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Feral Bastard Bard

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Geralt likes to think he’s a pretty decent guy. At least where his bard is involved he is, especially for how often the bard throws him for a loop; and Geralt’s not a huge fan of surprises, in his experience and line of work they tend to be more dangerous than they’re fun.

Sure, maybe at first he was an ass to the traveling musician but his heart was in the right place since the, at the time, bull-headed teen clearly didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he insisted on following Geralt around and being his “barker”. Much to his chagrin, the bard’s song was almost an overnight hit but Geralt could justify being a dick still since the bard must not have understood how dangerous it was to stay by Geralt’s side. Then the bard shattered the illusion of daintiness he had created in Geralt’s mind over the five years they had been traveling together by killing a pair of bandits that tried to ambush their camp while Geralt was on a hunt. 

Geralt’s mind had been mildly boggled when he returned to the sharp tang of blood and signs of a scuffle, marks in the dirt like bodies had been dragged, and the bard sitting exactly where Geralt had left him with his lute in his lap and leaning against Roach’s belly as she lounged lazily in the sun. The only signs he’d gotten up to anything were the damp silks hung from a nearby tree from being washed despite the bard having picked them out that same morning and the musician himself clad in a different outfit.

At that point Geralt had to find something new to explain away his brutish behavior and he’d decided on the fact that the bard, while talented and able to defend himself, was selfish and lazy and didn’t help out as much as Geralt would like. That worked until he had sniped about that very topic and that very same night the bard set up camp without complaint or being asked to while Geralt hunted for their dinner. The Witcher returned to their bedrolls laid out on cleared ground so they wouldn’t sleep on any twigs or rocks and a perfectly crafted fire that crackled and popped cheerfully while the bard brushed down Roach and whistled a jaunty tune to himself. But one night doesn’t mean shit, Geralt had rationalized, so he hadn’t said anything.

To his dismay the bard made it a habit after that to set up camp while Geralt was hunting and if they were staying in an inn for the night he’d ensure the room was perfectly to the Witcher’s standards and a hot bath was waiting upon his return. How Jaskier managed to time it exactly right, Geralt had no clue, nor how his companion knew the precise angle to have the window shutters open to let in the perfect amount of light in the morning to wake Geralt without overwhelming his delicate vision. Or where the table and chairs should be placed so that there is the exact same amount of space for a walking path between the door and the beds in all the rooms they stay in so Geralt can walk around in the dark without needing to put effort into seeing after a tiring day. Or even which oils Geralt likes in his bath without any required trial and error, despite Geralt never buying a scented oil in his life nor telling Jaskier which one he would want on the one occasion he followed the bard to a perfumery. 

At some point, Jaskier had gone from being just “the bard” in Geralt’s mind to being Jaskier and Geralt’s reasons to hold Jaskier at arms length were dwindling, especially when he allowed his vigilance to slip so many times. Letting the younger man stitch him up, wash his hair, massage away his aches and pains, sing to him without telling him to shut up, allowing him to ride Roach with alarming frequency, Geralt even let Jaskier braid his hair once and when the bard snuck flowers into the woven strands he’d just sighed. Not a spark of ire in sight.

He’d even noticed himself doing things for Jaskier. Which was rude of himself since they weren’t conscious actions and he felt betrayed by his own body. He’d take care of Jaskier’s injuries after the bard started yet another tavern brawl when a particularly hateful human would spit something derogatory about Witchers. He’d buy Jaskier new lute strings when he noticed Jaskier’s wearing thin and about to snap. He’d carried the bard in his arms for two days in the middle of winter when Jaskier had suddenly come down with a startlingly high fever and they were over fifty miles from the nearest town big enough to have a healer and then he’d stayed by Jaskier’s side for weeks as the bard recovered. 

The healer called it pneumonia , a lung infection which can be contracted without being around other people from germs that naturally live in human bodies getting the upper hand over human immune systems if the immune system is weakened by things like hypothermia. Which bards can get if they’re traveling in winter without the proper attire and are too stubborn to tell the Witcher they travel with that they’re slowly freezing to death. Jaskier had remorsefully tried to explain his reasoning, he didn’t want to worry Geralt since the Witcher had so much on his plate all the time already, but Geralt didn’t really listen since he was so angry at how avoidable this could have been.

Which gave Geralt a reason to be an ass again. Obviously, Jaskier shouldn’t travel with Geralt if he couldn’t take care of himself. He’d clammed up, pushing Jaskier away and being harsh with his words as often as he could to try and get it through the bard’s thick skull to fuck off for real this time. Jaskier, instead of fucking off like Geralt wanted, was at first confused since he had apologized multiple times and tried to make amends but then became just as angry and stopped trying to help Geralt with things. He still traveled with the Witcher but he no longer made the rooms they stayed in perfect, he no longer set up their campsites so Geralt didn’t have to, he no longer stitched Geralt up unless it was a deep enough injury to require assistance and even then he only touched Geralt the bare minimum required for the job.

He wasn’t sure why, but Jaskier’s anger hurt Geralt. He had no one to blame for this but himself, he knows that, so why did he hate how much Jaskier had pulled away? He was getting exactly what he wanted, sans the actual fucking off part, so why did he miss Jaskier’s little touches and helpful actions and everything the bard did for Geralt that showed he cared about Geralt and that Geralt was someone deserving of Jaskier’s--


Oh .


Somehow, without noticing, Geralt had fallen in love with Jaskier.

So, in true Geralt fashion, he sabotaged himself and said some truly unforgivable words when Jaskier tried to help him willingly for the first time in months despite his anger at the Witcher. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault the bard was a little bumbling and awkward, it was something that Geralt found endearing after it stopped being annoying. All Jaskier had tried to do was lighten the mood, tried to cheer Geralt up after his fight with Yennefer, in his nearly tactless way that usually amused Geralt and sapped whatever tension was in the air to make it easier for Jaskier to calm Geralt down. 

And Geralt told him, essentially, that despite everything the bard had done for Geralt for twenty two years all Geralt saw him as was something that had been ruining his life.

Well that’s not fair .

Jaskier fucked off finally.

It wasn’t the relief Geralt thought it would be. If anything, it made things worse . Which shouldn’t have surprised Geralt since he was fully aware of his feelings for Jaskier but it did anyway. He tried ignoring how his stomach twisted every time he heard the plucking of lute strings or how his heart leapt when he breathed the faint scent of Jaskier’s homemade perfume as he passed through a town that the bard had visited prior to himself. He figured the feelings would fade with time, as his feelings for Yennefer were starting to.

They didn’t.

