” the man says, standing so that he might bow with a flourish, and Geralt’s eyes are drawn to the rather fine linen and silk that the man’s clothes are made of, his shirt and vest both adorned with entirely too many buttons to be terribly practical. “I am Professor Julian Alfred Pankratz of Oxenfurt, esteemed musician and vaudeville performer extraordinaire. But you may call me Jaskier, everyone does.”
“Geralt,” the witcher replies shortly, finishing off his beer and wondering when Jaskier's break will be over so he can be free of the overly friendly stranger.
“Well, Mr. Geralt, I am absolutely delighted to make your acquaintance! I must regrettably return to my performance for now, but, if you find yourself in need of company later on and fancy a chat, I will be plying my trade over at the Rosemary and Thyme bordello this evening. I tend to play my fiddle at night instead of the piano, I find it helps to better showcase the skill of my…fingers,” Jaskier says brightly, arching his eyebrows just so, and Geralt feels a wave of heat settle low in his gut despite his surprise at the rather obvious innuendo.
“Whose ‘company’ are you trying to drum up interest in, yourself or the painted ladies?” Geralt asks a little harshly, finding himself confused by this brightly-dressed travelling musician.
Geralt knows there are plenty of men who partake in sexual acts with other men on the Frontier since there is an overabundance of cowboys, miners, and railroad workers, and often a shortage of women. However, a witcher finding a willing bed partner that doesn’t have to be paid for their time is practically unheard of, regardless of gender.
Jaskier raises his well-shaped eyebrows and blinks those beautiful blue eyes of his a few times. “Well, if you want to spend your hard earned money on the false flattery of the working girls, be my guest. I just figured I’d give you an alternative option, from one gentleman to another,” Jaskier says quite sharply, a light blush of humiliation coloring the apples of his cheeks, and Geralt feels shame drop like a stone into the pit of his stomach as Jaskier stands to his feet, clearly offended by Geralt’s brusque words.
Quick as lightning, Geralt grabs Jaskier’s wrist as he turns to leave, and lets go of him just as fast, appalled at himself for taking the liberty of touching someone he’d only just met, regardless of the proposition attempt. “Shit, sorry Jaskier. I…look, people don’t offer themselves to witchers. I thought you might be pulling my leg, that’s all,” Geralt grits out uncomfortably, unused to apologizing, or more accurately, unused to giving a shit.
Since when does Geralt care if he’s offended some silk-wearing, soft-handed, perfumed city-boy? Clearly Jaskier has some knowledge of how the real world works, being as well-travelled as he alleges to be, so what makes the musician desire a roll in the hay with a witcher of all people?
There are plenty of folks who would rather not see witchers as people at all.
“I like to consider myself a very forward thinking and open-minded individual, Mr. Geralt, and I do extend that philosophy to my bed as well, when I so wish,” Jaskier says somewhat tersely, but Geralt can scent on the still-blushing man that most of his ire is at the embarrassment of the perceived rejection itself, rather than just him being put out with Geralt’s rudeness in general.
And the flush of blood beneath the smooth skin of Jaskier’s cheeks is a very pretty thing indeed.
Geralt lets his own expression soften, lightening his eyes as he tilts his head in consideration and the corner of his mouth ticks up in the semblance of a smile while he regards the lithe man standing tense before him. Jaskier hasn’t slapped him or stomped off in a huff, so perhaps Geralt can salvage this yet.
“So, you’re lookin’ to let a witcher grace your sheets, then?” Geralt says slowly, letting his gravelly voice deepen just that much further, like warm honey poured over rough leather, and he watches the baby blue of Jaskier’s eyes eclipsed quickly by the dilating of the man’s pupils.
Got him.
“I…would be amenable to allowing a seduction attempt from one such as yourself, sir, yes,” Jaskier says, his sure voice wavering slightly with poorly concealed interest at such a prospect, a slightly darker blush staining his fair cheeks.
“Well, then. I suppose I shall see you this evening at the bordello in order to make such an attempt,” Geralt murmurs playfully, inhaling discreetly to catch the alluring scents of Jaskier’s growing arousal, and the witcher finds himself uncommonly amused at the novel concept of having to seduce anyone, especially with his words, of all things.
Geralt does not tend to be terribly verbose, and generally if Geralt isn’t paying for someone’s time, he waits for others to approach him first, lest he be run out of town on a rail for unknowingly attempting to proposition someone who thinks all witchers should be tarred and feathered on principle alone.
“I enjoy flowers, chocolates, and fine red wine,” Jaskier retorts cheekily with a rather sexy smirk, clearly more in his element now to be flirting so cavalierly with a complete stranger.
