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i’ll lay you down

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Geralt was just minding his own business, cleaning the hare he’d killed to roast for dinner when everything went straight to shit.

Jaskier had wandered off a little ways from where they’d set up camp – or rather, from where Geralt had set up camp; Jaskier had ended up tagging along with him again and for reasons unknown even to himself, Geralt had let him. He was getting soft.

From somewhere not very far away, he heard Jaskier’s voice, raised in a cry of alarm, Geralt! Help! – and then a low, threatening growling from the same direction.

Without even thinking about it, Geralt dropped the hare onto the ground and took off in the direction of Jaskier’s voice. He could hear Jaskier crashing noisily through the underbrush, and the growling grew louder as whatever was chasing Jaskier was presumably joined by some of its friends.

Geralt crashed into a small clearing just in time to see Jaskier teetering on the edge of a steep dropoff, a group of six wargs advancing on him, growling low in their throats. Geralt’s heart abruptly started thumping faster, for which there was no reasonable explanation since even a wet-behind-the-ears witcher could take out six wargs with his eyes closed.

He flung himself on the nearest one, blasted another three away with Aard, spun around and was dispatching the fifth warg when the sixth managed to sneak behind him and lunged at Jaskier. Jaskier yelped, dodged away and lost his footing, slipping over the edge of the cliff with a startled yell.

“Shit!” Geralt snarled and hurled himself after Jaskier. He managed to catch the bard’s flailing arm with one hand, but lost the grip he’d had on the side of the cliff when the loose earth under his other hand crumbled.

They slid forward sickeningly, Geralt’s swearing almost drowned out by Jaskier’s terrified shriek, then the last remaining warg snapped at Geralt’s heels, forcing him to kick out at it hard. The warg went sailing over the edge of the cliff with a startled yelp.

Geralt’s boot, meanwhile, got tangled in the looping vines growing along the cliff’s edge, abruptly halting his and Jaskier’s slide towards their certain demise. Geralt swore again, his arm almost wrenched out of its socket as they skidded to an abrupt halt. Jaskier was still yelling hysterically.

Geralt sighed.

“Jaskier,” he said in conversational tones.

Jaskier finally stopped yelling. “Yes, Geralt?” His voice was a half-octave higher than normal.

Geralt shook his hair out of his face and glared down at Jaskier, who was being prevented from plummeting to a fairly unpleasant death at the foot of the steep cliff solely by the grip Geralt had on his arm. Jaskier stared back up at him, his eyes very wide.

“Why is it,” Geralt said, “that whenever something like this happens, you’re always involved somehow?




He managed to heave Jaskier up and over and back onto solid ground, then crawled back up after him. It was getting dark by then, and Geralt lost no time in hurrying them back to their campsite, one hand on Jaskier’s shoulder the whole way, because clearly he couldn’t leave the bard alone for one damn second.

Back at the campsite, the fire was still burning, and – miracle of miracles – the hare he’d cleaned was still where he’d left it, ready to be roasted. Geralt had been fully expecting to have to go hunt something else for dinner – unattended food rarely lasted long in a forest full of wild creatures – but his ankle was aching from when he’d wrenched it after it got caught in the vines earlier, and he was still feeling grumpy for reasons he couldn’t figure out, so he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Jaskier insisted that he’d noticed Geralt limping on the way back (Geralt had not been limping; a wrenched ankle was so low on a witcher’s list of worrisome injuries that it barely even registered), so he made Geralt sit down and bound his ankle tightly with a strip of cloth while Geralt looked on, bemused.

Geralt frowned thoughtfully at the top of Jaskier’s head as the bard bent over his only mildly injured ankle. There was an odd feeling swirling warm somewhere around the vicinity of his belly. It felt rather like indigestion, only less painful.

“There, all done!” Jaskier chirped happily, patting Geralt’s bound ankle. He beamed up at Geralt.

“Hm,” said Geralt, and went to roast the hare for dinner.

Behind him, he could hear Jaskier muttering under his breath, “thank you, Jaskier, I hear you say. Thank you very much for taking care of me! Ah, it was my pleasure, Geralt. You needn’t mention it again.”

“I won’t,” Geralt said mildly, and basked in the gloriously indignant silence which resulted.

They sat on the ground in front of the fire and split the meat for dinner, sitting side by side. As the sun dipped below the mountains, Geralt noticed that Jaskier was starting to shiver from the cold, his clothes badly torn from their earlier adventure and hanging off him in places, exposing smooth, pale skin.

Geralt cleared his throat and looked away, feeling weirdly guilty. Wordlessly, he went over to his pack, pulled out the thin blanket he kept inside for emergencies and tossed it to Jaskier.

Jaskier caught it, looking startled. “Thanks, Geralt!” he said, and smiled, sweet and sincere. The warm fluttery feeling in Geralt’s belly chose that moment to make a reappearance. He scowled and rubbed his stomach absently.

