Geralt's nostrils flare, and Jaskier can't help wondering why - is he checking his scent for any hints of pain? Or is he absorbing how bloody aroused his lover is feeling right now? He's probably a lust bomb at the moment, he imagines - is it too overwhelming for a witcher nose? Geralt obviously likes it, judging by his reactions. It doesn't really matter if it's A or B, though, both options are incredibly sweet, and they make him love the man under him even more.
Together with every groan, they also make his cock twitch.
Jaskier squeezes his butt every time he hears those lovely sounds, wanting to elicit more from him, wanting the witcher to lose that carefully maintained control. Which is a bit ironic, because he's also very grateful for Geralt's masterful witcher control, for giving him time to get used to the feeling, for not pounding into him without a thought (even if it would be hot as fuck). The gentle caresses of those strong hands (gentle for him, for him!) are an anchor that both keeps him grounded -helping him ease into the feeling easier- and makes his mind floaty at the same time, cloudy with warmth and bliss.
He can't help the little gasp that escapes his lips when Geralt responds to his request without hesitation (so easily, so ready, so eager for him) and now he has him closer, he notices the way those golden irises he loves so much have almost becoma invisible under all the black (forhimforhimforhimFORHIM). Crazy, this witcher is going to drive him fucking crazy. Bursting with lust and love, Jaskier meets Geralt half way to crash their lips together, giving back as much neediness and desperation as his lover is pouring into him. His arms quickly surround Geralt's neck, a hand burying in white locks to pull gently yet firmly and explore a little more of that little discovery from earlier. He's dying to put his legs around Geralt too, latch onto him and never let go, but he promised a ride and a show, and Jaskier's keeping his word.
"I believe that's what we are trying to do here, my dear." He teases with a chuckle, looking incredibly smug at Geralt's little curse and the twitch of his hips. Oh, the witcher is slowly getting there, barely able to keep that control going, Jaskier needs to push just a bit more...
But Geralt takes a moment to pull himself together, and fuck, Jaskier can't bring himself to complain. How can he, when it's his bloody scent that his lover is seeking, the taste of his very skin? Jaskier absorbs all this wonderful attention, lets it shape their pear, lets it burn his body and turn his stomach and make his heart beat so fast, not even an arrow could go faster. It's his turn to curse when Geralt runs his finger along his ring, which is incredible sensitive at the moment - it sends a shock of pleasure through his whole body, making his legs shake and his hand pull at the witcher's hair a little harder than intended.
And as if that wasn't enough, Geralt then says the magic words.
You're so fucking good to me.
The effect is instant: Jaskier's eyes widen, pupils expanding and body shivering as his scent spikes with both pleasure and glee, expressed through the neediest of whimpers.
Fucking witcher! Talk about hitting him in his weak spot!
"Am-- am I?" He replies as he recovers his voice just barely, whispering the words against Geralt's mouth as his body raises on his knees very slowly, intending to tease the cock between his cheeks as it slips out, only keeping the head inside. Jaskier squeezes his ass once more--
"How good am I? Tell me."
--before sinking down in one go, the wolf medallion getting stuck between their chests, the moan that leaves his mouth filthy and loud. So, so loud. The bard's calloused fingers fall on Geralt's back and anchor themselves there as support as Jaskier raises again, not all the way this time, but enough to make it worth it. His eyes never stop staring right into Geralt's as Jaskier starts riding him with as much grace, sensuality and rhythm as he usually puts into dance. He may be no witcher, but he still knows his body and how to use it, how to roll his hips just right to find the perfect angle that hits that sweet spot inside and allow his cock to rub itself against his lover's amazing abs. Geralt is thick and long and just perfect, never has Jaskier felt so full - there isn't an inch inside him that goes unattended, no part of his persona that isn't being hit with wave after wave of passion and raw wantonness.
Jaskier trembles in his arms and smells like lust and his fingers tangle in Geralt's long hair, yanking on it hard enough that his head tilts back a little. The sting of it pulls a noise from his throat that, had this been any other situation, would've been intensely embarrassing-- a needy, wanting sound. But Geralt isn't the only one here who's weak and wanting, Jaskier makes the same kind of pitiful noise when Geralt calls him good. His scent even shifts with it, goes somehow headier and happier as though he'd stumbled on some hidden pleasure.
A need for praise? Well, Jaskier had always thrived on attention, on the approval of an audience. Perhaps he's no different in the bedroom, and of course he values words above all-- something that is not exactly Geralt's forte. It's something to consider later and integrate into his tactics for pleasuring his bard.
The bard starts moving then, slowly lifting himself up so that the drag of his insides over Geralt's cock is as tight and sweet and maddening as possible. He rises up as high as he can without letting the witcher slip out of him entirely, keeping just the head inside of him-- Geralt curses against his mouth, an inadequate answer to the question that he asked. It's hard to remember something like language when the bard clamps down on his cock like a vice, though.
Then he drives back down, spearing himself on Geralt's prick and the only reason that Geralt doesn't hear the noises that come out of his own mouth is because Jaskier shouts even louder. His hands grip Geralt's shoulders as he uses them for leverage, a solid surface to pull on while he rides him like a prize stallion. Fucks himself on his witcher with a rhythm so steady that he could sing a tune to it, if he had the breath for it. Geralt can feel the muscles moving in his legs with each bounce, the strength in his thighs, and he's discovering that he likes the strength that Jaskier hides under his pretty silks, like a secret. And all the while, he's pinning Geralt with those cornflower blue eyes, and the intensity of his stare should make him uncomfortable. No one meets a witcher's eyes for very long.
But Jaskier's always been different, hasn't he?
Tell me.
"Jask," he groans, bringing his hands forward to grab onto the bard's hips. On one of Jaskier's downstrokes, he thrusts up to meet him, sheathing himself in slick heat with the slap of flesh on flesh; pleasure sears his nerves and he does it again, and again. Being balls-deep in his bard is the best fucking feeling that he's had since he started walking this godsforsaken Continent, and now that he's had a taste of it, how could he give it up? How could he go back to the impersonal attentions of a whore when he'd felt Jaskier's loving touch, felt his nails digging into his back like a benediction that he'd never be worthy of?
"You're fucking tight," he says, the first thing that comes to his mind; he's unaccustomed to being asked to narrate while he's fucking. And it is, currently, the foremost thing that he's thinking of-- how fucking tight Jaskier is around him, like he's been made just to take Geralt's cock. He takes it beautifully, too, and keeps coming back for more, and gods they could've been doing this for ten years or more if Geralt hadn't been an idiot.
He keeps fucking into Jaskier sure and steady, hands gripping his hips and letting the bard set the pace. He has a tenuous grasp on restraint-- just enough to keep his fingers from bruising, to keep himself from driving too hard into his willing body. Minding his teeth at Jaskier's throat, where the skin is so thin and delicate. Enough to ease the pace down when the bard starts to get too wound up, though the reasons for that are purely selfish; Geralt is still slow to finish, and if Jaskier brings himself to completion too soon, he'll have to pull out of him to chase his own orgasm. And while he could do that and still find satisfaction, he wants to spill inside his bard, to paint his insides so well that it marks him for days. So he needs the bard to last with him for a while, to stave off his own satisfaction so that it'll be better in the end. And Jaskier is a giving man that way, isn't he? A generous lover, even to witchers.
"Easy, easy," the feverish rush of his heart and the honeyed sweetness of his scent are biological tells about his impeding orgasm; Geralt gentles him as he slows them. He noses back to the space behind Jaskier's ear, where his scent is strong, and there's... something in it that he doesn't immediately recognize but has smelled on the bard before. He just has no frame of reference for what it means, other than that it's good. Maybe it's just part of his orgasm-scent, some as-of-yet unnamed emotion that he feels in the heat of it.
"Fuck yes," he exclaims when Geralt starts meeting him with thrusts of his own, and his whole body flutters. He's barely aware of his knees on the mattress anymore, Jaskier feels like he's floating - and it's Geralt's mighty cock meeting him half way that keeps him drifting, his mind hazy with pleasure. They're dancing together now, two lovers in sync, to the music of their flesh coming together...
If you ask Jaskier, he would call it art. The art of love making. And he would pay good coin to be able to watch himself and his lover going at it.
Geralt calls him tight, and Jaskier can't help laughing just a little bit. It's not the kind of praise he craves for, but he can tell Geralt is trying, and well- it's cute, really. Besides, having the witcher groaning his nickname like that is already a huge compliment by itself.
"And you, ah- you are fucking thick, love." Unlike Geralt, Jaskier is capable to do some narrating while fucking. Because of course he is, damn bards and their tongues. "I've never -fuck- never been so full. Every thrust of yours stretches me more and it's simply wondrous."
Those hands shouldn't be on his hips, they should be on his dick, but Jaskier doesn't express that thought. He can tell Geralt wants to keep things slow - he hasn't made the connection to the little witcher issue yet, but that's still fine by Jaskier, who does agree on having a nice, slow first time together. Let them enjoy each other, learn what they want, build up to one hell of an orgasm. It's incredibly hard, though, pun intended. It's not only the years of pining and the fact he hadn't had sex in weeks that have him riding Geralt like a stolen horse - no, it's also those teeth grazing his skin, taunting him with the possibilities those fangs could offer; it's the nose searching for his scent; for there's no greater flattery that your lover being high on your natural smell...
It's those witcher muscles, flexing under his hand and legs, it's being allowed to cling to them and touch every scar and weak spot, being held by those strong hands without breaking, it's those golden eyes with pupils widening at the sight of their bard...
It's Geralt and every detail of his persona driving him crazy.
So yes, while Jaskier's goal is to make his lover lose it, he's also thankful (for a change) for that witcher control that reminds him to take it easy and savor the moment.
Jaskier hums his agreement and bottoms out once again, allowing his legs to rest for a short moment as he offers mores of his neck for Geralt to nose and nip-but-not-really.
"You know..." He comments as he rolls his hips not to lose their rhythm and lets his hands wander to explore Geralt's body again, their skin smoothly travelling through glistening muscles, groping at pecs and stroking biceps. He could worship his witcher's body all night long. "No need to mind your teeth so much, my dear. I don't mind a little biting."
His tone comes out a little needier than he intends it to, but oh well, to hell with it. It's not like he needs to hide his wants any longer, even if he will have to take his time with some stuff not to put pressure on Geralt (or scare him off, if that's a possibility).
When Jaskier starts riding him again, it's with a slower, more sensual than frantic rhythm. Like he did at the beginning, he raises until only the tip is still inside him, but this time he lowers himself unhurriedly, basking in the feeling of each inch of Geralt's prick filling him in little by little, making his stretched hole tingle deliciously and his insides tighten around it. It's the sweetest of tortures, having his whole body almost aching with filthy delight, his dick twitching against Geralt's hard stomach completely unattended and knowing that just a fingertip brushing it could be enough to make it end right now.
Jaskier slows, calms his breakneck pace and drops back down on Geralt's cock, rolls his hips like he's sitting a canter. Gives his poor legs a break, too, while Geralt is distracted with his neck. It's hard not to be distracted by it, not when his scent is so goddamn sweet and his skin tastes almost as good as he smells, when his teeth itch with the urge to bite down. He forces that desire down and stays gentle; a dog that's learned to have a soft mouth.
Geralt makes a noise against his throat when Jaskier encourages him to bite, part discontent and part longing-- the bard is a bad influence on his self-control. As much as the idea of getting his teeth into Jaskier's neck-- leaving an unmistakable mark on his skin, something that will last even after the pretty bruises have faded-- appeals, his body is already littered with scars that are the result of Geralt's negligence. How could he even consider putting more on him? And for such a selfish reason as satisfying his own desires?
I don't mind a little biting.
He'd mind when he had fangs in his muscle. Geralt's teeth have grown out too much now to even consider biting him. He had been too busy in the past few months with Ciri and Jaskier's safety to have time to keep up with filing them down, a tedious and uncomfortable task. It had only ever been for appearance's sake, anyway, to remove an obvious strangeness that made humans nervous. Not a necessity. But if Jaskier is going to insist that he set his teeth to him, it may become one.
"Later," he rasps, distracted by Jaskier's wandering hands and the desire in his voice. It's hard to deny him when he asks like that, with his voice all sweet and lusty, and if Geralt had been a man of less self-control, he might have just given him whatever he wanted. But-- later, once he'd had time to find his iron file and grind his teeth down into the same blunt shape as a human's. Then he could do as Jaskier asks and have some confidence that he wouldn't do any more harm than a normal lovebite.
The way Jaskier moves over him then, the slow, almost languid rise and fall of his hips, is too gentle and indulgent to really be fucking-- it's something that Geralt's mind doesn't want to touch, words that he doesn't want to say. It makes him ache anyway, his hands gripping onto Jaskier's hips and guiding them in their movements, the wet sound of their coupling filthy and so, so good. He shifts his hips to make the angle sweeter and he can feel the bard's cock twitch against his stomach as he does. He groans, mouth pressed to Jaskier's hairy chest, at the spurt of pre-cum that leaks out of the bard's prick and drips slick and warm down his abs.
They keep that pace, letting the heat and pleasure build until Geralt is panting and sweat-soaked despite the winter chill and Jaskier's legs can no longer bear the exertion. Geralt is closer to his orgasm than he usually can ever get while still being inside someone; Jaskier has tolerated his overly-long attentions admirably, borne the delay as though it hadn't been a hardship at all. The witcher has mercy on him, pulls him off of his cock and hisses at the feeling of cool air hitting his prick after it's been encased in tight heat for so long, then pushes the bard down to the mattress on his back. He doesn't leave Jaskier bereft for more than a few moments, crawling back on top of him once he's settled and distracting him with a kiss while one hand gropes for the bottle of oil. More oil for his prick and he pushes in again, fills him back up with cock and it's so easy this time-- no resistance, just a nerve-searing slide into the depths of him.
He groans the bard's name. His hair has long since worked its way out of whatever tie it had been kept in, falling around their faces in a messy white curtain. Jaskier's eyes are the bluest thing he's ever seen when he lifts his gaze to look at them.
"A little more," he says, reassuring him that there will be an end to this as he hitches Jaskier's legs up onto his waist, then snaps his hips in and sets the pace.
Later, Geralt says, and it's on occasions like this when Jaskier's bratty side comes out. The desire in his voice disappears for a moment and gives room to what can only be described as-- well... whining.
"Come onnnnnnn! My neck is on your mouth right now!"
Luckily for Geralt, the complaining quickly goes away too. Hard to stay focused on such a detail when he's being fucked so good. The new angle is hitting that sweet spot just right and Jaskier can swear he can see the stars. The blow job had been a good idea after all, it's helping him last longer - or what he'd usually last anyway. That first orgasm has gotten rid of all that sexual tension he had accumulated the past few months, thank Melitele, and that means he can keep building his pleasure without fear of finishing before Geralt spills inside him - which is something he definitely wants to happen before the night is over, no objections allowed.
The only hardship here is the one pounding into him - nothing else matters. There's no pain and no winter cold, there's only sweaty skin and a wet dick, strong warm hands on his hips and pretty starlight hair in his own fingers, the sound of their voices in sync with their flesh filthily slapping against each other. It's only wave after wave of pure elation running through his veins, hitting every bone and making his toes curl.
So imagine Jaskier's surprise when all of this suddenly fucking stops.
"Wha--"
He is no stranger to changes of position, although they usually come more often in the form of tumbling into them while still linked. To be fair, however, he's simply too gone in his own bliss so the sudden movement -the sudden feeling of emptiness- can only come as a shock. He catches on pretty quickly though, and soon Jaskier is laughing, delighted by this turn of events. Variety in sex is good, being pounded into the mattress is good, Geralt taking initiative and getting what he wants is great.
The smile doesn't disappear from his lips when Geralt kisses him - he just kisses back as he puts his arms around those amazing shoulders again and raises his ass to receive that mighty cock that makes him dig his heels in the furs and arch his body, head thrown back as he hisses a yessss.
And those blue eyes? Well, they look up at Geralt with absolute adoration when he hears those words.
"Oh, my dear witcher." He quickly pecks the corner of Geralt's mouth. "I'm not going anywhere - I'm here for you all night long." Geralt's hands grab Jaskier's legs and his grin widens, because that's what he had already been planning to do anyway - he wastes no time and crosses his ankles around his lover's waist before thrusting his hips as an invitation, whimpering when his dick gets trapped between their bellies. "Now fuck me, your gorgeous thing."
Jaskier laughs during sex, or, at least, he laughs when Geralt pushes him onto his back. It's a bright and delighted sound, and Geralt hasn't slept with anyone before who would do that in the middle of fucking him. It's... different, but the sound's one of pleasure so there's no reason not to like it.
The bard's arms are draped around his shoulders and his legs are hitched around his waist, heels pressing into Geralt's back just above his kidneys. He squeezes them tight around his solid sides whenever he rolls his hips, digs those heels in to the muscles in Geralt's lower back like he's spurring on a horse. He grunts at the pressure but doesn't make any move to readjust him, and at his command-- fuck me, you gorgeous thing-- braces both hands against the mattress and fulfills his desires.
He fucks into Jaskier with as much strength as he'd dare to use, chasing after an orgasm that's finally starting to loom on the horizon. Jaskier can't be far off from his own, either-- when Geralt looks down at him, he's a glorious wreck. His hair is mussed from being tossed against the furs, sticking to his forehead in graceless clumps; his skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, pupils dilated in those true blue eyes. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and Geralt has the strange, irrational urge to kiss them when he does. He's a beautiful creature, more so than even the carefully curated beauty of sorceresses, and Geralt--
Geralt buries his face into the bard's neck, breathing in the scent of lust and pleasure and that sweet, unknown thing, and along with each heady, intoxicating breath of that mixture, there's him. Geralt's scent mixed in with Jaskier's own, pressed into his skin in a manner that no witcher in this keep would mistake. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he groans against the soft skin of Jaskier's throat. Just like that he finds himself close, his hips stuttering as he starts to lose his rhythm.