A scoffing chuckle huffs from Geralt’s lips and he takes a long drink of his beer, letting the tip of his tongue trace the moisture from his lips, and he watches how Jaskier’s eyes get caught on his mouth as he does so.
“You have expensive taste, sir,” Geralt remarks in amusement, enjoying how Jaskier’s breath catches at the honorific.
“I do tend to enjoy the finer rings in life. And the beautiful things,” Jaskier replies casually, letting his eyes rove over Geralt’s form as heat fills his gaze.
“Good to know,” Geralt says, standing to his feet since he has finished his meal. Jaskier looks up at him, frozen, with his big blue eyes gone even wider at the unexpected and sudden proximity to the witcher, and the few inches of difference in their heights seems more significant because of how Geralt intentionally looks down on Jaskier to tease him further. “See you later, then, Jaskier,” Geralt adds softly, daring to wink at the gobsmacked musician.
Some semblance of acquiescence passes Jaskier’s lips in a rather strangled wheeze, and Geralt does his best to hide a grin at that, turning and leaving the saloon in an unhurried way.
It’s not until Geralt has unhitched Roach and is back in the saddle that he finally hears the piano music picking up in the saloon, and he smiles to himself as he chuckles and pats Roach’s neck affectionately.
“Let’s go find us some shade to pass the day, Roach.”
~~~
Evening comes, and Geralt strolls into the Rosemary and Thyme to the sounds of lively fiddle music, the most enchanting singing he’s ever heard, and of course, the muffled noises of quite a few people fucking the prostitutes upstairs.
Geralt’s eyes snap to where Jaskier is performing on a small stage in the corner, a bright smile on the man’s face as he sings a rather raunchy song about a fishmonger’s daughter while he expertly plays a well-maintained violin. His fingering on the strings is graceful, and every pull of the bow across them produces enthralling music the likes of which Geralt has never before known or been able to appreciate.
There is a small crowd of onlookers enjoying the performance, what seems to be a fifty-fifty mix of the patrons of the bordello and those prostitutes that are not currently seeing to a John upstairs. Geralt makes his way to the bar and buys a whiskey, his eyes appraising the painted ladies milling about with their coy smiles and powdered faces.
Jaskier hasn’t seemed to notice Geralt sitting at the bar, and the witcher is in no rush; if it turns out the musician isn’t truly interested after all, Geralt tells himself he wouldn’t mind perhaps spending a little of his money on a lady for the night, since he’s fairly pent-up as it is. One such working girl sees Geralt is alone, and she makes her way over, smiling in a way that’s probably charming to plenty of people.
“Well hello there, handsome. And what’s your name?” the honey blonde prostitute says warmly, fluttering her beeswax-and-soot darkened eyelashes at him.
The pink rouge on her cheeks is not the most complimentary for her complexion, but her face is pretty enough, and her décolletage is spilling from the low neckline of her blue bustle dress, her breasts pushed up rather invitingly by a black corset. Geralt sips his whiskey as he gives himself half a second to enjoy the view on display.
“Name’s Geralt. And I’m already waiting for someone else,” he says, watching the whore’s fine features slip into a pout.
“Well, I could keep you company while you wait!” she says, offering him another winning smile and her hand clad in its lace glove, “Sabrina Glevissig at your service, Mr. Geralt.”
Geralt takes her hand, maintaining eye contact with her as he presses his lips politely to her knuckles, and Sabrina giggles, a natural blush heating her face beneath her powder and rouge. It’s not often Geralt can find a working girl that is this willing to bed him even for the money; sometimes their instinctual fear of witchers is so strong that they can’t fake their way through being okay with any sort of physical contact from one, especially not enough to initiate with him.
Sabrina seems nice enough, and if Jaskier has thought better of his earlier offer to the witcher, Geralt will certainly keep her in mind.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Glevissig. But I really am waiting on someone else for now,” he says, glancing towards the stage and to Jaskier as he performs.
The working girl furrows her brows when she sees the direction of his gaze, and she frowns with a jealous look to her light colored eyes. “The musician isn’t one of the workers. He’s not for hire, he only looks like a whore,” she says in petty disgust, and Geralt raises his own heavy brows, his decently high opinion of her quickly falling low.
“All the better, then. I’ll get to keep my money instead of wasting it,” Geralt says, unable to keep some bite from his tone at both her prejudice and the insult to Jaskier, however almost-laughably ironic of an insult it is, coming from her.
