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1)
A heavy hand settles on Jaskier's shoulder just as he bends down to collect the lute case full of coins from this evening’s performance.
“Bard,” an unfamiliar voice barks, spinning him around so quickly he almost loses his balance.
There are three men in front of him, tall and broad-shouldered, arms crossed in front of their chests, all wearing similar expressions of impending murder.
“Um?” he stutters, taking a step back but bumping against his lute case and rolling his ankle. The sudden pain spiking up his leg distracts him a moment too long. The three men close in on him.
“You were with our sister last night,” one of them grounds out. The others’ expressions darken dangerously.
Uh-oh.
“I certainly was not,” Jaskier replies quickly, a reply that’s second nature by now. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like a simple denial will cut it this time. “Look, gentlemen…” He takes another step back, just past his lute case, chancing a glance towards the back exit.
It’s too far, way too far, even if his ankle wasn’t throbbing dully in the aftermath of his clumsiness.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Where is the Witcher when he needs him? There’s supposed to be a Geralt-shaped shadow in the darkest corner of the room, but of course, there isn’t. Not when Jaskier needs him to be there, anyway.
“We swore to our da’ on his dying day that we’d keep those of your ilk far away from her.” –
“But you, you cockroach, defiled her,” the middle brother spits, the fabric of his ugly ochre tunic creaking as he flexes his muscles.
“Ah, no good sirs. I did not defile- seduce your sister. I don’t even know who your sister is, so I can’t possibly –”
Ochre-tunic stabs a finger in his direction. “You’re the bard. Vlodimir said he saw her flirting with the bard.”
“Oh, well, that is a rather generic description. There are tons of bards out there, and none of them quite as talented –” The men’s expressions darken even further, and Jaskier feels his mouth go dry. “Please, good sirs, you have the wrong man. We only just arrived this afternoon, different bard, not me –” he tries again.
“Liar!
“We’re going to tan your hide!”
Hastily, Jaskier steps back again, entangling his foot with the leg of the table, and this time, he would have fallen if a strong arm had not been wrapped around his waist, keeping him upright. Without even looking up, he knows who’s behind him. The man whose touch he would know everywhere, even in the dark.
Instantly, Jaskier relaxes into him. Geralt is here. It will be alright.
“What’s the matter, gentlemen?” Geralt asks in his most polite voice, smooth as pebbles on the river bank.
“The bard ruined our sister’s honour,” the bearded man barks, flexing his muscles, but he doesn’t come closer, thankfully impressed by Geralt’s bulk.
“Hm,” Geralt says in true Geralt-fashion, and some of Jaskier’s relief of having him by his side fades. The Witcher is not known for being able to talk his way out of things. And they really don’t need another tavern they’re banned from due to brawling –
Fine, maybe Jaskier started those because people called Geralt a mutant-freak, but details.
“When is that supposed to have happened?” the Witcher asks very calmly, pressing Jaskier a tiny bit closer to his side, ready to push in front of him should the situation escalate.
His darling, protective Witcher.
“Last night,” one of them replies.
“Now, give us the bard so he gets what he deserves,” the ochre-tunic guy growls.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Geralt begins, and just as the brothers open their mouths to shout or possibly attack, he adds, “Because my husband spent last night in bed with me.”
Something burns right through Jaskier, catching his breath in his throat for a moment.
The silence that follows is eerie in the full tavern. The attention of every patron is fixed on the spectacle in front of them, hungry for the drama, and they all heard what Geralt said.
Jaskier’s heart misses a beat, and he presses a little closer to Geralt, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention.
“Exactly. What he said. My, uh…,” Jaskier stammers.
“Husband,” the Witcher supplies helpfully, pressing a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head.
It’s only Jaskier’s bardic training that helps him keep his act together in that moment. “Riiiiight, yes, you see, with such a husband – I mean, have you looked at these bloated muscles?” he touches Geralt’s arm and blinks up at him full of youthful adoration, which is not hard to muster, even in a situation like this. Jaskier always adores this man, even covered in selkie guts. “How could I have been the one you’re looking for when I spent last night being thoroughly defiled by my husband.”
He winks at the men whose faces express three different shades of scarlet.
“But you –”
“He –”
“If you would leave my husband and me to our well-deserved rest now,” Geralt says quickly before the three brothers can regain their composure, leading Jaskier past them without problem.
They disappear up the stairs before anyone in the tavern even manages to move.
*
Later, when they’ve changed into their sleep clothes and the fire crackles warm and friendly in the hearth, Jaskier takes all his courage together and asks, “Do we... do we talk about this?”
