“I dare you to…” Triss chewed her lip and peered at Jaskier thoughtfully “…get up on the bar and dance!” She had to shout the dare over the pounding bass line and whooping crowd.
Jaskier shook his head and laughed. “That’s hardly a dare! I did that last weekend!”
Sabrina smirked. “It’s true, I was there.”
Triss laughed. “Fine then… with your shirt off!”
They were celebrating the end of the term, and somehow a game of Truth or Dare had broken out. Jaskier always had to go first. He sighed. “You just want to ogle me, don’t you, you little minx. Anyway, they’ll kick me out. I know this because I also did that last weekend.”
“Fine!” Triss looked around the crowded bar until her eyes settled on something behind Jaskier. A mischievous look crossed her features. “I dare you to go over there and hit on one of those witchers.”
“What?” Sabrina’s face screwed up in a disgusted grimace. “A witcher? Gross.”
Jaskier’s head whipped around, searching for whoever Triss had been looking at.
Triss cackled, the effects of their finished bottle of bubbly taking hold. “No, not just hit on! You have to get one of them to kiss you!”
“Ew, Triss, don’t make him do that,” Sabrina said, still frowning.
“What’s wrong with witchers?” Jaskier wondered, and then he saw them.
“They’re not even human! They’re just, like, killing machines. They don’t want anything to do with you, anyway.”
He barely heard her. There were three of them, leaning against a high table, the crowd giving them a generous buffer of space. Their telltale swords were strapped across their backs, making them instantly recognizable, but even without the swords, Jaskier would have been able to tell. Thick, muscly, scarred, and those cat-like eyes. It was odd to see three of them together, and especially in a place like this. They usually kept to themselves—in, then out, monster safely put down.
Two of them were facing him, one with black hair, one redheaded, and, quite frankly, he’d be happy to kiss either. The third one had his back to them, but he had long silver hair, half pulled back, and his shoulders were about as wide as Jaskier was tall.
Then suddenly the third one turned and Jaskier was… well, he was in love. His breath left him in a whoosh as glowing yellow eyes locked onto his. The witcher’s face remained blank, and after a long moment he turned back to his friends.
“Challenge accepted,” Jaskier wheezed, sucking air back into his lungs. He chugged the rest of his glass of champagne. Sabrina babbled something irrelevant as he stood up and smoothed his hair back.
He marched over. The other two saw him coming.
The redhead grinned. “Think you’ve got the wrong table, blue-eyes.”
Jaskier smiled back, sliding his gaze over to the black-haired witcher, and then landing it on the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. “Oh, this is the right table.”
“Need help with a monster?” the black-haired one asked, with a deep, scratchy voice.
“Well, I need help.” Jaskier pointed back at his table. “See, my friend there,” he waved at Triss, who waved back, sheepishly, “has dared me to come over here and kiss one of you.”
The first two chuckled, but the silver-haired one’s jaw tightened before he spoke. “We’re not here to be a box on your checklist.” Jaskier felt the rumble of his voice deep inside. “Fuck off.”
“Ah, give him a break, Geralt,” the redhead cackled. “Like you don’t love the attention.”
“Geralt, is it?” Jaskier stuck out his hand. “Jaskier.”
Geralt stared at him, unmoving.
“Eskel,” offered the black-haired one, kindly reaching for Jaskier’s dangling hand. “This is Lambert.” He shook both hands but turned nervously back to Geralt.
“I’m very sorry,” Jaskier faltered. “I didn’t mean to treat you like a box on a checklist—”
“Hmm,” Geralt grumbled at him. “And yet, you did.”
“He’s just having fun, Geralt.” Eskel rolled his eyes and turned to Jaskier. “Sorry about him. He’s mad at the world. But I guarantee he thinks you’re cute.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes at Eskel while Lambert laughed again. Then he looked back at Jaskier.
Jaskier’s insides turned to jelly. But not in an “Oh, shit” sort of way. Jaskier knew he should be afraid with two hundred fifty pounds of trained killer glowering at him, but instead he was just… enraptured.
“Alright, then. If you’re sorry…” Geralt nodded his head in the direction of the bar “…let’s see you hop up on that counter and dance.”
“You want me to—” Jaskier paused, confused.
Eskel covered a snicker with his hand. Lambert threw back his head and laughed.
The corner of Geralt’s mouth lifted up. “Shirtless.”
There was a glimmer of amusement in those glowing eyes. A tingle swept over Jaskier. He peeled his shirt off without a second thought and pressed it against Geralt’s chest. “Hold this.”
He turned and marched towards the bar, giving Triss and Sabrina a wave. The bartender’s eyes were already narrowing at him as he approached. He hopped up on the sticky counter—despite a few yelps of protest from the patrons—and turned to see the witchers watching him. The quirk of Geralt’s lips had grown into a tiny grin.
The bartender grabbed his ankle.
@oxbridge-quality-fanfiction-co @lottelorelei @chaotic-bard @fangirleaconmigo