Sabrina gasps at his rudeness and slaps him across the face before turning on her heel and marching off. Geralt could’ve stopped her, but it didn’t really hurt much, and putting his hands on her in order to stop her likely would’ve gotten him at least tossed out on his ass, not to mention the sheriff already isn’t his biggest fan, and Geralt doesn’t fancy spending his night in a jail cell or his morning at the gallows.
Belatedly Geralt notices that the music has switched over from Jaskier’s lovely fiddle and singing, to a slightly-out-of-tune piano being played with mediocre skill in the opposite corner. Just as Geralt is about to look around to see where Jaskier might’ve gone, the scents of lavender and rosin once again alert him to the man’s presence behind him.
“Tell me I did not just see you manage to strike out with a literal prostitute just then! And here I was, just thinking how well you were doing with your initial attempts of seduction from earlier,” Jaskier says teasingly, popping up and leaning against the bar beside Geralt with a playfully coy look in his eyes.
Geralt looks down at the pretty flush on Jaskier’s fair cheeks from the exhilaration of his performance, the way his bright blue eyes nearly sparkle with mirth, his full lips naturally a rosy pink, and the witcher smiles as he lets his eyes move slowly over Jaskier’s body.
“No need to seduce a whore, especially when I’d rather save my energy in order to woo a certain musician, instead,” Geralt says, handing Jaskier a small wooden box.
The musician blinks and opens the box to see four small but finely crafted chocolates, and he gasps in awe at the sight of the expensive luxury, smiling despite himself. “Mr. Geralt! I was only joking about the chocolates, these must’ve cost you a fortune,” Jaskier says, his tone chagrined for the amount of effort that the witcher went through for him.
“It was worth every penny, gettin’ to see you smile like that,” Geralt says softly, and it’s not even a throw-away line.
The way Jaskier’s face lit up for the favored treat made Geralt’s heart skip unevenly, and he feels like he would spend a great many dollars in order to see the musician happy like this again. It’s not exactly the sort of emotion that Geralt is used to having for someone he will bed and leave by morning, but he tries not to analyze his feelings on the matter too closely.
“Did you at least have one for yourself?” Jaskier asks, a lovely blush on his face, and when Geralt shakes his head, the musician gasps and tuts softly. “Well that just won’t do. You deserve sweet things, too, darling witcher.”
Before Geralt can protest, Jaskier has plucked one of the expensive sweets from the box in his nimble fingers and he holds it up to Geralt’s mouth, Jaskier’s stern expression making it clear that he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
Geralt somewhat reluctantly opens his mouth and takes a bite of the treat, shivering minutely at the feeling of Jaskier’s string-calloused fingertips brushing his lips. The chocolate is very rich, with just the right amount of sweetness, and it melts slowly on Geralt's tongue as he savors it, watching with a different sort of hunger entirely as Jaskier eats the other half of the chocolate, letting his tongue dart briefly along those same fingertips that were just on Geralt’s lips.
Jaskier’s eyes slip closed as he appreciates the sweet, an utterly sinful little moan bubbling from his chest. “Delicious,” Jaskier declares, opening his eyes to smile at Geralt.
“Agreed,” Geralt murmurs, his eyes on Jaskier’s mouth, and it’s abundantly clear that he doesn’t mean the candy.
A playful chuckle escapes Jaskier and he lays his hand on Geralt’s bicep, marveling slightly at the firm muscle there beneath his fingers. “Shall we head out? I have a room rented over at the inn,” Jaskier says with a hopeful little smile, and Geralt nods.
After collecting his violin case, Jaskier leads Geralt out of the bordello and down the street to the inn, which thankfully isn’t that far from where Geralt paid to have Roach stabled for the night, since he doesn’t plan on leaving town until dawn when he absolutely has to.
Part of it is just to spite the rude sheriff, and part of it is Geralt is tired.
Meditations and naps can only sustain him so much, and between the threats of bandits and highwaymen, wolves, snakes, monsters, and gods know what else out in the wilds of the Frontier, Geralt does not often sleep well when he is roughing it like he has been for weeks at this point. Work has been scarce of late, while the attitudes of the sheriffs and constables paying out for the bounties has been even shittier than usual, so any money he might’ve normally used towards inns and hotels has instead been relegated to new shoes for Roach, food, and supplies.
Geralt won’t tell Jaskier that the box of chocolates cost him as much as a room at an inn for a couple of nights, because it’s not Jaskier’s fault that no one wants to pay Geralt, and the musician deserves nice things. With any luck, Jaskier will let Geralt bunk with him tonight, and Geralt will be back to sleeping rough like he’s used to after that.
“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks when they arrive at the inn, as Geralt had been so in his own head for the walk over that he’d lapsed into silence despite the cheerful conversation had Jaskier kept going one-sided.
