The musician picks up a brush and starts to pull it through Geralt's hair, long, gentle strokes that mostly serve to smooth out the detangled locks. Between the hair cream and Jaskier's skill with brushes and combs, Geralt's hair has mostly been tamed, falling soft and neat over his shoulders. It's certainly nicer than he'd usually be bothered to do for himself, considering that he usually just throws it back into a bun or a half-up ponytail to keep it out of his face. So long as it isn't bothering him, he doesn't care much what it looks like.
Jaskier hums an old song and Geralt sits quietly.
Even once he sets the brush down, Jaskier doesn't stop; his fingers delve back into the gray hair again, accidentally eliciting a soft noise from Geralt's throat, and start sectioning his hair. He's confused until he feels the soft tugs as each section is woven around the others, forming a long braid down his back. This is a practical thing, he thinks-- Ciri does it, too, before she goes to bed, so that her hair isn't a mess in the morning. It's considerate of Jaskier to do this for him.
When he's finished, Geralt reaches back to touch the braid, feeling along the smooth bumps of it.
"My hair will be less messy in the morning." He doesn't mention that he almost misses the feeling of gentle hands on his skin. It's stupid to want things that he can't have. "Thank you."
They stay there for a while yet, talking about things that don't matter-- or, rather, Jaskier does most of the talking, and Geralt listens. That's fine, it reminds him of when he was young and shared a room with Eskel, and he'd listen to his brother read from books with a flashlight until late into the night. Until they both fell asleep that way, crammed awkwardly onto the same bed, Eskel's cheek pressed against the pages.
He eventually falls asleep here, too-- first coaxed into laying down on the sofa-bed while Jaskier prattles, then slowly lulled by the cadence of his voice. Like a lullaby without a melody, or the white noise machine that was supposed to help with his insomnia. Apparently, all he needed was too much weed and a chatty musician.
His internal clock won't let him sleep in, though, despite forgetting to set an alarm. He's awake at five o'clock sharp, briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the lack of a crowing rooster. He's warm, wrapped up in blankets, long limbs wrapped securely around his middle. A leg is pushed firmly between his thighs, and that's a little bit of a problem because Geralt is a healthy middle-aged man with a very functional circulatory system that likes to prove its level of function every morning. That is to say, he's got some very healthy morning wood going on right now, and he's awake enough to remember that he spent the night at Jaskier's.
Jaskier, apparently, is a cuddler. Geralt doesn't really mind cuddly bed-partners, but he and Jaskier had fallen asleep quite platonically last night, laying side by side. The erection currently pressing against the musician's thigh is not very platonic. And even though that erection might very much like it if Geralt were to roll his hips and maybe wake Jaskier up, that's just a very good reason why Geralt's cock should never be allowed to make decisions. He needs to get up carefully and leave quietly, so that Jaskier never has to know about the awkward situation that he's sleeping through.
He looks peaceful when he sleeps, and he's tucked in close enough that Geralt can smell the sweet floral scent that his fancy soap left on his skin from his shower last night.
Geralt moves quietly and slowly to extricate himself from Jaskier's grip without waking him. He had hoped that, in the time it took to get out of the musician's lax arms, his morning wood would have sorted itself out, but no luck-- he has to collect his clothes from the dryer and awkwardly take care of himself in the bathroom. He stuffs his fist into his mouth to keep quiet, takes himself in hand and tries to think of nothing at all, just treat it like nothing more than a simple biological need that must be taken care of. He doesn't think about firm thighs or pink lips or a swathe of hairy chest peeking out of a partly unbuttoned shirt, the collar slipping over one pale shoulder. Geralt checks his phone once he's tidied up and changed, and he's running late-- fuck, he has to meet Eskel. He texts him that he's going to be late, already dreading the questions that he'll be asked, and grabs his things to leave, until he realizes that if he just walks out, Jaskier's door will be left unlocked.
Fuck.
He approaches the sofa-bed and puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, shaking him gently until he wakes, like how he'd wake Ciri when she's sleeping in too late.
