Waking up in a dank cave wasn't his worst "night out" disaster, nor was it the first time he ended an evening groggy and tied up. But by god, was the smell horrendous. If he knew less about cave trolls, he would've assumed that the man standing a few feet from him was one. Of all things, he certainly had the scent pinned down perfectly.

But all it took was one serious once-over and it was very apparent that the man was, in fact, human. In a bizarre way, it was nice to see what his captor at least looked like. Pressed up against the barside bricks, all he knew was that he had a strong grip and his breath reeked of Mullet. Now, he could see the foul smells came with a full head of blonde hair, beady, but deep, black eyes, and some unsettlingly straight teeth. It was like a Drowner wearing the skin of a prince. That, or more likely, unfortunately good genes getting overrun by horrendous hygiene habits.

The perma-scowl on his full lips was not helping in the slightest.

This man wasn't really paying attention to him at all, just pacing back and forth and staring at the mouth of the cave, like it held some great destiny for him. If Jaskier had to guess, he was an adventurer type, but not the friendly kind. This was the kind who treated quests like their next fix, wanting to conquer bigger and better monsters with each slash of their sword.

Great. He was tied up like a hog, ass wet from cave muck, because some adrenaline junkie wanted to fight a Witcher.

A Witcher that, mind him, probably would never come. Hell, what was he doing with that probably? He wouldn't. Jaskier must've pissed him off enough to send him hauling ass out of town. Geralt could be halfway to Vengerberg for all he knew, maybe his type had magic fucking fast horses.

Point was, no one was going to get him out of this bullshit but him.

First order of business, assess the situation. Prince Plague in front of him was a large, burly, mostly handsome man with quite veiny muscles. That meant he was likely dehydrated. He also was distracted, which worked to his advantage. He did have a huge spear, which didn't aid Jaskier in dodge or reach. Any attempts to run would be dangerous, but perhaps necessary.

Next, he wriggled as silently as he could in his binds. He almost snorted when he rubbed the ropes and got a sense of what he was working with. There were brothels that did better knots than this guy. All it would take was a few well-placed tugs and the binds would detangle and free him. At least that part was easy.

It didn't solve the muddy leather boots in front of him, though. There were no other weapons in reach and he definitely could get stabbed in the chest before he could do much choking damage with the ropes. And running was definitely a gamble based on too many unknown factors.

Well, it seemed it was time for reconnaissance. Flicking his hair out of his face and putting on his best, glimmering smile, Jaskier said, "If it's not too much to ask, could you at least get the bread out of my pants?"

His long face turned over his shoulder (honestly surprised his chin cleared his shoulder) and his barely-there eyebrows furrowed, like two enchanted paintbrushes desperate to touch one another before they died. "The what?"

Jaskier tried to be as cute and amicable as possible; the one thing he did like a lot about his bard persona was being an affable, somewhat idiot. It worked surprisingly well in charming people, even though it was clear to anyone with half a brain that he was, in fact, an intelligent human.

Well. Mostly human.

Scoffing, Jaskier used his head to gesture towards his once pristine breeches, now watted with mud. The man's scowl deepened. Bold for a rank, disgusting blade addict to be looking at him with such an upturned nose. "You wouldn't pass up free rolls either, cave troll, so don't look at me like that."

"I'm not touching your sodding pants." He turned his face away, like that was the end of it.

Ha. Joke's on him. Julian Alfred Pankrantz didn't shut up so easily.

"Your goddamn loss. I would've given you the rolls for free and my exquisite ass would have just been a bonus." The entire time, Jaskier had been doing his best to scan the man's body, try to find any weakness he could exploit. For now, he could at least poke at the one he already knew existed: this obsession with a certain Witcher. "So, what's your plan if this Geralt doesn't come?"

"He'll come. You were the first person he talked to in weeks. Don't try to act dumb; you mean something to him."