After he found his child of surprise, reconnected with Yennefer, and escorted them both to Kaer Morhen so Cirilla could be trained in her magic and combat while safe from Nilfgaard’s forces, Geralt decided enough was enough and left to find Jaskier. It didn’t take him overly long to find the bard, just over a season, as Jaskier had holed up in Oxenfurt to take up a teaching position at the Academy. 

Geralt sat in on one of his lectures towards the end of the spring term, hidden in the shadows as Jaskier -- Professor Pankratz -- dictated a class of advanced students on musical theory in ballads and how it relates to making a piece engaging enough for people to want to hear it and sing it over and over again. Geralt had never known how much thought went into each of Jaskier’s pieces outside of just writing the lyrics and the melody, and the single hour long lesson he sat through seemed like just the tip of the iceberg.

After the lecture he had waited until Jaskier retired to his office before approaching with extreme caution, he wasn’t sure how upset the bard still was about the whole thing. Geralt had hoped he wasn’t so upset he’d refuse to travel with Geralt once more, and the Witcher had steeled himself against any number of reactions from Jaskier as he knocked on the closed office door. Would Jaskier be so hurt still to burst into tears at the sight of Geralt as he has in the past when overwhelmed with emotion? Would he be dramatic and petty as he sniped and masterfully insulted Geralt as he’s seen the bard do when faced with other bards for whom he had little respect? Would he rage and yell at Geralt for being an ass for twenty two years when all Jaskier had done was love him and Geralt had sent him away because the Witcher was afraid to love and be loved in return?

Despite all of his mental preparations, he wasn’t ready for what actually happened.

“Come in,” Jaskier’s voice had said absently and Geralt heard the rustling of paper and as the Witcher opened the door he had caught sight of Jaskier rolling up some scrolls of sheet music.

“Jaskier,” Geralt had said quietly and closed the door behind him after entering the room. The office had been sparsely decorated, a single potted plant on top of a wooden filing cabinet and a generic painting of a field of flowers hung on the wall beside the door. Jaskier had ignored him as he continued cleaning up his papers from his desk, tucking the music into bins labeled with class names. It must have been homework the master bard was grading.

Jaskier still hadn’t so much as looked at Geralt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tried again, had wrung his hands together nervously, “I… I’m sorry.”

Jaskier had stacked the boxes of homework neatly beside the cabinets. He never turned his back to Geralt so the Witcher knew he wasn’t being ignored in a petty and childish manner, but Jaskier still didn’t look over either as he moved back to his desk to tidy up the books spread across it.

Geralt had sighed and hung his head like a kicked dog, “It was wrong of me to say those things to you. Especially when all you’ve ever done is stick by me and treat me well. I was frustrated and angry and took it out on you because you were an easy target, you made yourself one since you were always so fucking nice to me. Even when we were angry at each other you’d never say anything shitty like the things I’d say to you. I just… I’m so sorry. And I miss you. And if you’d have me… I’d like it if you’d continue to travel with me again.”

Geralt kept his gaze lowered until he had heard Jaskier’s boots, never still, never silent, approaching him. The bard had an expression on his face that Geralt had never seen him wear before, the corners of his lips turned down in a frown and his blue eyes narrowed dangerously. It was an expression Geralt was familiar with on Yennefer’s visage and usually preceded her angrily saying something scathing. Geralt had nearly started to relax when he recognized that, figuring Jaskier was going to just rip him a new one.

And then Jaskier had punched him.

None too gently either. Jaskier wasn’t a slight man, regardless of what his presentation of himself made one think. It was all carefully designed so that people would perceive him as small and not dangerous on purpose, the colored silks tailored to trick the eye and make him look more willowy. The powders he’d wear artfully applied to his shaved face to soften his jawline and accentuate his cheekbones, making his face more feminine. Even the way he often styled his dark hair was to make him look unassuming and approachable. 

Geralt knew the truth though, Jaskier is similar in height to Geralt and he’d seen Jaskier unclothed and observed the lean muscle and broad shoulders the bard possesses. Jaskier didn’t wear makeup daily, hell he only shaved when they were in towns, and he was more than capable of growing a dashing scruff on his square jaw. Paired with how his hair looked when he just ran his fingers through it to remove the worst of the tangles before they continued traveling for the day, Jaskier had been a gods damned wet dream of the highest caliber that Geralt had struggled very much to resist.

So yeah, the damn good right hook fucking hurt, even for a Witcher. 

Geralt had grunted in surprise and pain and started to fall back but Jaskier had grabbed the front of Geralt’s shirt, fisting the fabric in the hand that hadn’t just socked a Witcher, and pulled him upright again with the strength that Geralt frequently forgot Jaskier had. Jaskier’s eyes, so very blue and bright with rage, wrath that the bard was very good at hiding and didn’t often allow to see the light of day, met Geralt’s wide gold ones as the Witcher brought a hand up to his smarting jaw and Geralt wondered with a small amount of fear what Jaskier was going to do next as he was still being held in the bard’s grasp.

“Fuck you,” Jaskier had snarled before pulling Geralt forward by his shirt and crashing their lips together viciously. It wasn’t a nice kiss, filled with anger and teeth and hurt, but as it went on and Geralt had wrapped his arms tentatively around Jaskier’s waist, the kiss has softened into a much more enjoyable one once Jaskier’s cold rage melted into something more manageable.

“You’re the worst,” the bard murmurs against his lips with no inclination to pull away.

Geralt kisses him for a few more moments before replying, “I know.”

“And I hate you.”

“You’re not the first.”

“I don’t forgive you yet.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“Good, yeah, good,” Jaskier gasps softly as Geralt moves his lips along the bard’s strong jaw, the stubble there scraping against his skin pleasantly and he hopes that his pale face will be reddened by Jaskier’s facial hair. “You’re making it awfully hard to stay mad at you, right now. This isn’t you just taking pity on me and kissing me back because you feel bad about what you did, is it?” Jaskier’s words are light and joking but Geralt’s able to hear the faint undercurrent of uncertainty, something he’s certain he can do because he traveled with Jaskier on and off for over two decades and had seen behind Jaskier’s mask just as much as the bard had seen behind his own.



“I’m in love with you.” It’s surprisingly easy to finally admit that to the bard who very briefly stills under Geralt’s touch before those long musician’s fingers bury themselves in his white hair and tug , pulling his head up to make eye contact. 

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed at him in suspicion, like he can’t believe Geralt’s words. Not because it was Geralt saying them, not because he doesn’t believe the Witcher means them, but like he doesn’t believe anyone could say they’re in love with him and mean it.

“You don’t,” Jaskier settles on, frowning again. This time in doubt and premeditated disappointment, “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Geralt.”

