#geraskier ask

Past and newer lovers are as taken with the bard as Geralt is. It's ridiculous that such a fumbling, awful-at-flirting bard has men and ladies fawning over him.

It's worse when he's teaching at Oxenfurt.

Geralt can't count on both his hands the number of times he's seen students try and fail to flirt with their professor. Most students know to back off, especially when Geralt is within radius. They are well-aware of the famed tales of The White Wolf and his bard, Dandelion.

So, it’s quite a shock when this one particular student just would not leave Jaskier’s side, even when Geralt starting hovering around the pair.

“Professor, I was wondering if you can help me with my piece? I was having trouble with how the tempo would match with the wor—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, catching up to the both of them. The bard beams, and Geralt—as always—softens. “Geralt! You’re here early.”

“I’ve been here for the past twenty minutes.”

Jaskier blinks. “Oh. Well, uh, just give me a few more minutes then we can go off, okay?”

Geralt grunts. The student, a pretty blond boy with bright green eyes, does not even look in his direction. Geralt tries his best to hide his grimace. 

Jaskier had once berated him for scaring off his students during one of his visits. To be fair, it was satisfying to see the group of young eager students nearly shit their pants at his looming figure.

They don’t quite believe that a man—whose trademark is being flamboyant and loving every thing that existed on the Continent—would be utterly and mutually smitten with a man who was practically his opposite—whose trademark is his surly frown and golden cat eyes.

“Professor, do you think we can schedule an appointment? A one-on-one consultation if you’ll allow it.” The boy’s eyes are bright, lively and a touch devilish. Everything that reminds Geralt of eighteen year old Jaskier. And Gods only know how much of a handful that young man was. 

Geralt had lost count how many times he’s had to end a tavern fight that Jaskier started. In the first year they started travelling together.

“Of course. However, that would mean you would have to wait a couple of weeks since I am going on the road,” Jaskier says, friendly and helpful and completely oblivious to the glint in the kid’s eye.

Geralt grimaces when the kid even takes it a step further, placing his hand on Jaskier’s bicep.

(It’s not like Geralt can really blame him. Jaskier is not at all scrawny.)

“That won’t be a problem at all, professor.”

Fucking hell.

The kid is practically moaning out Jaskier’s title.

And somehow, the bard still grins.

Geralt wants nothing more than to leave, right about now. At this absolute moment. But there is no way in any world is Geralt going to leave Jaskier here.

He wishes he hasn’t gotten himself in trouble with the school that one time—when he insulted one of the other professors for stealing one of Jaskier’s songs. 

(—But it was entirely worth it when Jaskier let out the biggest, up-roaring laugh of his life—) 

Because then he’d still be able to scare this kid off with minimal chastising.

The kid’s face pinked, and he leans in to Jaskier’s ear and—

“C’mon, Jaskier. Roach doesn’t like to wait.” Jaskier squawks when he’s practically manhandled back to Geralt’s side, his thick arm winding around his lithe waist. 

“But—” 

“I don’t like to wait,” Geralt grumbles, lips near Jaskier’s neck, voice dangerously low; Jaskier has to fight the urge to shiver. He can’t quite fight the redness in the tips of his ears.

“Geralt,” he mumbles, impish smile on his lips, “you’re awfully impatient.”

“I am. It’s been a week since I saw you.” And what a long week it was. First, Geralt had to deal with alghouls that had practically kicked out an entire village’s populace. Then, he had to manage the tempers of two prickly sorcerers, with the threat of being turned into a frog at his throat.

Truly, Geralt has been craving nothing but Jaskier’s presence. But it’s difficult in the winter, because the bard is adamant on keeping his yearly Oxenfurt teaching tradition.

This week would only get worse if he had to endure another second of inappropriate one-sided teacher-student flirting. 

Speaking of which...

Geralt looked over his shoulder to glare at the kid with narrowed eyes, baring his teeth. There’s a thrum of satisfaction when a flash of regret and fear runs over the student’s face, and he turns on his heel in the opposite direction.

He knows he didn’t have to do that. But Gods, he couldn’t resist.

He tightens his hold on Jaskier, revelling in the bard’s laboured breaths, the sweetness of lust enveloping Geralt’s senses. He wears a half-hidden proud grin as he drags Jaskier out of the school, disinterestedly noting all the stares they’re getting.

*

Only when Geralt has completed a drowner contract does Jaskier question him. They’re not yet out of Temeria by the time night falls, since Geralt had come across a noticeboard that was basically begging for a witcher.

Jaskier had just finished untying the knots on Geralt’s blood-caked armor, both ready to tuck in soon, and is now sitting flushed to Geralt’s side, playing a mindless tune as he stares at the witcher from the corner of his eye.

The bard does have to wait for a while for the words to come, considering he’s doing his gaze lovingly at Geralt ritual for the night. But once they do, Jaskier says, “Can you indulge my curiosity for a moment?”

Geralt stops in his sword sharpening, eyeing Jaskier, and grunts.

“Why were you acting all... weird today? Back at Oxenfurt, when I was talking to Stefan. What was wrong? Did I do something? Did you do something?”

The witcher purses his lips, darting his gaze away as if he were shy.

“Come on, Geralt. I won’t laugh, I promise.” Jaskier is more than patient when Geralt grits his teeth, a ball of suppressed thoughts and emotions; it’s much easier to coax things out of Geralt, even if it does take a few sugar-coated attempts and easy smiles.