Jaskier laughed and said, "Oh, I wish I was lying to you and was having a steamy, secret affair with tall, dark, and growling. But let's both be honest here, if I was fucking that, I wouldn't keep it a secret out of sheer pride." The guy's shoulders got tense, but Jaskier noticed that he started leaning more into his right leg. There might be something there. He had to keep talking. "But seriously-"

Pivoting with his right leg, still keeping pressure off the left, his captor shouted, "Shut up, will you? Or it'll be your dead body getting Geralt here, not your stupid mouth." Jaskier would've loved to laugh at the melodramatic corpse tucked in a skin suit, but he did also point the spear at Jaskier's throat.

While he loved pushing anyone's buttons, and this guy was pretty amusing to rattle, he figured that was enough toeing the line for now. "If you insist."

The man turned back around and crossed his arms, still leaning into that right leg. This was the in. If Jaskier went low and to the left when he started running, he could destabilize this vagabond with a vendetta and get out of sight before he could ever catch up. It was a fair bet he couldn't run very fast with that slight limp, either. He could do this.

That, or get speared in the back while he ran the straight hallway of the cave. His captor's arms didn't seem like they had any problems with them.

Jaskier knew he'd hate himself if he gave in, but one deliberate, piercing stone through his skull and this could all be over. Quick, easy, maybe painless if he didn't fuck up and give the handsome pile of rotting meat a lobotomy instead of a quick death.

A few mutters and a flick of his wrist and back to being no one, nothing.

Sure, he made his rules. But he preferred being a guilty prick needing penance than a dead one with morals.

Fidgeting, Jaskier pulled at the ropes around his wrists. Thirty seconds later, he was free. Though he knew by the smell this man definitely didn't attract anyone with working olfactory senses, it was so damn clear he hadn't bothered to get good at bondage for criminal or pleasurable reasons.

He could feel his breath hitch as he pulled his fingers free, scanning the floor for his best bludgeoning option. But he could feel the electricity at the mere thought of doing this sparking into his fingerprints, reminding him of the few memories of magic that he had left.

It was like it was a desperate animal left to starve in a cage, begging to be let loose. Except no matter how long he ignored it, it never seemed to die.

His heart started to sputter, stumble. Not because he wasn't sure he could pull this off, but because he was sure he would. And Jaskier didn't know where he'd go from there.

Just as he was ready to pull his hands forward and toss an angular rock at his captor, someone came around the corner. White hair, teeth-baring scowl, and silver sword in tow. He'd be damned. It was Geralt, after all.

That only made Jaskier's already stammering heartbeat get clumsier.

Yellow eyes trained on his captor, who now was grinning like a hungry wolf, Geralt growled, "Let him go, Tybalt. Hostages are too far."

"Then why don't you fight me for him? If I'm pushing your limits, you'll just have to punish me for it." Jaskier felt a chill run up his spine, the kind filled with dramatic intrigue. Wait a second, was this a sex thing? Looking "Tybalt" up and down, wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Guess addict wasn't wrong, but he fucked up about what kind.

Geralt didn't seem pleased, but shifted his grip on his sword as Tybalt charged towards him. "Dammit." He parried off the spear's blow, tried to push Tybalt away. But the absolutely ravenous idiot used the wall to throttle himself back towards the Witcher.

Which propelled him straight into Geralt's sword, running him through.

Blinking, the Witcher retracted his sword and the man fell to the ground, sputtering blood. It only took a few seconds for him to stop twitching and have bled out. "Fuck."

Jaskier wasn't sure if he should be horrified or start cackling. He landed somewhere in between, with this breathy, dry laugh. Though he was laughing about the man on the damp cave floor, though, his eyes kept scanning the stubbled face of the Witcher standing above him. He remembered he was handsome, but there was definitely something about a life-saving murder that made someone grow a short term, attractive halo of light around them.

He exhaled, trying to shut up his inappropriate laughter, and said, "Huh. I've never been proven wrong by a burly, brainless thug before."