“Hmm, just been a long day,” Geralt hedges, and he tries to give a reassuring smile, but by the concern knitting Jaskier’s handsome brows, perhaps it isn’t the most convincing expression.
“Well, I’ll help you unwind, then,” Jaskier says with surprising tenderness before he slips to the front desk and asks in quiet tones for the innkeeper to have a bath brought up to his room.
Geralt tries to avoid eye contact with the innkeeper on the slightly-more-than-likely chance that he will tell Geralt to leave, and the witcher quickly follows Jaskier up once he’s paid for the bath. Jaskier slips a key from his pocket and unlocks the door to his room, gesturing for Geralt to go in ahead of him.
The room is small but comfortable, little more than a bed and a side table, and it is with some hesitation that Geralt unfastens the buckle on his gun belt to pull it off and set it aside on the table.
“A witcher going without his guns? My, my,” Jaskier teases, seating himself luxuriously on the edge of the bed.
“Did you think I bathed with them on me?” Geralt jokes, taking off his hat and setting it aside as well before pulling his long hair down from its leather tie.
“No, of course not, but would you judge me for admitting I might’ve fantasized about you rather savagely taking me whilst still wearing them?” Jaskier muses, his slender fingers slowly plucking loose the buttons of his shirt.
Geralt swallows hard but he frowns at the thought. “That’s hardly safe.”
“Sometimes ’safe’ is boring.”
“Says the man willing to bed a witcher.”
“Precisely, my dear.”
Before Geralt can question Jaskier’s motives(or his sanity), there is a brief knock at the door, and Geralt turns to face away from the innkeeper entering with two young lads who must be his sons. Between them they have a wooden tub and several large pails of water, which they set up behind a small privacy screen in the corner.
After watching them retreat and leave the room out of the corners of his eyes, Geralt turns back to Jaskier, watching the musician begin to unbutton his pants.
“You avoid eye contact quite a bit,” Jaskier points out quietly, struggling to pull off one of his very fancy looking boots that seems far more decorative than practical for walking or riding, as embellished and pretty as they are.
“Most people don’t like my eyes, no need to invite their ire by subjecting them to unnecessary eye contact,” Geralt explains as he quickly kicks off his own worn and dusty cowboy boots.
Jaskier frowns as he scoffs, looking up at Geralt as the witcher unties his bandana, shrugs off his vest, and starts uncovering and setting aside an impressive number of concealed knives, the last of which seems to give Jaskier pause. “I thought witchers only used guns nowadays, but I have heard stories that you used to use swords, what changed?”
“We’ve had to evolve, the monsters definitely did. Swords aren’t practical anymore, can you imagine walking into a general goods store with a longsword strapped to your back?” Geralt teases, eyeing Jaskier up and smirking as he thinks that the soft musician probably couldn’t even lift one of Geralt's old swords back at Kaer Morhen.
“What about the knives then?” Jaskier presses, still paused in the act of taking his boots off, and Geralt shrugs, setting aside several more of his daggers.
“Never hurts to be handy with a blade. There are more than just monsters on the Frontier, and knife skills are vital to survival out there,” Geralt says perhaps a touch disparagingly, as he’s seen the corpse of one too many well-meaning city folks just like Jaskier who thought they could hack it out in the wild.
Geralt is not expecting the bootknife that goes whizzing past his left ear, close enough that a single strand of his white hair is cut in the process before the blade thunks deep into the wood of the wall behind him. The strand of hair takes a slow moment to spiral like a wisp to the floor, and Geralt’s gaze locks onto Jaskier, his yellow eyes narrowing.
The musician sits smirking on the bed, finally taking off the boot that must have been concealing the dagger, and Geralt turns to yank the blade out of the wall, only to have another knife, this one larger, zipping past him and landing exactly beside the first before Geralt can grab it, only his quick reflexes sparring his fingers from the projectile. He whirls around and glares at Jaskier, who grins manically and opens one side of his jacket to reveal a whole plethora of throwing knives in their concealed sheaths sewn into the lining of his jacket, and then he pulls aside his unbuttoned shirt beneath that to show other knives in their various holsters strapped across his surprisingly toned body.
Now is probably not a moment to get insanely turned on, but heat shoots insistently through Geralt’s gut at the clear show of deadly force from the brightly dressed travelling musician.
“You know that blunts them,” is what Geralt says, hooking a thumb back towards the two blades still in the wall.
Jaskier rolls his eyes and stands from the bed, crossing over to the witcher to start placing his weapons on the side table as well, along with the two he pries from the wall. “I’m well aware. I also happen to know how to sharpen my own knives, dear witcher, so don’t fret your pretty little head,” Jaskier teases coyly, disarming himself of a truly shocking number of blades.