He wraps an arm underneath Jaskier and around to his shoulder, holding him in place as his hips pump harder and faster, keeping him from being pushed up the bed with every heavy thrust. His other hand buries itself into the bedding and holds on, and Jaskier is so hot and tight and perfect around him, and Geralt murmurs some nonsense into his ear about how good he is, punctuated with curses. He's too drunk on the pleasure of it to keep track of what his mouth is saying, anyway, too preoccupied with chasing down his finish.
"Jask--"
His name comes out on a groan and the tension in Geralt's guts finally breaks. The nerve-searing pleasure of it is almost a relief after the long build up, and his hips twitch, prick fully sheathed in Jaskier's body, as he spills inside him. It feels like it goes on for ages, makes even Geralt's strong body tremble from the force of it. He doesn't even bother pulling out once he's spent, just slowly collapses down onto Jaskier; exhausted, sweat-soaked, and more sated than he ever remembers being.
Jaskier is in heaven right now - not only because he's getting deliciously fucked by the man he's been fantasizing about and loving since he was 18, but also because said man is surrounding him. The outside world is forgotten, out of sight and reach - he's in a cage of mighty muscle, warmth, sweat and raw power, and he loves it. There isn't a more erotic sight than this beast of a man fucking into him, allowing his walls to go down at least for a few hours to share this with Jaskier (with him, with him, with only him), making him feel the center of the universe...
Making him feel precious.
The most delightful of ironies, that is. Because Geralt is fucking him with quite an amount of strength, and that's another detail that is making this fuck simply amazing: to be on the receiving end of Geralt's prowess. Yet at the same time, it speaks of Geralt's care and gentleness. Because Jaskier knows how far witcher strength can go, and he can tell how hard Geralt is trying in order not to hurt him, even when control is hard to keep with a mind high with pleasure. Precious and important indeed.
Every thrust is met with raising and bucking hips, ankles and nails digging on scarred skin deeper and deeper as Jaskier also chases his own orgasm. His head is thrown back to moan and mumble nonsense (fuck yes, gods, right there, harder, more, Geralt) but also to offer his neck, because the witcher being intoxicated by his very natural scent is an intoxicating feeling in itself. Geralt's starting to lose his rhythm, and Jaskier guesses he must be close, yet he doesn't move his hands to touch himself. He doesn't need it, he realizes, he's on fucking fire and he's going to burn on the witcher's incredible dick and his abs brushing against his cock.
He decides to bury a hand on Geralt's hair instead, pushing him close and making him sure to keep him right where he is, with his nose on his neck and those lovely words on his ear. And holy crap, those words! That's what he's been wanted since he's asked for praise! Having Mr Blessed Silence telling him all these things is the final push Jaskier needs, and he finally lets go when his lover says his name in the sweetest song and spills inside him.
"Yesyesyesyes fill me, fuck, Geralt-"
His whole body arches once more as he comes all over their stomachs, head fully thrown back as he sees the stars. His toes curl and his legs shake, barely being able to stay around Geralt, the moan that leaves his lips echoing in the darkness of the keep without a care over being heard. Because this is one fucking good orgasm and it deserves to be celebrated, to be written and sung about. Jaskier doesn't want it to end, he wants to stop time right here and experience this wave of pleasure for hours, a kind of pleasure that he has never felt - it's never felt this deep, this intimate. It leaves him breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
A cute little oof escapes him when Geralt lands on top of him, but he isn't complaining. Smiling from ear to ear, smelling of satisfaction and happiness and- well, jizz, Jaskier lets his trembling legs fall on the furs, but leaves his arms around Geralt's back. They're less clingy now, more of a lazy kind of draping, yet one hand still gently rubs the witcher's wide back as his nose nuzzles his lover's neck.
"...the airborne vibes of euphoria." He mumbles, the words of an old poem coming to his mind as the perfect description of this magnificent moment: euphoria. A kiss for Geralt's neck comes next. "I love you."
His scent celebrates those words, and never has his heart and soul felt so light.
The post-coital euphoria rarely lasts very long for Geralt-- usually, this is due to the fear-stench of a whore souring it, or because Yennefer would only tolerate the heavy sprawl of his limbs around her for a certain period of time. Geralt's nose is currently still buried in the crook of Jaskier's neck, his senses filled with warmth and satiety and contentment. The bard makes no complaint about the weight of his body on top of him, his arms a loose, soft weight across Geralt's back, fingers tracing meaningless little patterns. It's impossible to resist the temptation to drift, floating on the feeling of his body devoid of tension, his nerves thrumming with the last lingering aftershocks of pleasure, mind blissfully quiet.
Euphoric, as Jaskier murmurs against his ear. If he could lay here and never lose this feeling, he might never have the will to rise again-- he might just stay, skin to skin with Jaskier, until the day he died. A willing sacrifice to pleasure and Jaskier's body the altar.
Jaskier must be rubbing off on him, in the metaphorical sense, if he's entertaining this kind of melodrama. The bard kisses his neck and says words that he can't return, and there's a part of him that wishes that he had the capacity to do so-- to tell him what he would so badly want to hear and have it be more than just an echo. Instead he presses his lips to Jaskier's throat and shifts, moving some of his considerable weight off of the poor bard, and his softening cock slips out of him in the process. He makes a low noise at the loss, but it would've happened sooner rather than later. A few long moments later, or maybe a minute or two-- his sense of time isn't great when his head's pleasure-addled-- he drags a hand up the bard's legs to the apex, just to feel how wet his thighs are with a mix of oil and cum.
That's not the only part of them that's wet, though, and the fluid trapped between their bellies is starting to become less appealing and more... sticky. The inevitable deterioration of the post-coital bliss. Even the euphoria has started to fade, and perhaps for the best; they have to get cleaned up eventually. Geralt gets a hand against the bed and props himself up, and underneath him, Jaskier is no less a beautiful creature now than he was moments from orgasm. Geralt kisses him, briefly but as gently as he can manage.
He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs one of the ripped pieces of silk from Jaskier's ruined doublet and uses that to wipe up the mess that coats their skin. The fabric will absolutely be ruined by the mix of sweat and spend, and Geralt cannot even begin to care. He settles down at the bard's side after throwing the scrap aside, resting a hand on Jaskier's thigh. The furs and pillows prop him up comfortably and he tucks his other hand behind his head, stretches out languorously. Every so often, the bard's thigh quivers faintly underneath his hand.
"You're trembling," he says, turning his head towards Jaskier with his voice low and a little hint of a tease to it. "Rougher ride than you were expecting?"
Geralt isn't alone in that feeling - Jaskier could also happily go to sleep just like this, sated and content, safe and warm under his witcher's weight, and a nice thick cock in his ass, stickiness be damned. In the quiet of the room he can hear their heartbeats and their heavy breathing, both speeded up because of their orgasm, and it's the most perfect song he's ever heard. He wishes he could keep the sound in a little box, the same way painters can record moments on their canvases.
The content humming he uses to express his liking of that throat kiss is replaced by a whimper when Geralt slips out of him, making him extra aware of how sensitive his asshole feels at the moment. He can feel the stickiness between his legs, too, and that makes the soreness 100% worth it.
"Like what you see?" He asks with a grin, teasing but still liking how Geralt doesn't care about the mess of his thighs - in fact, he's touching it, which sends a shiver down Jaskier's spine. This is the kind of sexual shameless he's into, especially if -as he suspects- Geralt is also liking the fact Jaskier is covered in his witcher jizz.
The kiss is returned, of course, softly and affectionately, before Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows to have a better look at what Geralt is doing. Does Geralt need some space? Jaskier knows whores (and probably Yennefer) are not exactly cuddlers but-- ah. It's not that. After care! Aww, what a good lover.
--wait. Is that his...?
With an overly dramatic groan, Jaskier lets his body fall on the furs again, his arm moving up to cover his eyes. This is gore, pure and simple. He would even call it torture if he hadn't given Geralt permission to rip the doublet in the first place.
"What a terrifying scene for my eyes to gaze upon! Finest silk in the land, used as an old mop! Oh, the irony of the gods to bring this to my attention after the sweetest of orgasms--"
It's the hand on his thigh that snaps him out of his rant - as soon as he lowers his arm just an inch, he finds himself looking at his lover stretching next to him, sharing the post-coital bliss with teasing words and eyes just for him. Another art worthy sight. Jaskier laughs, obviously pleased by this turn of events, and turns his body to rest on his side as he comes closer and wraps his arms around the witcher's waist.
"Orgasmed harder than I expected." He kisses Geralt's chest, exactly on his heart, before resting his head on and nuzzling the hell out of that marvelous chest. It's as comfortable as he's always imagined it would be, even with all the sweat. Jaskier swears he'll never need a pillow ever again. "But I can't deny I'm probably not at my best after the rough couple of days we've been having." Couple is probably underselling it. Chin moving to rest between big boobs, Jaskier looks up at Geralt. "I knew you would me ruin me for any other dick, however. I hope it was amazing for you too."
There's a pause, wondering if he should say what comes to his mind next. Part of him thinks it's not fair, considering he's had good sex and partners before, and Geralt has only had prostitutes, but... well, maybe the witcher may accept it as a compliment? Even if Geralt generally hates those.
"It's never felt this... intimate for me before. This connected."
Not even with the Countess, but he knows better than bring up an ex in this context.
The bard gets over his ruined doublet quite quickly once he sees Geralt stretched out next to him. He fits neatly against the witcher's side, laying on Geralt's arm while he flings his own across his thick waist. If they stay like this, he'll end up with a numb limb by morning, but that's a small price to pay for a lover who'll lay with him for an entire night. Jaskier props his chin on Geralt's sternum, looking perfectly content at using the witcher's chest as his pillow. If that's what Jaskier wants, he won't object-- but it might be a bit hard on his neck, keeping it like that all night. But Jaskier's an adult, he can get a crick in his neck if it pleases him.
Geralt huffs a laugh as Jaskier spills some rot about being ruined for any other dick-- that sounds exactly like the sort of thing that the whores said when he was done, angling for a better tip out of him. Not that they really needed to, because Geralt always tipped them well to compensate for the inconvenience of having to attend to a witcher. He doesn't have a swelled enough head to think that he'd be ruining anyone for anything with his prowess. He has a cock and after some seven decades he knows how to use it, but he's not going to delude himself into thinking that someone would be irrevocably changed after an encounter with his magical witcher cock.
"My cock has yet to ruin anyone, for other men or anything else."
And certainly not Jaskier. If a man could be ruined by cock-- which they can't-- the bard would've been ruined a long time ago.
Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier, probably just cutting off circulation to it even more, but it's worth it to be able to trail his fingers along the jut of his hip and his upper thigh, to skim along the crease where the two meet. His skin is very soft in these vulnerable, hidden places, and it probably only partly has to do with all those expensive soaps and lotions that he uses. Though much of the mess has been cleaned off of his skin, Geralt doesn't even have to press his nose close to him to catch heavy scent of it still clinging to him. It's probably a little bit disgusting, but there's definite appeal to how claimed the bard smells.
"But it was good," he says, his voice a low rumble as post-coital satisfaction starts to melt into a warm, languid sort of sleepiness. Sex is a good cure for insomnia, on those rare occasions that he has it in a place that he can sleep afterwards, and he lets his eyes drift closed. "You can just speak plainly about it. I don't need any of your sweet-talk."
He isn't one of Jaskier's maids or courtiers, after all, who like to listen to the bard's pretty poetry after they've been fucked. He has him there, a warm weight on his chest-- for now, Jaskier wants him, has spent much of this evening ensuring that Geralt knows, explicitly, that he wants him. He doesn't need more words to reassure him of that.
"Metaphors, Geralt. Why do I keep wasting them on you?" Jaskier replies with a bit of pouting, but it's obvious he isn't quite meaning it, blue eyes gleaming with affection in the darkness for the man under him. Geralt laughing, huffed or not, is always a wonderful thing. "It means I'll never be satisfied with another dick but yours again. I've officially been fucked by the finest cock in the land."
The arm wrapped around him makes him hum in approval, and Jaskier presses his body against Geralt's as humanly possible, happy to know the cuddling is welcome. Geralt is even petting him and gods, he sure can fall asleep to that - a warm and comfy body under him, a satisfied lover telling him so in a very sexy rumble (he smiles widely and a bit smugly at that), caresses soothing him into total relaxation...
I don't need any of your sweet-talk. Bollocks. For a moment there, orgasms had made him forget how difficult it can be to compliment Geralt.
"I am speaking plainly. Fucking the man you've shared your life with for twenty years makes a difference, my dear. But worry not." He kisses the witcher's lips softly. It's not a conversation to have right now, it would make a perfect moment awkward. Besides, Geralt being naturally sleepy is good, can't miss the opportunity to make the big oaf rest properly. "I shall remind you to trust me in the morning. Good night, love."
He lowers his head then to rest it properly on Geralt's chest again, nuzzling it once more before closing his eyes and letting sleep take over - it doesn't take long. He's exhausted, spent - truly relaxed. And cared for, safe, even loved (no matter what Geralt says). It's the best rest he's ever had - the only thing that would improve it would be a better bed, and even then Jaskier can admit he's being nitpicky. This is Kaer Morhen, his lover's home, that also makes it special. It's the perfect first time.
That means he's extra annoyed when he's woken up in the morning by the pounding on the door, cursing under his breath against Geralt's boobs.
"How long are you planning to lazy around, you dirty arses? I'm happy to know you worked things out but for fuck's sake, the whole hallway stinks because of you two."
Ah, Eskel, bless his soul. Jaskier groans and opens one eye to glance at the window - indeed, it seems it's quite late in the morning, Geralt has probably missed some activity or another. He can't bring himself to care though - in fact, Jaskier grins at the fact he's managed to make Mr Wake-up-at-sunrise stay in bed with him this long. Point for the bard! And most importantly, points for their relationship! In your face, Vesemir.
Jaskier moves with the intentions of giving Geralt a good morning kiss, but freezes and hisses when something brushes the witcher's leg. He looks down and--
"...bollocks."
"I can hear you, Jaskier."
"A-ah, yes! We'll join you soon! We just need to change and--" He clears his voice. "--yeah. We just need a moment. And Eskel?"
"Mmh?"
"Thank you."
A sigh comes from behind the door, one that shows how fond the man out there covering his nose actually is of these two dumbasses. "...no problem. Don't take too long or I'll let Lambert eat your breakfast."
As the echoes of Eskel's steps leaving reach their ears, Jaskier slowly untangles himself from Geralt and rolls away on his back to check his groin again, make sure he saw what he thinks he saw correctly. He did - morning wood is waiting for him to take care of it right there in this wonderful morning. Usually, it wouldn't be such a big deal, but with Geralt's slow boners and all, he doesn't want to come off as too pushy. He turns his head to look at his lover and offers a sheepish smile.
Geralt knows what he means-- which is why he knows that it's utter bullshit. He arguably doesn't even have the finest cock in this keep, nevertheless in the land, nor would he believe for a second that Jaskier couldn't be satisfied by another man's cock or even necessarily want that to be the case. Saying as such is just... flattery. Pretty words when he could just speak plainly and say that it was a good fuck.
But the subject is dropped, and that's fine. Geralt's close to sleep for once in his ridiculous life, a product of being warm, satisfied, and safe within the stone walls of his home. Jaskier promises a talk in the morning and the witcher would actually like little more than to completely avoid that, but for now, they rest.
He wakes to the sound of a fist hitting the door and Eskel's annoyed voice asking how long they're going to laze about in bed. Geralt's missed morning training, no doubt, and while he's certain that Vesemir won't be pleased with him for it, he's equally sure that Eskel provided a sufficient excuse to mollify him. Eskel's the favorite, after all. He'll be there for afternoon training, anyway, and that should keep the old wolf from getting too grumpy about it.
His arm is very numb. Geralt tries to discreetly move it from underneath Jaskier's weight so that he can start getting blood flow back to it without disturbing him. The tingling feeling in his hand is unpleasant, but worth it for a good night's sleep and the privilege of being drooled on.
Geralt opens his eyes when Jaskier shifts against him, expecting something like a good morning kiss despite what has to be prodigious morning breath, and feels something stiff against his leg. Jaskier seems almost embarrassed about his otherwise entirely normal bodily function, dismissing Eskel and getting a warning about Lambert eating their breakfasts if they take too long. He rolls away and checks on his cock like it's something that might up and walk away.
"Seems to be," he says in response to Jaskier's good morning. Geralt's cock is still soft against his thigh, hardly unusual for him in the mornings, but the bard has a very healthy-looking erection that demands attention. And, sure, Jaskier could deal with it himself or just wait for it to go down on its own, but Geralt was perfectly willing. And there is a promise that's gone unfulfilled from last night, and Geralt is a man who keeps his promises.
He reaches over and hauls Jaskier on top of him, bringing him up to straddle his waist. Jaskier is a lovely sight in the morning, appealingly disheveled and his skin warm from spending the night underneath the covers with a furnace of a witcher.
"I promised you something last night," he says, because it's true-- he had said that Jaskier could spill on his chest, and the bard had yet to do so. "You can have it now, if it pleases you."
And if not, Geralt still has a perfectly serviceable mouth and hands, as well. There must be some part of him that would satisfy Jaskier before they go down for breakfast and then-- undoubtedly-- to the baths.
Seems to be, Geralt says, and it should be funny, Jaskier knows. He's a little worried about that little coming off as too pushy issue to appreciate it, though. Usually if he wakes up with a morning boner, he would ask his lover for a new round. But now, well, it's like rubbing his humanity on Geralt's face.