Geralt frowns right back, “I do mean it.”

The bard’s expression is dissolving into a scowl as anger sparks in him again and he loosens his grip on Geralt’s hair to step away, “You can’t. You spent twenty two years telling me I meant next to nothing to you. I thought… I mean I figured you were like me and expressed your real feelings through actions but then you told me I was the bane of your life. How can I believe you?”

Geralt knows there’s more to it than just his own actions, knows there are deeper-rooted problems from Jaskier’s past that the Witcher has only ever gotten glimpses of when the bard was either too drunk to fully filter himself or thought he was alone to work through things aloud. But right now isn’t the time to bring that up, what Geralt can address is his own decisions.

“I know,” he tightens his arms around Jaskier’s waist, holding him closer, “I don’t blame you for not believing me. I was such a complete ass to you for so long, I wouldn’t believe me either. Let me prove it to you, though, Jask. I want to show you how much I’ve fallen in love with you, to prove to you my feelings for you, that you’re my best friend, that I love you. Even if it takes another two decades for you to believe me I’ll keep trying until you believe me and even then I won’t stop.”

“Why?” Jaskier whispers and he looks almost afraid of the answer but there’s the littlest bit of hope in those blue eyes that Geralt loves so much that it gives him the strength to continue baring his heart.

“Because you deserve it,” he gently runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, which had gotten long enough to curl over the bard’s ears and start forming waves, “You deserve to be loved wholly and completely by another. And after I’ve proved it to you, if you decide you don’t want it to be me who-”

“Shut up, Witcher,” Jaskier growls at him and if that doesn’t do things to Geralt, “I’ve loved you for fucking years, what makes you think I’d stop just because you love me back?” Before Geralt can respond, Jaskier pulls him into another bruising kiss. Geralt idly wonders, in the midst of the best make-out of his long life, if he has a thing for people with demanding personalities. That thought was quickly banished, however, as Jaskier pushed Geralt against the door, his long fingers slipping down to firmly grip Geralt’s hips.

Geralt hums a low moan as Jaskier’s tongue sweeps into his mouth, brushing over his bottom lip before the bard teases it between his teeth and Geralt hears the dull scrape of the deadbolt as Jaskier locks the door he has Geralt pressed up against. Jaskier’s hands then pull the hem of Geralt’s shirt free of his trousers so he can slip them beneath the fabric and run the tips of his cool fingers featherlight against the flushed skin stretched tight over Geralt’s ribcage.

“Jask,” Geralt sighs into the musician’s mouth and he feels Jaskier’s lips curve into a crooked grin as he tilts his head to nip at the flesh of Geralt’s chin.

“Hmm?” The bard hums as he presses open-mouth kisses up the Witcher’s jaw until he reaches the sensitive skin over Geralt’s pulse, all the while his fingers dance and tease across Geralt’s torso and as Geralt opens his mouth to speak again Jaskier tilts his head back. Blue meets gold and Geralt can see the kind of mischief sparkling in the bard’s eyes that only appears when he’s planning something. 

Geralt starts to inhale to speak but his breath hitches into a noisy gasp that breaks off into a loud groan as Jaskier flicks his thumb down over one of Geralt’s hardened nipples before rolling his hips forward to grind them against the Witcher’s. The bard’s grin widens and he slips his other arm around Geralt to run his nails lightly down the Witcher’s back, just enough pressure to be a tantalizing promise and make Geralt’s hips buck into Jaskier’s.

“Fuck, Jask,” his own hands roam over the bard, touching where he can and never finding any one place to settle. He paws at Jaskier’s ass for a few moments, relishing the feeling of the bard’s pert derriere in his palms, before pushing Jaskier’s royal blue doublet off. The fool still doesn’t lace them up properly, even if he is wearing a more appropriate color for a teaching position. “Fuck, how’re you so good at this?”

“Are you really asking me that?” Jaskier sounds amused as he glances up at Geralt’s flushed face. Witcher’s aren’t capable of blushing but that doesn’t mean he can’t still develop a certain amount of ruddiness in his cheeks and across his chest from exertion or, in this case, teasing arousal. “We did spend the same twenty two years together, yes?”

“Was supposed to be a compliment, dickhead,” Geralt grumbles and Jaskier laughs, a light and breathy thing that is a byproduct of his own breathlessness and only Geralt is privy to it since the bard thinks it sounds horribly like someone blowing incorrectly into a kazoo. He’d asked Jaskier once, how the troubadour ensures he doesn’t make the sound in front of other people and Jaskier had shrugged with a roguish grin and said that no one makes him laugh quite as much as Geralt does. 

The memory makes Geralt’s chest tighten pleasantly and he pulls at Jaskier’s shirt to remove it, wanting to finally touch who he’s desired for so long. Jaskier gets the hint and helps the Witcher pull the shirt up and over his head, mussing his russet locks further than Geralt’s hands have already left it. Geralt takes a moment to just look at Jaskier, gently tossing the shirt aside and settling his hands on the bard’s strong shoulders before lightly running them down Jaskier’s back, feeling the lean muscles jump and twinge under his fingers. 

Between his reddened, kiss swollen lips and bright eyes, the messy hair and rakish grin on his face, Jaskier is looking well on his way to being thoroughly debauched. It’s a visual Geralt’s familiar with from the many times the bard has had to make a quick escape before from some of his more ill-advised sexual escapades before getting to the main event. It’s a look that always made Geralt’s blood boil and for a long time he thought it was because he just disliked Jaskier until he figured out it was jealousy. He’d turn positively green with envy of the people the bard allowed to make him look like that; so positively attractive Geralt would have to find some private time for himself to take care of the rising situation below the belt, the image of Jaskier in his mind and his own cock in hand.

But now Jaskier is at that point, looking so fucking good and sensual and desireable, and Geralt was the one who put him there, who made him look like that. A surge of possessive pride heats the Witcher’s blood and it’s only been a moment that he’s been looking his fill and not kissing, not tasting, but it’s a moment too long so Geralt steps forward to be closer as he brings his lips back to Jaskier’s. 

The kiss is deep and slow and passionate, both of them tasting the other to their heart’s content as Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and the Witcher runs his hands along the waistband of the bard’s trousers. They’re a new style, he notices, one he hasn’t seen before where the waist is fitted and sits on Jaskier’s hips instead of actually at the waist and it allows Geralt a tantalizing view of the very top of the V of Jaskier’s narrow hips. Geralt decides he likes this new style of trouser, not only for the front view he gets with Jaskier shirtless like he is but also for the way he can feel the fabric is tailored to accentuate and draw the eye to the behind of the wearer when he runs his hands over Jaskier’s ass again.

