Jaskier The Bard's Foolproof Guide To Seducing Your Witcher

Flirting

This just gonna be a fun little story with different snippets of Jaskier trying and failing to get Geralt to fuck him. That is, until he realizes he's developed Feelings.

It is no secret to the men and women of the continent that Geralt of Rivia is one fine piece of ass.

He has the body of fucking marble statue for one, all firm muscle, handsome features, and a jawline that can cut through glass. Then there's his hair; long and soft to the touch despite the lack of care the witcher dedicates to it, coloured a beautiful moon-white as though Geralt has been blessed by the gods themselves. And his eyes. Sweet Melitele, those eyes are the most attractive thing Jaskier has ever seen. They're like staring into pools of liquid gold.

(Geralt is also very substantial below the belt, but that's not something Jaskier discovers until later in their friendship.)

Most days Jaskier has to fight to keep from swooning at the very sight of his friend-- and he's not alone in this predicament. He catches men and women in every town that they come across ogling Geralt in one way or another. Yes, Geralt's attractiveness is blatantly, painfully, beautifully obvious to everyone with eyes.

Everyone that is, but Geralt himself.

Jaskier is eighteen, fresh out of school, and ready to fuck anything that moves when he first meets Geralt at a dingy tavern in Posada. Having functional eyes, Jaskier takes note of that hulking, gorgeous, mountain of a man as soon as he enters. He can't help but let his eyes rake over Geralt's form as he makes his way to the darkest, most isolated corner of the tavern.

Naturally, Jaskier's first instinct is to flirt.

He saunters over to the witcher's isolated table, letting his hips sway just enough to tease, and looks the witcher up and down with half lidded eyes, biting his lip gently.

He's just the type of man Jaskier is looking for: one big and strong enough to throw him around a bit, maybe hold him down as he gets absolutely wrecked. He can almost taste how good those large calloused hands would feel around his waist and on his skin, can imagine how those lips and teeth would leave the most delicious marks.

But then he leans towards the witcher and opens with some awful line about bread in his pants that seemed like a good idea to his foolish, foolish, eighteen-year-old brain and utterly ruins his chances.

It's not until Jaskier gets to know Geralt better that he realizes those chances were never there to begin with.

At first he thinks it's because of his age. He's only just reached adulthood after all and while he does not lack in experience, his lingering baby-face projects otherwise. Some men like that, seek it out even. Geralt, he assumes, is just not amongst their numbers. The witcher is nearly a century old, perhaps Jaskier is just too young for him to consider.

After years pass however, and Jaskier begins creeping towards thirty, he begins to doubt that age is the issue.

Here's the thing, Jaskier knows he's a catch. And it's not because he's full of himself either (though admittedly all bards are to a certain degree), he has irrefutable proof. He takes care of his appearance, keeps up with all the latest trends, and lavishes his bedmates in all the attention they could ever want. Not to mention he has a reputation for prowess in the bedroom, and all reputations, even those that are an exaggeration, must come from somewhere. With Jaskier comes the promises of unwavering love and affection, sonnets and poems composed in his love's honor, sweet words that could make anyone a little weak in the knees.