Jaskier loves being mandhandled but that doesn't mean he's expecting it so suddenly. Is this going to be a thing now between them? It's not like Geralt hasn't manhandled him before, keeping Jaskier out of trouble made it a requirement plenty of times - which is funny, because if getting in trouble meant being mandhandled by one handsome witcher, well, then that only encouraged him more. This is different though, the purpose behind it clearly having nothing to do with safety. Will Geralt start doing it more often then? Will he allow himself to have wants and bring Jaskier close for a kiss, for example? He can't wait to find out.
His eyes widen when he hears the offer, scent already starting to show that lust spike. He's still biting his lip, however, not to let out the little whimper that wants to escape when his hard dick lands on Geralt's abs.
"I-- of course it would please me, Geralt. How could it not? I'm addicted to you, my dear." And to make his point, he moves his knees to go a little higher up Geralt's body, biting in a moan as his dick lands in between the witcher's pecs. It makes for an amazing sight and before he can stop himself, his hands land on them as well. "What about you though? I would love nothing more than blow you in return, but I know how it is and well-- I don't want you to feel like you have to match my horniness." This feels like having another talk, and they've had enough of those. No assumptions - trust. Jaskier needs to remember that, but he can't help worrying about Geralt's giving nature. So he tries to compromise. "Promise me you are not doing this because you're feeling under pressure and I shall give you a lovely pearl necklace."
He squeezes both boobs then, pushing them against his dick. The moan that escapes him this time isn't hidden, and it echoes in the room.
Jaskier is a warm weight on his chest, his cock hot like a brand against Geralt's stomach. He bites his lip and the familiar spicy edge of arousal starts to creep into his scent. But he's hesitant, he's not jumping on the opportunity to do something that Geralt is quite certain he's been eager to do for a long time, and that's... odd? Or, well, it seems odd until the bard starts chatting his way through an explanation, using far too many words to ask a relatively simple question.
He shuffles a bit further up Geralt's body, cock resting in the furrow between his pectoral muscles. He continues to prattle on about reciprocation and sex drives and some such, even as his hands reach down and grab two handfuls of flesh. Geralt makes a considering hum at the warm tug in his guts that he gets when the bard's palms rub over his nipples. It's... nice. Not nice enough to get him going so soon after waking up, but still enjoyable. The state of his cock doesn't matter much at the moment; he could still appreciate what's happening regardless of whether he's hard.
This, however, has turned into a talk, of the kind that Geralt had been keen on avoiding. He runs his hands over Jaskier's hips, running his thumbs over the jut of his pelvic bone. He is seriously considering the possibility of shutting the bard up by pulling him down for a kiss, but that's a temporary solution at best. Jaskier will just continue talking again once his mouth is no longer occupied, and Geralt doesn't have a cock to occupy his mouth with for a longer period of time.
Promise me, Jaskier says, and Geralt nearly rolls his eyes. If he didn't want to be right here, underneath the bard, he wouldn't have put Jaskier on top of him. It's not as though the bard can keep him anywhere that he doesn't want to be. He could pitch him across the room if he didn't like it.
"I promise that you're talking too much," he replies and slides his hands back, palming the bard's ass. Jaskier has a tendency to wax poetic about the witcher's backside, but there are a lot of compliments to be paid to his own. Very perky. Geralt pulls him forward by his ass, his cock sliding between the witcher's tits. It looks nice like this-- looks even better when Jaskier pushes Geralt's pectorals together, making a tight space for him to fuck that rosy cock of his into. Would be nicer with a little lubrication to make it a smoother glide rather than dry skin on skin.
"Stop thinking about it so much and get the fucking oil."
It may be just a little humming, but it's still a reaction, one that makes Jaskier raise both his eyebrows and smile a little smugly. Something similar had happened in Oxenfurt, he's remembering now - Geralt does like having his boobs touched, his nipples especially it seems. It's good news, great even, it helps Jaskier ease into things - in his experience, men usually aren't as much into male boobs (be touching them or being touched there) as they are into women's. If Geralt enjoys Jaskier's groping, then this horny bard feels better about indulging into this little kink of his, both now and in the future.
The hands on his ass get a weird, startled sound out of him - a groan that mixes both pleasure and a little complaint. While he's far from being in actual pain, his ass is still a bit sore. Is he going to mention it? Of course not, because it doesn't bother him, but he can bet his lute it will bother Geralt.
"Always so romantic," he replies as he rolls his eyes. "Sorry for caring about my beloved's well-being, I guess."
The sarcasm is strong in this one, but he still does as he's told. He uncorks the bottle with his teeth and pours the oil... not on his hands, but directly on his dick. And not only his dick, on Geralt's boobs as well - some of it drips down onto the furs and the witcher's neck, and Jaskier can't bring himself to care. Geralt is quite a sight under him, with his hair loose and disheveled, his boobs glistening and a cock right on top of him. It's a damn pity his own prick won't wake up during this, because Jaskier wants to fucking devour him.
Calloused fingers rub the oil all over Geralt's chest and his own cock before he starts moving, occasionally lifting his legs and therefore ass a bit for smoother thrusting and to avoid too much friction on the sore area. He keeps on massaging those amazing tits as he bucks his hips in a languid, slow pace - he gropes, squeezes, rubs, pushes them against his cock and moans a little louder every time he can see his head almost fucking disappear.
"Fuck. You're so good to me, love. What a-ah, what a marvelous and gorgeous vision you make, enough to inspire Melitele herself. I could -fuck- worship you all day long..."
Now that's something he hasn't done in a while, a day-long sex marathon. He should throw the idea at Geralt, but probably way into Spring, because there's no way they'll have the day for themselves in here, with a child surprise and nosy brothers around. Maybe if they go back to Oxenfurt and Geralt accepts to take a break... can't hurt to ask.
This isn't love making, it's just morning wood. And while Jaskier is enjoying the hell out of fucking Geralt's boobs, spouting poetry until he can't talk anymore and is reduced to simple words and panting, he isn't doing much to keep control and make it last. His thrusts come quicker and more erratic, the medalion starts bouncing on his own chest, his hands do less squeezing and more simply leaning on the witcher's pecs, nails digging on oily skin, his scent sweet and spicy and heavy in the room.
It's a pity he has to let go of Geralt's tits when he comes - his whole body trembles and so he needs better support, giving in to the tremors and bending over with hands landing on both sides of Geralt's head. He comes hard, moaning the witcher's name and decorating his neck and chin with the promised pearls. It's not as good as the orgasm he got from Geralt actually fucking him, but it's still a damn good one. It's not sad wank, it's still toe curling and stomach turning, one that he still savors for a few seconds before he stops moving, before he stops riding this climax until the very end to milk it into oblivion. Is it always going to be like this with Geralt? Like being a teen again, discovering how good and satisfying sex can be?
It's the connection he mentioned last night, he's sure of it now. And okay, a hard fucking body worthy of the gods also has to do with it, obviously, but mostly the connection. He's willing to bet it wouldn't have bee this good had they done it back on Posada.
He stays for a moment there, bent above Geralt, panting and recovering, a huge smile on his face. And when he finally moves, well, he doesn't sit up - not yet. Instead, he uses one hand to spread his cum on Geralt's chest, mixing it together with the oil and creating random patterns.
"Mmmh, a breathtaking work of art. I suppose I can't take you down to breakfast like this, can I?" He'd pay good coin just to see Vesemir's face.
"I suppose I forgive you," Geralt replies, just to be a shit. There's something that twists oddly in his chest whenever Jaskier calls him things like beloved, and the way he gets annoyed at Geralt's lack of romance makes it more bearable. Thankfully, he doesn't fuck around any more and gets the bottle of oil, uncorking it and splashing it across his cock. It squelches along his sternum and the overflow runs down his neck, dropping onto the furs. It'll be a pain to get them clean so that they don't feel greasy, but Geralt foresees a lot of laundry in their future, anyway.
Jaskier spreads the oil and then starts moving, his cock gliding easily through the slick that coats Geralt's skin. He babbles for part of it, saying the sorts of things that Geralt would expect a man to say when he's getting his prick rubbed in a way that he likes. Jaskier mentions something about worshiping him all day long-- translated from Ridiculous Bard Speech, fucking the day away like they had nothing better to do-- which is an interesting enough idea for Geralt to give a considering hum to it, but he doubts if Jaskier is serious. For one thing, it's rare for them to be in a place where they could waste a whole day to such a thing, and for another, Geralt doubts that he'd have the stamina. But it's a nice idea.
His hands stay on the bard's ass, encouraging his thrusts and occasionally squeezing the firm flesh. It's different, watching Jaskier move on top of him without the urgency of arousal; he has the opportunity to watch his expression shift, the way his hips snap and his legs clutch around his chest.
As he gets close to the edge, he lets go of Geralt's chest to grip the bed sheets; the witcher takes over for him, despite how awkward it feels to be pushing his own pectorals around Jaskier's cock, giving him that slick, warm channel to fuck into. The bard's brow furrows and his mouth drops open in a soft o as he chases his pleasure, expression open and vulnerable and lovely, and Geralt is certain that the spot between his eyebrows is exactly where he'll wrinkle first, and he'll never hear the end of it. Jaskier shakes and his come splashes across Geralt's collarbone and neck; one particularly enthusiastic spurt splatters across his chin, just shy of his lower lip. His tongue darts out almost without thinking, and the taste of Jaskier is bitter and musky, as it was last night.
While the bard pants and rides out the satisfaction of his orgasm, Geralt moves his hands to Jaskier's sides and pats his flank like he'd praise Roach after a hard ride. Good bard. He seems pleased and he came quickly, so presumably fucking the witcher's tits has been an experience that's lived up to his fantasies, as well. Geralt makes note of this for the future-- it would be good to have a way to satisfy Jaskier that doesn't require much effort on his part, for when he's tired or injured from a hunt. The bard then drags his fingers through the mess that he's made, smearing it over Geralt's chest. Last night's activities had already mixed their scents, but Jaskier smearing his spend into his skin is more than just that, makes him smell claimed. There's another tug of arousal in his stomach at that, pleasant even if it doesn't go anywhere.
"They'll smell it either way," he says, "and I refuse to suffer breakfast sticky just because you enjoy irritating Vesemir."
It will be a long winter if Jaskier never learns to tolerate Vesemir, but it will at least be something that he has in common with Lambert. For the moment, though, he focuses on the problem that he can actually remedy-- he reaches over the edge of the bed and snatches another scrap of ruined doublet from the floor, using that to wipe the mess off of his chest before it starts to dry. He does not want to deal with the hassle of scrubbing dried come out of his chest hair. Once he's finished mopping up, he tosses the soiled cloth aside and smacks Jaskier's hip, just hard enough to make a satisfying noise, to get him to move.
"Up. Lambert'll eat fucking everything if we don't go down soon."
Eskel's warning wasn't idle-- the youngest Wolf would, indeed, eat all the rest of breakfast, even if he isn't hungry and is only doing it to spite Geralt. Especially if it's to spite Geralt.
Oh, Jaskier is definitely serious. So that considering hum? The bard hears it and saves it in his mind for later. An idea that he's bringing up in spring for sure - especially as he becomes more and more confident about their relationship, both emotionally and sexually, by the second. It's not like he doubts Geralt - not anymore. But he can't deny part of him is nervous about many things (him never having been on a long relationship before except for the Countess being the biggest worry), so seeing all the little gestures that tell him how right they are for each other helps him to be bolder about asking for things.
Geralt has allowed him to fuck his chest, a fantasy Jaskier wouldn't have dreamed he would ever fulfill, even if he hasn't gotten anything out of it. Not only that, but he also helps, he doesn't just lay down and takes it because he has to - he squeezes his butt, he pushes his own tits as if he was a common whore... he licks Jaskier's jizz. Oh Melitele, how he loves this man! Finding out they're sexually compatible only serves to fill his heart with joy.
"Enjoy irritating Vesemir?" Pretending to be scandalized, he takes a hand to his chest. "Geralt! What could've possibly given you that idea!"
Translation: Geralt is 100% right. His scandalized reaction, however, becomes actually real when the witcher uses his doublet to clean jizz again. Jaskier covers his eyes and sighs.
"You surely enjoy torturing my delicate fashionable soul, my dear."
After such a display, getting off Geralt only takes him a second, not wanting to stare at such gore anymore. His body is aware of the lack of post-orgasm cuddling though, so before leaving the bed, he leans in and his sweetly kisses Geralt like he would've done if it hadn't been for Eskel and his early boner.
"Good morning. I'm really happy that we worked things out." And it shows, his scent sweet with glee and love, which Geralt truly needs to identify soon. "Those were three amazing orgasms, thank you. I can't wait to experience a whole winter with you." And now a peck for the corner of Geralt's mouth. "Love you."
Look, Geralt has promised he will trust Jaskier from now, but he knows they're about to go face to face with (coughVesermircough) the family and witcher logic again, so he wants to do as much positive reinforcement as possible. Besides, even if they weren't, Geralt deserves to hear these things more often, and it's not like Jaskier minds saying them anyway, sappy poet that he is, always in love with the sound of his own voice.
There's a lot of pouting when Geralt asks him to return the medallion, though. Spoilsport.
He leaves the bed then, and changes pretty quickly, which is not usual for Jaskier. This is the guy that spends too much time on his appearance. To be fair, though... the keep is cold so he doesn't want to stay naked for too long, he's not exactly clean so he's just putting on temporary clothes and not good silks until they take a bath, and he does believe that Lambert will, indeed, eat their breakfast without regret. He still manages to sneak in as many kisses as he can, to Geralt's shoulders or arms or whatever patch of skin is the closest and isn't covered fast by fabric. Gods, it feels so good to be able to do all this and not hide it anymore.
It's real. He's mine.
All this happiness means he hums a song all their way to breakfast, and he holds Geralt's hand as well. He does let go when they're getting close, however, not because he's ashamed or afraid of Vesemir, but because he wants to make a great entrance. And while he hasn't memorized all the hallways of the keep yet, he can tell when they're getting closer - because he can hear Eskel and Lambert groaning and cursing at the smell of them approaching.
"Good morning, good sirs!" He exclaims when they enter the mess hall with open arms, which he bends when he bows for Ciri. "And my lady, of course." Cirilla seems to be glad to see them well and together, but her smile is mixed with confusion: Vesemir is sighing and facepalming, Lambert is making gagging noises, Eskel is shaking his head. And Jaskier? He grins widely, delighted by his audience's reaction. "And what a wonderful morning it is! The last sunlight rays of Autumn still grace us with their presence! What are our plans for such a fine day?"
"You should start by taking a bath," Eskel replies with a mix of horror and amusement. Big mistake.
"Eskel! I haven't thanked you properly!" He approaches the witcher from behind and hugs him around the shoulders. Eskel is frozen in shock at first, but then he quickly covers his mouth and nose, ignoring the bard's words. "Thank you, kind wolf. You're a good friend."
Lambert, who is sitting next to Eskel, waves a hand in the air as if chasing a fly - but he's chasing the smell instead. "You son of a bitch, fuck off! You stink!"
"Aww, is the little prick jealous? Don't worry, I have enough affection for everyone!" And just like that, Jaskier lets go of Eskel to hug Lambert instead. Who, no matter how tough he looks and talks, doesn't dare to push a delicate human either.
"GERALT! GET YOUR BARD AWAY FROM ME!"
Meanwhile, Cirilla has finally caught on what's going on, and so she wrinkles her nose. "Gross."
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, you won't!" he replies kinda teasing, but part of him does react to the lure because Geralt is absolutely right in his logic, knowing the bard as well as he does. Jaskier is hungry after their recent activities, especially considering he hasn't eaten well since he arrived because of everything that has happened.
Besides... even if Geralt doesn't give his food to Lambert, Jaskier does believe the prick may take it anyway.
It's amazing how easily they fall back into old routines. Technically they made up not so long ago after more than a year of betrayal, yet his rescue from Nilfgaard feels like it happened ages ago. Jaskier doesn't even blink at the breakfast waiting for him, doesn't even realize how important it is for Geralt to be doing this even in front of his family... it's simply how things are for them. Jaskier sits next to Geralt, letting their thighs and arms brush as he digs in. The kasha is made exactly as he likes it, and he eagerly enjoys it, which means the mess hall can have blessed silence... for a moment anyway.
"Soooo~" He singsongs as he exchanges his spoon for knife and fork to start slicing up the bread and the sausages, because not even in Kaer Morhen he'll stop trying to prevent Geralt from eating sausages like a dog (or, well, a wolf). Besides, it's part of the routine too. Teamwork! "What are the plans for today?"
He looks around the table, at Ciri and every witcher, but it's mostly an excuse to glance at Vesemir before his eyes fall again on the knife and the butter. He may be a brat but he's a brat that cares, one that wants to connect with this family, and so he isn't going to start a hostile confrontation unless they provoke him.
(What constitutes as "provocation" to Jaskier may not align with Geralt's meaning of the word.)
"I know what you're thinking," he comments before anyone has time to reply. "The bard is not made for physical labor. I do admit I may not be the right person to help you with repairs, but that doesn't mean I'm useless. I'm good with the horses, and I know the basics of the kitchen. I'm also a master of the seven liberal arts, which include rather gorgeous penmanship, if I say so myself. I couldn't help noticing the, ah- current state of your labels." And by that, he means 'the witchers have horrible handwriting, how can you even keep potions, ingredients and food organized like that'. But his tone is light as simple, because he has years of indirectly insulting nobles under his belt. Spinning of words, as always. "There are certain books in the library that could do with rebinding and/or duplicating, two tasks I'm more than capable of doing."
"Can you update them as well?" The whole table turns to Cirilla, surprised by her sudden intervention - Jaskier included.
"My lady?"