"Jaskier. I'm leaving, you need to lock your door when I go."
He doesn't wait long for a response, but heads out after that, once he's sure that Jaskier is awake enough to understand what he's been told.
no subject
Jaskier hums an old song and Geralt sits quietly.
Even once he sets the brush down, Jaskier doesn't stop; his fingers delve back into the gray hair again, accidentally eliciting a soft noise from Geralt's throat, and start sectioning his hair. He's confused until he feels the soft tugs as each section is woven around the others, forming a long braid down his back. This is a practical thing, he thinks-- Ciri does it, too, before she goes to bed, so that her hair isn't a mess in the morning. It's considerate of Jaskier to do this for him.
When he's finished, Geralt reaches back to touch the braid, feeling along the smooth bumps of it.
"My hair will be less messy in the morning." He doesn't mention that he almost misses the feeling of gentle hands on his skin. It's stupid to want things that he can't have. "Thank you."
They stay there for a while yet, talking about things that don't matter-- or, rather, Jaskier does most of the talking, and Geralt listens. That's fine, it reminds him of when he was young and shared a room with Eskel, and he'd listen to his brother read from books with a flashlight until late into the night. Until they both fell asleep that way, crammed awkwardly onto the same bed, Eskel's cheek pressed against the pages.
He eventually falls asleep here, too-- first coaxed into laying down on the sofa-bed while Jaskier prattles, then slowly lulled by the cadence of his voice. Like a lullaby without a melody, or the white noise machine that was supposed to help with his insomnia. Apparently, all he needed was too much weed and a chatty musician.
His internal clock won't let him sleep in, though, despite forgetting to set an alarm. He's awake at five o'clock sharp, briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings and the lack of a crowing rooster. He's warm, wrapped up in blankets, long limbs wrapped securely around his middle. A leg is pushed firmly between his thighs, and that's a little bit of a problem because Geralt is a healthy middle-aged man with a very functional circulatory system that likes to prove its level of function every morning. That is to say, he's got some very healthy morning wood going on right now, and he's awake enough to remember that he spent the night at Jaskier's.
Jaskier, apparently, is a cuddler. Geralt doesn't really mind cuddly bed-partners, but he and Jaskier had fallen asleep quite platonically last night, laying side by side. The erection currently pressing against the musician's thigh is not very platonic. And even though that erection might very much like it if Geralt were to roll his hips and maybe wake Jaskier up, that's just a very good reason why Geralt's cock should never be allowed to make decisions. He needs to get up carefully and leave quietly, so that Jaskier never has to know about the awkward situation that he's sleeping through.
He looks peaceful when he sleeps, and he's tucked in close enough that Geralt can smell the sweet floral scent that his fancy soap left on his skin from his shower last night.
Geralt moves quietly and slowly to extricate himself from Jaskier's grip without waking him. He had hoped that, in the time it took to get out of the musician's lax arms, his morning wood would have sorted itself out, but no luck-- he has to collect his clothes from the dryer and awkwardly take care of himself in the bathroom. He stuffs his fist into his mouth to keep quiet, takes himself in hand and tries to think of nothing at all, just treat it like nothing more than a simple biological need that must be taken care of. He doesn't think about firm thighs or pink lips or a swathe of hairy chest peeking out of a partly unbuttoned shirt, the collar slipping over one pale shoulder. Geralt checks his phone once he's tidied up and changed, and he's running late-- fuck, he has to meet Eskel. He texts him that he's going to be late, already dreading the questions that he'll be asked, and grabs his things to leave, until he realizes that if he just walks out, Jaskier's door will be left unlocked.
Fuck.
He approaches the sofa-bed and puts a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, shaking him gently until he wakes, like how he'd wake Ciri when she's sleeping in too late.
"Jaskier. I'm leaving, you need to lock your door when I go."
He doesn't wait long for a response, but heads out after that, once he's sure that Jaskier is awake enough to understand what he's been told.