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Well this is unpleasant, Jaskier thought, still trying to chew his way through the dirty piece of cloth some amateur bandits had used to gag him. I hope Geralt returns from hunting dinner and dispatches these ruffians sooner rather than later. My hands are going numb from how tightly they have me trussed up. First-timers. The audacity.
There hadn’t been an incident like this since early winter, when Vesemir had acted on his less than brilliant idea of staging Jaskier’s kidnapping to test their bond. The exercise hadn’t ended well for anyone (except maybe Jaskier) and the other three Witchers had learned just how territorial the White Wolf could get when it came to his bard.
So here he waited.
The overeager group of thieves had tied his hands behind his back and secured his upper half against a tree trunk with several loops of heavy rope. He was sure that he looked rather dashing and dramatic, bound and gagged as he was with his chemise falling open at the neck; but he also knew that Geralt probably wouldn’t like seeing him this way very much. Especially since Geralt wasn’t the one who’d done the binding or the gagging in the first place. No, that had been done by a nervous looking young farmhand armed with a knife. Could the bard have fought back? Yes. Could he have taken down the whole group on his own without coming to major bodily harm? Probably not. Ancient Witcher magic or not, he didn’t really feel like testing the limits of his “mortality buffer” on this particular evening.
Better to let Geralt handle it.
The farmer’s knotwork was good, though. Jaskier wouldn’t deny the poor fool his expertise with rope just because he was lacking any common sense. Talent and wisdom were very different traits and it was possible to possess one without the other. If only he’d left a little slack. Then the bard could just wiggle loose and disappear into the woods like usual, sparing Geralt the panic. Alack and alas, there was nothing he could really do at this point except wait for his eventual rescue. Well...
“Jaskier!” the bard could hear his Flower’s gravelly baritone calling for him as he approached their dimming cookfire. “Why have you let the fire get so low? I have at least four rabbits to roast before we leave in the morning.”
Jaskier, for obvious reasons, could not make any kind of reply. Geralt’s footsteps began to fall faster as he moved through the trees. The bandits were looking slightly less confident now. They have no idea what they’re about to face off against, the bard smiled to himself. Just to add to the drama of it all, he shook his head a little to make his bangs fall into his eyes and angled his head to the side. Perfect. Now I look really tragic and distressed. Very nice touch, Jaskier. He’ll love that when he’s done kicking their asses. You are so getting laid tonight.
Jaskier was not above using petty tricks to rile Geralt up when he could. None of the bandits would die, his Witcher had too much control to just kill them willy-nilly, so he didn’t feel bad making himself look tempting for when the fighting was over with. When it was just him and Geralt all alone next to the warm embers…
“Jaskier, wha-”
His handsome Witcher finally broke from the treeline, twigs and leaves clinging to the disheveled strands of his white pony-tail and his strong arms laden with rabbit carcasses. The bard watched those lovely yellow eyes slide across the bandits, analyzing and learning every strength or weakness in an instant as they went. When they at last came to rest on Jaskier, the bard saw the fierceness there, the overpowering instinct to protect his Beloved overtaking everything else.
The leader and his right-hand man were unconscious before Jaskier could blink. Geralt had bumped their foreheads together almost delicately and let them fall to the ground like ragdolls. The third went down with a solid right hook but the fourth put up a bit of a fight. Not much, knowing Geralt, but it was honorable that he tried at all. The farmhand who’d been in charge of dealing with Jaskier stepped closer, holding that silver blade out towards the bard in a half-anxious, half-threatening kind of way. His hand was shaking but his eyes were dark with determination.
Oh. I might actually be in a little bit of trouble here. That wasn’t the plan at all. Jaskier gave a muffled cry and Geralt’s focused gaze snapped right to him. The bard tried not to shudder when a primal, animalistic growl came bursting forth from deep in his Flower’s throat. Gods I could listen to him do that all day. Maybe after I’m done being gestured at with weaponry.
“Don’t come any closer, Witcher,” the man ordered, voice trembling. “Or I’ll kill him. I will.”
Geralt’s eyes flickered anxiously between the pale line of Jaskier’s exposed throat and the shaky blade clutched tightly in the farmer’s hand. While he trusted that Jaskier would probably survive with his newly enhanced healing powers, he still didn’t want to risk it or see his Beloved in any pain. He raised his hands, palms up in surrender and asked: “What do you want?”
“I just want to leave without any broken bones.”
“Then go,” the Witcher snarled. “Run away from here and never look back. I’ll leave your fellows here at the side of the road for you to collect later.”