"What?" Geralt looked at him like he just walked in on something he didn't want to get involved with. From what he'd seen so far, though, it seemed that probably happened to the Witcher a lot.

"I told him that you wouldn't come get me, nothing to stress about." Glancing Geralt up and down another time, taking in all the buckles and armor and violence of it all, he wondered if this Witcher might've stood a chance against a witch he once knew. All of his interest in him was pretty whimsical, but there was something stronger here, on his knees before him. And not even in a dirty way, even though it couldn't help but pop into his head. This was peak smut scenario if he ever saw one. Instead of jokingly saying, "How can I ever repay you, handsome man", he was a little more practical: "Guess Witchers are more the hero type than I expected."

"No, I'm not. I just don't like people getting caught up in my business." Getting on his haunches, Geralt leaned towards him. "Let me free you."

Jaskier pulled his hands out from behind his back and wiggled his unencumbered fingers. "Oh. Right. I got that covered."

Geralt peered at him and stood up, arms crossed. "Hmm."

Realizing that looked a little suspicious, Jaskier grimaced and got off the ground. Holy hell, he didn't realize how tall the other man was. Not that he was short, but... Made him wonder how many women made the joke that they were going to climb the man like a mountain.

Gesturing with his hands, Jaskier explained the "unbound" situation as well as he could without saying something that only made the conversation more awkward. Not the best time to have dirty novel ideas stuck in his head. "Before you got here, I was contemplating how to get out. Seemed from your majestic and very bloody display of combat, it wouldn't have been hard. If I just stayed low, I could've definitely outrun the oaf." Geralt untangled his terse arms, and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't feel like dying via Witcher anytime soon. He added, "Doesn't make me less thankful, though. You made escaping much easier."

"You're welcome." And then he started collecting things around the cave, like the spare rope and some provisions.

Jaskier took this opportunity to grab his runsack that Tybalt hijacked for kidnapping purposes and loosened his pants to dump out the horrible crushed rolls. They were questionably edible when he left the tavern, but now they definitely were something hellish that smelled of sweat and ballsack.

As he dug the final roll out, he asked, "Why did he want to kill you, anyway?"

"I beat him in a fist fight, once. He gets a little more extreme each time he asks for a rematch. He was decent before his fucking ego got in the way." Jaskier tried not to snort. Sure, from that almost boner, ego was definitely the only reason this man stalked Geralt across the continent. No other reason at all.

"Oh how I don't miss the throes of toxic masculinity." He gave a chuckle, but then tossed a serious look at the bloody, curdling body of Tybalt, under a roll or two of his. "You want us to carry his body back to town or...?"

Leaning down to the dead man's face, Geralt closed his dull, beady eyes and tore a necklace from around his neck. "He doesn't even live here; he's from Skellige. I'll take this for his sister, though. Leave the rest for the wolves."

While Jaskier appreciated not carrying a body a mile to town, the thought of a man turning into canine snacks wasn't too appetizing, either. Swallowing, his entire face frowned, from his forehead to his chin. "Lovely."

Nodding, Geralt finally turned his eyes to Jaskier. "Don't get kidnapped again."

The bard snorted. "Wasn't the plan." The second the words left his lips, Geralt turned and started walking off, pool of blood on the front of his armor and everything. Jaskier ran after him and grabbed his arm. "Wait! You can't possibly just leave like that. Think of all the monsters and rats you'll attract. With all that blood, they'll nibble half your pants off by the time you wake up. No matter how fun that might be for the locals, you should get washed up."

The Witcher glared at him, but didn't seem to disagree. "I can wash in the river."

"That is unsanitary and disgusting. You're going to ruin some poor family's laundry or bowel system." Inhaling, Jaskier hoped he wouldn't find this too forward. The Witcher was handsome, sure, but his ulterior motives had less to do with sex and more with trying to make Geralt like him. At least enough to let him tag along wherever he was going next. Especially since travelling with a Witcher made adventures ten times safer, clearly.