“You seem to have an affinity for that part of my anatomy,” the bard teases and Geralt hums as he walks them the three steps to the edge of Jaskier’s desk, crowding the bard against it. With Jaskier’s attractively long legs and the low height of the desk, if he were to sit down properly on it his hips would be farther away from the edge of the desk than Geralt would like so instead he’s just sort of leaning against it, his rear end perched on the edge of the tabletop in a very pleasing way.

“D’you know how long I’ve had to watch you dance around in your stupid fucking silks that are deceptively tight and not do a damn thing about it?” Geralt nips and bites at the tender skin of Jaskier’s neck and the bard gasps softly, his breathing becoming more unstable again, “How many times I’d go to hunt but just stand out of sight so I could watch you bend over as you set up camp? How frequently I needed to escape after we bathed in rivers and streams together so I could imagine your tight little ass under my hands without getting hard as a rock in front of you?”

Jaskier moans quietly and his fingers dig into Geralt’s shoulders as the Witcher slides his hands up Jaskier’s strong abdomen and runs his fingers through the soft and thick hair adorning the bard’s chest, “Terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you, Geralt. Any way I can make it up to you?” His quiet noises of pleasure turn into a soft groan as Geralt licks and sucks bruises into the skin of his neck and shoulders.

Geralt rumbles a thoughtful hum and Jaskier takes this moment to divulge the Witcher of his own shirt which Geralt allows. Seems only fair for Jaskier to get to look at touch as much as he likes since he’s letting Geralt do the same. “How well does the sound carry from in here?”

The bard grins and laughs his breathy laugh again, “The acoustics in my office are fantastic, darling. Room’s soundproof though, all the offices of the professor’s of music are so that our practicing doesn’t disrupt the other academics.”

That surprises Geralt. Not the soundproofing thing, that makes sense, but that Jaskier most likely isn’t trying to be quiet since he knows no one will hear them anyway and yet the two of them seem to have swapped places. Where ordinarily Geralt is quiet and a man of few words, Jaskier is noisy and chatters like there’s no tomorrow. However, so far Geralt’s done most of the talking and even his moans and groans have been louder than Jaskier’s soft sounds of pleasure. The Witcher doesn’t think Jaskier’s faking, he can smell the lust and arousal rolling off of the bard in heady waves that make his head spin pleasantly, it’s just an intriguing turn of events.

“Hmm, good,” Geralt grins back, slipping his hand behind Jaskier’s neck and pulling him forward to kiss him deeply again as his other hand travels to the buttons of Jaskier’s trousers, “I want to make you sing, songbird. See just how much filling this pie has. I want you to prove me exceptionally wrong all those years ago.” He undoes the two measly buttons holding Jaskier’s trousers closed and dips his hand into the front of the pants, brushing his fingers delicately over Jaskier’s swollen hardness as it pushes against his cotton smallclothes. 

Jaskier releases a low, shuddering groan against Geralt’s lips as his hands grip the Witcher’s biceps, his hips twitching forward as Geralt’s fingertips press against a spot at the front of Jaskier’s smallclothes that’s damp from precome. It takes the bard a moment to collect himself again after Geralt’s sudden onslaught but once he’s gathered his thoughts again his hands flutter to the laces of the Witcher’s trousers, deftly untying them and slipping them down in a practiced motion along with Geralt’s smallclothes to release the Witcher’s hard cock.

The bard’s eyes flicker down and a pretty blush darkens his already pink face as he lets out a soft but appreciative, “ fuck , Geralt.” He looks back up and his pupils have dilated so much from his arousal that the blue of his irises is just a thin ring, leaving his eyes dark and wanting in a way that sends more blood shooting to his aching cock. Geralt draws him back in for another kiss and Jaskier’s hand trails down the Witcher’s chest, tracing scars that are as familiar to him as they are to Geralt. His calloused fingers guide his hand as his palm presses against Geralt’s abdomen, getting tantalizingly close to the center of the pool of heat that radiates out through Geralt’s body.

Finally, Jaskier’s long musician’s fingers wrap loosely around Geralt’s cock and he almost lazily pumps it a few times, his wrist moving languidly and his hand sliding slowly up and down the Witcher’s throbbing length until Geralt is biting at Jaskier’s lips impatiently with a frustrated groan pulling free from his throat. Jaskier smiles and releases Geralt’s cock at which Geralt definitely does not whine a needy, “ Jaskier .”

Jaskier grins at him, the joyful smile tugging at the right side of his face more than the left as it often does when he doesn’t focus to make his smiles symmetrical and Geralt knows that if Jaskier were clean shaven right now he’d get to see the dimple in the bard’s cheek that only appears when his smile is big and genuine enough to be crooked like this. It’s another source of pride for the Witcher, he’s one of the few people on a very short list that Jaskier allows to see his unfiltered emotions and fuck if the knowledge of the priviledge and the visage of Jaskier’s gorgeous, off-centered grin doesn’t turn him on even more.

“I’m well aware of your Witchery constitution, but I’m sure even you would agree it’s more comfortable to ah,” Jaskier twists as he leans back on his elbow across his desk, opening one of the drawers on the other side and removing a moderate size bottle of olive oil, “polish the wood, if you will.” 

“You just have that lying around in your office, do you?” Geralt raises an eyebrow teasingly as he enjoys the image Jaskier is presenting him, the bard’s strong torso stretched across the desk in a way that makes the waist of his unfastened trousers slip down as the fabric catches on the edge of the tabletop but the bard continues to move.

Jaskier rolls his eyes playfully as he closes the drawer and looks back up at Geralt, setting the bottle of oil on the desk and resting back on his forearms, “I’ll have you know this oil has only ever been used for very professional reasons. I don’t make a habit of debauching myself in my office, alone or otherwise.”

“No particularly lecherous students who come to you, begging for a better grade?” Geralt grins and leans forward, placing his hands on either side of Jaskier’s hips on the desk. The bard wriggles slightly and pulls himself up higher on the desk to give Geralt more space to work with as he sticks his tongue out childishly.

“My students are much too young for me,” he shakes his head with a pleased smirk as he toes his boots off and Geralt immediately removes Jaskier’s trousers, leaving the bard in his smallclothes, “I’m a man of forty-five, Geralt.”

“Are you?” Geralt blinks in surprise as he looks up at Jaskier. The bard’s hair is just as dark as it always is, no signs of gray in the luscious locks, and his skin is sunkissed and smooth and nearly unwrinkled save for the gentle creasing of his laugh lines. Jaskier doesn’t look older than early thirties at the most, “You don’t look it.”