The timbre of Geralt’s voice must have been a little too scary for the idiot farmer because that was the moment when he made perhaps the worst mistake of his life. He flinched, pressing the blade back hard enough to nick the skin of Jaskier’s neck. The bard gasped in surprise and pain as he felt a drop of his own blood begin its warm trail down towards his collar.
Geralt was on the man in a second, tossing him to the ground and wrenching the knife from his hands. “Run before I change my mind about killing you.”
The farmhand scampered off into the darkness and Geralt returned to untie his beloved from the tree. As soon as the Witcher removed his gag Jaskier gasped out a smiling, “Thank you, Flower.”
“He got close enough to hurt you,” Geralt frowned. He ripped a piece of cloth from one of the unconscious bandit’s shirts and examined it for dirt. Deeming it clean enough, he used it to dab at the wound on Jaskier’s neck, which was already beginning to close at the edges. “That’s nothing to be thankful for.”
Jaskier tried to cup the Witcher’s face but found that his hands were still bound behind him. “Would you mind, love?”
“Oh shit, sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for. Are you okay?”
“No.”
“What can I do to help you?”
“Stop attracting trouble like some sort of human honeytrap,” Geralt huffed, wrapping his arms protectively around the slightly shorter man. Jaskier nuzzled into his Flower’s neck and sighed happily.
“It can’t be helped. I’m just too wonderful; everyone wants me.”
“But only I can have you,” Geralt asserted, nipping at the bard’s ear. Jaskier giggled and Geralt basked in the happy noise. He loved making his Beloved giggle; it was the sweetest and brightest sound he’d ever heard.
“That’s right. Only you.”
“I’m going to drag these bandits back to the roadside so when they wake they can leave us well enough alone.”
“Are you sure they won’t come back?”
“They can certainly try.”
Jaskier thought the tiny line of bluebells that graced the skin of Geralt’s throat just over three days later was rather adorable. The Witcher thought so too, though he wouldn’t admit it. That particular mark reminded him how close of an eye he needed to keep on his Beloved. The hyperactive bard tended to get roped into dangerous situations no matter how hard he tried to avoid them.
And Jaskier tried to avoid them. He really did.
The problem, Jaskier discovered, was that people found him an oddly easy mark for their mischievous deeds.
At least it wasn’t bandits this time.
No, this time it was a strange group of women whose eyes seemed a little too bright and whose teeth were a little too sharp. They had appeared beautiful the first time he saw them but now, close up and paralyzed beneath their many hungry gazes, he felt more than slightly frightened.
“Come to the woods with us,” they had begged, grasping at his hands and arms with their soft, soft hands. Against his skin, though, their nails were sharper than knife points. The bard couldn’t even open his mouth to protest. It felt as if he were compelled to follow. He remained outwardly silent like they asked but inside he screamed for Geralt to notice, to see him being dragged away, to rescue him before he needed any real rescuing.
“What were they?” he asked, watching his Witcher clean their blood off those wonderful swords maybe two hours later.
“Succubi.”
“Ew.”
“Yeah,” Geralt smirked in his direction. “Ew.”
“Thank you for saving me. Again.”
“From now on I’m tying you to the bed whenever I have to go anywhere.”
“You were the one who abandoned me at the edge of the square,” Jaskier argued, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt wandered over to place a gentle kiss against his lips. "Not that I'm offended by the thought of you tying me to the bed. I'd just rather you stuck around after that."
“You’re right. I was at fault this time around,” the Witcher sighed. “Guess I’ll just have to tie a rope around your waist and keep the other end at my belt, then. Or carry you over my shoulder everywhere I go.”
“You’re gross and disgusting and if we were not still in dangerous territory I would rip your pants off right where we stand.”
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Maybe we could stop at an inn sometime soon. It's been awhile since we've slept on a proper mattress," his Flower conceded. Then he winked. "Or ruined one."
"As I said before, you are both gross and disgusting, Geralt of Rivia."
“Yeah but you love me.”
“I suppose I do. I love you rather a lot.”
“Told ya,” Geralt teased. Jaskier punched him in the chest and got only an aching hand in return. He was determined not to get kidnapped again. Not before they had a good roll in the hay. Or the grass. Or the inn. Really, wherever they rolled was fine with the bard.
“How?” Jaskier asked the circle of occultists. “How the hell do I constantly end up in these ridiculous situations? Did you guys kidnap me? Was it magic? I don’t even remember how I got here and at this point I'm too exhausted to ask.”
“Hush, child,” a strange robed man demanded, holding a finger over the bard’s mouth. “You’ll ruin the ceremonial rites.”
Jaskier snapped his teeth and the man yanked his finger away.