His eyes remind Jaskier of a cat when he keeps looking around, as if he’s trying to find an excuse to avoid this conversation.

Eventually, like always, Geralt can’t quite hide away from Jaskier like he used to, and he faces the bard.

“That kid. Stefan.” Jaskier nods, even if he has no idea where this was going.

“He kept—” Geralt screws up his face. The campfire brings out the heat in those golden eyes. “He kept flirting with you. Touching you.”

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands and threads their fingers together. “Got a little angry. Protective.”

Jaskier blinks.

“Wait. Me and Stef—wait, wait, waitwaitwaitwait,” Jaskier sputters, “you think that my student was flirting with me?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but the fond curl to his lips diminishes the effect. “As if you don’t notice the line of admirers at your office door everyday.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, gapes for a moment, narrowing his eyes; then he tilts his head, jaw closing with a click. “Tha—That’s true. I suppose. But come on.”

Just as he had promised, Jaskier doesn’t laugh, but he desperately wants to. 

“Stefan? Really? Okay, I get what you mean, but I swear it’s not because he’s attracted to me. Not in the slightest.” Jaskier smiles softly, hand coming up to stroke the line of Geralt’s jaw. “Sort of a funny story, actually.”

“Pray tell,” Geralt practically purred, softening in the palms of Jaskier’s callused hands, eyes heavily lidded.

“How would you prefer it, in verse or in normal speech?”

“Normal speech would do just fine,” Geralt huffs.

“Twas the first day of last year’s winter term, and I was merely feasting upon my lovely, lovely, sandwich—a sandwich that you made, actually. Full of delicious meats and amazing vegetables that you had lovingly cut just for me, a sandwich I had the magnificent honour of eating.”

“I thought I said normal speech.”

“It is,” Jaskier says, puffs of his laughter on Geralt’s cheeks. “I was just celebrating the fact my boyfriend made me a sandwich.”

Geralt’s shoulders shake, eyes warm with affection.

“And it was the most curious when a man I had never met before, blond with forest green eyes—”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“—came up behind me and started to recite one of my poems—by heart!”

Geralt frowns, but Jaskier smooths the lines away with gentle strokes of his thumbs.

“I was about to thank him for the recital, but I turned around and gods, he had the reddest blushes I’ve ever seen.” Jaskier laughs under his breath. “He had thought I was his girlfriend, who I’ve actually had the pleasure of meeting. She’s very tall, taller than me even. I think she might be part elf.”

“So, what does that have to do with the flirting?”

“After that, he made a point to recite my other poems as a joke, especially the old bad ones I’ve written. The flirting just added to the experience.”

Geralt is staring at him now, eyes a little more awake. Under his hands, Jaskier can feel the gradual increase in temperature on the planes of Geralt’s scruffy cheeks—even if he can’t see the red, Jaskier knows Geralt is blushing from embarrassment.

Geralt hums, then rumbles; his eyes go down and then all of a sudden, Geralt is curling forward and leaning into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, hiding his face away. Jaskier doesn’t stop his laugh this time, hands automatically sliding in Geralt’s hair and over his shoulders, his lips on the witcher’s temple.

“You could’ve warned me,” Geralt grumbles, pulling Jaskier into his lap to fully embrace the bard. Jaskier only snorts.

“You could’ve warned me before carrying me out there like the brute that you are. I can only imagine the types of rumors that are cooking up in there now,” Jaskier mumbles, pressing the witcher closer to his chest. 

Gods, he’s missed this.

Geralt hums, low and warm, but a touch despondent. Jaskier frowns, hand swiping down the witcher’s spine. “Darling, if you’re uncomfortable with the flirting, I can just ask him to stop.”

“It’s yours and Stefan’s thing.” Jaskier doesn’t need to look at Geralt’s face to know he’s missing the twinkle in his eyes.

“Geralt, my dear witcher, you come first. You know that, right?” He presses his lips on the crown of Geralt’s head, grimacing when he smells the sea-salt and coppery blood from the drowners.

“I know that this is new. For both of us. The last thing I want is to screw it up with you without me knowing. So, tell me when something is bothering you. I promise I won’t laugh the next time.” Geralt’s shoulders shake with mirth. 

It’s only a flurry of silver and pale skin before a pair of long-missed lips seal his. Jaskier strokes a finger along Geralt’s jaw, not missing how easy and pliable the witcher becomes when he does so. 

It’s soft, sweet, with a touch of longing. It’s only been a week since Geralt’s last visit, but neither can ever get enough of each other. It’s only by sheer stubbornness of wanting to keep the other party happy do they resist jumping each other’s bones at the moment.

They breathe in each other’s air, foreheads pressed flushed, and Jaskier sighs reverently—much like a damsel would when in presence of her prince—melting in Geralt’s embrace.

“I don’t care if he flirts with you,” Geralt says eventually. “If only I get to read your older poems. 

“Oh Gods, I’d rather eat my own shoe than let you see those,” Jaskier groans. “A lot of them were about pining after a certain golden-eyed man. Quite pathetic.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt teases, nose brushing against Jaskier’s, “maybe Stefan and I can bond over that. We’d ambush you in the middle of a lectures, start reciting your verses.”

“I shall never forgive you,” Jaskier threatens, but his next words are muffled by bursts of laughter when Geralt digs his fingers into Jaskier’s sensitive sides.