Jaskier offered, "I'll pay for some rooms with a bath at the inn. My treat, for coming to my rescue."

"I thought you worked at the tavern."

"Ah yes, you missed that fun display. Shortly after you left, I stood on the table, called them miserable idiots, and quit. One of the best days of my life, honestly."

Geralt flicked his yellow eyes down, in a judging manner that Jaskier didn't quite appreciate. But he had to admit the odd color of those eyes was starting to grow on him. "You need a better life."

Snorting, Jaskier was surprised to find himself agreeing. "Exactly." Guess the Witcher had the capacity to be funny as well as murderous. Maybe he'd actually like this one as a person, not just as a spectacle to amuse him.

When they got to the inn, Jaskier forked over some of the coin he had on hand. It was higher than the normal pricing, but the innkeeper (Duna) was Millie's sister. He didn't blame her for being a little bitter about his majestic performance earlier. Though, if it was up to him, she should be paying him for such a grand, hilarious exit.

She brought them to a room with two beds and a large bath, which worked fine enough for their purposes. Better, even, for his. More time to wheedle his way into the Witcher's heart.

Jaskier dropped his bag on a bed and walked straight into the bathroom.

Behind him, he heard Geralt do this growling groan. "I can bathe myself."

"I would hope that a grown man could, but from the tangled disaster that is your hair, one can never be too sure." He started the water pump, and was thankful that hot water was coming out. One thing to like about Upper Posada, Duna and Millie were great hosts. "Anyway, somebody needs to take your clothes while you get clean. I don't even want to know how much blood is in every crevice of your body, but for trying to save me, I will make that noble sacrifice."

Geralt didn't seem to like anything he just said, at least from the way he kept scowling. But he didn't argue, either. "Just get the water going."

"Will do." Jaskier kept an eye on the going pump while he pulled out some towels, soap, brushes, scrubbing tools, the like from the nearby drawers. He curiousity couldn't help but ask, "When was the last time you took a bath, anyway? Or at least the last time soap has touched your body for a notable amount of time?" Sure, he didn't smell as vile as Tybalt the sex-crazed kidnapper, but it still wasn't great.

After a few seconds of pause, Geralt answered, "A few towns over."

Taking an elongated blink, Jaskier went back to watching the water. It was almost ready, and it had a perfect stack of towels and soap nearby. "Ah, so at least a week or two. Lovely. Explains those hellish tangles. Another reason for me to stay. A whole team of people could be useful to figure out this nest of knots."

He smirked, taking a more holistic look at the entire Witcher. Sure, he was a blood-covered murder machine. But he was also a lonely, handsome man. He was an outsider not by birth, but by creation. He could appreciate that.

But Jaskier wasn't enough of a sentimental idiot to say that out loud, so instead he said,"There's a reason Witchers aren't known for great parties and enchanting nobility, I suppose."

"I suppose."

"And yet you still manage to be handsome, under all of that. A true wonder." With a simple raised eyebrow, Jaskier realized that maybe was something he shouldn't say. Coughing, he shut the water off. The bath was steaming and ready to wash off any dirt, grime, or blood. Maybe he was biased to his own tastes, but he would fall for any ploy if someone drew him a personal bath.

Walking up to Geralt, leaning against the wall, still stiff and so distant, Jaskier crossed his own arms. "Now, the water's finished and everything else is in order, so without ado, Geralt of Rivia..." Winking, he gestured to Geralt's black, bloody armor covering his entire body. Who knew what could be hiding out underneath. In a few seconds, he might find out. All the Witcher had to do was... "Strip."

/

Hello folks! I know I missed a posting, but I had to take a short break to catch up on things, feel sane again, the like. I now will have a new schedule posting both my Mass Effect story (Drunk Punch Love) and this Witcher one on Wednesdays and Saturdays. However, if you become a patron, you'll get to see each chapter a day early (and get access to my original stories, brainstorming blogs, access to my Discord, and other perks once my Twitch is up in April).

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