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“care to tell me what has your breeches in such a twist?”
geralt has been prowling around their campsite for a good few hours, snarling and muttering under his breath, pacing with a fierce frown on his fine features. jaskier had, at first, been content with allowing the witcher to throw his tantrum, but now it was beginning to impact on his creative process.
the witcher’s body grows rigid and tense upon hearing jaskier's question, and he turns to the bard with his lips curled back, sharp teeth on show.
“i’m,” he begins to say, rolling his shoulders back as he flexes his hands, “restless.”
and jaskier tilts his head, because he had expected a plethora of answers, but certainly not that one.
“you’re restless,” he echoes flatly, placing his ink-stained parchment aside so he can give the witcher his undivided attention. it’s charming, utterly and simply charming, how geralt's expression melts into one of awkward mortification, how he tears his gaze away as his hands curl up into tight little fists.
“that last fight,” he begins to explain, “it’s left me feeling... unable to settle.”
his last fight had been against a pack of ghouls who had been shockingly easy to eliminate - though the farmer, who had reported them originally to geralt, had paid him handsomely, he had also embellished his troubles greatly. the witcher had taken a potion, had prepared himself for a great, lengthy battle...
and had been resolutely disappointed by the confrontation which actually took place. though his face has settled back into its normal appearance, his body still burns and his skin crawls and his heart aches to pound with a fierce beat. it’s left him unable to settle, unable to simply sit and allow his mind to calm; it’s, altogether, incredibly aggravating.
“ah,” jaskier utters knowingly, with a small smile, “you’re riddled with adrenaline - my darling, would you like me to help you burn some of that excess energy off?”
and geralt pauses in his tracks,
throws the bard a contemplative look.
in response, jaskier cocks his head and bats his eyes - allows his legs to open the merest distance as he wets his lips. it’s a silent invitation, but it’s screamingly loud and he wants the witcher to take, because they’ve done this before and it’s always left them both meltingly satiated.
but then geralt furrows his brows and shakes his head.
“it’s not a fuck i want,” he says, returning to his pacing, “and i’ll probably hurt you in the act - i don’t want that.”
jaskier purses his lips, all jest fleeing his mind as concern takes its place. his darling must be horrendously pent up, especially if he feels like a little carnal pleasure won’t aid his ailment. so the bard sighs, flicks his gaze around in hopes of finding something that will help him soothe his witcher’s woes. roach snorts, whinnies as she throws her head back and as jaskier turns to see what has her so startled, his eyes catch the gleam of geralt's swords, tucked in her saddle.
an idea, slow and hesitant, forms in his mind,
could he--
it has been a while--
geralt did say he didn’t want to hurt him--
but,
it wouldn’t hurt to try.
so jaskier rises to his feet, pads towards roach and thanks her for providing such brilliant inspiration. he pets the mare on the neck and takes hold of geralt's swords - lifts them free and hoists them over his shoulder. the steel one is almost too heavy, but the silver one is light, quick and sharp.
it’s perfect for him.
the bard approaches his cagey witcher, whose eyes are closed and whose frown is heavy, and holds out the steel sword - his arm wavers from holding the weighty weapon, but his smile is fixed into place.
“you don’t want a fuck?” he asks, cocking his head with a wicked, sharp grin, “how about a fight?”
geralt pauses, turns to stare at the bard with his brows arched high - jaskier knows that he doesn’t certainly look like a fighter, he’s always been a lover, but such underestimation has always played to his advantage.
“you want to spar with me?” geralt asks, his tone offensively incredulous. jaskier hears the underlining scoff and purses his lips, begins to slowly wave the steel sword in geralt's face.
“would you rather spend the rest of the night pacing like an irritated caged beast?” the bard asks sardonically. the witcher still doesn’t look convinced however, his gaze flicks between the offered sword and the little lark - jaskier rolls his eyes and feels his patience snap, “darling, i’m starting to feel a little insulted - give me some credit and believe me when i say that i know what i’m doing.”
geralt tilts his head,
catches his sword when the bard throws it at him,
and sighs.
“i don’t want to hurt you,” he says again, but he’s already moving into position, his body melting into an offensive posture. jaskier can see that the witcher looks more settled, more at peace with a weapon in his hand - it makes the bard’s heart hurt, knowing that the man feels calmer with a sword than he does with a warm body, but... he simply lets it go.
partly because he’s missed having a sword in his hand too.
