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They were sitting by the campfire when Jaskier told him, quite by accident.
Roach was snuffling merrily in her feedbag, and Jaskier had brushed her coat until it shone while Geralt was stalking round the forest in search of game. He’d returned in fine fettle, raising his trophy of a whole brace of plump birds high enough for Jaskier to see, who promptly span a dirty little ditty about pheasant plucking out of thin air, apparently entertaining Geralt enough to receive one of his typical snorts of thinly veiled amusement.
The fire was already lit, and Geralt fiddled with bits of his new armour while Jaskier tried to sew a particularly stubborn button back onto his doublet while there was still just enough light to see by.
He’d started rambling, as was his wont, not really paying attention to the words, but letting a little trickle of hums and half-caught sentences slip out of his mouth while more than half his mind was on the damnable size of the needle’s eye.
‘I mean for goodness sake, the amount of times I’ve pricked my thumb on this blasted needle, it’s a mightier weapon than your blasted swords. See, ouch, if I’d actually gone to bloody Ban Ard, I’d have portalled this thing straight into the fucking sea!’
Any good bard knew their audience, and Jaskier was a very good one, so it only took him a moment to notice how Geralt had stiffened almost imperceptibly.
He quietened instantly, lowering the needle and instead reaching slowly for the little knife he had tucked into his boot. There were any number of threats that could set Geralt’s keener senses off, so he tried to hush his breathing as well, until there was only the crackling of the fire and the darkness creeping in.
Geralt turned round to look at him properly then, catching his eye and snorting when he saw Jaskier’s battle ready crouch.
Jaskier straightened up again and nearly threw the button at him.
‘Well, what do you mean by it? You can’t go around flinching at every little noise and expect me not to do the same. I thought you’d heard a bloody woozle or something.’
‘A what?’ Geralt said, outright smirking now.
‘Woozles. Native to these parts, big teeth, right up your street.’
‘Mine are bigger.’ Geralt said, snapping his jaws and grinning. ‘Anyway, bard, you said Ban Ard?’
‘Oh fuck, we’re doing this now, are we? Really? I’m sure it would make much finer post-supper conversation?’
He looked at Geralt plaintively, but the bastard had no mercy in him and merely glared harder, which in all fairness, had stopped working on Jaskier approximately five seconds into their first meeting, but Geralt wasn’t to know that.
He sighed dramatically, and then once more just to be a shit, and then Geralt started tapping his foot impatiently.
Jaskier swallowed a little dryly, and began.
‘My father had them take a look at me, when it turned out my mother had some of the more pointy type of ancestry lingering around the old family line than anyone had previously thought, but unfortunately my capacity for accessing Chaos is rather limited, although I do my best to make up for it by causing it instead.’
He dared a glance up at Geralt, who at this point was looking rather flummoxed.
‘You’re part elf?’ He hazarded.
‘Not sure how much. But even a dash was rather too much for comfort, so I was packed off to Oxenfurt post-haste after they tried Ban-Ard.’
‘And you can do magic?’
Geralt was frowning a little now, and Jaskier started to spread his hands conciliatorily and then quickly thought rather better of it and stayed still instead.
‘Not really? Occasionally a door will slam if I’m in a temper, a vase might go flying if I’m engaging in the more tender acts, that sort of thing.’
Geralt only hummed at this, and looked rather contemplative.
They spoke no more of it that night. Jaskier was too relieved that he hadn’t been turned out on his ear to notice how Geralt’s face had slid into that thoughtful expression; the one he tended to wear just before he came up with some marvellous plan to defeat a monster. A plan that usually involved Jaskier— wearing rather more honey than he was usually comfortable with— playing bait.
…
Gradually that evening slipped from Jaskier’s thoughts, and if it was rather a relief to have it all in the open, then that was his business alone, wasn’t it?
It was about a month later, in some more nameless woods - only with pines this time instead of birch trees – that the trap was sprung.
Geralt was fighting a boar the size of a goddamned house, with tusks sharper than spears waving around and making him jump acrobatically with every near miss.
Jaskier and Roach were watching from a very safe distance, but the noise was absolutely indescribable; the shrieking of the pig echoing off the hills and screaming through the whole valley.