"The few history and geography books in the library are out of date." Big words for a newcomer, words that raise eyebrows around the table and make Vesemir frown. But she stays brave and doesn't let any of the witchers intimidate her - her green eyes stay on Jaskier. She even leans in a little bit over one of Geralt's arms. "There are two missing principalities in Temeria and one in the south of Brugge on the maps."
You can take the princess out of her kingdom, but you can't take the kingdom out of the princess. Her education (plus Calanthe's blood) is shining through, and Jaskier immediately lights up, delighted to have found someone that speaks his language. Oh, thank the gods he can be here for her and carry on wherever her tutors left off, it'd be a sin for her to forget such valuable lessons. She can be a witcher with good use of the sword and the ability to communicate, something everyone else in this keep is terribly lacking.
"Don't tell me they've left out the Baron de Mazur!" That's the newest one in Brugge, if he remembers correctly. Amused as hell, he leans over Geralt as well, almost as if gossipping with the girl on the other side of his lover. "Can you imagine what his two chins have to say about it?"
They both laugh at what appears to be a hilarious reference... to those that know the Baron de Mazur, that is.
Jaskier finally sits and starts on his breakfast, slicing the sausages into neat little pieces, as he is wont to do. It's a peculiar habit of his-- he slices everything on the plate, regardless of whether he's going to eat it or not. It doesn't matter too much, of course, because Geralt can eat it however it happens to be shaped, but it's quicker to just eat the thing as it is, not chop it up like finger-foods for a fancy party.
He eats his kasha while Jaskier talks, laying out his own skills and how they might be most useful to a bunch of witchers. Jaskier was never going to be someone that they would send out to the walls to do repairs, but he's more than suited for the domestic tasks of the keep. He's familiar enough with the preparation of wild game from twenty years of camping and should be able to handle the kind of meat they keep in their larders-- venison and rabbit and the occasional wild boar-- and lend a hand in the kitchen, he could do some of the basic chores in the stables. They usually have a rotation for the horses, anyway, so that it wasn't always one or two of them stuck with mucking-out duties, and so that they had time to check in with their mounts. Geralt would've made time for Roach regardless, but it was nice to have a portion of his schedule set aside for her.
And, of course, the library. Ciri mentions that there are a number of books and maps that are out of date, and Vesemir considers the suggestion. While witchers don't involve themselves in politics, it's still advisable for them to know the boundaries of countries and the ruling parties. Routes change, as well, with the passing of time, and so do some landmarks and even natural features. It's not unheard of for a witcher to wander into territory that they haven't set foot in for decades and find a lake where one never was before because humans put up a dam. This kind of record-keeping had been easier in the past, when the keep had been full and there had been witchers dedicated to maintaining the library's materials.
Then he and Ciri start talking about some baron that literally no one else at the table has ever heard of, nevertheless how many chins he has. Geralt has to lean back so that Jaskier can gossip with her, crack jokes that no one else understands. He looks up and meets both of his brothers' confused expressions, shrugs in response, and reaches over the bard to take bread and sausage from the unattended plate.
"I'll set aside a stack of books that need to be copied and rebound," Vesemir says, applying copious amounts of butter to his bread and otherwise acting as though there's nothing strange about a bard and a princess gossiping about foreign nobility. "If our maps and atlases need to be amended, deal with it as you see fit."
It's not a small task, seeing to the library's resources, but it's also not a task given lightly-- Eskel tilts his head for a moment, an inquisitive gesture, but doesn't question the old Wolf's decision. Their library is home to not just the maps and geography books, practical things that any person would need to journey the continent, but also tomes full of witchers' secrets, mages' tomes, and hunting journals from men who are long since dead. Priceless relics from a time when the Wolf school didn't have one foot in the grave.
"There are certain sections of the library that you should not touch. I trust Geralt will show you which ones those are."
Geralt nods, then takes more bread from the plate to use to mop of the remnants of his kasha. He leaves some for Jaskier; he'll complain if he doesn't get any.
"For the rest of you, the western wall is nearly shored up enough to survive the storms, but the roof over the southern hall will still need to be patched before the first blizzard. Lambert, Coën, you two should start on the roof. Afternoon training is as usual."
Lambert pulls a face at the order, probably a mixture of disliking being told what to do and a general reluctance to go up on the roof in the cold weather, but he knows better than to start an argument right at breakfast. And, anyway, the roof does need to be fixed, at least if they don't want snow coming through it.
Eskel nudges Lambert. "Trade you."
The youngest Wolf snorts into the weak ale he drinks with breakfast. "Your fat ass would fall right through the fucking roof."
Edited (a few things straight up didn't make sense, idk how do i english) 2020-09-08 06:58 (UTC)
Jaskier is in the process of biting onto a slice of buttered bread when Vesemir speaks his permission, so when he turns away from Geralt to stare at the old man with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, the bread is left hanging on his mouth. He probably looks like an idiot, ruining the whole I'm-useful-please-trust-me image he just tried to put up with his little speech, but he's too shocked to notice.
It's not like he had been expecting a full no - he did think they would find some chores for him to do, that they would trust him with the horses at least, and that the books would require some convincing, maybe done under supervision. But deal with it as you see fit? Damn! Didn't see that one coming. It's pretty much free rein! Jaskier can't help puffing out his chest, eyes gleaming with excitement - he also tries to talk with the bread still on his mouth, ruining the moment.
He grabs the bread and clears his voice before trying again, this time looking directly at Vesemir instead of just glancing. There's the beginning of something here - perhaps just a test, but Jaskier will take it. He didn't win Geralt over in one day, he can work on these other wolves (and griffin!) as well.
"It'll be my pleasure."
A forbidden section, though? That sounds fascinating. Jaskier just nods along but makes no promises, because he's a nosy bard that wants to see and learn everything - hell, maybe he's already touched something he shouldn't have when he hid in the library after the argument. Oopsie? (No regrets! At least until he hears about the curses...)
Back to breakfast for him then. Jaskier takes the chance to finish his kasha while watching the witchers interact, wanting to learn every detail. There are many layers to this - witcher relations among their own in general, but also the dynamics of a family. And not just any family, but Geralt's family, which makes it extra important. It's sweet, really, and a high honor to see them act so... normal. Brother-like. It reminds Jaskier, in a very metaphorical way, of how things used to be between him and Frederick before his brother went full Responsible Douchebag Heir. It makes him a bit jealous, and he feels shitty for it, because the circumstances that brought these men together as a family are far from ideal.
Does Cirilla think any of the same things Jaskier does? She must miss her family, that's for sure.
"Whenever you're done with your studies, princess--" This time he doesn't lean against Geralt to talk to her. He does, however, pick some bread and sausage for himself before casually pushing the plate with all the reminding sausage towards Geralt. Gotta feed the wolf - he always needs more food than Jaskier does, but it's worse this time: he can tell he's had a couple of rough months. "You may join me in the library. We could go over some recent world events together, if it pleases you."
Let me tutor you, he wants to say, but he knows better. He imposed himself on Geralt because direct is the witcher's language. But with Ciri? Gotta spin those words, let her know this is an option and not an obligation. He remembers being her age, remembers how much he hated certain classes, how he'd rather go outside and have an adventure. She has a whole keep to explore now, plus actual sword and magic at her disposal... what kind of teen would choose books over that? Especially a girl, whose chances to learn these things are as a small as a grain of rice.
But Jaskier has hopes, especially after their talk. He hopes that having lost his home so soon, she may be nostalgic for--
"I'd like that."
--ah. She does! Jaskier beams, filling the mess hall with the sweetness of his scent. Bard and princess share a nod and a smile before Jaskier turns to the other witchers at the table. His lips form a grin now, a mischievous glint appearing on his eyes. Oh no, nobody is safe from the bard!
"That goes for all of you! Come by when you're taking a break, I want to pick all your brains! That includes you, Your Prickness." He playfully kicks Lambert under the table. It's not meant to hurt, not like Jaskier could do that to a witcher anyway. "I want to hear about everyone's hunts! There's a whole winter ahead of us and I can use it to compose. Geralt shall no be the only witcher I sing about, even if he remains my favorite. Childhood stories to embarrass each other are welcome and encouraged, and they shall be repaid with twenty years of details Mr Stingy has kept to himself, I'm sure."
After getting his permission from Vesemir, Jaskier is quiet for a while-- listening, apparently, to the witchers at their breakfasts, the way they bicker and argue over the last of the sausage in the pan, how Lambert pelts Geralt with bread when he loses said argument. Or, at least, when his fork isn't fast enough to spear the sausage before Geralt's, and the witcher shoves half of the purloined meat into his mouth and chews it down like the wolf that is his namesake. Table manners were never a high priority at Kaer Morhen, a fact that certainly would have scandalized Ciri if she hadn't had several weeks to get used to it already. Maybe it had scandalized Jaskier at one point early in their acquaintance, but he's almost certainly gotten desensitized to it after two long decades.
Thankfully, Ciri will still have some semblance of civilized tutoring, since Jaskier asks her if she'd like some lessons and she seems thrilled at the prospect. Geralt breathes; both of his humans smell like happiness. There is a particular heavy, wet scent to the air that marks an impending snowstorm, likely to hit within the next day or two. Once that snow falls, the pass will be entirely impenetrable until the spring thaws, and they will truly have months of safety. Months to train Cirilla, months to decide what to do with her come spring. Months to navigate this fledgling thing with Jaskier, to make amends.
When the snow comes-- that's when he'll finally feel like they're all truly safe.
He feels distinctly less safe when Jaskier reminds his brothers that he has twenty years of embarrassing stories to tell, and when his brothers are simultaneously reminded that they also have several decades of embarrassing stories. Lambert perks up immediately.
"Hey, bard, did Geralt ever tell you what he wanted to call himself?" he says, and Geralt's eyes snap to him like a cat that's sighted a bird. "It's great-- Geralt Roger Eri--"
Lambert gets no further, on account of the fact that Geralt vaults the breakfast table in order to get him into a headlock. There is a minor scuffle on that side of the table; Coën avoids it by sliding further down the bench, while Eskel cracks up laughing at the sight of Lambert's head clenched in the crook of Geralt's elbow, slowly turning a spectacular shade of red. There is a bout of prodigious, if strained, swearing from the youngest Wolf witcher, and if Ciri winds up using naughty words, they all know who to blame.
"--Eric du Haute-Bellegarde," Vesemir finishes, ignoring the look that Geralt shoots his way, his deeply furrowed brow. "I told him to use Geralt of Rivia instead."
Betrayed by his own fencing tutor. This is payback, probably, from all those times that Geralt and Eskel and the other boys nearly gave Vesemir heart attacks over their antics. Hell, it's probably all because of that one time that they stole white gull and gave some to Lambert before he had taken the Trials, and he got so sick that they didn't know what else to do but hand him over to their teacher. Turned out that he was just really fucking drunk, but still.
Lambert slaps Geralt's arm a few times, a universal signal of crying uncle. Geralt lets go of him before he passes out, and he collapses onto the floor in a gasping heap.
"Fuck," he wheezes, "you fucking reek. The fuck'd you do, roll around in it?"
"I'll put you in another headlock," Geralt says, and Lambert makes a rude hand gesture at him.
The baths do sound like a good idea, though, before anyone else gets any ideas about sharing stories. Geralt stands, frowns at the fact that Ciri's been laughing at his plight, too, and tips his head towards the door-- a gesture for Jaskier that they should go. Baths await, and Geralt is only too happy to be not in the company of his asshole brothers for a while.
They have to stop back at the room to pick up their things, but after that it's a direct path down to the baths. Since it's such a well traveled route, the halls leading down into the belly of the keep are well maintained; none of the witchers want to do without their hot soaks just because the hallways are falling apart.
The baths themselves are carved out of the living rock of the mountain, a series of descending pools that are filled from the natural hot springs that well from deep within the rock. The highest pools are hot enough that only witchers can endure the temperature, and even then only for a time; the baths cool the further down they go. The largest pools, the ones at the very bottom, are even fed with fresh snowmelt off the mountain, making the water icy cold. A human would probably find it unbearable for more than a few minutes, but the cold pools have seen their own fair share of use from witchers with muscles sore from overwork. It had been what one of their old teachers had told them to do after particularly hard training sessions-- a dip in the cold pool to take down the swelling, then a soak in the warm pools to ease tired limbs.
For now, though, the more moderately warm pools saw the most use. The coolest of the pools that the witchers tended to use would probably be just right for Jaskier, hot enough to soothe but not to scald.
"Stay out of the top pools," he says, his voice echoing through the stone bathhouse. "They're too hot for you. The water cools as it runs down, the lowest pool is the coldest. Feel free to jump into that one, if you want to see how far your balls can go back into your body."
There are cubbyholes set into a wall to put clothes and such in, and Geralt strips out of his clothes and takes a towel and Jaskier's ridiculous bag of bathing supplies over to the pool. It's warm when he steps into it, and the water has a faintly sulfurous smell from the dissolved minerals. He sinks into it up to his shoulders and sighs at the feeling of it, the comfort of being submerged in warmth.
Indeed, Jaskier has definitely become desensitized to Geralt's awful table manners. Does that mean he'll stop trying to make them at least a little less awful? No, at least not when they're in public - today he'll allow this exception, even if he's a bit worried about what Cirilla may learn from it. In Kaer Morhen witchers gonna witcher, and right now, Jaskier is more concerned about Geralt getting to eat properly again.
Besides, that fight over the food? Amusing as hell as well. It's more of the casual interactions between brothers that he's been dying to see. If Geralt had to go through all that shit as a kid, Jaskier is glad he at least had these fine men with him. Well, as fine as Lambert can be.
...actually, Lambert may be finer than Jaskier thinks. Geralt chose his name? This is incredibly interesting, and Jaskier wants to chat with his boyfriend later about the process behind it, having gone through the same. But ohohoho, it doesn't stop there, there's a story. An embarrassing one, it seems. This is gold!
Gold that Geralt doesn't want him to know about, apparently. Both Jaskier and Ciri jump on their seats when Geralt is suddenly vaulting, not used to this behavior (at least when it comes from Geralt) unless there's danger near them. They stand up to take a better look and after sharing a glance that silently says wow, this is really happening, they decide to enjoy the show - laugh at them even. Geralt is roughhousing! With his brother! Jaskier never thought he'd see the day. It shows how much comfortable he's around them, how he can let go of his control because the other witchers can take it. He can only hope Geralt lets go with him at least a third of the control he lets go with his family some day.
Now this is fun and all (Lambert deserves a headlock, let's be honest here), but Jaskier needs the rest of the story! And he's about to ask for it, to ask Geralt to spare his brother... when Vesemir jumps in again. Twice in a row, Jaskier can barely believe it. He doesn't have time to analyze this move, though, because-- well. Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Unbelievable. Laughing so hard it echoes in the room, Jaskier falls back on his seat as he grabs his stomach and bends over a little bit, absolutely losing it. And Lambert commenting on his jizz, hitting the point closer than he realizes? Yeah, not helping. Oh, what a wonderful morning to have after the best fuck ever.
"If you excuse me, gentlemen and lady," he finally says when he manages to control his laughter, although some chuckles still escape him. He even has to wipe tears off his eyes! "I'm in urgent need a bath, and I think the White Wolf is a little worried I repay this wonderful story in kind." He leaves the table but only takes a couple of steps toward Geralt before turning around again with a hand around his mouth and a wink for his audience. "Can't have you knowing he told a golden dragon than his kind didn't exist, can we?"
The golden glare that is thrown his way is expected, and that's why he runs the hell out of there, grinning widely at the sounds of more laughter coming from the mess hall. Sorry, Geralt, but business is business. He needs to keep his part of the deal, win the in-laws over and show them their efforts will be well rewarded. That way Jaskier can get more childhood stories later!
Well, he runs half of the way anyway, as much as he can remember, then waits for Geralt to guide him back to his room. This time he does pick a set of his nicer silks to change into, plus his grooming kit... and the silver wolf brooch, of course. He waves it at Geralt with a grin and a wink before throwing it on top of the pile and following his lover to a new section of the keep. They travel through well-kept hallways, and Jaskier realizes the ones Eskel guided him through to get to the kitchen are in good condition as well - the important daily paths are taken as a priority, very smart of them! That also means the path to the baths is a priority, which amuses him greatly. It seems not only Geralt has an affinity for a good soak.
What kind of bathtubs does a keep hold for such a bunch of burly men anyway? Jaskier isn't sure what to expect... but this is definitely not it. Geralt starts undressing and for the first time ever, Jaskier doesn't glance or ogle. No, his -now very wide- blue eyes are too busy staring at the beautiful sight ahead of them.
"Hot springs!" he exclaims after picking his jaw from the floor, his scent sweet with excitement. However, there's also a tiny hint of... frustration? "You bloody stingy oaf, how dare you keep this secret from me for so long! And you still thought I wouldn't want to come to Kaer Morhen? Unbelievable!"
His huffing is barely serious, it's incredibly obvious for anyone (enhanced senses or not) to see how delighted he is by this turn of events. He undresses at record speed, chuckling at Geralt's comment and telling him he can be the one to bring his balls back if it comes down to that before following him into the water. The fact the witcher took his kit with him doesn't go unnoticed - Jaskier won't comment on it because he knows Geralt will say he's just being practical and bringing it over so the bard doesn't forget about it and whine about it later, but he knows the truth: his boyfriend loves being pampered. Which is great, because Jaskier loves pampering him.
Geralt's sigh is echoed by Jaskier's. The warm water feels incredible, it's like being born again. All the stress his body has been through since Geralt found him (from true pain of torture to the light soreness of last night's exercise) gradually goes away until all his muscles are left feeling like wet clay, free and unmolded. Not only the temperature is perfect, there's also the size of the pool: big enough to fit various adult men... which means Jaskier can finally cross another thing off the things I've been wanting to do with Geralt since Posada list.
