A/N: A one-shot for my Discord lovelies, from your bard!

Toss a Coin to Tsuruga

"Hmmmm."

"I'm sorry, was the your f*** me grunt or the self-satisfied one? Could you turn around, please, it's hard for me to wax lyrical about it without seeing the type of grimace you're making."

"Bard."

Jaskier skipped around Roach's side, his lute bouncing against his chest. "Oh Witcher," he sang out as he ran his hand along the horse's flank.

"F*** yourself."

"Ah, so it was the self-satisfied grunt. Good, no need to worry about impending doom then." His slender fingers wound lovingly around his most precious possession, drawing a few soulful notes from its neck. "Though your impending doom garnered us quite a few gold marks at that last tavern. Shame, really." He spun on his heel to look out over the mountain range as Roach clipped on beside him.

"Oh, 'tis a tale that's oft been spun,

About the Butcher of Brevia

And his best friend, bar none—"

Geralt closed his eyes for a pace, wishing he had a similar ability to close off his ears.

"I am not your friend," he growled, biting off the words for the thousandth time.

"I was speaking of Roach, naturally," Jaskier said, bouncing along on his toes beside the horse's flank.

"Speaking of which, have you not noticed when both companions ride horseback it is the most expedient way to travel? Geralt, perhaps we could—"

"No."

"Oh come, but I am fine and delicately boned, Roach won't even notice the addition to the muscular mass of Rivia."

"It isn't Roach I'm worried about."

"Fine, then, I shall stride along carefreely composing a tune about the time I spread chamomile on your shapely ass."

Geralt's look could have sliced through a Medusa's stone skin, but Jaskier merely whistled a chord and broke into song.

"The Witcher of Rivia, his muscles immense, but down on his backside, they are decidedly dense, ooooh, I—"

Geralt pulled up on Roach's reins, swinging his leg over and vaulting off like the crack of a whip. Golden eyes suddenly bored into grey, his mouth twisted up in a disdainful snarl.

"Oh goody, my turn," Jaskier said, his voice shaky but his eyes bright as he turned, making like his was about to mount Roach.

Geralt's answering smile was all teeth and no humor.

"And CUT! Stunt team, fetch the ropes— Tsuruga-san, Kijima-san, excellent work. We'll need to retake the scene once, more sweeping along the mountainside for perspective— Sako-san, show me the storyboards for today!" Director Seiji snapped his fingers, palm held out expectantly as he scrutinized the replay on screen.

Smack— Ren's eyes went wide as a hand thwacked his backside.

"Did you ever think we'd get to costar in a role where I'm composing masterpieces about Japan's favorite butt?"

Ren forced out a gentlemanly smile, holding his teeth slightly too tensely for it to be convincing. "Kijima, no need to stay in character off-set," he said slowly.

Kijima stretched, the taut green suede of his brocaded jacket tensing over his shoulder muscles. He paused mid-reach to crane his neck over his shoulder, looking down.

"I still say my rear would look just as well in your leather pants. For the life of me I can't imagine why Seiji-kun cast you as Geralt instead of me." He dropped his arms, flexing his muscles with a playful grin.

Ren shook his head, a genuine smile forced out by his co-star's antics. He flicked a strand of long silvery hair out of his face, refreshingly not matted with mud or gore.

"Tsuruga-kun," Kijima said playfully. "It's a break."

Ren pushed the tight leather doublet off, tossing it over his chair.

"Drop," continued Kijima, eyes sparkling, "and give us fifty."

Ren rolled up the sleeves of his black undershirt, artfully made to look filthy with dust and blood spatter and eyed Kijima warily. "No singing."

Kijima raised his eyebrows, an innocent "Who, me?" look on his face. It was less than convincing, especially given the way his fingers poised above the lyre strings. What a troublesome troubadour.

With a sigh, Ren dropped to the floor, arms spread wide, fingers splayed and began his ritual. Every break, no matter how short or long, Ren had managed to squeeze in between fifty and five hundred push ups. His shoulders burned in protest, abs catching fire from one-too-many sessions already today.

Breath whooshed out of him as a solid mass planted itself on his upper back. Kijima whistled, fingers brushing over the strings of his lute.

"Merely method acting, Tsuruga-kun," Kijima sang to the chord of D, clearly enjoying his perch atop Mt. Tsuruga.

"And giving me excellent motivation for our next scene," Ren growled, pushing up beneath the actor's weight.

Kijima blanched, a nervous giggle escaping him as the long-awaited Sako-san approached, arms full of ropes.

"Places! Sato-san, please truss Kijima-san, thank you!" Director Seiji's voice boomed over the set.

Roach's back haunches swayed as he clipped over the rocky trail, Jaskier's head bumping against the horse's thigh with each step.

"Not what I meant," the bard called out, unable to do anything but wiggle under the thick ropes tying his feet and hands together.

"It's what I meant," Geralt said, his voice a little more pleased than usual.

"My, Roach, you do have shapely hindquarters," Jaskier mused, shifting his head to face away from his friend.

"Don't touch my horse."

"Geralt, I'm tied up and dangling over how his ass, how am I not supposed to touch him?" Jaskier spat, rubbing his tongue between his teeth. "His hairs are tickling my mouth."

"Don't touch my horse," Geralt growled, shifting his sword belt to a more comfortable position.

"What, then, you want me to plank all the way to Aretuza?"

The Witcher ignored him, the ghost of a smile creeping over his features. Jaskier cleared his throat, lifting his legs and head in mock obedience. He started to sing, swaying in enjoyment of his own spurious melody.

"Round and firm, beyond compare, these hindquarters at which I stare-"

A swift kick and a sharp tug on the reins; Roach reared, dumping Jaskier unceremoniously on the dusty trail like a one of Geralt's bounties.

"Hells fire, Geralt," Jaskier moaned, rolling about. "My head, oh my head. No, my back- ah," he screwed up his face. "My ass! My whole body, I shall never be able to throw a lusty spin during the chorus. Geralt, you abuse me."

"Don't sing about my horse," Geralt said, turning Roach to face Jaskier before hopping off to crouch beside him, poking him with his boot.

Jaskier opened his eyes, flashing a cheeky grin at his Butcher. "Who said it was about the horse?"