Geralt had been at it for at least an hour by now, unable to get close enough to the weaker spots in the base of the skull or the throat while those enormous tusks kept him busy. He was starting to look a little worn around the edges; his Signs spat out with a little less oomph that Jaskier could tell, even from his distant vantage point; when the screeching suddenly redoubled and Jaskier had to clap his hands over his poor ears to stop his head ringing like a bell.
Geralt suddenly span and ran right for him, waving his arms and shrieking something, but Jaskier could barely hear his own voice shouting back, let alone Geralt’s from a good few acres away.
Roach whinnied frantically behind him, and he turned to look, already knowing what he was going to see.
A second boar was galloping madly towards them, and it dwarfed the first entirely, ears visible above the treeline. He gaped for only a second, marvelling at the size of it, and then got a closer look at the tusks, the slavering jaws, the trotters stamping huge divots in the soft ground as it screamed and bolted right in their direction.
Jaskier scrambled into the saddle as quickly as he could and Roach dashed straight for Geralt, loyal even when chased by a pig large enough to swallow her whole, and Jaskier just clung on and tried not to get in her way.
Geralt was being chased by the other boar, and for one heart stopping moment when they finally caught up with him Jaskier thought he’d missed his stride. He recovered and flung himself onto Roach, clinging onto Jaskier for balance while Roach turned faster than the boar could manage and a tusk nearly clipped his ear.
Roach wheeled about and dashed through the woods, the boar scrambling behind them and flattening trees in their mad stampede.
Squeals of fury and crashing wood followed too close for comfort, and poor Roach was laden down with both of them and couldn’t outrun them for long.
Jaskier looked about madly for escape and shouted ‘There!’, catching a little glimpse of safety through the endless pines.
Geralt grabbed the reins and steered Roach up the sloping sides of the valley in the direction of what looked to be a cave set in the gap between hills, too small for the pigs to reach inside, and Jaskier tried to think weightless thoughts as hard as he could whilst Roach thundered up the steep hill.
He dared a quick glance behind, and the boar were charging up the hill, not slowing down even for a second, and he let out a shriek of his own as they got closer, and the cave got closer, and either death by trampling or by tusks became more and more likely.
Geralt wheeled round behind him, one arm still tightly wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, and flung his arm up just as the final approach to the cave came into view. Roach scrambled up the scree and nearly had a leg slip out from under her, but she made it up with both of them still ahorse, Geralt staring down the charging boar and Jaskier yelling incoherently, utterly unable to think of anything useful to do as the entrance to the cave grew closer and the boar sped up, close enough now to make ducking the swinging tusks even more interesting.
At the last possible second, when the tusks of the boar in front were level with Roach’s hindquarters, Geralt let out a roar of his own and twisted his hand into Aard. The boar was shoved back only a few metres, but it was just enough to let them slip into the shadows of the cave and out of reach.
It was rather smaller than he’d hoped for, and Roach screeched to a halt before they ended up splattered on the back wall, only twenty feet or so from the mouth of the cave.
They dismounted in a shambles, and Jaskier collapsed straight onto the floor, wheezing with adrenaline and watching Geralt pat Roach’s heaving flanks gratefully before the brief moment of safety was shattered by the boars ramming their heads against the mouth of the cave.
One tusk swiped in, but fell short of them, and the sight of slavering boar snorting and snuffling at the mouth of the cave with teeth longer than Geralt’s swords was something Jaskier never wanted to see again. The stench was phenomenal, and they kept rootling and slamming against the rock, that awful shrieking ringing through his head.
There were no other exits, just the damp stone wall behind them, and the dim light that the boar nearly blocked out barely let Jaskier see Geralt’s flattened expression as he paced the cave unflappably.
‘Can’t you just-?’ Jaskier asked, flopping his wrist about in a limp imitation of Igni.
‘I fought that other one for too long.’
‘Fuck,’ said Jaskier heartily, and Geralt nodded.
He paused in his pacing for a moment, and then turned on his heel and stared down at Jaskier with a rather peculiar expression on his face.
‘Look, Jaskier, I wouldn’t ask otherwise, but I haven’t got any potions left. Can I kiss you?’
‘What?’ Jaskier squawked. ‘I mean, this is hardly what I would call romantic, Geralt.’ The shrieking was near deafening now, and he shouted a little louder to be heard over the crashing and screams not ten feet away. ‘Perhaps now is not quite the time?’
Geralt’s brow furrowed, and his gaze dropped to Jaskier’s lips just long enough that he flushed hotly under that golden gaze.
