A lot of fics have Geralt teaching Jaskier some self defense, but it's usually at Geralt's insistence and Jaskier is usually written as avoidant and inept when it comes to fighting. I'd love to see Jaskier be the one to initiate being taught how to defend himself and use a weapon, and actually being quite good at it, surprising them both. Geralt is impressed. With fluff and feelings : )
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Jaskier was tired of it. Don’t get him wrong; he was warmed by Geralt’s protectiveness, even if it was wrapped up in a package of gruffness. But Geralt had enough to deal with. He didn’t need to constantly be worried about him on top of everything.
He was human, yes, and there was no changing that (he had asked) but he didn’t have to be useless.
After thinking about it for weeks, he finally approached Geralt—after he had started the fire for the night, flames burning bright in the darkness of the woods.
“I need your help,” he said simply at first.
Geralt looked over at him, squinting. He looked like he was expecting a joke or something equally as stupid. Jaskier wondered what he would think when he told him. “With what?” he asked skeptically. “One of your new songs?” he asked dryly.
Jaskier held his head high, chin in the air. “Teach me how to fight. How to defend myself.”
“What?” he asked almost instantly. “Why?”
That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Jaskier shifted on his feet. “Uh, well, you’ve said it yourself, dear witcher,” he started, remembering all the times he had told him, early in their relationship, that he shouldn’t stick around him because his life was too dangerous for a human. “Life is dangerous, and not just your own but all of it. I want to know how to defend myself. I know I have limits,” he said, shrugging helplessly, “but I can at least learn a few things.”
Geralt stared at him, unblinking and blank. Jaskier wondered if he was upset, somehow, but why?
“You don’t need to concern yourself with that,” he said finally, gruffly. He turned away. “I’m here.”
Jaskier blinked slowly, the words absorbing just as slowly. Once again his heart was warmed by Geralt’s protectiveness, his innate urge to protect others, even when he denied it. “Geralt,” he said softly, stepping closer. Geralt’s shoulders were stiff as he poked at the fire. “I appreciate the sentiment, I do,” he said, meaning it, “but I can’t always rely on you like that. It’s not fair. To you or me.”
“But you can,” he said, too fast, too rough.
Jaskier’s heart ached at the desperation in his voice, like the only thing he could ever possibly give to Jaskier is protection, safety. But that was far from the truth—he gave him so much. He made him feel in a way he never had before. “I can,” he agreed softly, not even a lie. He believed it fully and truly. That Geralt would always protect him. “But I shouldn’t,” he continued, finally close enough that he could reach out and touch Geralt’s arm. “What if something happened and—and you weren’t there?” he asked, gently. “I need to know how to protect myself, Geralt, so if that happened, I could find my way back to you.”
He knew that was it, the final nail in the coffin. Geralt looked at him.
“Okay,” he said, even as he looked torn, like this was the last thing he ever wanted to do.
Jaskier smiled sweetly and squeezed his arm.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” he said gruffly. “Get some rest.”
Jaskier nodded, tugging on his arm. “Only if you’ll join me,” he said with a toothy grin, eyes bright. Because he knew Geralt prided himself on surviving on as little sleep as possible, because there was always something better to do. Or so he said. He was pretty sure he was just paranoid. Jaskier couldn’t even fault him for it, really. He watched as Geralt debated what to do, a flicker of emotions flashing across his face.
He slipped his hand down his arm, grasping his hand, fingers interlocking. Geralt startled a bit, like he hadn’t been expecting it. Jaskier’s heart pounded in his chest. He had been struggling with this for a while—his feelings for the other man, always there, dormant under his chest, waiting for the right moment to do or say something.
But he knew there would probably never be a right moment. His love for Geralt was grand, unlike anything he’d ever felt. He would never risk it, not even for his own happiness. He would rather be his friend, forever, than lose him because he wanted too much.
“Fine,” Geralt said finally, an amused quirk to his mouth. Jaskier smiled, pleased, pulling him toward their bedrolls, pushed together for warmth.
It was early morning when Jaskier shoved his shoulder—gently. “Geralt,” he said. “Come on. It’s morning.” The sun was bright in the sky, warm on their skin. It was autumn with warm days and cold nights.
Geralt groaned, eyelashes fluttering as he opened his eyes. “What?” he asked hoarsely.
“Time to train me,” he said, far too cheerily for so early in the morning. “Come on. Chop, chop.”
A few minutes later, they sat around the fire, eating a breakfast that consisted of stale bread and fruit. Jaskier was vibrating with energy. It was weirdly endearing.
“I’ll teach you what I can,” he said once they were finished, both standing, crumbs at their feet, “but we’ll need to buy you a weapon when—” Jaskier quickly pulled something out of his boot, shiny and short. Geralt realized it was a dagger: black-handled with a jewel. He blinked at it. It was a good choice for him, small and light. “Where did you get that?”
Jaskier smiled, a bit sheepish. “Last week. When we were in that town with the werewolf problem.”
“You were already planning to ask me,” he replied, not a question.