Because Geralt called him husband. And he kissed his head. Jaskier can still feel it where his lips touched him, like a brand on top of his head, a good burn.
Geralt glances up from where he is checking over his armour for tomorrow’s hunt. “What’s there to talk about? You needed help.”
“Uh, right.” Jaskier rubs his neck. “Right. Only…”
Geralt arches a single eyebrow, golden eyes glowing in the firelight.
“Of course. A favour, then.”
Geralt tilts his head in acknowledgement, then proceeds to check over his armour, fingers tracing over studded leather. Jaskier watches him for a long moment, then shrugs and decides to take Geralt’s words at face value. Only a favour among friends.
However much Jaskier wishes it were otherwise.
*
*
*
2)
Geralt has only just sat down when the barmaid pops up next to him. Her intense stare had been following him across the room, and he isn’t sure if it’s disgust, hate, or desire that had her riled up like this. In his vast experience, it’s usually one of the former. Pity. He was really looking forward to a cold ale.
Yet, breathing in, the Witcher notices that she doesn’t smell like hate at all, no burned sugar in her scent, nor the sour tang of disgust. Instead, there’s a hint of cinnamon entangled in her smell that suggests lust. She’s pretty enough, he supposes, braided blond hair, cornflower eyes; but Geralt is not looking for quick lay right now. He has only just cleaned up from the hunt and his skin is still hyper-sensitive from the potions he took. That and strangers are never a good mix, something he learned the hard way.
“What can I do for you?” the barmaid asks in a sultry voice, leaning over to offer him a good view of her cleavage.
“Ale,” Geralt forces out, doing his best to look as uninterested as possible.
“Only that?” she asks. “I’d be off in two hours, and I could offer you much more than an ale.”
He chances a quick glance up at her and regrets it instantly as her smile widens. “Just the ale, thanks.”
“Oh my, aren’t you a pretty thing. These muscles, hmmmm,” she hums to herself and something in Geralt’s stomach curls unpleasantly. “I have always wanted to bed a Witcher. They say you’re physically enhanced. That true?”
Geralt shifts a little away from her, grunting a noncommittal response. He’s really not in the mood for those who look for the excitement and danger of bedding a Witcher.
“I wonder…”
Geralt almost flinches as he feels her finger trail down his arm.
“Are all parts of your anatomy… enhanced?”
Geralt chokes on air, feeling a weird sort of fight-or-flight reflex in him activate. Her closeness is making him uncomfortable, even though she’s just human, just a woman. He could kill her with the strike of a hand… and yet, right now, she’s as formidable an obstacle as any monster he could face. Because he really wanted a good meal tonight, a soft bed to sleep in after the hunt.
Unfortunately, he knows this world well enough to know that sometimes he has to pay other things than coin for that.
“So, what say you –” the woman begins, but is interrupted by the appearance of a colourful bard who places himself right in Geralt’s lap.
“Hello, my darling, how was your day?” Jaskier asks, one thumb rubbing a soothing circle on his back where the woman can’t see. With a side glance at the barmaid, as though he only just noticed her, he adds, “An ale for my husband and me, please.”
The barmaid frowns, her eyes flicking between them, still close enough that Geralt can smell what she had for lunch. As though answering her unasked question, Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him a little closer. The affection comes easily this time, easier than in the town a few weeks back, and he presses a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek.
The scent of Jaskier’s joy turns so strong it drowns out all other smells, apples dunked in honey, and Geralt could happily submerge himself in that smell. He barely notices the barmaid leave, basking in Jaskier’s joy and comfort.
When the bard moves to slide from his lap, Geralt keeps him in place.
*
Later, as they’re walking down the sun-warmed cobblestones, Jaskier asks, “Was that alright? The- The- What I said.”
“Hm,” Geralt agrees pleasantly. More than fine, actually. He needed help, and Jaskier was there to give it.
Yet, Jaskier for once doesn’t seem content by his monosyllabic reply. “You looked so uncomfortable, and I wanted to give you an out, and last time, that worked, so I thought… and you know, a favour for a fav-…“
“Bard,” Geralt interrupts him gently, stopping in the middle of the road and putting a meaningful hand on his shoulder. “It was fine.”
The other man exhales in relief, a smile blooming on his face. “Right. Right. I’m glad.” His sapphire eyes twinkle with mirth. “I would make a fine husband, if I may say so myself.”
Geralt huffs a laugh and turns away to stride towards the alderman’s house, quietly agreeing to Jaskier’s words. A fine husband, indeed.