‘If you have Chaos, I can access it. Give me enough to get my Signs back, at least.’
‘Well, I… Does it work like that?’ Geralt nodded. ‘Kissing? Really?’ He managed weakly. Geralt just nodded again and raised an eyebrow implacably.
He stood up, legs feeling unpardonably wobbly on account of the boar chasing them, and not Geralt’s sudden interest in kissing, and stepped over to where Geralt stood, watching him approach and holding very still, as though trying not to spook a deer on the hunt.
Jaskier took a deep breath and drew his shoulders up, bundling up all the rush of their death-defying chase and letting only confidence show on his face.
He prowled over to Geralt, and smiled as he had at a hundred different people in a hundred taverns, twining his arms around Geralt’s neck and letting himself really enjoy the sheer bulk of him, getting lost enough in such a close view of that handsome face that he nearly forgot about the giant boar altogether.
‘Geralt…’ He murmured, daring to let his fingers twist through the Witcher’s hair. ‘…will you do me a favour in return?’
Geralt hummed at him, tilting his head and leaning closer.
‘I want bacon for breakfast.’
Geralt let out a single bark of laughter, and then his hand was on Jaskier’s cheek, and their lips brushed gently, just once.
Jaskier’s heart was beating loud enough to drown out any noise from those blasted pigs, he thought frantically, and tried to keep breathing.
Geralt seemed to lose all patience, and grabbed him by the waist, pulling him closer, and kissed him so well he quite lost his head, and then the world spun around him and Geralt was dipping him, the great show-off, and Jaskier gave up all pretence of propriety and just let himself be kissed for a long glorious minute.
Geralt pulled back and smirked at him, and then Jaskier quite lost all feeling in his legs and slumped back onto the ground when Geralt let him slip from his grasp.
‘Thank you Jaskier.’ He said, drawing his sword over his shoulder and letting an intense ball of fire drip from his other hand.
Jaskier rolled his eyes at the dramatics, and then settled in to watch him roast the boar, occasionally pressing his fingers to his lips in disbelief.
…
It was a fortnight later, and Geralt hadn’t brought up the kissing yet, so Jaskier hadn’t either, in case he’d passed out from terror and dreamed it all up like an idiot.
Jaskier was patiently waiting at their camp, fetching firewood and trying to distract himself from how much he felt like a poor little fishwife, when Geralt returned from fighting Nekkers, all over bloody and disgusting, and dropped down on the ground like a stone before he could even ask him how the hunt went.
He got most of the armour off before Geralt snorted back into life, and together they managed to get him mostly upright again.
Geralt was lying against the nearest tree trunk, and Jaskier propped him up a little more so he could reach the gash in his side. It was shallow, but wide, and bleeding rather more freely than either of them would like.
Geralt only let a sharp grunt escape him when Jaskier found the precious vials of Swallow and poured it over his wounds as carefully as he could, fumbling the rest over to his waiting mouth and tipping it up, careful not to let a drop go to waste.
Geralt looked less pained afterwards, and the wounds were clean, but Jaskier felt like a flapping hen standing over him and fetching useless bits of bandages.
He knelt down and helped him pull his arms out of what remained of his shirt, hushing him gently and making sure he didn’t end up scraping the cloth against his still bloody ribs.
‘What next?’ He asked, trying to sound calm.
‘Kiss.’ Geralt rasped out.
Jaskier shrugged, and clambered onto Geralt’s lap, careful to avoid any of the areas that were still dripping sluggishly. His hand slipped up to cup Geralt’s cheek carefully, and then they were kissing, soft and wet, Geralt panting a little for breath beneath him, and he could almost feel the spark himself then, the tiny residue of Chaos spinning out from his soul as their lips met.
Geralt was looking pretty worse for wear, Jaskier thought a little devilishly, redoubling his efforts and letting his tongue slip out enough to taste the last faint residue of fiery Swallow from Geralt’s mouth. If Geralt needed a kiss, then who was Jaskier to deny him?
He gave it his best effort, wrapping himself in the confidence he would normally display with any lover, and determined not to think about how Geralt must be able to feel his hand shaking with nerves.
One huge hand slid under the back of his doublet, chill enough to make him shiver into the kiss, and Geralt tugged him closer until they were flush, and then Geralt’s other hand was sliding inexorably up his spread legs, and he had to swallow harshly around the breathy moan that wanted to escape him.
