Jaskier is trying his best, but his stamina is lacking and he’s stumbling through the footwork drills. It’s remarkable, actually, that someone so skilled with his hands could be so poor on his feet.

Giving up on footwork for now, Geralt fetches a small dagger and patiently shows him how to hold it, wrapping his own sturdy hands around Jaskier’s elegant fingers and explaining how to thrust and slash. He tries to demonstrate parrying technique by standing behind him and guiding his arm, their bodies moving as one, but Jaskier seems distracted and fidgety as they practise.

This isn’t working, Geralt decides. Jaskier is no witcher, and he can’t train him like one. He needs a new approach.

“You’re never going to win a fair fight against anyone bigger than a small child,” he says, flatly, and Jaskier gasps and puts a hand to his chest in offence. “So don’t fight fair. You need to make use of distractions. If there’s a candle nearby, burn them. If you’ve got a bottle, hit them over the head with it. Throw sand in their face and knee them in the balls. And then run.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow as he considers this. “Distractions. Right.”

He begins circling Geralt with a predatory smirk, and it’s cute that he’s trying. He lunges at him with the dagger, miles wide. Geralt deflects it easily, but Jaskier doesn't retreat like he expects. Instead, he drops the dagger from his right hand and steps right into Geralt's space to grab a handful of his ass with his left.

Geralt is so shocked by the effrontery of Jaskier’s hand on his ass that he stumbles for a second, and Jaskier pounces. He throws himself bodily and inelegantly at Geralt, who steps back to absorb his weight but trips over a tree root.

They both go flying through the air and Geralt lands on his back in the dirt with a surprised huff. Once he processes what the hell just happened, he’s honestly slightly impressed.

Jaskier kneels over him, eyes bright with a triumphant grin on his face. “Distractions like that?” he asks. He laughs, warm and melodic, and it really is a beautiful sound and it has the corners of Geralt’s mouth twitching up in a smile he’s fighting to hide.

“Vesemir never suggested that particular tactic to me, but sure, if it works.” He might be smiling in earnest now.

He’s not about to let Jaskier get away with that kind of impudence unchallenged though, so he twists his hips and uses one foot to push off from the ground, rolling them both in one swift motion until Jaskier is beneath him. Geralt settles smugly on his thighs, grabbing Jaskier’s wrists and pinning them above his head before he has time to react.

They're face to face like this, and Geralt’s attention is drawn to the flush on Jaskier’s cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes. Something mischevious urges him to spreads his knees, clamping Jaskier deeper between his legs, and Jaskier’s breath hitches.

“Can’t let your attention wander in a fight,” he says, keeping his voice pitched low and enjoying the way Jaskier squirms beneath him. “Never know who might take advantage of that.”

Jaskier smells of sweat from his earlier exertions, overlaid with Geralt's own scent from weeks of sharing space and clothes and supplies. Their scents blend together and the musky perfume of the two of them combined triggers something base and carnal that runs like quicksilver under Geralt's skin.

He leans closer in, playful in his victory, and as he does his cock drags noticeably against Jaskier's stomach. He's hard, somehow, and as he shifts he feels that Jaskier is too, a hot firm length pressed up against his ass, and it vaguely occurs to him that should be alarming but it doesn't seem important right now. He's overcome by an urge to rock his hips back, pushing their cocks together with a heavy slide which sends sparks radiating through his body.

It feels so good, so without thinking he does it again, rubbing against Jaskier's solid weight beneath him. The pressure feels perfect as they grind together, friction building into a sloppy rhythm and Jaskier’s mouth falls open and he gets out a breathy, “Fuck, Geralt-”

And then his brain suddenly catches up with what the fuck his body is doing, rutting against Jaskier like a damn animal, and he freezes as embarrassment creeps up his spine.

Jaskier is flushed beneath him, eyes wide and breathing heavily in something which could be either arousal or fear, and he doesn’t know which of those would be worse. Either Geralt has scared the shit out of him with his prurient behaviour, or Jaskier is even more fucked up than he thought, to have that reaction to some witcher desperately pawing at him. He scrambles to his feet, swaying with unusual clumsiness, heart racing and shame prickling the back of his neck.

Jaskier sits up, giving him a confused look like he’s about to ask what the fuck is going on, and Geralt absolutely can’t answer that because he has no idea himself.

“Lesson’s over,” he grunts, barely resisting the urge to just fucking run. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

He turns and walks away as quickly as he can, resolutely ignoring the way his cock is tenting his trousers.

-  You... you saved me. I won't ever forget that.

-  It's your turn to save these people, this continent. This... is your legacy.