“Why do you have so many knives? And why do you know how to use them? You’re a musician,” Geralt says tersely, a tiny trickle of unease rolling down the back of his neck as he wonders who exactly he is considering crawling into bed with.
But Jaskier gives him a saucy wink, his posture relaxed as he leans his fine ass on the side table. “Vaudeville, Geralt. I travelled with the best of them. Strong-men, acrobats, jugglers, contortionists, comedians, musicians like myself, fire-eaters, and knife-throwers. I asked for a few lessons, and it turns out, I have a knack for it. It also comes in handy when I am travelling on my own, because any highwaymen who underestimate me as you did, well, they tend to find themselves regretting it rather quickly,” Jaskier says casually, undressing as he speaks until he’s fully bare in front of the witcher.
His cockiness and confidence are unfairly attractive to Geralt, and he watches as Jaskier lowers himself into the tub, making an obscene noise and uttering a slew of filthy praise about how wonderfully hot the water is. Geralt tears his gaze away in order to get his own shirt off along with his chaps and pants.
“I shouldn’t have underestimated you,” Geralt says quietly after a little while, and Jaskier looks up from the tub, where he’s running a washcloth over his water-dampened chest hair.
“I don’t blame you for it. I know I don’t look the sort to put up a fight, it just so happens that it is an intentional choice in how I present myself. I am a musician and an intellectual aside, I shouldn’t look threatening, and more people leave me alone if I seem harmless. I’ve never minded if people think me weak. It always makes for a rather delicious comeuppance when I get to see the looks on their faces as they realize that, flower though I may be, I am not without my thorns,” Jaskier says poetically, smirking at Geralt again when the witcher hums noncommittally under his breath.
“Lots of pretty words to say that you’re a fucking menace,” Geralt grunts wryly, slipping his undershorts off as he strides over, nude, to where Jaskier is bathing.
Jaskier laughs at his grumbling, and it’s a musical sound that makes Geralt’s chest tighten, the pure joy of the sound not something the witcher usually gets to hear, especially not directed at him.
“You’re one to talk, witcher! I wasn’t the one terrorizing the working girls, poor things,” Jaskier retorts in a tease, finishing up his bath by rinsing the soap from his hair.
Geralt kneels slowly by the tub, catching the gentle scents of Jaskier’s lavender bath salts, and the witcher finds himself relaxed by the soothing smell.
Jaskier looks up at him expectantly, his blue eyes widening when Geralt leans in as if to kiss him, pausing so close that his lips very nearly brush Jaskier’s as Geralt speaks in the barest of heady whispers, “Get your ass out of the tub, it’s my turn and the water is getting cold.”
An indignant snort escapes Jaskier and he scowls petulantly, looking a little dazed. “Now that was hardly fair, sir! Rude witcher,” Jaskier complains while standing without hesitation, and Geralt’s position puts him right at cock-level with Jaskier, who is a bit more than half-hard, likely from the ongoing sexual tension as much as from Geralt’s teasing.
A playful smirk twists Geralt’s lips, and lightning-fast, he seizes Jaskier by the hips and sucks the head of Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. The musician gasps and startles, his fingers grasping into Geralt’s long hair to steady himself in his shock, and Geralt takes advantage of the way Jaskier isn’t fully hard yet to more easily swallow him to the root.
“Melitele preserve me!” Jaskier wheezes, his cock quickly thickening in Geralt’s mouth with his ministrations.
Geralt brushes his thumbs across Jaskier’s hipbones in a tender little gesture, and he starts to suck Jaskier off with undeniable skill. It takes very little time for Jaskier to gasp out a warning, and Geralt pulls off with a pop, glancing up at him.
“If I finish you off now, will you be able to go again once I’m done with my own bath?” Geralt wonders aloud, and Jaskier makes a rather strangled sound, a high blush on his cheeks.
“Oh fuck yes, please. Even if I couldn’t, I’d still find a way. If you fuck half as well as you suck cock, then I am in grave danger of wishing to keep you for myself, Geralt,” he almost slurs in his arousal.
The possessiveness fuels Geralt into quickly swallowing Jaskier back down and redoubling his efforts. He doesn’t think the musician truly means it, people say a lot of things in heated moments that they don’t mean, and certainly no one has ever wanted to keep Geralt.
It was a trend that had started with his own mother, and it continued on through every connection he’d ever found in life. Even Vesemir grew tired of his adoptive sons by winter’s end most years, more than ready to send them back out on the Path, and the brothers all scattered so willingly to the far ends of the Frontier, not wishing to stick together.