*
*
*
3)
“And I’ve told you, all rooms are booked,” the innkeeper drawls, clearly annoyed by Jaskier’s repeated question. She brushes her red curls behind her ears, glares at Jaskier one more time, then pointedly turns towards the ledger in front of her.
“Problems?” Geralt asks gently, sidling up next to Jaskier. The bard hasn’t heard him enter; silent as a cat, that man.
“This fine lady keeps telling me that all rooms are booked when I can clearly see one key still dangling there.” Jaskier sighs dramatically. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“What’s the matter with that room?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier has to applaud him for keeping most of the grumpiness from his tone.
The innkeeper glances up, takes Geralt in within a moment, then shrugs, clearly unbothered by his broody Witcheriness. “That’s the honeymoon suite. Only for newlyweds or married couples.”
“Ah, but –” Jaskier begins, yet Geralt interrupts him,
“Lucky us. My husband and I only got married on the summer solstice.” He lifts Jaskier’s hand, kissing his knuckles, and the bard can’t help the blush that spreads all over his face.
“So what will this cost us, madam?” Geralt asks smoothly, not a hint of hesitation in his tone.
The innkeeper looks between them and Jaskier feels very hot under her gaze. He’s acutely aware that he’s still holding Geralt’s hand, and the Witcher doesn’t seem inclined to let him go any moment soon.
“Right, boys. Twenty Oren. If you wreck the bed, you pay for it,” she says.
Geralt slides the coin over without so much as a flinch, even though it’s as much as he earns for a small nest of nekkers, but Jaskier spots that the tips of his ears have turned pink.
Interesting.
Is it the mention of bed-wrecking or just the embarrassing amount of coin that has him so flustered?
“Much obliged, good lady,” the bard chimes in, sending the woman a dazzling smile.
She rolls her eyes and slaps the key on the counter. “I meant what I said. Bath will be up in a moment.” With that, she turns away again, leaving the two men to collect their key and bags.
*
It’s a fine room, more lavish than anywhere they ever stayed before together.
Jaskier instantly drops backwards onto the wide bed. “Ah,” he groans in pleasure. “Thank you so much, Geralt. This was just what I needed.”
There’s only silence from the other end of the room, and reluctantly, Jaskier props himself up on his elbows to look at his friend. Geralt is staring at him with the weirdest expression on his face – a little like that one time when Jaskier stole three hundred Crowns from a bandit camp while Geralt was busy battling said bandits – awe, almost reverence in his golden eyes.
Jaskier pats the spot beside him. “Come here. The mattress is the softest, most wonderful mattress I’ve ever had the pleasure of lying on with you.” Remembering Geralt’s adorable blush from before, he adds a little wink at the end.
“Hm,” Geralt hums, dropping his bags in the corner and kicking his boots off.
“Oh, come on, Witcher. I’d be up for some bed-wrecking,” he says, only half-joking. He would be, if Geralt wanted to. He totally would be.
What he doesn’t expect, however, is for his friend to suddenly turn towards him and pounce.
Geralt is across the room in a flash and on the bed, leaning over Jaskier in the most seductive manner the bard has ever seen him move, elbows bracketing Jaskier’s head. The bard’s breath hitches, his mouth suddenly dry as he looks up at the other man.
Geralt isn’t touching him at all, a few terrible inches of space between them, and yet, Jaskier feels trapped, but in a good way. The Witcher is close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off him, and a shiver of something travels all over his body, almost like goosebumps. The smell of summer dust and leather and Geralt envelops him, which does absolutely nothing to calm his racing heart.
“Are you?” Geralt challenges.
He clearly expects to be refused, for Jaskier to laugh and play it off as a joke, and it’s exactly that expectation that makes him hesitate. Does Geralt want this or not? Does he feel the same heat in his belly, the same urge to touch, to kiss?
“I…” Jaskier croaks, hands fluttering up to reach for Geralt’s cheeks.
Yet, before he can make contact, Geralt rolls out of the way, evading his touch as elegantly as he evaded the attack of a Kikimora last week.
A sense of loss washes over Jaskier, so overwhelming that he can’t move for a moment, can’t breathe, bound by Geralt’s absence. He knows deep in his heart of hearts that this had been his only chance, right there, right at his fingertips, and he missed it.
“I’m not paying for the bed, bard,” Geralt says. “But I’m sure you’ll find someone else’s bed to wreck.”
“Right,” Jaskier replies, through a dry throat, covering his eyes with his arm. “I will.”