“Thank you!” He laughs with a wide grin, “I’d love to say it’s my skincare routine and perhaps at one point it was but we have lovely Yennefer to thank for my ageless qualities now.”


“Mm,” Jaskier nods and playfully nudges at Geralt’s thigh with his foot, “She was developing an anti-aging potion or some such thing and tested it on me. At least that’s what she told me after she’d slipped it into my drink and I got violently ill. Guess she thought I was the most expendable person she knew if it was harmful enough she couldn’t save me,” he shrugs slightly, concerningly callous about the whole thing. Geralt needs to remember to have words with Jaskier about his self-worth, “Regardless, she’s done some wiggling of her magical fingers since then to see how it’s affected it and she only told me a month ago that it appears to have drastically reduced my aging process. Not immortal by any means, but she estimated my life span to be something like triple that of a human now if I don’t die by unnatural causes. She also theorizes I could probably take the potion again and compound that number but it was extremely unpleasant the first time I took it.”

Geralt blinks, surprised by the bard yet again, as he mulls over this new information. It took him ages to come to terms with the fact that Jaskier is human and the, now moot, knowledge that the bard would grow old and pass well before Geralt even reached middle age of a Witcher lifespan. Now, Jaskier’s saying that Yennefer has extended his life from an estimated eighty years to 240, gods willing, and she’s probably able to stretch it even farther if he were to take her potion again. Knowledge of Jaskier’s life amended, Geralt notices that his eyes feel like there’s a burning pressure behind them and his vision is swimming.

“Geralt, are you okay?” Jaskier’s gentle voice pulls him out of his thoughts and Geralt looks down to see that the bard has sat up and has an extremely concerned expression on his face, “What’s wrong?” Geralt shakes his head and as he blinks his vision clears enough to see that beautiful blue of Jaskier’s worried eyes, the heat in his own eyes traveling down his cheeks and Jaskier frowns more. 

“What’s the matter?” Jaskier asks softly as he lifts his hands to cup the Witcher’s cheeks in them, an adorable crease between his furrowed brows as his thumbs gently brush away the tears that are dripping down Geralt’s face, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, Geralt. I was just explaining what happened with Yennefer. Is it because I mentioned her?”

“No, Jask,” Geralt croaks and tries to clear his throat of the hard lump sitting just over his vocal chords, “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice breaks and Jaskier’s concern only amplifies, the bard running his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair as he tries to comfort the Witcher without forcing him to speak. It’s not the first time he’s seen Geralt cry but it’s an infrequent enough occurrence that Geralt can tell it makes Jaskier feel like he’s floundering a little bit.

Jaskier bites his lip gently as he massages Geralt’s scalp in a soothing way, “Can you tell me what’s wrong then? Why you’re crying?”

Geralt laughs then. It starts out as a soft chuckle before building and growing in intensity and volume until his shoulders are shaking and his stomach is hurting as he grins with tears on his cheeks and in his eyes and Jaskier looks more than a little alarmed but the bard wisely doesn’t say anything as Geralt lets out big, deep belly laughs. 

There was a tension he had been holding in his shoulders, a weight on his chest, an anxiety clinging tightly to his soul that Geralt wasn’t even aware was holding him down and Jaskier’s unwittingly relieved it and it’s like Geralt can finally breathe and let himself feel all of his emotions towards the bard without reserve. 

And there’s so many of them, love and exasperation and fondness and joy and fear and relief and love and love and love. So much love that it’s almost too much for him to bear and his laughs have turned into heaving sobs as he pulls Jaskier tightly into his arms, burying his face in Jaskier’s hair which smells like the lavender of his soap and dust and ink and the bard’s natural musk of oak and summer sunshine that Geralt identifies as home .

Jaskier hugs him back without reservation, applying strong pressure in the way he knows Geralt needs when the Witcher is feeling overwhelmed by emotion. He stays quiet except for gently murmuring assurances of his presence and his love and Geralt loves him for that but every time Jaskier reminds Geralt that he’s loved it makes Geralt cry harder again as he feels so much relief and love. Relief that Geralt won’t be left alone, that his love is returned, that someone out there wants him and that someone is right here, right now. 

And he feels so, so much love. Geralt never thought it was possible to feel something like love so thoroughly that it could physically affect him, steal his breath away, make his stomach twist and his heart lurch and his chest tighten, and he loves that it does. He loves that there’s a physical reminder of his love for Jaskier. He adores how he feels hot like there’s a raging inferno in his belly and he knows that it’s just because Jaskier is here and touching him and letting him touch in return and it’s everything Geralt ever wanted. He can’t believe he ever thought his infatuation with Yennefer was love when love is such an all-encompassing feeling that affects every single part of him; from the extreme depths of his thoughts to the very surface of his skin.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, rubbing comforting circles between the Witcher’s shoulder blades and it reminds him that he hasn’t answered the bard fully. Reminds him that his patient, lovely, wonderful Jaskier is still concerned for him.

“‘M okay,” Geralt chokes out, his voice muffled by Jaskier’s hair and he gets some in his mouth but he doesn’t care, “‘M not upset.”

“Do you want to tell me why you’re crying?” Jaskier moves his hand so his knuckles are gently kneading the muscles along Geralt’s spine, “Or would you rather just stay like this?”

He shakes his head again and tries to take a few shaky breaths but he just can’t calm down enough to talk normally so he sobs out his words instead, confident that Jaskier will understand him, “I-I thought… for the longest time. And you… and Yen… ‘M relieved, Jask. So, so relieved ‘cause ‘m selfish… I woulda been… I accepted that you would… and wanted to love you anyway,” he takes a shuddering breath and keeps his face pressed to the bard’s hair, “and now I get so much more time with you, time I didn’t think I’d get. And I just... gods , Jask, those fucking songs of yours don’t do it justice.”

“Do what justice?” Jaskier asks quietly.

Love, ” Geralt pulls back to look at Jaskier’s dumbfounded face, the bard’s jaw slackened and his lips slightly parted as he watches Geralt with wide blue eyes, “Fuck, Jask, I wasn’t prepared for it. It snuck up on me, like boiling a frog, and suddenly I was just head over heels for you but also it felt like I’d always been. And it scared the shit out of me so I tried to ruin it because I thought it would be better to be lonely than have those feelings and I hurt you because I was a fucking coward and I was so, so wrong.” Geralt mirrors the way Jaskier was holding his face earlier, the Witcher’s pale hands caressing Jaskier’s tan and freckled face and brushing his thumbs tenderly over the rosy blush gracing the bard’s high cheekbones and Jaskier’s eyes are shining with unshed tears of his own as Geralt speaks, “I was so wrong because gods, Jask, I love you so fucking much. I love you so much it fucking hurts and I love that it hurts because it reminds me just how much I love you.”


