Jaskier takes his hand to lead him inside, and Geralt pretends it's just to lead him, just to make sure that they don't get separated in the crowded dining hall as they weave through, avoiding waitstaff and musicians and bards who are getting ready to play. He notices the stares from the people already at their tables, hears-- much to his displeasure-- the wolf-whistles. He catches little snippets of conversation as they walk, like
--I heard they got caught in a classroom--, one student says to another across their table.
--they say he was tearing off all of Professor Jaskier's clothes, like a beast--, another whispers to her friend, sneaking looks at Geralt as he goes by.
--hey, says a man at a table not far from theirs, they call him the White Wolf, right? Do you think that means he's got a cock like--
Geralt stops listening.
Jaskier sits next to him, closer than he usually would dare; he's just a hair off from putting himself right in Geralt's lap. Kisses and confessions have made him bold, and while they drink and wait for dinner to be served, watching the musicians and bards perform (mostly with disinterest, on Geralt's part. They're fine, he supposes, but he finds their voices annoying), Jaskier drops a hand onto the witcher's heavy thigh, too high up to be strictly friendly. Geralt swallows a mouthful of ale and he's about to tell Jaskier to try to be a little bit subtle when the bard is distracted by the arrival of two heaping bowls of seafood stew. He recognizes the serving girl from the kitchen this morning, and she gives him a knowing smile as she sets the bowls down. Jaskier is delighted, and seems too wrapped up in his vaguely pornographic appreciation of his food to ask too many questions.
The bard goes up to play once his ale has been drank and his stew finished, and Geralt expects to hear more of Jaskier's White Wolf songs-- instead, though, he sings about love in a more general way, songs that don't explicitly mention Geralt's name but might as well have, considering how many times Jaskier's gaze settles on him during his performance.
Geralt is not a master of words like Jaskier, hasn't been educated to dissect metaphors and turns of phrase, but he's quite certain that the last song that the bard sings is entirely about what he wants to do to his witcher once they get back to his room. If witchers could blush, that might even have been able to raise one on his cheeks-- thankfully, witchers can't blush, so Geralt's complexion can't betray him. And at the end of it, Jaskier saunters back, looking pleased as a cat that got into the cream, and leans over to speak to Geralt. He smells like sweat and flowers and satisfaction, and it's a good scent on him. Geralt wants to undo the buttons at his throat and press his nose to the hollow of it, breathe him in. He refrains, but his gaze certainly wanders down to the bruises that peek out over the top of his collar.
"In three words or less?" he says, "You aren't subtle."
But that review is tempered by the fact that his voice has a hint of amusement to it, half exasperated and half fond. It's useless to try to keep Jaskier from doing whatever he wants, and everyone in this room had already decided what they believe about the two of them before Geralt even stepped in the door. Jaskier's enthusiasm and vast repertoire of suggestive songs probably hasn't made anything worse.
"But your voice grates on me less than the others'." Geralt pushes a cup of wine towards him; he'd had the girl bring some of his favorite, to have after he was done singing. It wouldn't do for a bard to have a dry throat, after all. "Sit with me, if you're done."
no subject
--I heard they got caught in a classroom--, one student says to another across their table.
--they say he was tearing off all of Professor Jaskier's clothes, like a beast--, another whispers to her friend, sneaking looks at Geralt as he goes by.
--hey, says a man at a table not far from theirs, they call him the White Wolf, right? Do you think that means he's got a cock like--
Geralt stops listening.
Jaskier sits next to him, closer than he usually would dare; he's just a hair off from putting himself right in Geralt's lap. Kisses and confessions have made him bold, and while they drink and wait for dinner to be served, watching the musicians and bards perform (mostly with disinterest, on Geralt's part. They're fine, he supposes, but he finds their voices annoying), Jaskier drops a hand onto the witcher's heavy thigh, too high up to be strictly friendly. Geralt swallows a mouthful of ale and he's about to tell Jaskier to try to be a little bit subtle when the bard is distracted by the arrival of two heaping bowls of seafood stew. He recognizes the serving girl from the kitchen this morning, and she gives him a knowing smile as she sets the bowls down. Jaskier is delighted, and seems too wrapped up in his vaguely pornographic appreciation of his food to ask too many questions.
The bard goes up to play once his ale has been drank and his stew finished, and Geralt expects to hear more of Jaskier's White Wolf songs-- instead, though, he sings about love in a more general way, songs that don't explicitly mention Geralt's name but might as well have, considering how many times Jaskier's gaze settles on him during his performance.
Geralt is not a master of words like Jaskier, hasn't been educated to dissect metaphors and turns of phrase, but he's quite certain that the last song that the bard sings is entirely about what he wants to do to his witcher once they get back to his room. If witchers could blush, that might even have been able to raise one on his cheeks-- thankfully, witchers can't blush, so Geralt's complexion can't betray him. And at the end of it, Jaskier saunters back, looking pleased as a cat that got into the cream, and leans over to speak to Geralt. He smells like sweat and flowers and satisfaction, and it's a good scent on him. Geralt wants to undo the buttons at his throat and press his nose to the hollow of it, breathe him in. He refrains, but his gaze certainly wanders down to the bruises that peek out over the top of his collar.
"In three words or less?" he says, "You aren't subtle."
But that review is tempered by the fact that his voice has a hint of amusement to it, half exasperated and half fond. It's useless to try to keep Jaskier from doing whatever he wants, and everyone in this room had already decided what they believe about the two of them before Geralt even stepped in the door. Jaskier's enthusiasm and vast repertoire of suggestive songs probably hasn't made anything worse.
"But your voice grates on me less than the others'." Geralt pushes a cup of wine towards him; he'd had the girl bring some of his favorite, to have after he was done singing. It wouldn't do for a bard to have a dry throat, after all. "Sit with me, if you're done."