It turned out that bards really weren’t made for camping out in the elements, because the blanket lessened Jaskier’s shivering but didn’t stop it entirely. Well, there was no help for it. Geralt heaved a put-upon sigh and beckoned Jaskier over.

“Come here,” he said.

“What? Why?” Jaskier asked through chattering teeth.

Geralt pinned him with an irritated look. “Just come here,” he said.

Jaskier got up and shuffled over to him, clutching the thin blanket around his shoulders. “What is it?” he said.

Geralt tugged him down so Jaskier was sitting on the ground beside him, then wrapped an arm around the shivering bard’s shoulders. “Better?” he asked.

Jaskier froze, then gulped audibly. “Er,” he said. “Er, yes, much.” He hesitated. “Thanks, Geralt.”

Geralt grunted. They sat in companionable silence for some time, then Geralt abruptly realized that he’d been idly stroking his hand up and down Jaskier’s arm, bare through his torn sleeve, his skin warm and smooth under Geralt’s hand, for fifteen minutes. The warm feeling in his stomach was back. In fact, his entire body was curled protectively around the bard, cheek resting on the top of Jaskier’s head.

It was almost as if – as if he wanted –

“Aw, fuck,” he said out loud.

Jaskier jumped slightly at Geralt’s exclamation, then shot a furtive glance up at him. The tips of his ears were red. “Don’t, er.” He cleared his throat, then waved a hand vaguely at Geralt’s hand, which had stilled on Jaskier’s arm the moment Geralt had realized what it was doing. “Don’t stop.”

Geralt stared down at him. Jaskier stared back.

“I broke up with the Countess de Stael because of you,” Jaskier blurted, then immediately clapped his hand over his mouth, looking appalled.

“You what,” said Geralt.

“You heard me,” Jaskier said, sulky.

“I thought she was your muse,” Geralt said. His mouth kept trying to pull into a grin without his damned permission.

“Stop making it worse,” said Jaskier plaintively. Geralt did grin, then. He leaned over and kissed Jaskier square on the mouth.

“Mmph!” said Jaskier, eyes going wide. He did start kissing back very enthusiastically after that, though, so Geralt counted it as a win. He dragged Jaskier into his lap as he licked into the bard’s mouth, and, yes, that definitely wasn’t a lute in Jaskier’s pocket. He palmed Jaskier’s cock through his trousers and Jaskier moaned, rolling his hips up into Geralt’s hand.

They scrambled to get their clothes off and in short order Geralt had Jaskier on his lap naked and squirming and panting, the bard’s smooth pale skin lightly sheened with sweat as Geralt gripped both their cocks in his hand, and by the gods it felt fucking good, their cocks sliding against each other, slick with sweat and precome, his usually talkative bard reduced to incoherent moans and sobs of Geralt’s name.

Geralt would’ve been totally fine just keeping on like that, but Jaskier stopped him with a hand on his chest, babbling, “Geralt, wait, wait, I have – in my, uh, oil, my pack – ”

Enough of that filtered through Geralt’s lust-filled brain that he managed to release Jaskier, albeit very reluctantly. The bard immediately started digging frantically through his pack, and a moment later triumphantly brandished a small bottle of pale gold, expensive-looking oil at Geralt.

“Figures,” Geralt said dryly. “No food, no blanket, but you do have scented oil in your pack.” He popped the cork on the bottle with one hand and tilted the bottle to coat his fingers with oil, humming with satisfaction as Jaskier clambered back into his lap.

“I travel light,” Jaskier sniffed, then choked off into a stifled moan as Geralt slid an arm around him and teased at his hole with one finger. “I carry – ah – only the essentials. Oh god, Geralt.

Jaskier wasn’t making any coherent sense by the time Geralt managed to get three fingers in him, stretching him; and when Geralt was finally satisfied that the bard was ready and replaced his fingers with his cock, Jaskier was begging for it shamelessly, oh god, Geralt, please, just fuck me already and oh dear gods Jaskier was tight and hot and goddamned amazing.

Jaskier came all over himself pretty much the moment Geralt wrapped a firm hand around his cock, so Geralt didn’t feel too bad about the fact that he didn’t last nearly as long as he’d thought he would.

He flopped on his back on the ground after, panting, with Jaskier sprawled on top of him, limbs everywhere. He barely had the presence of mind to pull the thin blanket he’d given to Jaskier earlier over them both, before they were both snoring.




Geralt awoke to early-morning sunshine, birdsong and Jaskier sitting on a large rock by the smoldering remains of their campfire, strumming gently on his lute and humming. Some ways behind Jaskier, Roach was contentedly munching on a patch of grass.

Jaskier hadn’t noticed he was awake yet. Geralt smiled and stretched, lazy and content, and idly swatted at a bug on his arm as the bard started to sing softly.

“Geralt of Rivia

Is steadfast and strong

A better witcher

Will ne’er come along

He’ll slay any monster

All action, less talk

And on top of all that, he’s

Got a magnificent c– ” Jaskier’s voice cut off in a half-laugh, half-squawk as Geralt tackled him. “Ack! Geralt!