Jaskier fidgeted with the dagger. “Yeah,” he admitted, thumbing the jewel. Looked like an emerald. It was a pretty dagger. Hopefully it wasn’t just good for looks.
“We’ll start,” he said, taking the dagger from him, “without this.” Jaskier looked disappointed, bottom lip twitching as if he was fighting a pout. “Once you’ve learned the basics,” he assured him, “we can bring it back in.”
Jaskier nodded, squaring his shoulders. “I’m ready.”
They searched far and wide for a good area, needing space and flatness. Jaskier found it, a clearing, large and mostly flat. Geralt nodded approvingly and ignored the way his heart spiked—he was supposed to be able to control that—at Jaskier’s grin.
“First,” he instructed. “Show me what you can do.”
They stood in the clearing, a few feet apart, both without a weapon.
Jaskier shifted on his feet. “Um. But I can’t do anything.”
“That’s not true,” he replied, surprisingly gentle. He looked unexpectedly, unfairly beautiful, the sun shining down on him, his eyes glowing, snake-like in their beauty. “Just follow your instincts. Come at me.”
Jaskier took a deep breath, steeled himself. They were about the same height, but there was no denying that was where their similarities ended—Geralt was big in every sense of the world, muscles bulging under his clothes. Jaskier looked like a rag doll next to him.
“Jaskier,” he said. “You don’t have to think about it. Just let yourself feel.”
Somehow that was what he needed to hear. He rushed forward. At the last second he swore he saw an unexpected grin on Geralt’s face, a flashing of teeth.
What was expected was the way Geralt grabbed his arm once he was close enough, twisting it. Jaskier gasped as Geralt spun him, holding him against his chest. Jaskier had been expecting it and yet he was still disappointed in himself.
“You did good,” Geralt said, releasing his arm.
Jaskier turned around, rubbing his wrist. “Yeah, sure,” he replied dryly.
Geralt frowned, touching his arm again. His fingertips rubbed the sensitive skin of his wrist, soothing. “You did,” he said. “Comparing yourself to me isn’t fair, Jaskier. You were fast, and unwavering. Those are good traits to have in a fight. You don’t have the muscle; you will need to rely on that speed as much as you can.”
He still didn’t quite believe him, but—his heart blossomed under the compliment, weak for any praise from the other man.
“Here,” Geralt said after a moment, pulling Jaskier’s dagger out. “Try again.”
Jaskier took the dagger, fingers wrapping around it. “Are you sure? I thought you said—”
“Do you want my help or not?” he asked with a hint of amusement. “Go back to your original spot.” He waited until Jaskier was back at that spot to speak again, “I want you to not think.”
Jaskier almost laughed. “What?”
Geralt didn’t look like he was joking. “You’re thinking too much about it. Your body knows what to do, Jaskier. It’s survival. I can help you learn fancy tricks, and I will, gladly, but first you need to just trust yourself.”
He nodded slowly, gripping the dagger. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“Just charge me,” he said. “Give yourself over to your instincts. Don’t hold back.”
Jaskier knew it was silly but he still had to ask, heart pounding. “What if I—You don’t have any weapons.”
“I’ll be okay,” he assured him, corners of his mouth twitching. Of course he would be okay. He was Geralt. Jaskier couldn’t hurt him. “I want to see it, Jaskier,” he continued, lowly. Jaskier shivered, the sun warming the back of his neck. “What you’re capable of.”
Taking a deep breath, he charged him.
Jaskier’s brain was a wild thing, a million different thoughts at any given moment, but he pushed it all away. He focused on the feeling of the dagger in his hand, new and unnatural. He focused on the sun reflecting in Geralt’s eyes.
Close, close—he waited until he was close to duck under Geralt’s hand, reaching out for him. He heard Geralt’s hum of surprise as he spun around, heels digging in the dirt. Behind him, he reached up, fast, and pressed the tip of his dagger against Geralt’s throat. They were silent. Everything was silent, even the crickets.
His chest was pressed up against Geralt’s back. Jaskier took a shaky breath.
“You win,” he heard him say. Geralt turned around as he slowly lowered the dagger, feeling shaky with—with something. Adrenaline, he thought. It’d been so long since he felt—like he was high, heart pounding, a rushing in his ears.
Jaskier let out a giddy laugh. “You—you let me do that,” he said, because that was the only way to explain it. “Cheater.”
“I didn’t,” he said, surprisingly soft. Jaskier’s eyes focused as he looked at him. He was smiling a bit. He almost looked impressed or something, prideful maybe.
Jaskier let out another laugh. “I did that,” he breathed, disbelieving and giddy. “Geralt, that was—wow.”
“You did,” he confirmed with a hint of amusement. “Try to do it again.”
They practiced, sparring, for hours. Jaskier was—good, better than Geralt had been expecting and he almost felt guilty for doubting him. Geralt won seven out of ten rounds, and Jaskier was pouting by the end of it, but he assured him that was good.
“You do remember this isn’t exactly fair, correct?” he asked, raising both eyebrows. “I have enhanced senses. You do not. You should be proud of yourself.”