No, Geralt was alone, and he was used to being alone. Beautiful moments like these, this thrilling intimacy with Jaskier, they don’t last for witchers.
If Jaskier has any clue of the melancholy turn Geralt’s thoughts have taken, he doesn’t let on, but he is moaning quite loudly as Geralt endeavors to suck his soul out through his dick.
“Fucking fuck! Geralt! Ohhh gods, you and your clever, clever mouth! Fuck, darling, I-I’m gonna come!” Jaskier whines hotly, and Geralt swallows around him reflexively.
That last spasm of his throat around Jaskier’s cockhead is what does it, and the musician yanks almost painfully on Geralt’s hair, his hips twitching forward in aborted little thrusts as Jaskier tries his best not to choke Geralt with his cock while he chases down his orgasm with a sob.
Thick pulses of spend coat Geralt’s tongue, and the sharp flavor is more than enough to distract Geralt from his earlier rumination on abandonment. The witcher groans softly around Jaskier, swallowing down every errant spurt as Jaskier keens breathlessly.
Once Geralt finally lets Jaskier’s softening cock slip from his lips, he stands to his feet, offering Jaskier a hand to step out of the tub. Jaskier makes a garbled sound of thanks, whether it’s for the help or the head, Geralt doesn’t know, but he finds himself smiling in amusement either way.
Just then, Jaskier happens to glance down at where Geralt is hard and heavy, more than a little aroused himself by giving Jaskier his pleasure. “By the gods, are all witchers hung like horses?!” Jaskier squawks as Geralt chuckles and helps the musician to sit on a towel on the edge of the bed to recover until his legs can work on their own again.
“I’d say I’m fairly average, from what I’ve seen of my brothers at least,” Geralt deflects, heading back to quickly wash himself in the bath as well.
It’s really not hot enough for him anymore, so he uses Igni to heat the water and Jaskier gasps in wonder. “That was one of your witchery signs, wasn’t it! I forgot you all could do magic!”
“Just simple magic, the signs are a very rudimentary form of Chaos. I know mages are as rare as witchers nowadays, but this is really nothing.”
“Geralt, you just made fire appear with your fingers, let me be impressed with you!”
Geralt smirks, glancing at Jaskier while he quickly washes his long, white hair. “I could think of better uses for the skill of my fingers.”
Jaskier makes a whining moan that sounds acutely distraught as he dries his damp brown hair with a spare towel. “You can’t just say things like that when I am still recovering from possibly the best orgasm of my life! Gods, your voice alone could finish me off, darling.”
A short huff of laughter passes Geralt’s lips as he rolls his eyes and rinses the soap from his hair. “Somehow I doubt that,” Geralt murmurs almost to himself, and Jaskier shivers at the gravelly timbre of his voice.
“Yeah, that voice, you’re definitely going to be my undoing,” Jaskier declares, standing to finish drying himself off before he hangs up the towels to dry.
Geralt half-smiles and rinses the last of the suds from himself before he stands, water cascading down the defined lines of his many sculpted muscles. Jaskier is unabashedly staring, an almost mournful sort of hunger to his blue eyes as he appraises the witcher.
“See something you like?” Geralt quips as he carefully wrings the water from his hair and then grabs the nearby towel to swipe most of the moisture from his upper body before he steps out of the tub.
“Fuck, yes. You’re like a fucking god made flesh,” Jaskier blurts without hesitation, walking over towards him as Geralt dries his legs, and the witcher chuckles as he hangs his towel up as well.
Before Geralt can say something else self-deprecating, because he isn’t willing to accept Jaskier’s compliments, Jaskier has grasped Geralt by the back of his neck and hauled him in for a kiss.
It would be laughably easy for Geralt to hold back against Jaskier pulling him in, but he doesn’t want to resist, finding the musician’s attempt at manhandling him to be more than a little arousing. So Geralt kisses Jaskier back enthusiastically, breathing in the warm scent of him between increasingly desperate kisses.
Jaskier’s tongue slips between Geralt’s lips and the witcher moans, grabbing handfuls of Jaskier’s perky ass and pulling his hips forward so his erection grinds against Jaskier’s half-hard cock, which has the musician moaning into his mouth.
“Gods, take me now, Geralt,” Jaskier whimpers against his lips, and Geralt’s cock twitches at the plea.
Geralt hums his agreement and uses his hold on Jaskier’s ass to haul the man straight up his body as if he weighs nothing, and Jaskier gasps in shock, wrapping his arms and legs around Geralt as if he fears being dropped. The witcher just chuckles and carries him over to the bed, lying between the musician’s legs as he lays Jaskier out like a feast before him.
