"You left me on a mountain! Have you seen these boots? I pretty much just slid all the way down that hill back to Caingorn!"
"Jaskier—"
"Don't fucking Jaskier me. I'm talking to you. This is how this works."
Geralt steps closer and puts his gloved hand on Jaskier's shoulder, his face with the amber mutant eyes taking on an unusually soft, almost pleading look. "I need your help."
"Fine." Jaskier grimaces. "But first—" he turns away from Geralt. Then, with a speed that even surprises the bard, he swivels around and punches Geralt in the gut with force.
"Jaskier, what the fuck—" Geralt stares at his friend, nonplussed. Jaskier is holding his aching hand, tears springing to his eyes. Maybe it was not exactly the brightest idea to hit the Witcher after what the fire-fucker had done. It has been a couple of days and most of the blistering has healed. Still, this fucking hurt.
"Fuck that shitty armour of yours!" Jaskier glares at Geralt. "Is it made of granite? Like your fucking heart? If you have a heart, that is."
"I'm sorry, Jaskier." Again, Geralt places his hand on the bard's shoulder.
Jaskier shrugs it off.
"I'm sorry, Jaskier," he mock-imitates Geralt's deep voice. "That's it?" Still clutching his injured hand, Jaskier looks the Witcher in the eye. "You fucking broke my heart!"
"I know. And I am sorry, Jask."
"Proove it!"
"Jaskier, how—"
He cannot finish the question. Jaskier's lips are already on his, urgent, hungry, angry. Taken totally by surprise, Geralt freezes for a second. Then he closes his eyes, takes a shuddering breath and wraps his arms around his friend. This feels good. And right. Why have they never done this before? He opens his mouth for Jaskier's tongue while the bard roughly pushes him against the cell's open grille door. They kiss, deep and hard.
Both men are panting heavily when they come apart.
"I hate you, Witcher," Jaskier growls. Then his lips are all over Geralt's neck and face while his fingers are searching for the buckles and straps of his friend's black armour.
"Jaskier, not here. It's too dangerous," Geralt cautions under his breath. Fuck, he wants it too, right here and now, but they can't risk getting caught.
"Swear you'll never tell me to fuck off again, ever," Jaskier says, pressing his body against Geralt's so hard, it almost hurts.
"I swear," Geralt breathes. "Witcher word of honour."
"I believe you, Wolf." Jaskier kisses him so hard and full of passion, that Geralt can taste blood. Fuck, this is damn hot. His black leather pants suddenly feel much too tight. The bard must sense the bulge of his throbbing erection against his crotch. But, dammit, they cannot fuck right here in the bloody prison cell, can they?
Suddenly, Jaskier breaks the kiss.
"Just wait and I'll make you burn," he whispers into Geralt's ear. Then he turns around, looking at the upside down wooden bucket that is placed on the floor next to a metal plate with some leftover food. Two big, brown mice are sitting on top of it.
"Gentlemice, it's been an honour!"
Geralt rolls his eyes. This is so typically Jaskier.
"What? I made new friends. Get over it!" Purposefully, Jaskier strides past Geralt and through the door. They better find a safer place to make out, preferably one with a comfortably big bed.
"Jealous?"