Geralt shrugs back into his shirt and lets Jaskier help him don his armor, as was their usual routine when they had been on the road together. The bard is intimately familiar with the belts and ties, and it takes only a few minutes for him to get kitted out for the hunt.
"Hm." Jaskier is, of course, kidding about changing the lines in the song, but Geralt humors him with a response anyway. "Doesn't scan."
After twenty years of wandering across the Continent with a judgmental bard, Geralt has picked up a thing or two about songs and poetry. Not much, but some things, and even if he wouldn't be able to scan a poem to save his own skin, he knows that it's a thing that's important to making a good one. It's certainly not going to help him kill this fucking werewolf, so it's firmly in the Jaskier's Unnecessary Knowledge category.
Geralt straps his swords to his back and accepts a kiss from the bard.
"Stay inside." Where you'll be safe, he doesn't say. "You won't like a werewolf's bites as much as mine."
Then-- though, god, he hates the fucking Path sometimes-- he leaves, heads out to speak with witnesses and find out the route the beast is taking, track it through the dark city streets. Word, at least, has spread about the monster on the loose, so many of the inhabitants have the good sense to stay inside and bar their doors. He finds the werewolf before it can claim another victim, but not before it injures her. The fight drags on for longer than Geralt would like it to, but the girl lives and the monster dies. It's a better ending than he usually gets on his hunts, and after tying a makeshift bandage around the bite wound, he brings the girl to the university for treatment. The physician has to be brought from his bed because of the early hour, but the wound is cleaned and stitched with silver thread. Luckily for her, it's exceedingly rare to spread lycanthropy through bites, and there should be little concern that she'll get it and turn hairy during the full moon, too.
By the time the witcher returns to Jaskier's room, it's near four in the morning and the bard is, of course, asleep. Geralt hardly expected him to stay awake for this long, or to still be in the mood for anything. The moment he steps inside, though, he can smell the bard's release-- and only his. Some jealous thing in Geralt's chest settles a little, and he strips off his bloody armor and leaves it on the floor to clean later in the morning. Clad only in his short braies, he walks silently to the bed and lifts the covers, to climb in himself. He catches a glimpse of the bard in one of his shirts, practically swimming in the over-large garment, and that same jealous thing in his chest almost purrs at the sight. Mine, it says. When he gets under the blankets, arranging himself so that he is closest to the door and Jaskier is tucked up safely against his body, and he presses his nose to the nape of his neck and breathes. Warmth, satisfaction, the sharp, pungent scent of spilled seed, all of it mixed with faint traces of Geralt's own scent. Almost perfect.
He settles in to meditate until morning, one of his hands pressed to Jaskier's diaphragm, feeling his long, slow breaths and the cadence of his heart in slumber.
no subject
"Hm." Jaskier is, of course, kidding about changing the lines in the song, but Geralt humors him with a response anyway. "Doesn't scan."
After twenty years of wandering across the Continent with a judgmental bard, Geralt has picked up a thing or two about songs and poetry. Not much, but some things, and even if he wouldn't be able to scan a poem to save his own skin, he knows that it's a thing that's important to making a good one. It's certainly not going to help him kill this fucking werewolf, so it's firmly in the Jaskier's Unnecessary Knowledge category.
Geralt straps his swords to his back and accepts a kiss from the bard.
"Stay inside." Where you'll be safe, he doesn't say. "You won't like a werewolf's bites as much as mine."
Then-- though, god, he hates the fucking Path sometimes-- he leaves, heads out to speak with witnesses and find out the route the beast is taking, track it through the dark city streets. Word, at least, has spread about the monster on the loose, so many of the inhabitants have the good sense to stay inside and bar their doors. He finds the werewolf before it can claim another victim, but not before it injures her. The fight drags on for longer than Geralt would like it to, but the girl lives and the monster dies. It's a better ending than he usually gets on his hunts, and after tying a makeshift bandage around the bite wound, he brings the girl to the university for treatment. The physician has to be brought from his bed because of the early hour, but the wound is cleaned and stitched with silver thread. Luckily for her, it's exceedingly rare to spread lycanthropy through bites, and there should be little concern that she'll get it and turn hairy during the full moon, too.
By the time the witcher returns to Jaskier's room, it's near four in the morning and the bard is, of course, asleep. Geralt hardly expected him to stay awake for this long, or to still be in the mood for anything. The moment he steps inside, though, he can smell the bard's release-- and only his. Some jealous thing in Geralt's chest settles a little, and he strips off his bloody armor and leaves it on the floor to clean later in the morning. Clad only in his short braies, he walks silently to the bed and lifts the covers, to climb in himself. He catches a glimpse of the bard in one of his shirts, practically swimming in the over-large garment, and that same jealous thing in his chest almost purrs at the sight. Mine, it says. When he gets under the blankets, arranging himself so that he is closest to the door and Jaskier is tucked up safely against his body, and he presses his nose to the nape of his neck and breathes. Warmth, satisfaction, the sharp, pungent scent of spilled seed, all of it mixed with faint traces of Geralt's own scent. Almost perfect.
He settles in to meditate until morning, one of his hands pressed to Jaskier's diaphragm, feeling his long, slow breaths and the cadence of his heart in slumber.