“in order to hurt me, you’ll have to keep up with me,” jaskier says confidently, shrugging off his doublet until he’s down to his chemise, “but, if it’ll soothe your fraying nerves, let us aim to disarm, not spill blood.”
and geralt nods, his eyes already intensely focused,
jaskier feels his spine tremble at the sight,
but he refuses to be distracted.
they begin to circle each other, steps slow and deliberate, their eyes scanning each other for the slightest twitch and flinch. however, it becomes apparent that geralt will not make the first move, so once again, jaskier takes it upon himself to act when the witcher will not.
he darts forward, lunging with his blade, but feints at the last second, dancing away from geralt's sword when the man attempts to parry. jaskier twirls to the side, his feet light and nimble, as he connects a glancing blow to the witcher’s thigh using the flat of his sword.
the witcher spins, goes to knock back jaskier's weapon, but the bard is already out of reach - stalking around geralt's body and stepping back quickly to safety.
“lucky shot,” the witcher rumbles, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
jaskier clucks his tongue and shakes his head.
“my darling,” he says, flicking his sword above his head and bringing it down in a graceful arch towards geralt - the witcher easily blocks it, their swords clashing as they move in close together, their faces mere inches apart, “luck has nothing to do with it,” jaskier winks, steals a kiss and takes advantage of his distraction to push geralt away with a sharp, little shove.
their dance continues,
and though geralt might be strong,
jaskier is astonishingly quick.
for every lunge and stab and swing,
there is a skip, a leap, a jump.
“you’re talented,” geralt notes, his lips quirking up with something that could be appreciation, or pride, or sincere surprise. it should’ve irked him, but the bard can’t help but preen, feeling overwhelming flattered by geralt's complimentary tone.
“i’m educated,” jaskier clarifies, once again, dodging one of geralt's attacks by ducking and leaping away, twirling his sword around his fingers to block the roundhouse attack sent his way.
“really?” geralt asks, dodging when jaskier's sword comes close to skimming his stomach,
“oh yes, this may shock you, but i came from a rather privileged household - i had the finest fencing instructors across the land, so i would certainly hope that i’d know my way around a sword,” jaskier explains, melting into the familiar feeling of his lungs burning, his muscles aching, his heart rapidly beating.
“privileged? that doesn’t shock me,” geralt muses, pursuing jaskier with a flurry of blows, his eyes widening minutely when the bard easily blocks and parries them with a flick of his sword.
“oh?” jaskier breathes, darting back to safety when he feels like he’s getting too close, too eager, too bold.
“not with the way you dress,” geralt snipes at him, spinning his sword around lazily before he brings it down in an arching blow - he grits his teeth when jaskier merely ducks and rolls out of the way, easily rising to his feet in a single graceful move. his words must take a moment to register in the bard’s mind, as he freezes before he makes his next move, takes a step back and shoots geralt a sour look.
“what, exactly, is wrong with the way i dress?” he asks, circling geralt as he knits his brows together with annoyance.
“what’s right with it?” geralt shoots back, grinning when he blocks jaskier’s next strike. he’s pleasantly surprised by the challenge he’s been given - it’s honestly surprising how difficult it is, trying to disarm the bard, but he supposes a man so unpredictable in life, would be just as so in a fight.
jaskier forever tests his will and patience,
and geralt can’t help but be forever thankful for his presence in his life.
“my darling, i adore you,” jaskier bites out, nimbly leaping out of reach of geralt’s next blow, “but i refuse to be judged by a man who hasn’t washed his armour nor body in days.”
“i’ve been busy,” geralt shrugs, his sword coming up quick and heavy from the side, aiming for an opening in jaskier's stance.