He broke the kiss reluctantly, gasping and dizzy with it, trembling with the effort not to let his hips chase the glorious promise of friction. Geralt certainly looked better, that he could tell, eyes much brighter and a little colour back on his face.
‘Will, er, will that do it?’ Jaskier said, as calmly as he could manage.
Geralt apparently felt he needed more healing, leaning up again and pulling Jaskier down to meet him hard enough that he nearly unbalanced and had to lean his hands against the tree trunk to stay upright.
Geralt kissed him again, nipping at his lips and tracing distracting circles on his thigh as Jaskier tried desperately not to melt into the luxury of it, only the tiniest shrivelled flutter of self-preservation shrieking in the back of his head as Geralt took him apart relentlessly.
He pulled away before he lost his head completely and begged for more, and Geralt let him go this time, hand still searing on the bare skin of his back.
‘Better?’ Jaskier murmured, admiring how flushed Geralt looked when freshly kissed.
Geralt nodded, and he did look remarkably better; the great ragged wound in his side noticeably shallower and less painful; but then the bastard ruined it all by smirking.
‘I did actually mean the potion, Kiss? The orange one?’
Jaskier scrambled off him as quickly as he dared, stammering helplessly and rushing over to the saddlebags.
‘One kiss is as good as another, apparently.’ Geralt had the audacity to wink at him, stretching languidly against the tree trunk and looking very pleased with himself.
Jaskier nearly flung the little orange bottle at his head, and stopped himself in a display of magnanimity so enormous he rather felt it deserved applause.
Geralt just oozed at him instead, until he gave in and clucked over his wounds, fussing enough to calm the relentless racing of his heart, and hoping to will away his erection through sheer force of will.
…
Geralt was fully healed less than a week later, and they were taking a break from wading through a swamp.
‘There’s a lot of them.’ Jaskier said daringly.
‘About thirty, by my reckoning.’
‘Do you need any help?’
‘Help?’ Geralt said, turning to look at him properly, and that just made it all worse.
‘Well, if you’re in fine form, I shan’t worry about it then.’ Jaskier said peevishly.
Geralt dropped his sword on the ground and positively blurred he stood so quickly. He stepped closer, and Jaskier’s breath caught in the
back of his throat.
‘Jaskier… I know it’s not life or death, but thirty drowners is a large nest even for me. May I kiss you?’
‘For the extra magic?’ He said, heart already hammering in his chest.
Geralt nodded solemnly.
‘Of course. It doesn’t have to be mortal wounds every week, does it?’ Jaskier tried very hard not to sound too eager and failed miserably.
‘You can kiss me whenever you like.’
‘Can I?’ Geralt said softly, and gods, his eyes were twinkling now.
‘I mean, that is, whenever you need to.’ Jaskier’s face felt awfully hot.
Geralt smiled mysteriously, putting his hands on Jaskier’s waist and tugging him closer gently, reeling him in like a hooked fish.
Jaskier leaned in and closed his eyes, and then he gasped in surprise when Geralt kissed the exposed skin of his collarbone, peppering soft bites up the side of his neck. A gentle nip at his earlobe really did make a strangled moan escape him, before Geralt swooped down and kissed him properly.
He did his best not to swoon outright, but Geralt was terribly thorough, and by the time he’d taken his fill of Chaos, Jaskier was a flushed and heaving wreck, wrestling with the urge to just drop to his knees and try his luck.
Geralt gave him a cheeky pat on the bottom for luck, and then padded off to fight a veritable horde of drowners - leaving Jaskier so addled with lust that he genuinely tried to work out if he could afford a furious wank before Geralt returned.
…
It became something of a pattern then; kisses before hunts, because Geralt might need the extra power; kisses after hunts, because Geralt might have been hurt and just not noticed it; kisses mid-fight, when Geralt really ought to have been watching his back and instead wasted time stealing kisses instead.
There was a definite increase in the number of contracts Geralt took, but then Jaskier hardly noticed, too busy trying not to die mortified by lust, or at the very least without coming in his breeches like a green boy.
Things might have continued on in this same manner had Jaskier not had one of the bright ideas he was so infamous for.