The only problem is, he doesn’t want to find anyone else’s bed. This whole husband fabrication has really messed with his head. It’s time they quit that.
*
*
*
4)
The sound of Jaskier’s voice takes a moment to filter through to Geralt, the extremely loud pounding of his own heart almost drowning out the bard’s voice.
“Geralt? Geralt! Are you okay? Geralt, please –”
“Shut up!” another voice barks.
Gods, his head hurts, hurts like a couple of trolls are dancing on top of it, each stomp a shiver of pain down his spine. It takes him longer than it should to recall what happened…
Wraith hunt, a couple of them.
That explains the pain in his shoulder and the throbbing of his broken ribs. And then… bandits. Right. They ambushed the camp just as Geralt dragged himself in, bleeding and high on potions.
“Geralt, answer me. Come on, don’t bleed out in front of me. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? Darling? Darling, please –”
This time, the command to shut up is followed up by the sound of flesh on flesh, and Geralt jolts. They’re hitting Jaskier. Fuck. He just needs a moment, one moment, then he’ll open his eyes and take the bandits apart, limb from limb. Just one more moment of rest.
He knows they’re still at the camp. He can hear Roach nearby and smell the woodruff that grows everywhere around them.
His face is uncomfortably smashed against the earthy ground, and when he tries to find a better position, he realises that someone tied his arms behind his back. Luckily, the knots are sloppy, lose. Nothing a bit of Witcher strength won’t fix. They probably believed him half-dead.
Well, given the pain in his shoulder and head, the wooziness of his thoughts, the heaviness in his limbs, he’s probably not very far from unconsciousness or worse. He must’ve lost a lot of blood.
Not that that would stop him. He fought a wyvern with a broken arm. A bit of bloodloss never stopped a Witcher, not a twice-grassed one like him anyway, not when they captured Jaskier as well.
“Geralt, please- shit, fuck, please. Wake up, you stubborn fool of a Witcher.”
Despite himself, Geralt smiles, blinking one eye up at Jaskier.
The bard is kneeling beside Geralt, hands tied behind his back. There’s a bruise forming on his right cheek and he’s bleeding from a split lip, but otherwise he seems unharmed. A little dishevelled, leaves in his hair and dirt on his doublet, but unharmed.
There are two bandits behind Jaskier, rummaging through Geralt’s saddle bags, one bandit towering over Jaskier – the one who must’ve hit him and the one who’ll die slowest – and one more heartbeat somewhere behind Geralt.
“Thank Melitele. I thought you were dead. Fuck.” Jaskier bows forward, then hesitates, almost like he wants to help Geralt up and remembers his tied arms at the last moment. “Come on, can’t you see he’s bleeding. He needs help. You can have my coin, everything, but –”
A heavy boot lands in Jaskier’s ribs, and the bard keels over with a wheezing sound.
“For the last time, shut up!”
“But he’s bleeding,” Jaskier chokes out, and Geralt wishes the idiot would just heed their advice and shut up.
“And I can make you bleed,” the bandit threatens. “Why do you care anyway? Mutant your boyfriend?”
The other bandits let out a chorus of mocking laughter that rains down on them like ice water.
A truly terrifying expression settles on Jaskier’s face, a disdain that makes Geralt shudder, even though it’s not aimed at him.
“Geralt is not my boyfriend, nor is he a mutant,” Jaskier spits, voice trembling with something Geralt’s confused brain can’t name. “This man is more to me than you can dream. He’s the air I breathe and the earth I stand on. His heart overflows with the kindness of which this world is not worthy of, his soul shines as golden as his eyes.” Jaskier’s gaze snaps from the bandit to Geralt, looking him right in the eyes, piercing him to his core. “I love this man beyond measure and reason. So, I will let you know that Geralt is not my boyfriend, he’s my fucking husband.”
There’s sincerity in every syllable, not a trace of deceit in his sapphire eyes, and Geralt feels something hot lodge in his throat. It burns down his chest and into his belly, spreading warmth everywhere it goes, dulling the pain in his ribs, soothing the throbbing of his head. He shouldn’t feel so good as he does right now, surrounded by bandits and in danger of bleeding out, but he’s pretty sure this feeling is happiness. Happiness and love.
Suddenly, Geralt finds that he can move, and he surges forward, and Jaskier meets him halfway. Their lips meet like a spark meets tinder, like destiny, and they’re up in flames.
Geralt never thought Jaskier would taste so good, so sweet, but by the gods, it’s the best taste, even with the trace of blood from his split lip, his lips softer than Geralt imagined, his moan the most delicious sound Geralt ever heard.