“you’re distressing me!” the bard snaps back, blocking the blow and pushing the witcher away from him with a series of growling curses which spill freely from his lips.
geralt throws his head back and laughs - jaskier clucks his tongue irritably, lunges forward and smacks the witcher on the arm with his sword in revenge. the witcher continues to laugh as he parries the attack, pushes the bard away and darts forward, dropping his blade low before spinning it up towards jaskier's weapon.
it clashes loudly,
the force of steel meeting silver echoes around the quiet forest,
and jaskier merely wrinkles his nose and allows himself to be pushed away - one cannot always be on the offensive. sometimes, one must lure their prey in, allow them to believe they have the upper hand before surprising them at the last moment with an attack which catches them off guard.
and jaskier is very, very good at catching people off guard.
so he allows geralt to land a passing blow to his thigh and he allows geralt to work off his energy with a spar designed to let the witcher win - jaskier dances on clever feet, his eyes focused as he spies the beading sweat on geralt's brow, the throbbing pulse in his throat. the witcher is getting tired, his energy is being spent--
just as jaskier had planned.
and then geralt darts away from him, his sword dropped low to his side - jaskier knows that the witcher is going for a running lunge, he can taste the familiar move on his tongue, he knows the man wishes to use his own body to force the blade from the bard’s hand...
and he readies himself,
the witcher rushes forwards, dashing with his eyes narrow and focused - jaskier takes a step back, knows he has ample time to dodge and miss the attack, but instead he lingers, stays his ground and prepares himself for the weighty collision.
geralt's body crashes into his and jaskier sends his sword flying, tossing it away with an elegant flick of his wrist. he falls to the ground, his witcher following pursuit and gasps when he lands solidly against the forest floor.
he winces, cracks his eyes open and sees geralt, exhausted and sheening with sweat, perched above him with a victorious grin. he looks utterly lovely and god, how jaskier appreciates the sight of his witcher’s smile.
“do you yield?” geralt asks, shifting his weight above jaskier's body as he bears down with his sword held just to the side of the bard’s head.
“to you, my darling?” jaskier breathes with an impish grin, “always.”
and geralt grins, throws his sword aside and bends down to claim his prize, pressing a kiss to the bard’s sweet lips with passionate elation. jaskier's hums happily into the kiss, his body puddling with delight when the witcher pulls away and looks incredibly content.
“feel better?” jaskier asks, reaching up to tuck loose locks behind the witcher’s ear. geralt leans into his touch, closes his eyes and nods, his body radiating with a calm, settled aura.
“yes - i wouldn't mind doing this again,” the witcher admits, before his eyes flash open with an eager glint which makes them glow, “it was a good idea, jaskier.”
“see, i’m not just a pretty face,” jaskier hums, rising himself up onto his elbows and stealing himself a kiss from geralt's plush lips.
“i wouldn’t exactly call it pretty,” geralt says, but the bard can taste the lie and he nips the witcher’s lips in punishment. he swallows up the responding gasp and teasingly darts away when he feels geralt's curious tongue probe and prod.
“careful,” he murmurs, his eyes dark and smoky, “you’ll hurt my feelings.”
“well,” geralt brushes their noses together, “i wouldn’t want that.”
jaskier grins against his lips, before he hooks a leg over geralt's hip and flips them over neat - he looms over the witcher, appreciating the way his hair gleams brightly against the dark soil and feels his heart skip a beat. he pins the witcher down, arches a brow and feels victory flood through his veins.
“what a dishonourable move,” geralt scolds lightly, shaking his head as best he can - jaskier merely shrugs and ducks down, wriggling his hips against geralt's deliberately, just so he can see the clouding bliss which coats the witcher’s eyes.
“i’m a dishonourable man,” jaskier says, biting at his lip when geralt chuckles lowly in response. oh, how his heart and spirits lift upon hearing such a glorious sound.
“i can believe that,” the witcher replies, a wry expression forming on his face, “after all, you’ve been capable of fighting like that all this time, and yet you still expect me to do all the work?”
“well, i can’t hold a lute and a sword at the same time,” jaskier protests with a roll of his eyes, “i may be exceedingly talented, but no one can write and fight, darling.”
“a lover not a fighter, right?” geralt offers, with a knowing spark in his eye.
“naturally,” jaskier replies, preening slightly as he melts under the warm gaze of his witcher. the man beneath him hums, before he shifts and rises, leaning up towards the bard with a sultry dare glinting in his eyes. he’s no longer restless and irritable - he no longer wants a fight and jaskier's blood sings with anticipation when geralt’s lips curl into a wicked grin,
“then come and prove it.”