They were in town for once, and Jaskier was pacing up and down their room at the rickety old inn worriedly. This time, the court invitation to perform took him rather too close to a certain lord’s lands, who’d had a lovely wife, and an even lovelier son, and had sworn vengeance when Jaskier had last passed through. Though he couldn’t possibly refuse the invitation, even Geralt’s avowed protection wasn’t enough to calm his nerves.
He fidgeted while Geralt watched, lying on the bed serenely.
‘Can you give me some Chaos back?’ He blurted out.
‘What?’ Geralt said, sitting up in surprise.
‘Well, if I had some power in reserve, as it were, perhaps if he throws a bloody knife at me, my magic might make it miss, or something?’
It sounded rather weak, even to him. At this point even the most feeble pretence would do to get another kiss, and if it didn’t settle his nerves, at least it couldn’t make things any worse.
Geralt slid off the side of the bed gracefully, and hummed at him thoughtfully.
‘You know I won’t let anything happen to you, don’t you?’
‘Of course, I didn’t mean…’ He gabbled out hurriedly.
Geralt interrupted him before he could backtrack fully.
‘I think we better had, though,’ Geralt smiled, and tipped his head to the side, watching him carefully. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
‘If you don’t mind?’ Jaskier said, mouth dry.
‘I don’t mind.’ And then Geralt kissed him until Jaskier’s bones were humming, and he couldn’t tell if it was the magic or the kiss.
‘Better?’ Geralt said, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
‘Much.’ Jaskier rasped, and then shook himself to try and settle the heat of the kiss-magic somewhere more useful than his cock.
…
Kisses before performances were swiftly added to the list, in case someone tried to hurt Jaskier; followed by kisses after performances, because Jaskier might have been poisoned and just not know it yet; followed by kisses when Jaskier got any injury as slight even as a papercut.
He was never sure if the magic did anything for him, but the more kisses he received, the closer he got to either hitting Geralt over the head with his own sword, or bending over in front of him and hoping for the best.
They kissed so often now that it was habit to wake up and start the day with a kiss, to say goodnight with a kiss, to get lost in Geralt’s arms before he went to fetch firewood in case there was something waiting in the woods that might possibly outfox a Witcher’s hearing.
…
Two months after their first kiss, Jaskier had had quite enough of the whole ordeal.
He waited until it was nearly dark, and then managed to accidentally get mud all over his new doublet and breeches, which would need washing and hanging to dry, and then all his other clothes were dirty, so he very bravely faced the warm summer night in nothing but his chemise and smallclothes, brazenly doing his usual evening routine as though there were nothing amiss.
Whenever he addressed Geralt, the Witcher was absorbed in polishing his armour, but Jaskier could feel those golden eyes on the back of his neck. He stepped past Geralt on his way round the fire, and then an ankle shot out and tripped him, and he landed gently in Geralt’s outstretched arms.
‘Oof.’ He managed, and Geralt just raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Did you need something, Geralt?’ He slid down slightly, settling himself in the Witcher’s lap, and Geralt stared up at him, pupils huge and dazzling black in the firelight.
‘I… Did you hurt yourself tripping?’
‘No.’ Jaskier said firmly.
‘No?’ Geralt had the nerve to pout a little.
‘Did you need something? Before you tripped me?’
He looked well and truly caught now, too busy staring up at Jaskier to notice his fingers tracing the soft bare skin of Jaskier’s thigh.
‘No?’ Jaskier moved to get up, and then Geralt’s hands were gripping his waist gently.
He relented and sat down again, this time bringing their hips flush, and Geralt’s face nearly twitched.
Jaskier waited patiently, and Geralt looked up at him sheepishly.
‘May I kiss you?’
‘What for this time?’ Jaskier asked, screwing up all his feeble courage.
‘No reason,’ Geralt said, ‘I just want to kiss you.’
That cracked Jaskier’s façade of calm completely, and he nearly threw caution to the wind and leaned in, stopping himself barely at the last minute.
‘And how long have you wanted to kiss me?’
Geralt ducked his head, and muttered, ‘Since Posada.’
‘Did you-?’
‘No, no, the Chaos sharing is real, it has helped me… I just jumped at the chance to kiss you.’
‘Geralt, you silly goose. I was going to say, ‘Did you not think I felt the same?’’
‘I wasn’t sure.’ He looked almost grumpy at the admission.
‘And now?’ Jaskier says, smiling fondly.
Geralt hummed, and then kissed him properly, with no excuses at all.
...