“Are you serious? I want to ruin the ceremonial rites. I don’t particularly want to be the human sacrifice to whatever weird monster you’re hiding in this cave, thank you very much,” the bard huffed. He filled his performer’s lungs with air and began to shout as loudly as possible, “Geralt! Geralt of Rivia! It is I, Jaskier, your Beloved! I’m in the cave! They’re trying to feed me to a-”
The man clamped his hand completely over the bard’s mouth, muffling Jaskier’s cries to near silence. The bard rolled his eyes for the drama of it, but mostly he was busy hoping that his Flower was on the way for another daring rescue. The grumbling noises from the back of the dark cavern had gotten louder after his yelling and he was not excited to see what made them. Jaskier glanced around and saw torches fixed to the walls in several places, which reflected against the surface of a shallow pool in one corner. The granite of the altar was warm beneath him and not necessarily uncomfortable. Well this would be a great place to spend some alone time after all is said and done…
His thoughts were interrupted by Geralt's timely entrance, as usual.
His Flower came sprinting into the cave with that familiar wild look in his amber eyes. The silver sword was clutched in one hand while the other rested on a dagger's hilt. The moon shone from behind him, casting a silvery glow over his white hair and a deathly pallor to his pale, scarred skin. Geralt looked magnificent. He looked like an avenging angel sent just for Jaskier. The bard positively melted against the unpolished surface of the stone slab where he was trapped, blue eyes wide with awe and admiration, his lips barely parted as if they were already kissing.
Oh, his darling Geralt was splendid in all his fury. The cult members hadn’t moved an inch since the Witcher’s entrance, their eyes trained on his threatening stance and flickering gaze. The bard broke the silence, of course. He greeted Geralt calmly, to let his Flower know that he was safe. “Hello love, fancy a roll on the altar when this is over with? It’s actually quite comfortable.”
“Jaskier...what the fuck?”
“I’m not sure either. Monster’s in the back of the cave. The idiots with god complexes are out here.”
“Hmm.”
"I'd like to be untied. Maybe once you're done slaying the monster, doing away with the villains, and ravaging me within an inch of my life."
"You never know when you shut up, do you bard?" the cult leader asked, pulling a knife from within his robe.
Geralt rolled his eyes and, as Jaskier once put it, did his Witchering.
"You're almost more trouble than you're worth, bard," he said, hefting his mildly injured Beloved into his arms. "Sorry that they broke your wrist and spoiled your evening plans."
"Well I suppose we should both have a bath. The altar will still be here in a week, when my wrist is finished healing."
"Hmm. I suppose you're right on both counts."
"I'm always right," the bard nodded, wrapping his uninjured arm around Geralt's neck. He rested his head against the Witcher's chest and smiled fondly. "And you're always there to save me when I'm not."
“Oh I like this one!” Jaskier smiled, running his fingertip along the new line of dandelions on the back of his calf. “Rather heroic looking, isn’t it?”
“You think every mark I give you is heroic looking, Beloved.”
“And so they are. You are my hero, Flower.”
Geralt looked up from his place next to their campfire. The bard thought he looked absolutely ravishing. He'd let Jaskier plait his hair into a single braid, which slipped over his shoulder as he leaned to add another log. The bard bit his lip when the Witcher caught him staring. “Hmm?”
“You're so handsome, Flower. I'm so happy that you're mine. I love being covered in your little bouquets. They helped me figure out that I belong to you.”
"With me. You belong with me, not to me. I don't own you."
"Of course not," the bard laughed. "Nobody could. But I do belong to you. In the grand scheme of the universe, we belong to each other."
“Still, I’m glad there are more marks on you than there are on me,” Geralt shrugged. Jaskier crossed the small distance and ducked into his Witcher’s arms. Geralt pressed their foreheads together. He ran a hand down the Witcher's back slowly, feeling every bump and scar and notch. Those strong, caring arms only tightened around him and Geralt's voice came out rough and scratchy, like he was holding back tears, “I hate seeing you hurt.”
“I love your marks,” Jaskier whispered. “But I wish I could protect you in the same way you protect me.”
“Hmm. You are fragile. I am not.”
"I'm not so fragile anymore!" the bard argued, breaking them from their tender moment.
"Yeah?" the Witcher challenged.
"I can absolutely take you on, Witcher," the bard taunted, standing again and almost prancing away. "If you can catch me."
"Apparently everyone and anyone on this damn Continent can catch you, bard. It's not that difficult!"
There was no response, only the sound of Jaskier's heavy breathing getting fainter as he sprinted into the woods.
"Fuck."
The Witcher took off at a steady jog. Might as well let the bard think he had a head start.