He doesn't need to ask, he just goes for it - it's not like he's ever been afraid of being bold around Geralt, and their recent relationship upgrade has only served to make him even bolder. Calloused hands separate the witcher's knees and Jaskier crawls between them to sit against Geralt's body, lowering his own a little bit so his head is resting against those marvelous boobs.
"I'm missing something." Geralt's arms are grabbed then and put around the bard's waist. The fact he's allowed to do this at all without complaint makes him smell even sweeter. "Mmmh, perfect."
Believe it or not, silence follows, because even Jaskier can appreciate a moment of relaxation and basking in his lover's presence. But at the end of the day, Jaskier is Jaskier, and as he's told that day in Posada twenty years ago? He doesn't go in for that.
"Soooo~," he sing-songs as he rearranges his position to make his head fall on Geralt's shoulder this time, so he can both look at the witcher and playfully kiss his neck as an apology for the teasing he's about to do. "Geralt actually-not-of-Rivia, mmh? Could've tricked me with that accent of yours, love."
Jaskier steps into the baths after Geralt, submerging his long limbs in the steaming water with a heartfelt, satisfied sigh. The heat from the water will undoubtedly do his body good, ease the aches of his sore muscles and release a little of the long-held tension in his shoulders. There's plenty of space for both men to stretch out in, as well, so neither of them would have to be cramped-- there had been many a wooden tub in a cheap roadside inn that hadn't been quite big enough to accommodate a full-grown witcher. Or even a full-grown bard, sometimes.
Geralt sprawls in the hot water, his head tipped back against the stone lip of the bath as he lets the heat seep into his bones. Jaskier appreciates the warmth now but he'll learn to adore it when the cold really sets in; there's nothing like a scalding hot bath in the morning to chase away the chill. He opens one eye when Jaskier's calloused hands brush against his knees, coaxing them apart. He insinuates his body in between them and Geralt allows it, lets him press close and rest his head against his chest. His scent, discernible even in the heavy, humid air, is sweet and content, goes even sweeter when he wraps the witcher's arms around his waist. Geralt hums at the contact and briefly tightens his grip on Jaskier's body-- an embrace hidden under the pretense of shifting him into a more comfortable position.
There are a few blissful moments of silence. Geralt runs his thumb along the soft skin of Jaskier's side, letting himself relax into the quiet and comfort. He should've known that it wouldn't last for very long, not when the talkative bard is involved.
Geralt actually-not-of-Rivia. He grunts, annoyed at his brief moment of peace being shattered by an embarrassing inquiry. It had been so nice to sit quietly with Jaskier. Blissful silence.
"Vesemir decided that Rivia was as good a place as any, and that my previous choice was... pretentious," he says. "The accent is just an accent."
Really, picking up an accent just to sell that he's from Rivia is just as pretentious as anything else, but Geralt will sooner fall on his own sword than admit that.
Geralt not only embraces him, he also spends those few moments running his thumb on the bard's skin, and Jaskier swears he's in heaven right now. And he wishes Geralt to feel the same, so when he hears that little annoyed grunt? He chuckles and kisses the witcher's neck again.
"Just an accent? You went out of your way to change the way you speak, my dear." He rubs the arms around him, comforting and assuring this isn't criticism. "Eskel called you a bookworm and I've always known you're strict about getting details right when it comes to witchering things, but it's something else to see this part of you applied to other things in life. It's quite remarkable, really."
There are sincerity and affection in his voice - after twenty years, it's amazing to still learn new things about Geralt, to see him in a new light. Which makes sense, since they're in a relationship now, and that's new as well. Unveiling new sides of each other comes with it. Geralt's attention to detail (not to call it an obsession) applies to this too, Jaskier realizes - the way he woke up earlier than usual to go fishing, how he made sure Jaskier had more than one orgasm not to keep him waiting... Whatever you want he said, and Jaskier is still learning how deep that promise goes.
"It was, indeed, a pretentious choice, but I must say - I do like Eric." A pause before he adds, "Better than bloody Alfred."
And oh, how much does he hate Alfred. Julian is a good name, one he only changed because he left his old life behind, not because he dislikes the name itself. But Alfred? Ugh. These thoughts should sour his mood, but he surprises himself by realizing he doesn't mind sharing this little bit. He feels content and safe in Geralt's arms, in this old yet newly found relationship that allows him to look at his childhood without fearing it may catch up on him.
Affectionate as always and hungry for more of this touching Geralt as he's always wanted, Jaskier nuzzles against the witcher's neck and jaw, only to meet his stubble. Mmh.
"You need a shave," he comments as he raises his fingertips to kindly stroke that strong jaw before stopping at the witcher's lip, a thumb caressing the scab that has formed there. "And mayhap some balm? Eskel decked you pretty hard, huh."
Look, he cares. He truly does. That doesn't mean he can't sound amused as hell too.
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Together with every groan, they also make his cock twitch.
Jaskier squeezes his butt every time he hears those lovely sounds, wanting to elicit more from him, wanting the witcher to lose that carefully maintained control. Which is a bit ironic, because he's also very grateful for Geralt's masterful witcher control, for giving him time to get used to the feeling, for not pounding into him without a thought (even if it would be hot as fuck). The gentle caresses of those strong hands (gentle for him, for him!) are an anchor that both keeps him grounded -helping him ease into the feeling easier- and makes his mind floaty at the same time, cloudy with warmth and bliss.
He can't help the little gasp that escapes his lips when Geralt responds to his request without hesitation (so easily, so ready, so eager for him) and now he has him closer, he notices the way those golden irises he loves so much have almost becoma invisible under all the black (forhimforhimforhimFORHIM). Crazy, this witcher is going to drive him fucking crazy. Bursting with lust and love, Jaskier meets Geralt half way to crash their lips together, giving back as much neediness and desperation as his lover is pouring into him. His arms quickly surround Geralt's neck, a hand burying in white locks to pull gently yet firmly and explore a little more of that little discovery from earlier. He's dying to put his legs around Geralt too, latch onto him and never let go, but he promised a ride and a show, and Jaskier's keeping his word.
"I believe that's what we are trying to do here, my dear." He teases with a chuckle, looking incredibly smug at Geralt's little curse and the twitch of his hips. Oh, the witcher is slowly getting there, barely able to keep that control going, Jaskier needs to push just a bit more...
But Geralt takes a moment to pull himself together, and fuck, Jaskier can't bring himself to complain. How can he, when it's his bloody scent that his lover is seeking, the taste of his very skin? Jaskier absorbs all this wonderful attention, lets it shape their pear, lets it burn his body and turn his stomach and make his heart beat so fast, not even an arrow could go faster. It's his turn to curse when Geralt runs his finger along his ring, which is incredible sensitive at the moment - it sends a shock of pleasure through his whole body, making his legs shake and his hand pull at the witcher's hair a little harder than intended.
And as if that wasn't enough, Geralt then says the magic words.
You're so fucking good to me.
The effect is instant: Jaskier's eyes widen, pupils expanding and body shivering as his scent spikes with both pleasure and glee, expressed through the neediest of whimpers.
Fucking witcher! Talk about hitting him in his weak spot!
"Am-- am I?" He replies as he recovers his voice just barely, whispering the words against Geralt's mouth as his body raises on his knees very slowly, intending to tease the cock between his cheeks as it slips out, only keeping the head inside. Jaskier squeezes his ass once more--
"How good am I? Tell me."
--before sinking down in one go, the wolf medallion getting stuck between their chests, the moan that leaves his mouth filthy and loud. So, so loud. The bard's calloused fingers fall on Geralt's back and anchor themselves there as support as Jaskier raises again, not all the way this time, but enough to make it worth it. His eyes never stop staring right into Geralt's as Jaskier starts riding him with as much grace, sensuality and rhythm as he usually puts into dance. He may be no witcher, but he still knows his body and how to use it, how to roll his hips just right to find the perfect angle that hits that sweet spot inside and allow his cock to rub itself against his lover's amazing abs. Geralt is thick and long and just perfect, never has Jaskier felt so full - there isn't an inch inside him that goes unattended, no part of his persona that isn't being hit with wave after wave of passion and raw wantonness.
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A need for praise? Well, Jaskier had always thrived on attention, on the approval of an audience. Perhaps he's no different in the bedroom, and of course he values words above all-- something that is not exactly Geralt's forte. It's something to consider later and integrate into his tactics for pleasuring his bard.
The bard starts moving then, slowly lifting himself up so that the drag of his insides over Geralt's cock is as tight and sweet and maddening as possible. He rises up as high as he can without letting the witcher slip out of him entirely, keeping just the head inside of him-- Geralt curses against his mouth, an inadequate answer to the question that he asked. It's hard to remember something like language when the bard clamps down on his cock like a vice, though.
Then he drives back down, spearing himself on Geralt's prick and the only reason that Geralt doesn't hear the noises that come out of his own mouth is because Jaskier shouts even louder. His hands grip Geralt's shoulders as he uses them for leverage, a solid surface to pull on while he rides him like a prize stallion. Fucks himself on his witcher with a rhythm so steady that he could sing a tune to it, if he had the breath for it. Geralt can feel the muscles moving in his legs with each bounce, the strength in his thighs, and he's discovering that he likes the strength that Jaskier hides under his pretty silks, like a secret. And all the while, he's pinning Geralt with those cornflower blue eyes, and the intensity of his stare should make him uncomfortable. No one meets a witcher's eyes for very long.
But Jaskier's always been different, hasn't he?
Tell me.
"Jask," he groans, bringing his hands forward to grab onto the bard's hips. On one of Jaskier's downstrokes, he thrusts up to meet him, sheathing himself in slick heat with the slap of flesh on flesh; pleasure sears his nerves and he does it again, and again. Being balls-deep in his bard is the best fucking feeling that he's had since he started walking this godsforsaken Continent, and now that he's had a taste of it, how could he give it up? How could he go back to the impersonal attentions of a whore when he'd felt Jaskier's loving touch, felt his nails digging into his back like a benediction that he'd never be worthy of?
"You're fucking tight," he says, the first thing that comes to his mind; he's unaccustomed to being asked to narrate while he's fucking. And it is, currently, the foremost thing that he's thinking of-- how fucking tight Jaskier is around him, like he's been made just to take Geralt's cock. He takes it beautifully, too, and keeps coming back for more, and gods they could've been doing this for ten years or more if Geralt hadn't been an idiot.
He keeps fucking into Jaskier sure and steady, hands gripping his hips and letting the bard set the pace. He has a tenuous grasp on restraint-- just enough to keep his fingers from bruising, to keep himself from driving too hard into his willing body. Minding his teeth at Jaskier's throat, where the skin is so thin and delicate. Enough to ease the pace down when the bard starts to get too wound up, though the reasons for that are purely selfish; Geralt is still slow to finish, and if Jaskier brings himself to completion too soon, he'll have to pull out of him to chase his own orgasm. And while he could do that and still find satisfaction, he wants to spill inside his bard, to paint his insides so well that it marks him for days. So he needs the bard to last with him for a while, to stave off his own satisfaction so that it'll be better in the end. And Jaskier is a giving man that way, isn't he? A generous lover, even to witchers.
"Easy, easy," the feverish rush of his heart and the honeyed sweetness of his scent are biological tells about his impeding orgasm; Geralt gentles him as he slows them. He noses back to the space behind Jaskier's ear, where his scent is strong, and there's... something in it that he doesn't immediately recognize but has smelled on the bard before. He just has no frame of reference for what it means, other than that it's good. Maybe it's just part of his orgasm-scent, some as-of-yet unnamed emotion that he feels in the heat of it.
"Not yet."
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If you ask Jaskier, he would call it art. The art of love making. And he would pay good coin to be able to watch himself and his lover going at it.
Geralt calls him tight, and Jaskier can't help laughing just a little bit. It's not the kind of praise he craves for, but he can tell Geralt is trying, and well- it's cute, really. Besides, having the witcher groaning his nickname like that is already a huge compliment by itself.
"And you, ah- you are fucking thick, love." Unlike Geralt, Jaskier is capable to do some narrating while fucking. Because of course he is, damn bards and their tongues. "I've never -fuck- never been so full. Every thrust of yours stretches me more and it's simply wondrous."
Those hands shouldn't be on his hips, they should be on his dick, but Jaskier doesn't express that thought. He can tell Geralt wants to keep things slow - he hasn't made the connection to the little witcher issue yet, but that's still fine by Jaskier, who does agree on having a nice, slow first time together. Let them enjoy each other, learn what they want, build up to one hell of an orgasm. It's incredibly hard, though, pun intended. It's not only the years of pining and the fact he hadn't had sex in weeks that have him riding Geralt like a stolen horse - no, it's also those teeth grazing his skin, taunting him with the possibilities those fangs could offer; it's the nose searching for his scent; for there's no greater flattery that your lover being high on your natural smell...
It's those witcher muscles, flexing under his hand and legs, it's being allowed to cling to them and touch every scar and weak spot, being held by those strong hands without breaking, it's those golden eyes with pupils widening at the sight of their bard...
It's Geralt and every detail of his persona driving him crazy.
So yes, while Jaskier's goal is to make his lover lose it, he's also thankful (for a change) for that witcher control that reminds him to take it easy and savor the moment.
Jaskier hums his agreement and bottoms out once again, allowing his legs to rest for a short moment as he offers mores of his neck for Geralt to nose and nip-but-not-really.
"You know..." He comments as he rolls his hips not to lose their rhythm and lets his hands wander to explore Geralt's body again, their skin smoothly travelling through glistening muscles, groping at pecs and stroking biceps. He could worship his witcher's body all night long. "No need to mind your teeth so much, my dear. I don't mind a little biting."
His tone comes out a little needier than he intends it to, but oh well, to hell with it. It's not like he needs to hide his wants any longer, even if he will have to take his time with some stuff not to put pressure on Geralt (or scare him off, if that's a possibility).
When Jaskier starts riding him again, it's with a slower, more sensual than frantic rhythm. Like he did at the beginning, he raises until only the tip is still inside him, but this time he lowers himself unhurriedly, basking in the feeling of each inch of Geralt's prick filling him in little by little, making his stretched hole tingle deliciously and his insides tighten around it. It's the sweetest of tortures, having his whole body almost aching with filthy delight, his dick twitching against Geralt's hard stomach completely unattended and knowing that just a fingertip brushing it could be enough to make it end right now.
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Geralt makes a noise against his throat when Jaskier encourages him to bite, part discontent and part longing-- the bard is a bad influence on his self-control. As much as the idea of getting his teeth into Jaskier's neck-- leaving an unmistakable mark on his skin, something that will last even after the pretty bruises have faded-- appeals, his body is already littered with scars that are the result of Geralt's negligence. How could he even consider putting more on him? And for such a selfish reason as satisfying his own desires?
I don't mind a little biting.
He'd mind when he had fangs in his muscle. Geralt's teeth have grown out too much now to even consider biting him. He had been too busy in the past few months with Ciri and Jaskier's safety to have time to keep up with filing them down, a tedious and uncomfortable task. It had only ever been for appearance's sake, anyway, to remove an obvious strangeness that made humans nervous. Not a necessity. But if Jaskier is going to insist that he set his teeth to him, it may become one.
"Later," he rasps, distracted by Jaskier's wandering hands and the desire in his voice. It's hard to deny him when he asks like that, with his voice all sweet and lusty, and if Geralt had been a man of less self-control, he might have just given him whatever he wanted. But-- later, once he'd had time to find his iron file and grind his teeth down into the same blunt shape as a human's. Then he could do as Jaskier asks and have some confidence that he wouldn't do any more harm than a normal lovebite.
The way Jaskier moves over him then, the slow, almost languid rise and fall of his hips, is too gentle and indulgent to really be fucking-- it's something that Geralt's mind doesn't want to touch, words that he doesn't want to say. It makes him ache anyway, his hands gripping onto Jaskier's hips and guiding them in their movements, the wet sound of their coupling filthy and so, so good. He shifts his hips to make the angle sweeter and he can feel the bard's cock twitch against his stomach as he does. He groans, mouth pressed to Jaskier's hairy chest, at the spurt of pre-cum that leaks out of the bard's prick and drips slick and warm down his abs.
They keep that pace, letting the heat and pleasure build until Geralt is panting and sweat-soaked despite the winter chill and Jaskier's legs can no longer bear the exertion. Geralt is closer to his orgasm than he usually can ever get while still being inside someone; Jaskier has tolerated his overly-long attentions admirably, borne the delay as though it hadn't been a hardship at all. The witcher has mercy on him, pulls him off of his cock and hisses at the feeling of cool air hitting his prick after it's been encased in tight heat for so long, then pushes the bard down to the mattress on his back. He doesn't leave Jaskier bereft for more than a few moments, crawling back on top of him once he's settled and distracting him with a kiss while one hand gropes for the bottle of oil. More oil for his prick and he pushes in again, fills him back up with cock and it's so easy this time-- no resistance, just a nerve-searing slide into the depths of him.
He groans the bard's name. His hair has long since worked its way out of whatever tie it had been kept in, falling around their faces in a messy white curtain. Jaskier's eyes are the bluest thing he's ever seen when he lifts his gaze to look at them.
"A little more," he says, reassuring him that there will be an end to this as he hitches Jaskier's legs up onto his waist, then snaps his hips in and sets the pace.
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"Come onnnnnnn! My neck is on your mouth right now!"
Luckily for Geralt, the complaining quickly goes away too. Hard to stay focused on such a detail when he's being fucked so good. The new angle is hitting that sweet spot just right and Jaskier can swear he can see the stars. The blow job had been a good idea after all, it's helping him last longer - or what he'd usually last anyway. That first orgasm has gotten rid of all that sexual tension he had accumulated the past few months, thank Melitele, and that means he can keep building his pleasure without fear of finishing before Geralt spills inside him - which is something he definitely wants to happen before the night is over, no objections allowed.