Geralt’s fingers itch to reach for him, but the restraints are holding him back. There are still too many inches of space between them that he can’t bridge, and it hurts as much as the kiss soothes, and he fights against them, tries to lean forward, to get more, to get all of Jaskier –
But then, there are hands on his body pulling back, and Geralt screams as his hurt shoulder is manhandled.
“Geralt!” Jaskier cries out –
And the world descends into madness.
*
Later, when the bandits are dispatched of, and Geralt’s shoulder is bandaged, and his headache soothed by Swallow, when Jaskier’s lip is cleaned and his bruises treated and he’s looted everything of worth off the bandits, that’s when Geralt is lying with his head in Jaskier’s lap, staring at the flickering flames of their campfire.
Jaskier is carding through Geralt’s hair, curling it around his fingers and Geralt feels himself sinking into that soft space he sometimes goes to after a hunt, when he’s safe and warm and healed. He’s hyper-aware of Jaskier’s body, of his slightly too fast heartbeat, of his honeyed-apple smell tinged with a bit of nervousness.
“Are you mad at me?” Jaskier asks finally, the back of his hand brushing over Geralt’s cheek so tenderly it makes him yearn for more, more touches, more gentleness.
“Because you provoked the bandits? Hell, yes,” Geralt says, turning his head to look up at Jaskier. His blue eyes are almost black in the darkness, his pupils as wide as they would go.
“That’s not exactly what I meant.”
“Hm,” Geralt hums, catching Jaskier’s hand just before it can retreat and brushing a kiss to his palm. When he glances up, Jaskier eyes are wide, a stiffness to his shoulders that suggests shock. Without breaking eye contact, Geralt presses another kiss to the vulnerable inside of his wrist, and Jaskier shudders.
“Oh,” he breathes, his features softening into something so vulnerable Geralt can never un-see it again. “Oh, darling.”
And all Geralt can do is press another kiss to his wrist, hoping that tells Jaskier everything he needs to know. And by the expression on his face, it does.
*
*
*
5)
They arrive at Kaer Morhen in the middle of a snowstorm. Of course, they do. First, Geralt delayed them with some last minute contracts, and then Jaskier slowed their pace with his inconvenient humanness.
Jaskier is too tired and too cold to take in anything of the ancient keep, all his thoughts focused on the warm fire he was promised.
Yet, for some inconceivable reason, the other Wolf Witchers think it’s a perfectly polite thing to question the new arrivals the moment they set foot into the cobbled stone of Kaer Morhen’s courtyard.
“Geralt, wolf, good to see you made it after all,” an older, grey-haired Witcher says. “And I see you brought company.”
Jaskier tugs his cloak a little tighter around his neck, cursing the bitter northwind that wants to steal all his warmth, and takes another step forward to greet the man, who can only be Vesemir, head of the Wolf school.
“Look what the wolf dragged in,” a tall redhead mocks, stepping up beside Vesemir to scowl at Jaskier.
“Is that the bard?” another Witcher asks, throwing Jaskier curious glances from where he’s taking the saddle bags off Roach. Broad, scarred, with a mop of chocolate brown hair, the dark mirror image of Geralt.
“This,” Geralt says, stepping up beside Jaskier and taking frozen fingers in his, “is my husband, Jaskier.”
The redhead’s mouth falls open while the older Witcher beside him looks like Geralt just announced he wants to take up drumming as a profession. The third Witcher sniggers into Roach’s mane.
Jaskier, however, can’t feel the cold anymore. He glances up at Geralt who meets his gaze with the softest look the Witcher can wear, made softer somehow by the snow whirling around them, his eyes like molten amber. Suddenly, Jaskier’s chest is too tight for his heart, and happiness steals all the words from his tongue.
To think Geralt teased him for being a romantic after the speech he gave. And now, here he is, as romantic as any bard can ever hope to be.
A smile splits Jaskier’s face wide open, and he feels his frozen lips crack, but he doesn’t care. He reaches out to cup Geralt’s cold cheek, and the Witcher allows Jaskier to pull him down into a kiss, right here in front of everyone, in front of his family.
Jaskier knows he must smell so much like love that it’s nauseating; yet, Geralt just pulls him closer into his body, into the warmth and shelter of his arms, and kisses him back.
At this moment, Jaskier thinks he might be the luckiest man alive. Right after Geralt, of course, who certainly managed to snatch up the finest husband the Continent had to offer.