“And I just… fuck, Jask, I don’t need you to forgive me but I need you to know how fucking sorry I am for the shit I said. On that gods-damned mountain and before. Every time I denied you were my friend, every time I insulted your singing, every time I made you feel like shit, I’m so fucking sorry. Gods, I’m so-”

Jaskier cuts him off by surging forward and looping his arm around Geralt’s shoulders, pressing his lips to the Witcher’s insistently. Geralt’s tears drip onto Jaskier’s cheeks and smear across the bard’s skin but Jaskier doesn’t move to wipe it away as he rests his forehead against Geralt’s, only pulling his mouth away enough to speak clearly, “Geralt, shut the fuck up, you utter goose. I forgave you the moment you walked in here looking like you thought the boogeyman was going to leap out of my lute case and maul you. You’re so fucking stupid, I can’t believe I’m in love with you.” Jaskier sounds exasperated but when Geralt opens his eyes he sees the bright, crooked grin that Jaskier is wearing and his eyes are watery and bloodshot from his own tears and Geralt’s never thought Jaskier looked more beautiful than right now.

“I love you,” Geralt rasps, wrapping his arms around Jaskier and pulling him close again, “I love you so much.”

“Gee, I couldn’t tell.”

“You’re such a bitch and I love you so much.”

Jaskier snorts then, an ugly and startling sound as he throws his head back to loudly laugh with pure, unfettered joy and gods does Geralt love him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over just how much he loves this man and even if he could Geralt doesn’t want to anyway. He lowers his head and mouths at the exposed column of Jaskier’s neck and the bard’s laughter soon turns to breathy gasps and moans as he shudders beneath Geralt’s attentive touch.

Geralt crawls up onto the desk to straddle Jaskier’s thighs as he kisses his beloved within an inch of his life, trying to carefully nudge aside a stack of books with his knee so he doesn’t pinch the outside of the bard’s leg between his knee and the desk and Jaskier pulls back to see what’s distracting Geralt before rolling his eyes irritably and just shoving the books off of the desk. 

They crash to the ground noisily and Geralt grins as he ducks down to keep kissing Jaskier and he murmurs against the bard’s lips, “Impatient.”

“I’ve been waiting fucking years, Geralt, dear. The books will live, my patience for you to get a move on and fuck me wears thin.”

Geralt can’t stop the pleased groan that slips into his next question as he teases, “And if I wanted you to fuck me?”

Jaskier blushes dark red but he defiantly meets Geralt’s gaze, “Then I’d be happy to oblige, dear Witcher. Is that what you desire?”

He feels another rush of arousal at Jaskier’s easy answer, his cock hard and leaking against the bard’s thigh, “Some other time.”

“Oh, you expect there to be another time?” Jaskier grins cheekily, “I dunno, I only revisit the beds of people I’m impressed with.” 

“This is a desk,” Geralt growls darkly, one hand already reaching for the bottle of oil while the other grips Jaskier’s hip tightly enough to bruise.

“Better make it good then.”

The Witcher glares at his bard, accepting the challenge without a second thought. If Jaskier wants a good fucking then Geralt’s going to give Jaskier the best gods-damned fuck of the bard’s life. He’s confident he can do it, too, despite the bard’s sexual prowess and extensive experience, since he doubts any of those people know Jaskier as well as Geralt does. 

Geralt deeply kisses Jaskier again as he slides the bard’s smallclothes off his hips and Jaskier sighs wantonly into the Witcher’s mouth before Geralt moves away and gets off the desk to slip the cotton down Jaskier’s long legs. Geralt caresses Jaskier’s calves as he looks up at the bard, his mouth going a bit dry for a moment before starting to water as he eyes Jaskier’s hard cock where it rests against the bard’s belly. Jaskier has propped himself up on his elbows again to watch Geralt with a tender smile and even softer eyes that are still dark with lust and Geralt’s own prick throbs with need.

He hooks his hands behind Jaskier’s knees and pulls him suddenly to the edge of the desk again until the bard’s ass is half off and he’s laying back again, his elbows having slipped out from under him in surprise. Jaskier gasps and shivers from the manhandling and Geralt stands up again, uncorking the bottle of oil and drizzling some of it into his palm. Jaskier watches with half-lidded eyes, his red lips parted, as Geralt first gives himself a few quick tugs to prepare his cock for later before dripping some more oil onto his fingers.

Geralt sets the bottle aside and Jaskier idly corks it so that it doesn’t spill if it gets knocked over. It’s an almost unconscious action that makes Geralt briefly wonder how many times Jaskier has knocked over bottles of oil and spilled expensive goods in the name of sex and the thought almost makes him smile before he remembers that any time that happened would have been with people who weren’t Geralt and he’s going to show Jaskier that a Witcher is the best sexual partner one can have. And not just any Witcher for Jaskier, but Geralt specifically.

He nudges one of Jaskier’s legs up onto the table and the bard gets the idea, pulling his knee up and bracing his heel against the edge of the desktop. Then, to Geralt’s surprise, he brings his other foot up as well and the Witcher has another portrait of lustful beauty in front of him with Jaskier completely nude and baring himself to Geralt with his knees spread wide.

“Forgot how fucking flexible you are, Jask,” Geralt groans and Jaskier smirks playfully before languidly sitting up without his widespread feet moving so his knees to practically touching his shoulders.

“Told you I spent one of our years apart running with a circus, didn’t I? Now, gimme a kiss, Witcher. Be a gentleman,” Jaskier holds his arm out and Geralt eagerly steps forward to allow the bard to wrap his arm around Geralt’s neck as they kiss slowly, his other hand braced against the desk behind him. Geralt then runs his slick fingers lightly along Jaskier’s perineum and the bard shudders with a moan that’s slightly louder than the ones he was making earlier and Geralt feels a rush of giddy excitement zip down his spine. 

Maybe Jaskier is loud in bed after all, it just requires a certain amount of stimulation for there to be no thoughts in his head anymore before his reactions to become wholly unrestrained. Geralt should have guessed as much, someone like Jaskier whose thoughts are constantly racing and buzzing loudly in his head probably isn’t even aware he’s suppressing his delightful mewls and moans. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge before, especially of this nature, and Geralt is determined to see if his theory is correct.

Geralt lightly rubs his middle finger along the puckered rim of Jaskier’s hole, massaging the tight muscle as the bard groans against Geralt’s lips until it’s relaxed enough for the Witcher to press one finger into Jaskier. The bard gasps and pulls away, closing his eyes tightly as he briefly tenses up instinctively before forcing himself to relax again, his hand gripping Geralt’s shoulder and the Witcher waits until Jaskier opens his eyes again to start moving his finger. 