And feast Geralt does.
After kissing Jaskier senseless, Geralt then trails his biting kisses slowly down the man’s neck and across his still-damp chest hair, pausing to swirl his tongue over each of Jaskier’s nipples in turn, and the musician makes such soft and needy sounds of pleasure, that Geralt does it again, and again.
Once he’s certain Jaskier’s chest has been thoroughly ravaged for the moment, Geralt peppers kisses across his abs, down over his hip, along the sensitive skin on the inside of Jaskier’s thigh, and Geralt smirks when the man’s cock twitches fully back to attention, untouched, right beside his face.
Jaskier is breathing hard and his legs are shifting restlessly on the bed as Geralt spends some time working lovebites into the flesh there at the bend of Jaskier’s leg, worrying the delicate skin between his teeth ‘til Jaskier gasps at the near-pain, and then Geralt soothes the bruising sting with slow swipes of his tongue.
“Youuu, fuck, Geralt! Your mouth is dangerous, gods above! Don’t fucking stop, but ahhh, fuck, I really want your cock!” Jaskier gasps out, his whole body tense with pent-up need.
“You’ll get that too, lark, don’t worry. You told me to seduce you, so I’m seducing you,” Geralt teases in a husky murmur, revelling in the way that Jaskier’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as Geralt’s voice alone clearly undoes him further.
Geralt shifts them on the bed, pulling Jaskier’s strong legs up over Geralt’s shoulders and parting the musician’s cheeks with his thumbs as he does so, but Jaskier only has a moment to get out a questioning sound before Geralt has leaned in and laved a stripe with his tongue from Jaskier’s tight entrance all the way up behind his balls.
“Melitele’s dripping cunt!” Jaskier gasps, his body trembling as Geralt goes in again for another taste, and another.
A chorus of oaths and curses spill from Jaskier’s lips as Geralt flicks his tongue over Jaskier’s hole with plenty of finesse before Geralt then points the tip of his tongue and delves inside Jaskier, lapping into the tight ring of muscle. Jaskier’s hands are buried in Geralt’s still-wet hair, and he’s yanking on the strands so tightly it nearly hurts when he pulls Geralt in closer to him with something like a sob, but Geralt enjoys the pinpricks of pain across his scalp, so he just hums quietly to himself and keeps fucking Jaskier open on his tongue.
Jaskier rides out the pleasurable torment right up until he’s on the edge of climaxing again, if his rabbiting heartrate is anything to go by, and then he’s pulling Geralt’s hair away from him, Jaskier’s voice absolutely wrecked as he groans, “Oh fuck, wait, fuck! Geralt, I’m gonna fucking come if you don’t stop, I-I need your cock inside me, now!”
Sitting back on his heels, Geralt makes a show of wiping the spit from his face, and Jaskier shudders, largely limp on the bed save for his straining and flushed cock, which has been weeping constantly against his belly the whole time, a sizable puddle of precum glistening there. Geralt swipes up the fluid on two of his fingers, and uses the extra slickness there to slip both of his fingers inside Jaskier‘s slightly loosened hole, making sure to angle away from the musician’s prostate as he further stretches him slowly on his large digits.
The litany of expletives from Jaskier starts up again and he spreads his legs even wider, a welcoming invitation if Geralt’s ever seen one. Almost as soon as Geralt slips a third finger inside Jaskier, the musician cries out and his legs wrap around Geralt instead, desperately trying to pull him in closer now.
“Please! Please Geralt, I need your cock, I’m more than ready, please give it to me!” Jaskier begs, actual tears in his eyes, and Geralt groans low, withdrawing his fingers from Jaskier to slick up his cock with the wetness still on them.
He gives his aching cock a few strokes, spitting onto it to add the extra lubrication they’ll need, and then he’s crawling up over Jaskier, lining himself up, and pressing into him slowly. Jaskier moans out a high-pitched whine and relaxes as much as he can, his body involuntarily clenching slightly at the large intrusion.
Geralt groans at the sensation, fucking himself into Jaskier in careful presses. “Fuck, Jaskier, you’re still fucking tight,” Geralt grunts, a tiny bit concerned that the stretch is going to be too much for him, but Jaskier is still moaning and there’s no pain in his scent as Geralt finally bottoms out and holds still for a moment.
“I-I’m not that tight, you’re just fucking huge, fuck! Shit, fucking move, Geralt!” Jaskier pleads, and Geralt draws out of him slowly, before snapping his hips forward and ramming into Jaskier again, earning a near shout of pleasure from the musician.