The only hardship here is the one pounding into him - nothing else matters. There's no pain and no winter cold, there's only sweaty skin and a wet dick, strong warm hands on his hips and pretty starlight hair in his own fingers, the sound of their voices in sync with their flesh filthily slapping against each other. It's only wave after wave of pure elation running through his veins, hitting every bone and making his toes curl.
So imagine Jaskier's surprise when all of this suddenly fucking stops.
"Wha--"
He is no stranger to changes of position, although they usually come more often in the form of tumbling into them while still linked. To be fair, however, he's simply too gone in his own bliss so the sudden movement -the sudden feeling of emptiness- can only come as a shock. He catches on pretty quickly though, and soon Jaskier is laughing, delighted by this turn of events. Variety in sex is good, being pounded into the mattress is good, Geralt taking initiative and getting what he wants is great.
The smile doesn't disappear from his lips when Geralt kisses him - he just kisses back as he puts his arms around those amazing shoulders again and raises his ass to receive that mighty cock that makes him dig his heels in the furs and arch his body, head thrown back as he hisses a yessss.
And those blue eyes? Well, they look up at Geralt with absolute adoration when he hears those words.
"Oh, my dear witcher." He quickly pecks the corner of Geralt's mouth. "I'm not going anywhere - I'm here for you all night long." Geralt's hands grab Jaskier's legs and his grin widens, because that's what he had already been planning to do anyway - he wastes no time and crosses his ankles around his lover's waist before thrusting his hips as an invitation, whimpering when his dick gets trapped between their bellies. "Now fuck me, your gorgeous thing."
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The bard's arms are draped around his shoulders and his legs are hitched around his waist, heels pressing into Geralt's back just above his kidneys. He squeezes them tight around his solid sides whenever he rolls his hips, digs those heels in to the muscles in Geralt's lower back like he's spurring on a horse. He grunts at the pressure but doesn't make any move to readjust him, and at his command-- fuck me, you gorgeous thing-- braces both hands against the mattress and fulfills his desires.
He fucks into Jaskier with as much strength as he'd dare to use, chasing after an orgasm that's finally starting to loom on the horizon. Jaskier can't be far off from his own, either-- when Geralt looks down at him, he's a glorious wreck. His hair is mussed from being tossed against the furs, sticking to his forehead in graceless clumps; his skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, pupils dilated in those true blue eyes. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and Geralt has the strange, irrational urge to kiss them when he does. He's a beautiful creature, more so than even the carefully curated beauty of sorceresses, and Geralt--
Geralt buries his face into the bard's neck, breathing in the scent of lust and pleasure and that sweet, unknown thing, and along with each heady, intoxicating breath of that mixture, there's him. Geralt's scent mixed in with Jaskier's own, pressed into his skin in a manner that no witcher in this keep would mistake. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he groans against the soft skin of Jaskier's throat. Just like that he finds himself close, his hips stuttering as he starts to lose his rhythm.
He wraps an arm underneath Jaskier and around to his shoulder, holding him in place as his hips pump harder and faster, keeping him from being pushed up the bed with every heavy thrust. His other hand buries itself into the bedding and holds on, and Jaskier is so hot and tight and perfect around him, and Geralt murmurs some nonsense into his ear about how good he is, punctuated with curses. He's too drunk on the pleasure of it to keep track of what his mouth is saying, anyway, too preoccupied with chasing down his finish.
"Jask--"
His name comes out on a groan and the tension in Geralt's guts finally breaks. The nerve-searing pleasure of it is almost a relief after the long build up, and his hips twitch, prick fully sheathed in Jaskier's body, as he spills inside him. It feels like it goes on for ages, makes even Geralt's strong body tremble from the force of it. He doesn't even bother pulling out once he's spent, just slowly collapses down onto Jaskier; exhausted, sweat-soaked, and more sated than he ever remembers being.
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Making him feel precious.
The most delightful of ironies, that is. Because Geralt is fucking him with quite an amount of strength, and that's another detail that is making this fuck simply amazing: to be on the receiving end of Geralt's prowess. Yet at the same time, it speaks of Geralt's care and gentleness. Because Jaskier knows how far witcher strength can go, and he can tell how hard Geralt is trying in order not to hurt him, even when control is hard to keep with a mind high with pleasure. Precious and important indeed.
Every thrust is met with raising and bucking hips, ankles and nails digging on scarred skin deeper and deeper as Jaskier also chases his own orgasm. His head is thrown back to moan and mumble nonsense (fuck yes, gods, right there, harder, more, Geralt) but also to offer his neck, because the witcher being intoxicated by his very natural scent is an intoxicating feeling in itself. Geralt's starting to lose his rhythm, and Jaskier guesses he must be close, yet he doesn't move his hands to touch himself. He doesn't need it, he realizes, he's on fucking fire and he's going to burn on the witcher's incredible dick and his abs brushing against his cock.
He decides to bury a hand on Geralt's hair instead, pushing him close and making him sure to keep him right where he is, with his nose on his neck and those lovely words on his ear. And holy crap, those words! That's what he's been wanted since he's asked for praise! Having Mr Blessed Silence telling him all these things is the final push Jaskier needs, and he finally lets go when his lover says his name in the sweetest song and spills inside him.
"Yesyesyesyes fill me, fuck, Geralt-"
His whole body arches once more as he comes all over their stomachs, head fully thrown back as he sees the stars. His toes curl and his legs shake, barely being able to stay around Geralt, the moan that leaves his lips echoing in the darkness of the keep without a care over being heard. Because this is one fucking good orgasm and it deserves to be celebrated, to be written and sung about. Jaskier doesn't want it to end, he wants to stop time right here and experience this wave of pleasure for hours, a kind of pleasure that he has never felt - it's never felt this deep, this intimate. It leaves him breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
A cute little oof escapes him when Geralt lands on top of him, but he isn't complaining. Smiling from ear to ear, smelling of satisfaction and happiness and- well, jizz, Jaskier lets his trembling legs fall on the furs, but leaves his arms around Geralt's back. They're less clingy now, more of a lazy kind of draping, yet one hand still gently rubs the witcher's wide back as his nose nuzzles his lover's neck.
"...the airborne vibes of euphoria." He mumbles, the words of an old poem coming to his mind as the perfect description of this magnificent moment: euphoria. A kiss for Geralt's neck comes next. "I love you."
His scent celebrates those words, and never has his heart and soul felt so light.
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Euphoric, as Jaskier murmurs against his ear. If he could lay here and never lose this feeling, he might never have the will to rise again-- he might just stay, skin to skin with Jaskier, until the day he died. A willing sacrifice to pleasure and Jaskier's body the altar.
Jaskier must be rubbing off on him, in the metaphorical sense, if he's entertaining this kind of melodrama. The bard kisses his neck and says words that he can't return, and there's a part of him that wishes that he had the capacity to do so-- to tell him what he would so badly want to hear and have it be more than just an echo. Instead he presses his lips to Jaskier's throat and shifts, moving some of his considerable weight off of the poor bard, and his softening cock slips out of him in the process. He makes a low noise at the loss, but it would've happened sooner rather than later. A few long moments later, or maybe a minute or two-- his sense of time isn't great when his head's pleasure-addled-- he drags a hand up the bard's legs to the apex, just to feel how wet his thighs are with a mix of oil and cum.
That's not the only part of them that's wet, though, and the fluid trapped between their bellies is starting to become less appealing and more... sticky. The inevitable deterioration of the post-coital bliss. Even the euphoria has started to fade, and perhaps for the best; they have to get cleaned up eventually. Geralt gets a hand against the bed and props himself up, and underneath him, Jaskier is no less a beautiful creature now than he was moments from orgasm. Geralt kisses him, briefly but as gently as he can manage.
He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs one of the ripped pieces of silk from Jaskier's ruined doublet and uses that to wipe up the mess that coats their skin. The fabric will absolutely be ruined by the mix of sweat and spend, and Geralt cannot even begin to care. He settles down at the bard's side after throwing the scrap aside, resting a hand on Jaskier's thigh. The furs and pillows prop him up comfortably and he tucks his other hand behind his head, stretches out languorously. Every so often, the bard's thigh quivers faintly underneath his hand.
"You're trembling," he says, turning his head towards Jaskier with his voice low and a little hint of a tease to it. "Rougher ride than you were expecting?"
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The content humming he uses to express his liking of that throat kiss is replaced by a whimper when Geralt slips out of him, making him extra aware of how sensitive his asshole feels at the moment. He can feel the stickiness between his legs, too, and that makes the soreness 100% worth it.
"Like what you see?" He asks with a grin, teasing but still liking how Geralt doesn't care about the mess of his thighs - in fact, he's touching it, which sends a shiver down Jaskier's spine. This is the kind of sexual shameless he's into, especially if -as he suspects- Geralt is also liking the fact Jaskier is covered in his witcher jizz.
The kiss is returned, of course, softly and affectionately, before Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows to have a better look at what Geralt is doing. Does Geralt need some space? Jaskier knows whores (and probably Yennefer) are not exactly cuddlers but-- ah. It's not that. After care! Aww, what a good lover.
--wait. Is that his...?
With an overly dramatic groan, Jaskier lets his body fall on the furs again, his arm moving up to cover his eyes. This is gore, pure and simple. He would even call it torture if he hadn't given Geralt permission to rip the doublet in the first place.
"What a terrifying scene for my eyes to gaze upon! Finest silk in the land, used as an old mop! Oh, the irony of the gods to bring this to my attention after the sweetest of orgasms--"
It's the hand on his thigh that snaps him out of his rant - as soon as he lowers his arm just an inch, he finds himself looking at his lover stretching next to him, sharing the post-coital bliss with teasing words and eyes just for him. Another art worthy sight. Jaskier laughs, obviously pleased by this turn of events, and turns his body to rest on his side as he comes closer and wraps his arms around the witcher's waist.
"Orgasmed harder than I expected." He kisses Geralt's chest, exactly on his heart, before resting his head on and nuzzling the hell out of that marvelous chest. It's as comfortable as he's always imagined it would be, even with all the sweat. Jaskier swears he'll never need a pillow ever again. "But I can't deny I'm probably not at my best after the rough couple of days we've been having." Couple is probably underselling it. Chin moving to rest between big boobs, Jaskier looks up at Geralt. "I knew you would me ruin me for any other dick, however. I hope it was amazing for you too."
There's a pause, wondering if he should say what comes to his mind next. Part of him thinks it's not fair, considering he's had good sex and partners before, and Geralt has only had prostitutes, but... well, maybe the witcher may accept it as a compliment? Even if Geralt generally hates those.
"It's never felt this... intimate for me before. This connected."
Not even with the Countess, but he knows better than bring up an ex in this context.
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Geralt huffs a laugh as Jaskier spills some rot about being ruined for any other dick-- that sounds exactly like the sort of thing that the whores said when he was done, angling for a better tip out of him. Not that they really needed to, because Geralt always tipped them well to compensate for the inconvenience of having to attend to a witcher. He doesn't have a swelled enough head to think that he'd be ruining anyone for anything with his prowess. He has a cock and after some seven decades he knows how to use it, but he's not going to delude himself into thinking that someone would be irrevocably changed after an encounter with his magical witcher cock.
"My cock has yet to ruin anyone, for other men or anything else."
And certainly not Jaskier. If a man could be ruined by cock-- which they can't-- the bard would've been ruined a long time ago.
Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier, probably just cutting off circulation to it even more, but it's worth it to be able to trail his fingers along the jut of his hip and his upper thigh, to skim along the crease where the two meet. His skin is very soft in these vulnerable, hidden places, and it probably only partly has to do with all those expensive soaps and lotions that he uses. Though much of the mess has been cleaned off of his skin, Geralt doesn't even have to press his nose close to him to catch heavy scent of it still clinging to him. It's probably a little bit disgusting, but there's definite appeal to how claimed the bard smells.
"But it was good," he says, his voice a low rumble as post-coital satisfaction starts to melt into a warm, languid sort of sleepiness. Sex is a good cure for insomnia, on those rare occasions that he has it in a place that he can sleep afterwards, and he lets his eyes drift closed. "You can just speak plainly about it. I don't need any of your sweet-talk."
He isn't one of Jaskier's maids or courtiers, after all, who like to listen to the bard's pretty poetry after they've been fucked. He has him there, a warm weight on his chest-- for now, Jaskier wants him, has spent much of this evening ensuring that Geralt knows, explicitly, that he wants him. He doesn't need more words to reassure him of that.
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The arm wrapped around him makes him hum in approval, and Jaskier presses his body against Geralt's as humanly possible, happy to know the cuddling is welcome. Geralt is even petting him and gods, he sure can fall asleep to that - a warm and comfy body under him, a satisfied lover telling him so in a very sexy rumble (he smiles widely and a bit smugly at that), caresses soothing him into total relaxation...
I don't need any of your sweet-talk. Bollocks. For a moment there, orgasms had made him forget how difficult it can be to compliment Geralt.
"I am speaking plainly. Fucking the man you've shared your life with for twenty years makes a difference, my dear. But worry not." He kisses the witcher's lips softly. It's not a conversation to have right now, it would make a perfect moment awkward. Besides, Geralt being naturally sleepy is good, can't miss the opportunity to make the big oaf rest properly. "I shall remind you to trust me in the morning. Good night, love."
He lowers his head then to rest it properly on Geralt's chest again, nuzzling it once more before closing his eyes and letting sleep take over - it doesn't take long. He's exhausted, spent - truly relaxed. And cared for, safe, even loved (no matter what Geralt says). It's the best rest he's ever had - the only thing that would improve it would be a better bed, and even then Jaskier can admit he's being nitpicky. This is Kaer Morhen, his lover's home, that also makes it special. It's the perfect first time.
That means he's extra annoyed when he's woken up in the morning by the pounding on the door, cursing under his breath against Geralt's boobs.
"How long are you planning to lazy around, you dirty arses? I'm happy to know you worked things out but for fuck's sake, the whole hallway stinks because of you two."
Ah, Eskel, bless his soul. Jaskier groans and opens one eye to glance at the window - indeed, it seems it's quite late in the morning, Geralt has probably missed some activity or another. He can't bring himself to care though - in fact, Jaskier grins at the fact he's managed to make Mr Wake-up-at-sunrise stay in bed with him this long. Point for the bard! And most importantly, points for their relationship! In your face, Vesemir.
Jaskier moves with the intentions of giving Geralt a good morning kiss, but freezes and hisses when something brushes the witcher's leg. He looks down and--
"...bollocks."
"I can hear you, Jaskier."
"A-ah, yes! We'll join you soon! We just need to change and--" He clears his voice. "--yeah. We just need a moment. And Eskel?"
"Mmh?"
"Thank you."
A sigh comes from behind the door, one that shows how fond the man out there covering his nose actually is of these two dumbasses. "...no problem. Don't take too long or I'll let Lambert eat your breakfast."
As the echoes of Eskel's steps leaving reach their ears, Jaskier slowly untangles himself from Geralt and rolls away on his back to check his groin again, make sure he saw what he thinks he saw correctly. He did - morning wood is waiting for him to take care of it right there in this wonderful morning. Usually, it wouldn't be such a big deal, but with Geralt's slow boners and all, he doesn't want to come off as too pushy. He turns his head to look at his lover and offers a sheepish smile.
"Good morning?"
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But the subject is dropped, and that's fine. Geralt's close to sleep for once in his ridiculous life, a product of being warm, satisfied, and safe within the stone walls of his home. Jaskier promises a talk in the morning and the witcher would actually like little more than to completely avoid that, but for now, they rest.
He wakes to the sound of a fist hitting the door and Eskel's annoyed voice asking how long they're going to laze about in bed. Geralt's missed morning training, no doubt, and while he's certain that Vesemir won't be pleased with him for it, he's equally sure that Eskel provided a sufficient excuse to mollify him. Eskel's the favorite, after all. He'll be there for afternoon training, anyway, and that should keep the old wolf from getting too grumpy about it.
His arm is very numb. Geralt tries to discreetly move it from underneath Jaskier's weight so that he can start getting blood flow back to it without disturbing him. The tingling feeling in his hand is unpleasant, but worth it for a good night's sleep and the privilege of being drooled on.
Geralt opens his eyes when Jaskier shifts against him, expecting something like a good morning kiss despite what has to be prodigious morning breath, and feels something stiff against his leg. Jaskier seems almost embarrassed about his otherwise entirely normal bodily function, dismissing Eskel and getting a warning about Lambert eating their breakfasts if they take too long. He rolls away and checks on his cock like it's something that might up and walk away.
"Seems to be," he says in response to Jaskier's good morning. Geralt's cock is still soft against his thigh, hardly unusual for him in the mornings, but the bard has a very healthy-looking erection that demands attention. And, sure, Jaskier could deal with it himself or just wait for it to go down on its own, but Geralt was perfectly willing. And there is a promise that's gone unfulfilled from last night, and Geralt is a man who keeps his promises.
He reaches over and hauls Jaskier on top of him, bringing him up to straddle his waist. Jaskier is a lovely sight in the morning, appealingly disheveled and his skin warm from spending the night underneath the covers with a furnace of a witcher.
"I promised you something last night," he says, because it's true-- he had said that Jaskier could spill on his chest, and the bard had yet to do so. "You can have it now, if it pleases you."
And if not, Geralt still has a perfectly serviceable mouth and hands, as well. There must be some part of him that would satisfy Jaskier before they go down for breakfast and then-- undoubtedly-- to the baths.
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"Listen, Geralt, please don't think I'd ever expect you to-- eep."
