Jaskier is affectionate even when they're getting dressed, doling out kisses and touches to whatever parts of Geralt aren't covered by clothing. He had always known that Jaskier is physically affectionate, fond of touching and hugging and even pressing kisses to his friends' cheeks in greeting-- it's just strange to have all of that affection coming in his direction. Kisses were a generally infrequent thing in Geralt's life-- whores generally didn't allow it, though Yennefer did-- but Jaskier seems determined to make up for the lack. And not even just by kissing his mouth, as Geralt would expect; the bard kisses him in strange places, too, like his shoulder blade just before he pulls his shirt on and the back of his hand where a long scar cuts across it.
"Hm," he says. Jaskier had gotten into his own clothes-- though not his pretty silks-- quite quickly, and is fully covered up to ward off the chill. Underneath the reek of sweat and spend that clings to him, Jaskier smells like happiness, and the scent of it only increases when he reaches out and Geralt doesn't refuse him, lets him twine their fingers together. He lets go by the time they reach the hall, but it's only so that Jaskier can make his dramatic entrance and Geralt doesn't feel the loss of it too acutely.
He knows that they could smell the both of them well before they even walked inside, and that assumption is confirmed by the sight of their faces-- Vesemir's exasperation, his brothers' disgust, Coën's amused eye roll. Eskel makes the mistake of trying to convince Jaskier to do anything, and all it gets him is a bard reeking of his brother's jizz draped across his shoulders. While the bard emotionally scars the youngest Wolf brother with the overpowering scent of sex, Geralt starts getting breakfast and, out of habit, gets it for the both of them. There's kasha, still warm in the pot, and he fixes it up with the sweet things that Jaskier likes-- dried fruit and honey and such-- before he makes a bowl of his own. He piles up one plate with bread and sausage, because it's always been easier for them to share a plate rather than order two. And less washing up afterwards. Besides, they've learned how to eat around each other, when one would need the butter handed over or to pass the knife. Two decades' worth of familiarity. When he sets their breakfasts down on the opposite side of the table from the other two witchers, Eskel is looking at him with a curious sort of expression, and Geralt gives him a neutral one in return. There is nothing at all to see here, not a thing.
Lambert calls for aid, and it's a sufficient distraction from Eskel's searching looks.
"Jaskier," he says, sitting down to eat his godsdamned breakfast next to his child surprise, who is supposed to be the only child in this keep. Somehow, she is also the best behaved. "Eat or I'll give your food to Lambert."
And considering their recent activities, the lure of food should be enough to keep him from scandalizing his brothers any further. Food, then a bath, then Geralt could get around to his actual tasks for the day. The things that he's required to do that don't involve screwing a bard in any manner.
no subject
"Hm," he says. Jaskier had gotten into his own clothes-- though not his pretty silks-- quite quickly, and is fully covered up to ward off the chill. Underneath the reek of sweat and spend that clings to him, Jaskier smells like happiness, and the scent of it only increases when he reaches out and Geralt doesn't refuse him, lets him twine their fingers together. He lets go by the time they reach the hall, but it's only so that Jaskier can make his dramatic entrance and Geralt doesn't feel the loss of it too acutely.
He knows that they could smell the both of them well before they even walked inside, and that assumption is confirmed by the sight of their faces-- Vesemir's exasperation, his brothers' disgust, Coën's amused eye roll. Eskel makes the mistake of trying to convince Jaskier to do anything, and all it gets him is a bard reeking of his brother's jizz draped across his shoulders. While the bard emotionally scars the youngest Wolf brother with the overpowering scent of sex, Geralt starts getting breakfast and, out of habit, gets it for the both of them. There's kasha, still warm in the pot, and he fixes it up with the sweet things that Jaskier likes-- dried fruit and honey and such-- before he makes a bowl of his own. He piles up one plate with bread and sausage, because it's always been easier for them to share a plate rather than order two. And less washing up afterwards. Besides, they've learned how to eat around each other, when one would need the butter handed over or to pass the knife. Two decades' worth of familiarity. When he sets their breakfasts down on the opposite side of the table from the other two witchers, Eskel is looking at him with a curious sort of expression, and Geralt gives him a neutral one in return. There is nothing at all to see here, not a thing.
Lambert calls for aid, and it's a sufficient distraction from Eskel's searching looks.
"Jaskier," he says, sitting down to eat his godsdamned breakfast next to his child surprise, who is supposed to be the only child in this keep. Somehow, she is also the best behaved. "Eat or I'll give your food to Lambert."
And considering their recent activities, the lure of food should be enough to keep him from scandalizing his brothers any further. Food, then a bath, then Geralt could get around to his actual tasks for the day. The things that he's required to do that don't involve screwing a bard in any manner.