Jaskier nodded, still not looking convinced. “One more round,” he said. Geralt sighed; it was getting late and—“Please, Geralt,” he added, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes widening.
How was he supposed to deny him, looking like that?
“Okay,” he said, stepping back, shaking out his shoulders. “Again.”
Jaskier nodded, taking a deep breath. Geralt expected a repeat of the last round, Jaskier lashing at him with his dagger, but he tossed his dagger and rushed him. Geralt startled, just for a split-second, but it was enough.
Grinning wildly, Jaskier threw himself at him. Geralt reached out, unsure of what to do—
They both fell on the ground, rolling in the grass a few times, until they finally stopped with Jaskier on top of him, straddling him. They were both covered in dirt, now, and Jaskier was slick with sweat, still grinning like an idiot. Geralt couldn’t feel anything but an almost dizzying fondness as he stared up at the human.
“You’re an idiot,” he remarked with no real heat. He realized, then, he must’ve reached up at some point during their scuffle because his hands were on Jaskier’s hips. Looking up, he saw Jaskier wasn’t just slick with sweat but—flushed, all the way down his chest, eyes dark. From the fight, he told himself, even as he hoped it wasn’t true.
Jaskier licked his lips, slow. Geralt’s eyes flickered to his mouth, a mouth he had dreamed about.
“I win,” he breathed with the start of a little grin, cocky and bratty. Geralt wanted to kiss it off his face; he wanted to touch him, every inch of him. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t brave enough, not like Jaskier. He had always been the braver one. “Geralt,” he said, leaning down, blocking out the glow of the sun with his silhouette.
His eyes were dark and questioning. Geralt squeezed his hips, and he buckled on top of him with a groan. Fuck. “You won,” he agreed, a lump in his throat.
Jaskier stared down at him, and he stared back. Geralt felt the tension in the air between them.
Suddenly, without warning, Jaskier pressed down and kissed him. Geralt gasped against his mouth, surprised but pleasantly so. Jaskier’s mouth was as warm and soft as he’d always dreamed but no less demanding, licking into Geralt’s mouth with vigor, grinding on top of him, their bodies pressing together, warm and hard.
He forgot what they were doing, or why they’d been doing it, focused entirely on Jaskier.
“Wait, wait,” Jaskier said, pulling away, eyelashes fluttering. “I need to hear you say it.”
Geralt blinked at him, eyes dark. He would say just about anything in the world to keep doing that. “Say what?” he asked, gruff from all the kissing.
Jaskier smiled and there was something almost—nervous about it, twitchy. “Say you want me.” His fingers clutched in his hair. “That this isn’t just some fucked up result of adrenaline running wild. That you won’t avoid me after it.”
He frowned, reaching up. Jaskier leaned into his touch as he stroked his cheek. “This isn’t that, Jaskier,” he assured him. For once he needed to be brave, even if he was scared, scared of fucking this up, scared of losing him. “I’ve—wanted this for a while.”
Jaskier let out a helpless laugh. “Really?”
“Really,” he confirmed. Jaskier smiled, bigger and brighter. It was worth it, every ounce of fear, to see that. Cupping the back of his neck and squeezing, he pulled him down and kissed him again, slower and lazier, communicating everything he couldn’t in words with the warm press of his mouth.
They sat together, afterwards.
Jaskier fidgeted with his dagger. Geralt kept glancing at him, mostly because he was afraid this was all a dream and any second now he was going to blink and—boom, it’d all be gone. He’d be gone. But so far, so good. Jaskier was still there, lips swollen from all their kissing, marks on his neck from Geralt’s teeth.
“You were good, really,” he said after a moment, meaning it, “and I’m not just saying that because we’ve slept together now and I feel like I have to.”
Jaskier looked at him, at the grin on his face. He shook his head, laughing. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”
Geralt sighed, reclining on the grass. He squinted up at the darkening sky. He was hungry, starving, but he didn’t feel like moving. “I’ve been called worse,” he said, also meaning it.
Jaskier scooted closer, reclining with him. Geralt had always loved Jaskier’s natural scent, musky but sweet, and now he drowned in it, nosing at his shoulder without even realizing it. Jaskier let out a soft laugh. So many people always smelled like fear around him, but not Jaskier. Never Jaskier. Since the day they had met, he had never been scared of him.
“Thank you, Geralt,” he said, surprising him a bit. He looked up at him, chin resting on his shoulder.
“For what?” he asked, assuming he was talking about the lesson.
Jaskier turned, their faces just inches apart, noses brushing. “For letting me be a part of your life.”
He hadn’t wanted that, at first, constantly pushing him away, thinking it was for the better. But he had gotten better about that after the incident on the mountain. He had always been scared of how much he wanted Jaskier, how much he meant to him, but that was no excuse for treating him badly. Then, or now.
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” he replied lightly, out of his element. Jaskier had always been stubborn, always returning even when Geralt didn’t deserve it.
Jaskier grinned, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “No,” he agreed. “No, you didn’t.”
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