Eskel stands over Jaskier, talking to him kindly as one might to a friend, and for Wolf witchers, this kind of conversation is completely normal. Modesty with regards to nudity is quickly trained out of you in Kaer Morhen; you couldn't have it and still use the communal baths. But Jaskier's from human society, and that has many more compunctions about nudity than witchers do, and the bard is undoubtedly less used to large, muscular, nude men walking up to him to chat.
His body betrays him. The spicy-sweet scent of lust starts to suffuse the heavy, humid air, a scent that's easily discernible to all of the witchers in the room. Eskel's only response comes in the form of his raised eyebrows, because he has manners, while Lambert curses and Coën pretends that none of this is happening. Geralt sighs. He'd really wanted to have a nice, relaxing soak with his bard, but fuck him, apparently. Now this is happening, his bard is staring at his brother's cock and apparently finds it very attractive. Granted, it is a very nice-looking cock-- they'd had that dick-measuring contest years ago, and neither Geralt nor Lambert were found to have the nicest cock in Kaer Morhen. But there is a certain amount of ego-bruising that occurs when your lover finds another man's cock particularly interesting.
Jaskier goes fishing for the soap, running his mouth in an attempt to distract from his body's reactions to having multiple strapping, naked men around him, all of whom had noses like bloodhounds. The comment about cleaning up after brothers gets a fuck you from Lambert even though Jaskier hadn't actually been talking about him, and Eskel goes over to dunk him under the water just because he's being a shit and this is what older brothers are for.
Geralt turns and wraps an arm around Jaskier's waist, hauling him back into his lap regardless of whether he's found the soap or not. He has plenty of soap, anyway, it doesn't matter that much if he loses this one particular bar to the baths. His nose brushes against the nape of his neck, breathing in the heady scent of him and not being particularly subtle about it.
"I may take you up on it," Coën says, still gamely pretending that Lambert isn't being drowned five feet away from him. "I don't mind smelling like something other than horse and onion."
It's a dig against-- well, all three of them, probably, Lambert and Eskel had their fair share of horse-and-onion stench after being on the road for a year. Geralt buries his nose further in Jaskier's scent, grumbling wordlessly into his hair and very resolutely not going back to purring contentedly. He still needs to wash up and is in dire need of a shave, but that might require him to relinquish his grip on Jaskier, and he doesn't want to do that. For reasons.
no subject
His body betrays him. The spicy-sweet scent of lust starts to suffuse the heavy, humid air, a scent that's easily discernible to all of the witchers in the room. Eskel's only response comes in the form of his raised eyebrows, because he has manners, while Lambert curses and Coën pretends that none of this is happening. Geralt sighs. He'd really wanted to have a nice, relaxing soak with his bard, but fuck him, apparently. Now this is happening, his bard is staring at his brother's cock and apparently finds it very attractive. Granted, it is a very nice-looking cock-- they'd had that dick-measuring contest years ago, and neither Geralt nor Lambert were found to have the nicest cock in Kaer Morhen. But there is a certain amount of ego-bruising that occurs when your lover finds another man's cock particularly interesting.
Jaskier goes fishing for the soap, running his mouth in an attempt to distract from his body's reactions to having multiple strapping, naked men around him, all of whom had noses like bloodhounds. The comment about cleaning up after brothers gets a fuck you from Lambert even though Jaskier hadn't actually been talking about him, and Eskel goes over to dunk him under the water just because he's being a shit and this is what older brothers are for.
Geralt turns and wraps an arm around Jaskier's waist, hauling him back into his lap regardless of whether he's found the soap or not. He has plenty of soap, anyway, it doesn't matter that much if he loses this one particular bar to the baths. His nose brushes against the nape of his neck, breathing in the heady scent of him and not being particularly subtle about it.
"I may take you up on it," Coën says, still gamely pretending that Lambert isn't being drowned five feet away from him. "I don't mind smelling like something other than horse and onion."
It's a dig against-- well, all three of them, probably, Lambert and Eskel had their fair share of horse-and-onion stench after being on the road for a year. Geralt buries his nose further in Jaskier's scent, grumbling wordlessly into his hair and very resolutely not going back to purring contentedly. He still needs to wash up and is in dire need of a shave, but that might require him to relinquish his grip on Jaskier, and he doesn't want to do that. For reasons.