Fuck ,” Jaskier swears emphatically and his fingers dig into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder not unpleasantly as the Witcher slips a second finger into the tight bard, “ Geralt , shit. Gods, fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“Where’d all your fancy words go, bard?” Geralt teases with a wicked grin as he gently scissors his fingers to stretch Jaskier. The bard gives him a sharp look of annoyance mixed with pleasure.

“Fuck you,” he snarls and goes to say something else, probably something properly insulting since he’s had a moment to think, but Geralt curls his fingers just right so they rub along the bundle of nerves that makes Jaskier jerk and his eyes widen briefly before they screw tightly shut, “ OH , fuck me!” It’s almost a shout and Geralt’s toothy grin widens.

“That’s the plan.”

“Shut up , Geralt.”

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” the Witcher smirks and twists his fingers and Jaskier’s fingernails scratch across Geralt’s shoulder as he balls his hands into fists, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin now and Geralt wants to taste so he leans forward, laving open kisses across Jaskier’s collarbone.

“I swear to all the fucking gods, Geralt, if you don’t shut up .”

“What’re you gonna do, Jask?” Geralt murmurs against his skin and the bard swallows hard, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, “Tell me.”

“You’re such a fucking- FUCK !” Jaskier cries out with his head falling back as Geralt adds a third finger and caresses the nerves in the same motion, “Shit! Gods, oh fuck . Sweet fucking Melitele, fuck my fucking gods.” Jaskier’s pleasured babbling is like the sweetest music to Geralt’s ears as he gleefully pumps his fingers in and out of his bard. The Witcher groans as he takes himself in hand, slowly fisting his aching cock to provide some relief from the delicious noises he’s coaxing out of his bard’s mouth.

“Geralt, shit , Geralt, come on,” Jaskier pants and lifts his head again, forcing his eyes open to look at the Witcher impatiently, “I wanna feel you. Fuck, I want your cock in me, Witcher. Come on .”

“Don’t wanna hurt you, Jask,” Geralt gasps as Jaskier bats the Witcher’s hand away from his cock to replace it with his own long fingers and stroking faster than Geralt had been, setting a comfortable rhythm.

“You won’t, I’m ready. I’ve been ready,” Jaskier gasps and lets out a string of curses as Geralt spreads his fingers again, retaliating by masterfully twisting his wrist each time his hand nears the tip of the Witcher’s length and Geralt shouts wordlessly at the shocks of pleasure that run up his spine. “ Please , Geralt. Gods I’m fucking begging you, fuck me .” Jaskier’s normally fluid voice is rough and wrecked, making his lewd pleas seem more depraved than they are and the last bit of Geralt’s resistance dissipates.

Geralt slips his fingers out of the bard and Jaskier whines for half a second before his brain catches up and he opens his eyes to look at his Witcher. Geralt’s not going to last if Jaskier’s watching him with such a concupiscent expression so he carefully but quickly maneuvers the bard so that he’s bent over the desk instead, his legs spread and his ass presented to Geralt so nicely that the Witcher takes a moment to appreciate it before he takes himself in hand and holds Jaskier’s hip with the other, pressing the tip of his cock against the bard’s prepped hole.

Jaskier inhales sharply and shudders with a low moan and holding still but when Geralt doesn’t advance further he pushes his hips back against the Witcher and the head of Geralt’s cock slips in with a silent pop and Jaskier grabs the edge of the desk in front of him, his mouth hanging open as he breathes unevenly. Geralt forces himself to stay still no matter how badly he wants to keep going, letting the bard lead at the moment to avoid injury.

After a few moments that’s probably only thirty seconds but feels like thirty years, Jaskier huffs a breath and then another one, getting his breathing back under control before moving his hips slowly. He pushes back more against Geralt and his shoulder blades stick out like wings from the way he sags on his forearms, clasping his hands together and letting his head hang down to rest on them. Geralt mildly starts to worry as he hasn’t heard a sound from Jaskier since he swapped his hand for his cock but Jaskier continues to press back, taking Geralt bit by bit until the Witcher is fully seated in the bard’s tight heat and Geralt moans in appreciation. 

His hands hold Jaskier’s hips and he rubs his thumbs over the bard’s delightful cheeks and up to settle them in the dimples at the base of his spine. There’s a few moments of silence punctuated only by their combined breathing and Geralt decides to voice his uncertainty, “Jask-”

Jaskier interrupts him with a loud, lascivious groan and an obscene wiggle of his hips, “ Move , fuck.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice and he tightens his grip on the bard’s hips before moving his own, starting with slow and shallow thrusts until he feels the last bits of tense friction disappear. Geralt’s hips move harder and faster as he develops an intense rhythm that Jaskier is taking immense pleasure in as he writhes beneath Geralt, his hands unable to remain still and fluttering between clasping together, grabbing the edge of the desk, or gripping his own hair all while his babbling increases in volume the closer he gets to his climax.

Fuck , Geralt, you’re so fucking big, feels so fucking good. Shit , fuck, mother fuck ing cocksucker. Gods above you, fuck me , you’re so good, Witch -- fuck, fuck -- Witcher. Oh, oh , ah, fuck! Fuck , Geralt, Geralt . Geralt, fuck , gods fucking dammit. Shitting, fuck , fuck, FUCK me! Gods, ah ! Geralt ! Fuck , Geralt! Motherfucking fuck , Geralt, fuck !”

The obscenities spilling from Jaskier’s mouth which so often prefers to throw crafted insults over crude words that Geralt ever rarely hears Jaskier swear, paired with the way he’s moaning and groaning and nearly shouting the Witcher’s name, drive him to fuck the bard harder and deeper. His fingers are certainly bruising on Jaskier’s hips but the bard doesn’t complain, pushing back against Geralt with each thrust and rolling his hips lecherously when he’s able to. Geralt is panting and shouting just as much as Jaskier and he feels the pooled heat in his gut tightening and his rhythm starting to become sloppy so he moves the oiled hand from Jaskier’s hip to the bard’s cock, stroking it in time with his hips.

FUCK ! Oh, fuck! Fuck! Ah, ah , fuck ! Fuck, gods, fuck! Mother fucker ! Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck fuckfuckFUCK, GERALT !” Jaskier positively screams Geralt’s name out as he grabs the edge of the desk in a white-knuckled grip, his back arching into the surface of it and his head tossing back as he comes with a violent shudder before dropping bonelessly atop the desk. 