Jaskier loves being mandhandled but that doesn't mean he's expecting it so suddenly. Is this going to be a thing now between them? It's not like Geralt hasn't manhandled him before, keeping Jaskier out of trouble made it a requirement plenty of times - which is funny, because if getting in trouble meant being mandhandled by one handsome witcher, well, then that only encouraged him more. This is different though, the purpose behind it clearly having nothing to do with safety. Will Geralt start doing it more often then? Will he allow himself to have wants and bring Jaskier close for a kiss, for example? He can't wait to find out.
His eyes widen when he hears the offer, scent already starting to show that lust spike. He's still biting his lip, however, not to let out the little whimper that wants to escape when his hard dick lands on Geralt's abs.
"I-- of course it would please me, Geralt. How could it not? I'm addicted to you, my dear." And to make his point, he moves his knees to go a little higher up Geralt's body, biting in a moan as his dick lands in between the witcher's pecs. It makes for an amazing sight and before he can stop himself, his hands land on them as well. "What about you though? I would love nothing more than blow you in return, but I know how it is and well-- I don't want you to feel like you have to match my horniness." This feels like having another talk, and they've had enough of those. No assumptions - trust. Jaskier needs to remember that, but he can't help worrying about Geralt's giving nature. So he tries to compromise. "Promise me you are not doing this because you're feeling under pressure and I shall give you a lovely pearl necklace."
He squeezes both boobs then, pushing them against his dick. The moan that escapes him this time isn't hidden, and it echoes in the room.
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He shuffles a bit further up Geralt's body, cock resting in the furrow between his pectoral muscles. He continues to prattle on about reciprocation and sex drives and some such, even as his hands reach down and grab two handfuls of flesh. Geralt makes a considering hum at the warm tug in his guts that he gets when the bard's palms rub over his nipples. It's... nice. Not nice enough to get him going so soon after waking up, but still enjoyable. The state of his cock doesn't matter much at the moment; he could still appreciate what's happening regardless of whether he's hard.
This, however, has turned into a talk, of the kind that Geralt had been keen on avoiding. He runs his hands over Jaskier's hips, running his thumbs over the jut of his pelvic bone. He is seriously considering the possibility of shutting the bard up by pulling him down for a kiss, but that's a temporary solution at best. Jaskier will just continue talking again once his mouth is no longer occupied, and Geralt doesn't have a cock to occupy his mouth with for a longer period of time.
Promise me, Jaskier says, and Geralt nearly rolls his eyes. If he didn't want to be right here, underneath the bard, he wouldn't have put Jaskier on top of him. It's not as though the bard can keep him anywhere that he doesn't want to be. He could pitch him across the room if he didn't like it.
"I promise that you're talking too much," he replies and slides his hands back, palming the bard's ass. Jaskier has a tendency to wax poetic about the witcher's backside, but there are a lot of compliments to be paid to his own. Very perky. Geralt pulls him forward by his ass, his cock sliding between the witcher's tits. It looks nice like this-- looks even better when Jaskier pushes Geralt's pectorals together, making a tight space for him to fuck that rosy cock of his into. Would be nicer with a little lubrication to make it a smoother glide rather than dry skin on skin.
"Stop thinking about it so much and get the fucking oil."
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The hands on his ass get a weird, startled sound out of him - a groan that mixes both pleasure and a little complaint. While he's far from being in actual pain, his ass is still a bit sore. Is he going to mention it? Of course not, because it doesn't bother him, but he can bet his lute it will bother Geralt.
"Always so romantic," he replies as he rolls his eyes. "Sorry for caring about my beloved's well-being, I guess."
The sarcasm is strong in this one, but he still does as he's told. He uncorks the bottle with his teeth and pours the oil... not on his hands, but directly on his dick. And not only his dick, on Geralt's boobs as well - some of it drips down onto the furs and the witcher's neck, and Jaskier can't bring himself to care. Geralt is quite a sight under him, with his hair loose and disheveled, his boobs glistening and a cock right on top of him. It's a damn pity his own prick won't wake up during this, because Jaskier wants to fucking devour him.
Calloused fingers rub the oil all over Geralt's chest and his own cock before he starts moving, occasionally lifting his legs and therefore ass a bit for smoother thrusting and to avoid too much friction on the sore area. He keeps on massaging those amazing tits as he bucks his hips in a languid, slow pace - he gropes, squeezes, rubs, pushes them against his cock and moans a little louder every time he can see his head almost fucking disappear.
"Fuck. You're so good to me, love. What a-ah, what a marvelous and gorgeous vision you make, enough to inspire Melitele herself. I could -fuck- worship you all day long..."
Now that's something he hasn't done in a while, a day-long sex marathon. He should throw the idea at Geralt, but probably way into Spring, because there's no way they'll have the day for themselves in here, with a child surprise and nosy brothers around. Maybe if they go back to Oxenfurt and Geralt accepts to take a break... can't hurt to ask.
This isn't love making, it's just morning wood. And while Jaskier is enjoying the hell out of fucking Geralt's boobs, spouting poetry until he can't talk anymore and is reduced to simple words and panting, he isn't doing much to keep control and make it last. His thrusts come quicker and more erratic, the medalion starts bouncing on his own chest, his hands do less squeezing and more simply leaning on the witcher's pecs, nails digging on oily skin, his scent sweet and spicy and heavy in the room.
It's a pity he has to let go of Geralt's tits when he comes - his whole body trembles and so he needs better support, giving in to the tremors and bending over with hands landing on both sides of Geralt's head. He comes hard, moaning the witcher's name and decorating his neck and chin with the promised pearls. It's not as good as the orgasm he got from Geralt actually fucking him, but it's still a damn good one. It's not sad wank, it's still toe curling and stomach turning, one that he still savors for a few seconds before he stops moving, before he stops riding this climax until the very end to milk it into oblivion. Is it always going to be like this with Geralt? Like being a teen again, discovering how good and satisfying sex can be?
It's the connection he mentioned last night, he's sure of it now. And okay, a hard fucking body worthy of the gods also has to do with it, obviously, but mostly the connection. He's willing to bet it wouldn't have bee this good had they done it back on Posada.
He stays for a moment there, bent above Geralt, panting and recovering, a huge smile on his face. And when he finally moves, well, he doesn't sit up - not yet. Instead, he uses one hand to spread his cum on Geralt's chest, mixing it together with the oil and creating random patterns.
"Mmmh, a breathtaking work of art. I suppose I can't take you down to breakfast like this, can I?" He'd pay good coin just to see Vesemir's face.
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Jaskier spreads the oil and then starts moving, his cock gliding easily through the slick that coats Geralt's skin. He babbles for part of it, saying the sorts of things that Geralt would expect a man to say when he's getting his prick rubbed in a way that he likes. Jaskier mentions something about worshiping him all day long-- translated from Ridiculous Bard Speech, fucking the day away like they had nothing better to do-- which is an interesting enough idea for Geralt to give a considering hum to it, but he doubts if Jaskier is serious. For one thing, it's rare for them to be in a place where they could waste a whole day to such a thing, and for another, Geralt doubts that he'd have the stamina. But it's a nice idea.
His hands stay on the bard's ass, encouraging his thrusts and occasionally squeezing the firm flesh. It's different, watching Jaskier move on top of him without the urgency of arousal; he has the opportunity to watch his expression shift, the way his hips snap and his legs clutch around his chest.
As he gets close to the edge, he lets go of Geralt's chest to grip the bed sheets; the witcher takes over for him, despite how awkward it feels to be pushing his own pectorals around Jaskier's cock, giving him that slick, warm channel to fuck into. The bard's brow furrows and his mouth drops open in a soft o as he chases his pleasure, expression open and vulnerable and lovely, and Geralt is certain that the spot between his eyebrows is exactly where he'll wrinkle first, and he'll never hear the end of it. Jaskier shakes and his come splashes across Geralt's collarbone and neck; one particularly enthusiastic spurt splatters across his chin, just shy of his lower lip. His tongue darts out almost without thinking, and the taste of Jaskier is bitter and musky, as it was last night.
While the bard pants and rides out the satisfaction of his orgasm, Geralt moves his hands to Jaskier's sides and pats his flank like he'd praise Roach after a hard ride. Good bard. He seems pleased and he came quickly, so presumably fucking the witcher's tits has been an experience that's lived up to his fantasies, as well. Geralt makes note of this for the future-- it would be good to have a way to satisfy Jaskier that doesn't require much effort on his part, for when he's tired or injured from a hunt. The bard then drags his fingers through the mess that he's made, smearing it over Geralt's chest. Last night's activities had already mixed their scents, but Jaskier smearing his spend into his skin is more than just that, makes him smell claimed. There's another tug of arousal in his stomach at that, pleasant even if it doesn't go anywhere.
"They'll smell it either way," he says, "and I refuse to suffer breakfast sticky just because you enjoy irritating Vesemir."
It will be a long winter if Jaskier never learns to tolerate Vesemir, but it will at least be something that he has in common with Lambert. For the moment, though, he focuses on the problem that he can actually remedy-- he reaches over the edge of the bed and snatches another scrap of ruined doublet from the floor, using that to wipe the mess off of his chest before it starts to dry. He does not want to deal with the hassle of scrubbing dried come out of his chest hair. Once he's finished mopping up, he tosses the soiled cloth aside and smacks Jaskier's hip, just hard enough to make a satisfying noise, to get him to move.
"Up. Lambert'll eat fucking everything if we don't go down soon."
Eskel's warning wasn't idle-- the youngest Wolf would, indeed, eat all the rest of breakfast, even if he isn't hungry and is only doing it to spite Geralt. Especially if it's to spite Geralt.
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Geralt has allowed him to fuck his chest, a fantasy Jaskier wouldn't have dreamed he would ever fulfill, even if he hasn't gotten anything out of it. Not only that, but he also helps, he doesn't just lay down and takes it because he has to - he squeezes his butt, he pushes his own tits as if he was a common whore... he licks Jaskier's jizz. Oh Melitele, how he loves this man! Finding out they're sexually compatible only serves to fill his heart with joy.
"Enjoy irritating Vesemir?" Pretending to be scandalized, he takes a hand to his chest. "Geralt! What could've possibly given you that idea!"
Translation: Geralt is 100% right. His scandalized reaction, however, becomes actually real when the witcher uses his doublet to clean jizz again. Jaskier covers his eyes and sighs.
"You surely enjoy torturing my delicate fashionable soul, my dear."
After such a display, getting off Geralt only takes him a second, not wanting to stare at such gore anymore. His body is aware of the lack of post-orgasm cuddling though, so before leaving the bed, he leans in and his sweetly kisses Geralt like he would've done if it hadn't been for Eskel and his early boner.
"Good morning. I'm really happy that we worked things out." And it shows, his scent sweet with glee and love, which Geralt truly needs to identify soon. "Those were three amazing orgasms, thank you. I can't wait to experience a whole winter with you." And now a peck for the corner of Geralt's mouth. "Love you."
Look, Geralt has promised he will trust Jaskier from now, but he knows they're about to go face to face with (coughVesermircough) the family and witcher logic again, so he wants to do as much positive reinforcement as possible. Besides, even if they weren't, Geralt deserves to hear these things more often, and it's not like Jaskier minds saying them anyway, sappy poet that he is, always in love with the sound of his own voice.
There's a lot of pouting when Geralt asks him to return the medallion, though. Spoilsport.
He leaves the bed then, and changes pretty quickly, which is not usual for Jaskier. This is the guy that spends too much time on his appearance. To be fair, though... the keep is cold so he doesn't want to stay naked for too long, he's not exactly clean so he's just putting on temporary clothes and not good silks until they take a bath, and he does believe that Lambert will, indeed, eat their breakfast without regret. He still manages to sneak in as many kisses as he can, to Geralt's shoulders or arms or whatever patch of skin is the closest and isn't covered fast by fabric. Gods, it feels so good to be able to do all this and not hide it anymore.
It's real. He's mine.
All this happiness means he hums a song all their way to breakfast, and he holds Geralt's hand as well. He does let go when they're getting close, however, not because he's ashamed or afraid of Vesemir, but because he wants to make a great entrance. And while he hasn't memorized all the hallways of the keep yet, he can tell when they're getting closer - because he can hear Eskel and Lambert groaning and cursing at the smell of them approaching.
"Good morning, good sirs!" He exclaims when they enter the mess hall with open arms, which he bends when he bows for Ciri. "And my lady, of course." Cirilla seems to be glad to see them well and together, but her smile is mixed with confusion: Vesemir is sighing and facepalming, Lambert is making gagging noises, Eskel is shaking his head. And Jaskier? He grins widely, delighted by his audience's reaction. "And what a wonderful morning it is! The last sunlight rays of Autumn still grace us with their presence! What are our plans for such a fine day?"
"You should start by taking a bath," Eskel replies with a mix of horror and amusement. Big mistake.
"Eskel! I haven't thanked you properly!" He approaches the witcher from behind and hugs him around the shoulders. Eskel is frozen in shock at first, but then he quickly covers his mouth and nose, ignoring the bard's words. "Thank you, kind wolf. You're a good friend."
Lambert, who is sitting next to Eskel, waves a hand in the air as if chasing a fly - but he's chasing the smell instead. "You son of a bitch, fuck off! You stink!"
"Aww, is the little prick jealous? Don't worry, I have enough affection for everyone!" And just like that, Jaskier lets go of Eskel to hug Lambert instead. Who, no matter how tough he looks and talks, doesn't dare to push a delicate human either.
"GERALT! GET YOUR BARD AWAY FROM ME!"
Meanwhile, Cirilla has finally caught on what's going on, and so she wrinkles her nose. "Gross."
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"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.
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Besides... even if Geralt doesn't give his food to Lambert, Jaskier does believe the prick may take it anyway.
It's amazing how easily they fall back into old routines. Technically they made up not so long ago after more than a year of betrayal, yet his rescue from Nilfgaard feels like it happened ages ago. Jaskier doesn't even blink at the breakfast waiting for him, doesn't even realize how important it is for Geralt to be doing this even in front of his family... it's simply how things are for them. Jaskier sits next to Geralt, letting their thighs and arms brush as he digs in. The kasha is made exactly as he likes it, and he eagerly enjoys it, which means the mess hall can have blessed silence... for a moment anyway.
"Soooo~" He singsongs as he exchanges his spoon for knife and fork to start slicing up the bread and the sausages, because not even in Kaer Morhen he'll stop trying to prevent Geralt from eating sausages like a dog (or, well, a wolf). Besides, it's part of the routine too. Teamwork! "What are the plans for today?"
He looks around the table, at Ciri and every witcher, but it's mostly an excuse to glance at Vesemir before his eyes fall again on the knife and the butter. He may be a brat but he's a brat that cares, one that wants to connect with this family, and so he isn't going to start a hostile confrontation unless they provoke him.
(What constitutes as "provocation" to Jaskier may not align with Geralt's meaning of the word.)
"I know what you're thinking," he comments before anyone has time to reply. "The bard is not made for physical labor. I do admit I may not be the right person to help you with repairs, but that doesn't mean I'm useless. I'm good with the horses, and I know the basics of the kitchen. I'm also a master of the seven liberal arts, which include rather gorgeous penmanship, if I say so myself. I couldn't help noticing the, ah- current state of your labels." And by that, he means 'the witchers have horrible handwriting, how can you even keep potions, ingredients and food organized like that'. But his tone is light as simple, because he has years of indirectly insulting nobles under his belt. Spinning of words, as always. "There are certain books in the library that could do with rebinding and/or duplicating, two tasks I'm more than capable of doing."
"Can you update them as well?" The whole table turns to Cirilla, surprised by her sudden intervention - Jaskier included.
"My lady?"
"The few history and geography books in the library are out of date." Big words for a newcomer, words that raise eyebrows around the table and make Vesemir frown. But she stays brave and doesn't let any of the witchers intimidate her - her green eyes stay on Jaskier. She even leans in a little bit over one of Geralt's arms. "There are two missing principalities in Temeria and one in the south of Brugge on the maps."
You can take the princess out of her kingdom, but you can't take the kingdom out of the princess. Her education (plus Calanthe's blood) is shining through, and Jaskier immediately lights up, delighted to have found someone that speaks his language. Oh, thank the gods he can be here for her and carry on wherever her tutors left off, it'd be a sin for her to forget such valuable lessons. She can be a witcher with good use of the sword and the ability to communicate, something everyone else in this keep is terribly lacking.
"Don't tell me they've left out the Baron de Mazur!" That's the newest one in Brugge, if he remembers correctly. Amused as hell, he leans over Geralt as well, almost as if gossipping with the girl on the other side of his lover. "Can you imagine what his two chins have to say about it?"
They both laugh at what appears to be a hilarious reference... to those that know the Baron de Mazur, that is.
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He eats his kasha while Jaskier talks, laying out his own skills and how they might be most useful to a bunch of witchers. Jaskier was never going to be someone that they would send out to the walls to do repairs, but he's more than suited for the domestic tasks of the keep. He's familiar enough with the preparation of wild game from twenty years of camping and should be able to handle the kind of meat they keep in their larders-- venison and rabbit and the occasional wild boar-- and lend a hand in the kitchen, he could do some of the basic chores in the stables. They usually have a rotation for the horses, anyway, so that it wasn't always one or two of them stuck with mucking-out duties, and so that they had time to check in with their mounts. Geralt would've made time for Roach regardless, but it was nice to have a portion of his schedule set aside for her.
And, of course, the library. Ciri mentions that there are a number of books and maps that are out of date, and Vesemir considers the suggestion. While witchers don't involve themselves in politics, it's still advisable for them to know the boundaries of countries and the ruling parties. Routes change, as well, with the passing of time, and so do some landmarks and even natural features. It's not unheard of for a witcher to wander into territory that they haven't set foot in for decades and find a lake where one never was before because humans put up a dam. This kind of record-keeping had been easier in the past, when the keep had been full and there had been witchers dedicated to maintaining the library's materials.