From there, Geralt works his thrusts up to a steady and powerful rhythm, his arms bracketing Jaskier in on the mattress either side of his face as their panted breaths mingle while they fuck. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut sometimes, but largely he looks hungrily up into Geralt’s face, and the witcher just has to kiss those plump lips to keep Jaskier from biting them.
The tension ratchets up as Geralt chases his pleasure, only letting one in every few of his strokes brush over Jaskier’s prostate, and even that brings the musician close to the edge sooner than Geralt would’ve thought, based on how much Jaskier is squirming and how high-pitched his cries have become.
As soon as Geralt can feel his own climax drawing near, the witcher sits back onto his knees while grasping Jaskier’s hips and pulling the musician onto his cock as he fucks into him. The change in angle has him brutally pressing over Jaskier’s prostate with every thrust, and Geralt has to hastily clamp his hand down over Jaskier’s mouth as the man genuinely starts to scream in pleasure.
Geralt is fucking close, so he uses the hand not over Jaskier’s mouth to grasp the musician’s cock, pumping him in time with Geralt’s now-slightly erratic thrusts into him, and Jaskier’s eyes nearly roll back in his head as he comes a second time.
He clenches up hard around Geralt, shooting stripes of white up onto his own chest and abs with a needy little whimper against Geralt’s palm, and that’s all it takes to have the witcher spilling, himself. With a heavy groan, Geralt fucks himself deeper into Jaskier as his cock and balls throb with his pleasure while he fills Jaskier’s ass because he just keeps coming, Geralt’s orgasm drawn out by the spasms of Jaskier’s clenching tightly around him.
Jaskier is trembling beneath Geralt, and the witcher releases his hold on the musician’s mouth, panting just as much as Jaskier who sucks in one deep breath after another. The two men regard one another without speaking, the haze of their peaks drawing the quiet moment into a pleasurable thrum between them.
It’s Jaskier who breaks the silence, of course. “Yeah…yeah, I’m keeping you, Geralt.”
The witcher snorts and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he carefully pulls out, both men flinching very slightly at the overstimulation.
“You’re still thinking with your cock,” Geralt chides, standing to retrieve a wash cloth and wetting it in the bathwater before returning and cleaning first Jaskier and then himself.
Jaskier is looking at Geralt with an expression of pure adoration at the gesture, and Geralt finds himself inexplicably blushing, which he almost never does, as it’s one of many involuntary emotional responses that witchers are trained to naturally suppress.
“No, I’m thinking with my heart, darling witcher, and I will be keeping you. As long as you don’t mind having some company with you whilst you travel the Frontier?” Jaskier says as he gets comfortable on the bed, his ridiculously pretty face utterly hopeful as he bats his long eyelashes at Geralt.
“You’ll grow tired of my company,” Geralt grunts brusquely, unwilling to accept the hope that soars in his chest at the thought of Jaskier wanting him for more than this one time, this one night, at the thought of actually being wanted, of finally being kept.
“Nonsense, I find your brooding and growling endlessly endearing, and I talk enough for the both of us, you won’t have to say a word. Plus, you are incredibly inspiring, darling. I wager I could write a song or two that would improve the way that the general public sees you witchers,” Jaskier says brightly, curling into Geralt’s side as soon as he lies down.
Geralt half-smiles and wraps his arms around the other man, pulling the covers over them both. “I’m leaving early in the morning, the sheriff wants me out of town by dawn,” Geralt warns, and Jaskier wrinkles his nose adorably.
“Hmm, I’m not usually a morning person, but, needs must. You’ll have to wake me up, dear, I am a hopelessly heavy sleeper when I have a proper bed,” Jaskier says easily, closing his eyes as if fully content with sleeping snuggled up to a witcher of all people.
“Or I could sneak out in the morning while you’re still asleep, and leave you none the wiser,” Geralt teases half-heartedly; it had been his original plan, after all.
Jaskier’s eyes fly open and he turns his head to glare up at Geralt, poking him in the chest. “You had better not! Then I’d have to rush to catch up with you once I did wake, and I’d be fairly put out about it! And I’d find you, too, dearest witcher. The Frontier might be big, but I have friends everywhere, and some of my friends throw knives and spit fire. Face it, darling. You’re stuck with me.”
Geralt can’t hide his rueful grin and he tucks Jaskier back into his space at Geralt’s side. “Well, if you must insist.”
“I really must!”
“Fine, you can travel with me until you get tired of me, Jask.”
“Be prepared to have company in your travelling forever then, because I shan’t be tiring of you any time soon, darling. Even if we do eventually need to part ways now and then for one reason or another, we will find each other again, I’ll make absolutely certain of it.”