“Fuck, Jask!” Geralt shouts with a groan as Jaskier climaxes on his cock, getting a few more wild thrusts in before burying himself in the bard’s ass and coming with a wordless cry, bending forward to rest his forehead between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. He releases his hold on the bard but doesn’t pull out yet, resting his forearms on the desk to support his weight as he starts pressing lazy kisses to Jaskier’s spine.

After a few moments Jaskier stirs and hums absently to signify his return to awareness before opening his mouth and saying quietly but meaningfully, “ fuck .”

Geralt grins against Jaskier’s skin and nods slightly, “Yeah.”

“Alright, you win,” the bard murmurs, sounding dazed, “You’ve impressed me.”

“So you’ll be revisiting my bed?”

“I’ve gotta finish out the term first, but then I suppose I can resign from my position,” Jaskier yawns softly, “Teaching’s boring anyway.”

Geralt blinks as the meaning of Jaskier’s words sinks in and his smile brightens, “You’ll travel with me again?”

“Seems you’re short a traveling bard so I humbly offer myself to fill that position,” Jaskier lifts his head and folds his arms beneath it so he can see Geralt over his shoulder and giving him a playful, if tired, wink, “Also, I guess I love you or something.”

Geralt laughs and presses his lips to Jaskier’s, the kiss soft and loving and over far too soon because the Witcher can’t stop grinning as he looks at the beautiful man he gets to call his lover, “I love you, too.”

Geralt stayed with Jaskier in the staff apartments for the last week of the term and they spend much of their time in the bard’s soft bed together since that’s sort of the only new part of their relationship. Sex was already one of Geralt’s favorite pasttimes, but sex with Jaskier is a whole nother level and quickly becomes his very favorite. He loves discovering new little things about his bard that he didn’t know before, which he does all the time anyway because that’s just how Jaskier is, but finding all the little ways to pleasure his love is something that brings fierce pride to his chest. 

How many people can say they know Jaskier’s favorite position is riding Geralt’s lap while chest to chest with the Witcher because Jaskier likes feeling Geralt’s slow heartbeat when his own is racing? Who all can boast that pulling Jaskier’s hair just hard enough to smart while he’s on his knees giving Geralt head against a wall will result in the bard using the strength he so rarely shares and lifting the Witcher’s legs one at a time over his shoulders and bracing his deceptively strong hands against the backs of Geralt’s thighs? Which, if any, of Jaskier’s past lovers can lay claim to the knowledge of a pressure point in the bard’s lower back from an old injury that makes Jaskier go completely boneless when Geralt digs his thumb into it?

And that’s just the beginning, that’s just what Geralt has learned in a week. Imagine what he can learn in the next 200 years.

After Jaskier’s last lecture but before they leave the Academy to blaze trails unknown together once more, Jaskier tells Geralt he needs to swing by a different lecture hall to say goodbye to the professor and then they can leave. Geralt shrugs and follows Jaskier a few doors down, having spent the time not fucking Jaskier or exercising Roach sitting in on Jaskier’s lectures.

Jaskier pushes open the door to the other lecture hall and a slightly nasally baritone is singing a song that sounds suspiciously like one of Jaskiers, it has the same markers in it that Jaskier puts into many of his songs so they’re identifiable as his own even while being different from one another, but it isn’t a piece Geralt recognizes. It’s also not as good as Jaskier’s current works so if it is one of his bard’s, it’s an older piece.

Geralt follows Jaskier into the hall which is only a quarter of the way full of students, and two thirds of the present students look bored out of their minds. A very different environment from Jaskier’s classes, which were always full with students hanging onto Professor Pankratz’s every word. The bard singing is a man who looks around mid-forties, the age Jaskier should be, with curly blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and a hideous handlebar mustache that the tips of are slicked with wax to curl upwards. The bard is shorter than Jaskier, dressed in yellow silks that are gaudier than anything Jaskier’s ever worn and make him look washed out, and has pale gray eyes and the already unpleasant smile on his thin lips dissolves into a sneer at the sight of Jaskier’s grinning face. The bored students all perk up at Jaskier’s arrival, eager expressions blooming throughout the room.

“Julian,” the bard in yellow tosses his long hair back condescendingly.

“Valdo,” Jaskier greets pleasantly, “Sounds like you’re still playing my songs, then?” Geralt looks at the yellow bard again with distaste, this must be the infamous Valdo Marx, troubadour of Cidaris and blah blah blah. Geralt’s been around the block a few times when Jaskier is confronting other bards so he leans against the wall by the door and crosses his arms, they’re gonna be there a while as the bards swap cleverly crafted insults disguised as compliments and conversation while posturing like spitting cats until one of them storms off, leaving the other the champion.

“I haven’t the faintest what you mean, dear. Last I heard you were writing simple drinking songs for the rabble to sing along with you, after all, I know how you like your backup vocals,” Valdo Marx smirks and sets aside his lute while Geralt watches with mild interest. 

He’s aware of the insults there, a master bard should never need backup vocals and if they sing with other bards it’s to accompany and accentuate pieces. Marx also insulted Jaskier’s intelligence and songwriting ability with the mention of drinking songs as though they’re lesser than the ballad Marx was wailing when they arrived.

Geralt turns his eyes onto Jaskier, who has approached while Marx was speaking, and wonders what devastating insult is brewing in that clever brain of his. Jaskier smiles politely and opens his mouth:

“Go fuck yourself, Valdo,” he says cheerfully before reeling back and solidly punching Valdo Marx across the jaw. 

The students leap to their feet and start wildly cheering and hollering as Marx collapses and Geralt watches with a stunned expression as Jaskier walks to the desk while whistling the same melody Marx was playing but at a faster tempo, so instead of a lamenting ballad it’s more of a jaunty tune. He opens the drawers one by one until he finds an old notebook and tucks his under his arm, flipping Marx off as he walks past the groaning bard on his way back to Geralt’s side.

“Ready to go, my love?” his bard links arms with Geralt and the Witcher blinks in shock before shaking his head with a smile that’s equal parts fond and exasperated.

“You never cease to surprise me, songbird.”

“Well, if I did then I wouldn’t be able to maintain much of my air of mystery anymore, now would I?” Jaskier winks playfully as they leave the lecture hall and head for the stables where Roach is already saddled and ready to go.

“Hmm, I wouldn’t call it an air of mystery,” Geralt teases, “You’re more a feral bastard than anything.”

Jaskier gapes at him for a moment before his blue eyes crinkle with mirth and he grins, “You know? I can work with that.”


Mothers used to tell their children / you’ll be gifted to Witchers if you don’t work hard / but the reality is this / beware their feral bastard bard