Then he and Ciri start talking about some baron that literally no one else at the table has ever heard of, nevertheless how many chins he has. Geralt has to lean back so that Jaskier can gossip with her, crack jokes that no one else understands. He looks up and meets both of his brothers' confused expressions, shrugs in response, and reaches over the bard to take bread and sausage from the unattended plate.
"I'll set aside a stack of books that need to be copied and rebound," Vesemir says, applying copious amounts of butter to his bread and otherwise acting as though there's nothing strange about a bard and a princess gossiping about foreign nobility. "If our maps and atlases need to be amended, deal with it as you see fit."
It's not a small task, seeing to the library's resources, but it's also not a task given lightly-- Eskel tilts his head for a moment, an inquisitive gesture, but doesn't question the old Wolf's decision. Their library is home to not just the maps and geography books, practical things that any person would need to journey the continent, but also tomes full of witchers' secrets, mages' tomes, and hunting journals from men who are long since dead. Priceless relics from a time when the Wolf school didn't have one foot in the grave.
"There are certain sections of the library that you should not touch. I trust Geralt will show you which ones those are."
Geralt nods, then takes more bread from the plate to use to mop of the remnants of his kasha. He leaves some for Jaskier; he'll complain if he doesn't get any.
"For the rest of you, the western wall is nearly shored up enough to survive the storms, but the roof over the southern hall will still need to be patched before the first blizzard. Lambert, Coën, you two should start on the roof. Afternoon training is as usual."
Lambert pulls a face at the order, probably a mixture of disliking being told what to do and a general reluctance to go up on the roof in the cold weather, but he knows better than to start an argument right at breakfast. And, anyway, the roof does need to be fixed, at least if they don't want snow coming through it.
Eskel nudges Lambert. "Trade you."
The youngest Wolf snorts into the weak ale he drinks with breakfast. "Your fat ass would fall right through the fucking roof."
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It's not like he had been expecting a full no - he did think they would find some chores for him to do, that they would trust him with the horses at least, and that the books would require some convincing, maybe done under supervision. But deal with it as you see fit? Damn! Didn't see that one coming. It's pretty much free rein! Jaskier can't help puffing out his chest, eyes gleaming with excitement - he also tries to talk with the bread still on his mouth, ruining the moment.
He grabs the bread and clears his voice before trying again, this time looking directly at Vesemir instead of just glancing. There's the beginning of something here - perhaps just a test, but Jaskier will take it. He didn't win Geralt over in one day, he can work on these other wolves (and griffin!) as well.
"It'll be my pleasure."
A forbidden section, though? That sounds fascinating. Jaskier just nods along but makes no promises, because he's a nosy bard that wants to see and learn everything - hell, maybe he's already touched something he shouldn't have when he hid in the library after the argument. Oopsie? (No regrets! At least until he hears about the curses...)
Back to breakfast for him then. Jaskier takes the chance to finish his kasha while watching the witchers interact, wanting to learn every detail. There are many layers to this - witcher relations among their own in general, but also the dynamics of a family. And not just any family, but Geralt's family, which makes it extra important. It's sweet, really, and a high honor to see them act so... normal. Brother-like. It reminds Jaskier, in a very metaphorical way, of how things used to be between him and Frederick before his brother went full Responsible Douchebag Heir. It makes him a bit jealous, and he feels shitty for it, because the circumstances that brought these men together as a family are far from ideal.
Does Cirilla think any of the same things Jaskier does? She must miss her family, that's for sure.
"Whenever you're done with your studies, princess--" This time he doesn't lean against Geralt to talk to her. He does, however, pick some bread and sausage for himself before casually pushing the plate with all the reminding sausage towards Geralt. Gotta feed the wolf - he always needs more food than Jaskier does, but it's worse this time: he can tell he's had a couple of rough months. "You may join me in the library. We could go over some recent world events together, if it pleases you."
Let me tutor you, he wants to say, but he knows better. He imposed himself on Geralt because direct is the witcher's language. But with Ciri? Gotta spin those words, let her know this is an option and not an obligation. He remembers being her age, remembers how much he hated certain classes, how he'd rather go outside and have an adventure. She has a whole keep to explore now, plus actual sword and magic at her disposal... what kind of teen would choose books over that? Especially a girl, whose chances to learn these things are as a small as a grain of rice.
But Jaskier has hopes, especially after their talk. He hopes that having lost his home so soon, she may be nostalgic for--
"I'd like that."
--ah. She does! Jaskier beams, filling the mess hall with the sweetness of his scent. Bard and princess share a nod and a smile before Jaskier turns to the other witchers at the table. His lips form a grin now, a mischievous glint appearing on his eyes. Oh no, nobody is safe from the bard!
"That goes for all of you! Come by when you're taking a break, I want to pick all your brains! That includes you, Your Prickness." He playfully kicks Lambert under the table. It's not meant to hurt, not like Jaskier could do that to a witcher anyway. "I want to hear about everyone's hunts! There's a whole winter ahead of us and I can use it to compose. Geralt shall no be the only witcher I sing about, even if he remains my favorite. Childhood stories to embarrass each other are welcome and encouraged, and they shall be repaid with twenty years of details Mr Stingy has kept to himself, I'm sure."
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Thankfully, Ciri will still have some semblance of civilized tutoring, since Jaskier asks her if she'd like some lessons and she seems thrilled at the prospect. Geralt breathes; both of his humans smell like happiness. There is a particular heavy, wet scent to the air that marks an impending snowstorm, likely to hit within the next day or two. Once that snow falls, the pass will be entirely impenetrable until the spring thaws, and they will truly have months of safety. Months to train Cirilla, months to decide what to do with her come spring. Months to navigate this fledgling thing with Jaskier, to make amends.
When the snow comes-- that's when he'll finally feel like they're all truly safe.
He feels distinctly less safe when Jaskier reminds his brothers that he has twenty years of embarrassing stories to tell, and when his brothers are simultaneously reminded that they also have several decades of embarrassing stories. Lambert perks up immediately.
"Hey, bard, did Geralt ever tell you what he wanted to call himself?" he says, and Geralt's eyes snap to him like a cat that's sighted a bird. "It's great-- Geralt Roger Eri--"
Lambert gets no further, on account of the fact that Geralt vaults the breakfast table in order to get him into a headlock. There is a minor scuffle on that side of the table; Coën avoids it by sliding further down the bench, while Eskel cracks up laughing at the sight of Lambert's head clenched in the crook of Geralt's elbow, slowly turning a spectacular shade of red. There is a bout of prodigious, if strained, swearing from the youngest Wolf witcher, and if Ciri winds up using naughty words, they all know who to blame.
"--Eric du Haute-Bellegarde," Vesemir finishes, ignoring the look that Geralt shoots his way, his deeply furrowed brow. "I told him to use Geralt of Rivia instead."
Betrayed by his own fencing tutor. This is payback, probably, from all those times that Geralt and Eskel and the other boys nearly gave Vesemir heart attacks over their antics. Hell, it's probably all because of that one time that they stole white gull and gave some to Lambert before he had taken the Trials, and he got so sick that they didn't know what else to do but hand him over to their teacher. Turned out that he was just really fucking drunk, but still.
Lambert slaps Geralt's arm a few times, a universal signal of crying uncle. Geralt lets go of him before he passes out, and he collapses onto the floor in a gasping heap.
"Fuck," he wheezes, "you fucking reek. The fuck'd you do, roll around in it?"
"I'll put you in another headlock," Geralt says, and Lambert makes a rude hand gesture at him.
The baths do sound like a good idea, though, before anyone else gets any ideas about sharing stories. Geralt stands, frowns at the fact that Ciri's been laughing at his plight, too, and tips his head towards the door-- a gesture for Jaskier that they should go. Baths await, and Geralt is only too happy to be not in the company of his asshole brothers for a while.
They have to stop back at the room to pick up their things, but after that it's a direct path down to the baths. Since it's such a well traveled route, the halls leading down into the belly of the keep are well maintained; none of the witchers want to do without their hot soaks just because the hallways are falling apart.
The baths themselves are carved out of the living rock of the mountain, a series of descending pools that are filled from the natural hot springs that well from deep within the rock. The highest pools are hot enough that only witchers can endure the temperature, and even then only for a time; the baths cool the further down they go. The largest pools, the ones at the very bottom, are even fed with fresh snowmelt off the mountain, making the water icy cold. A human would probably find it unbearable for more than a few minutes, but the cold pools have seen their own fair share of use from witchers with muscles sore from overwork. It had been what one of their old teachers had told them to do after particularly hard training sessions-- a dip in the cold pool to take down the swelling, then a soak in the warm pools to ease tired limbs.
For now, though, the more moderately warm pools saw the most use. The coolest of the pools that the witchers tended to use would probably be just right for Jaskier, hot enough to soothe but not to scald.
"Stay out of the top pools," he says, his voice echoing through the stone bathhouse. "They're too hot for you. The water cools as it runs down, the lowest pool is the coldest. Feel free to jump into that one, if you want to see how far your balls can go back into your body."
There are cubbyholes set into a wall to put clothes and such in, and Geralt strips out of his clothes and takes a towel and Jaskier's ridiculous bag of bathing supplies over to the pool. It's warm when he steps into it, and the water has a faintly sulfurous smell from the dissolved minerals. He sinks into it up to his shoulders and sighs at the feeling of it, the comfort of being submerged in warmth.
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Besides, that fight over the food? Amusing as hell as well. It's more of the casual interactions between brothers that he's been dying to see. If Geralt had to go through all that shit as a kid, Jaskier is glad he at least had these fine men with him. Well, as fine as Lambert can be.
...actually, Lambert may be finer than Jaskier thinks. Geralt chose his name? This is incredibly interesting, and Jaskier wants to chat with his boyfriend later about the process behind it, having gone through the same. But ohohoho, it doesn't stop there, there's a story. An embarrassing one, it seems. This is gold!
Gold that Geralt doesn't want him to know about, apparently. Both Jaskier and Ciri jump on their seats when Geralt is suddenly vaulting, not used to this behavior (at least when it comes from Geralt) unless there's danger near them. They stand up to take a better look and after sharing a glance that silently says wow, this is really happening, they decide to enjoy the show - laugh at them even. Geralt is roughhousing! With his brother! Jaskier never thought he'd see the day. It shows how much comfortable he's around them, how he can let go of his control because the other witchers can take it. He can only hope Geralt lets go with him at least a third of the control he lets go with his family some day.
Now this is fun and all (Lambert deserves a headlock, let's be honest here), but Jaskier needs the rest of the story! And he's about to ask for it, to ask Geralt to spare his brother... when Vesemir jumps in again. Twice in a row, Jaskier can barely believe it. He doesn't have time to analyze this move, though, because-- well. Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Unbelievable. Laughing so hard it echoes in the room, Jaskier falls back on his seat as he grabs his stomach and bends over a little bit, absolutely losing it. And Lambert commenting on his jizz, hitting the point closer than he realizes? Yeah, not helping. Oh, what a wonderful morning to have after the best fuck ever.
"If you excuse me, gentlemen and lady," he finally says when he manages to control his laughter, although some chuckles still escape him. He even has to wipe tears off his eyes! "I'm in urgent need a bath, and I think the White Wolf is a little worried I repay this wonderful story in kind." He leaves the table but only takes a couple of steps toward Geralt before turning around again with a hand around his mouth and a wink for his audience. "Can't have you knowing he told a golden dragon than his kind didn't exist, can we?"
The golden glare that is thrown his way is expected, and that's why he runs the hell out of there, grinning widely at the sounds of more laughter coming from the mess hall. Sorry, Geralt, but business is business. He needs to keep his part of the deal, win the in-laws over and show them their efforts will be well rewarded. That way Jaskier can get more childhood stories later!
Well, he runs half of the way anyway, as much as he can remember, then waits for Geralt to guide him back to his room. This time he does pick a set of his nicer silks to change into, plus his grooming kit... and the silver wolf brooch, of course. He waves it at Geralt with a grin and a wink before throwing it on top of the pile and following his lover to a new section of the keep. They travel through well-kept hallways, and Jaskier realizes the ones Eskel guided him through to get to the kitchen are in good condition as well - the important daily paths are taken as a priority, very smart of them! That also means the path to the baths is a priority, which amuses him greatly. It seems not only Geralt has an affinity for a good soak.
What kind of bathtubs does a keep hold for such a bunch of burly men anyway? Jaskier isn't sure what to expect... but this is definitely not it. Geralt starts undressing and for the first time ever, Jaskier doesn't glance or ogle. No, his -now very wide- blue eyes are too busy staring at the beautiful sight ahead of them.
"Hot springs!" he exclaims after picking his jaw from the floor, his scent sweet with excitement. However, there's also a tiny hint of... frustration? "You bloody stingy oaf, how dare you keep this secret from me for so long! And you still thought I wouldn't want to come to Kaer Morhen? Unbelievable!"
His huffing is barely serious, it's incredibly obvious for anyone (enhanced senses or not) to see how delighted he is by this turn of events. He undresses at record speed, chuckling at Geralt's comment and telling him he can be the one to bring his balls back if it comes down to that before following him into the water. The fact the witcher took his kit with him doesn't go unnoticed - Jaskier won't comment on it because he knows Geralt will say he's just being practical and bringing it over so the bard doesn't forget about it and whine about it later, but he knows the truth: his boyfriend loves being pampered. Which is great, because Jaskier loves pampering him.
Geralt's sigh is echoed by Jaskier's. The warm water feels incredible, it's like being born again. All the stress his body has been through since Geralt found him (from true pain of torture to the light soreness of last night's exercise) gradually goes away until all his muscles are left feeling like wet clay, free and unmolded. Not only the temperature is perfect, there's also the size of the pool: big enough to fit various adult men... which means Jaskier can finally cross another thing off the things I've been wanting to do with Geralt since Posada list.
He doesn't need to ask, he just goes for it - it's not like he's ever been afraid of being bold around Geralt, and their recent relationship upgrade has only served to make him even bolder. Calloused hands separate the witcher's knees and Jaskier crawls between them to sit against Geralt's body, lowering his own a little bit so his head is resting against those marvelous boobs.
"I'm missing something." Geralt's arms are grabbed then and put around the bard's waist. The fact he's allowed to do this at all without complaint makes him smell even sweeter. "Mmmh, perfect."
Believe it or not, silence follows, because even Jaskier can appreciate a moment of relaxation and basking in his lover's presence. But at the end of the day, Jaskier is Jaskier, and as he's told that day in Posada twenty years ago? He doesn't go in for that.
"Soooo~," he sing-songs as he rearranges his position to make his head fall on Geralt's shoulder this time, so he can both look at the witcher and playfully kiss his neck as an apology for the teasing he's about to do. "Geralt actually-not-of-Rivia, mmh? Could've tricked me with that accent of yours, love."
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Geralt sprawls in the hot water, his head tipped back against the stone lip of the bath as he lets the heat seep into his bones. Jaskier appreciates the warmth now but he'll learn to adore it when the cold really sets in; there's nothing like a scalding hot bath in the morning to chase away the chill. He opens one eye when Jaskier's calloused hands brush against his knees, coaxing them apart. He insinuates his body in between them and Geralt allows it, lets him press close and rest his head against his chest. His scent, discernible even in the heavy, humid air, is sweet and content, goes even sweeter when he wraps the witcher's arms around his waist. Geralt hums at the contact and briefly tightens his grip on Jaskier's body-- an embrace hidden under the pretense of shifting him into a more comfortable position.
There are a few blissful moments of silence. Geralt runs his thumb along the soft skin of Jaskier's side, letting himself relax into the quiet and comfort. He should've known that it wouldn't last for very long, not when the talkative bard is involved.
Geralt actually-not-of-Rivia. He grunts, annoyed at his brief moment of peace being shattered by an embarrassing inquiry. It had been so nice to sit quietly with Jaskier. Blissful silence.
"Vesemir decided that Rivia was as good a place as any, and that my previous choice was... pretentious," he says. "The accent is just an accent."
Really, picking up an accent just to sell that he's from Rivia is just as pretentious as anything else, but Geralt will sooner fall on his own sword than admit that.
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"Just an accent? You went out of your way to change the way you speak, my dear." He rubs the arms around him, comforting and assuring this isn't criticism. "Eskel called you a bookworm and I've always known you're strict about getting details right when it comes to witchering things, but it's something else to see this part of you applied to other things in life. It's quite remarkable, really."
There are sincerity and affection in his voice - after twenty years, it's amazing to still learn new things about Geralt, to see him in a new light. Which makes sense, since they're in a relationship now, and that's new as well. Unveiling new sides of each other comes with it. Geralt's attention to detail (not to call it an obsession) applies to this too, Jaskier realizes - the way he woke up earlier than usual to go fishing, how he made sure Jaskier had more than one orgasm not to keep him waiting... Whatever you want he said, and Jaskier is still learning how deep that promise goes.
"It was, indeed, a pretentious choice, but I must say - I do like Eric." A pause before he adds, "Better than bloody Alfred."
And oh, how much does he hate Alfred. Julian is a good name, one he only changed because he left his old life behind, not because he dislikes the name itself. But Alfred? Ugh. These thoughts should sour his mood, but he surprises himself by realizing he doesn't mind sharing this little bit. He feels content and safe in Geralt's arms, in this old yet newly found relationship that allows him to look at his childhood without fearing it may catch up on him.
Affectionate as always and hungry for more of this touching Geralt as he's always wanted, Jaskier nuzzles against the witcher's neck and jaw, only to meet his stubble. Mmh.
"You need a shave," he comments as he raises his fingertips to kindly stroke that strong jaw before stopping at the witcher's lip, a thumb caressing the scab that has formed there. "And mayhap some balm? Eskel decked you pretty hard, huh."
Look, he cares. He truly does. That doesn't mean he can't sound amused as hell too.
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