Jaskier has, indeed, found the soap... only to lose it again when Geralt startles the hell out of him by grabbing him and pulling him near again. Look, he may have plenty of soap, but he needs it to last all winter! Especially if he's sharing with Geralt and his brothers! Those huge buff bodies require lots of soap.
He doesn't complain (yet) though, because Geralt is being, well. Adorable. Jaskier wouldn't have expected all this PDA in front of others, especially other witchers, but he's not about to turn it down any time soon. Jealousy can be invasive and quite toxic, he knows, but Geralt isn't acting on it, he's just being a bit grumpy... and it makes feel Jaskier loved and wanted. Sue him.
His hand moves up to pet Geralt's hair, and winces when he finds soap still there. Right, he didn't get to wash that off, oops. So he lowers it instead, making it land on the back of Geralt's neck, rubbing it softly, telling him it's ok. His other hand lands on Geralt's thigh for a little extra comfort, and his head turns a bit towards his lover as he speaks.
"I love you," he whispers. Part of him knows the other witchers may still hear him, but if Geralt doesn't care about PDA then he won't give a damn about this either. And maybe it can help chase those bedwarmer comments away (or is that too much hoping considering Lambert is, well, Lambert?). Jaskier isn't sure how the whole human emotions are in their scent thing works, but he concentrates on his feelings for Geralt anyway, hoping they come out stronger than any lust that is already fading away anyway. Geralt being affectionate and needy of his scent beats any kind of large cock, no matter how big and sexy it may be, so at least his giddiness over that should show up in his smell.
The rubbing of Geralt's neck continues as Jaskier turns his head again, opposite direction this time, to look at what's going on in the pool next to them. He laughs at Eskel drowning Lambert (this wolf keeps winning points with Jaskier, he really needs to work on that song for him quickly - you can't really hurry art, sadly, but something tells him he'll spend winter very inspired) and then he laughs harder at Cöen's comment.
"That's what I told Geralt when we met - that he smelled of onion," he explains as he sees the chance for a dig too. Cöen makes it so easy, and he's sure Geralt has been stingy with the details of their meeting. "I should've imagined it's a witcher thing. I get the entire Continent to throw coins at you yet soap and oils are, somehow, still missing in your bags." A little huff. "If you pass on any of these habits to the princess I swear I'll write a song that will have everyone throwing bars of soap at your stubborn heads."
Thankfully, the fact that Geralt is being touchy and grabbing onto his bard like a child with a favored toy goes largely unnoticed-- Lambert is too busy being drowned, Eskel with drowning the youngest Wolf, and Coën with ignoring all of it that no one pays much heed to what Geralt is doing. He is free to manhandle his bard to his heart's content, at least so long as Jaskier is quiet about it and doesn't do anything that would attract attention--
I love you, he says, and he might as well have shouted it to the rafters.
Eskel pauses in his attempts at water-based homicide while Lambert curses and sputters in his grip, the same expression on his face that he'd had back in the cabin-- like this is some joke that he doesn't get. Still doesn't get, apparently, even after having heard it twice. Even Coën looks over at them, confusion writ across his brow. Love is a word that never gets brought up in relation to witchers, even from the mouths of handsy bards who warm their beds. Witcher schools are different in many ways, but save for the Cats, they are similar in how they mutate the emotions out of their boys; none of them know what love is supposed to be like, nor are they supposed to ever expect it.
Geralt tightens his arm around Jaskier's waist, his face still hidden against the bard's neck, surrounded by his sweet and happy scent. That uncomfortable, tight feeling in his chest is back, the one that rears its ugly head whenever Jaskier says such things. The brave and noble White Wolf, undone by a single bard and a four-letter word. So much for all of those ballads about how strong and brave he is.
Jaskier's an endless font of conversation, though, so he quickly moves on from the I love you incident to embellishing history. Which oughtn't be a surprise, he's been hardly doing anything but wildly exaggerating everything since he started following Geralt across the Continent. This is what finally makes Geralt move his face from the bard's neck, looking at him with a furrowed brow and pursed lips.
"You," he says, "said that I smelled like death and destiny, heartbreak and heroics. It was onion."
Perhaps it's somewhat incriminating that he remembers exactly what Jaskier said to him on the day of their meeting, but... well, he remembers quite a lot of what the bard has said to him over the years. He often acted as though he wasn't paying attention to his endless chatter, but it was just that, an act-- one that he had justified for many years as being solely because Jaskier sometimes said useful things rather than for the entertainment value of his stories. Even now he might be hard pressed to give him that compliment, but that was mostly for the sake of his overinflated ego than anything else.
Ah. They did hear him. And their reaction sure is... something.
He holds their curious and confused gazes, not regretting it, no being embarrassed over it. The words were said for Geralt's benefit (a gentle reminder, a point of comfort) but if they serve as a lesson for the other witchers as well, Jaskier will take it, no matter how much his heart hurts to see them so broken at the mere sound of such four-letter word.
Or maybe because of how much it hurts.
Jaskier pats Geralt's thigh when he feels the arm around him tightening (it's fine, we're fine) but he has to laugh (hard, loud and pleased) when he hears that reply to his little anecdote, head thrown back over the witcher's shoulder and everything.
"Aww, you remember!" It's half meaning it half teasing, and he drops a kiss to Geralt's neck again before continuing. "Yes, I did mention those things. I also included onion. So far you've proven me right on all five."
"I wish I could help you with this little disagreement of yours," Eskel interrupts as he crosses his arms on the lip of the bath and rests his chin on it just like Geralt had done some minutes ago, the only difference being the shit-eating grin almost splitting his face. "But we've never gotten the full story of that meeting."
Lambert catches on what Eskel is doing and he hums his approval. The dragonsplaining bomb had been so good, and the witchers are dying to know what other stories Jaskier is hiding in his puffy sleeves. Even Cöen shows interest, knowing less about this than the wolves themselves - every witcher in the Continent is confused as fuck in fact, it feels like a privilege to be here learning about the truth behind this coin tossing business. Their little ruse works like a charm, of course, Jaskier perks up and sits a little straighter, excited to have an audience for his storytelling.
"Oh, it's a tale worth telling a thousand times!" The hand on Geralt's neck leaves so the bard can gesture as much as his dramatic heart desires, but the witcher doesn't need to worry, the other one stays on his thigh. "Picture: a small tavern in Posada, a warm spring day, and the smell of fresh bread out of the oven tickling the noses of the local guests. A young bard, just out of Oxenfurt, finishes a performance that earns him his meal." Sure, that's a way to put it. "A mysterious man drinks his ale, hidden in a dark corner. Blue eyes meet gold across the room and believe me, good sirs, the sparks were already in the air!"
It's hard to tell if these good sirs believe him or not. Lambert's frown shows he definitely doesn't, and Cöen continues to be confused. Eskel, meanwhile, is incredibly amused, having to bite his tongue not to laugh as he keeps glancing at Geralt to check his reaction. Jaskier is fine with all of this - attention is attention, baby.
"Curious and fearless I approached him," and aroused at the sight as well, but he's not including that. "You must have a review for me, I asked! Three words or less!" And it seems he isn't including his awful pick-up line either. "They don't exist, the mysterious man replies, only to clarify the bard's confusion a second later: the creatures in your song!"
Now that makes them laugh. Witchers are too familiar with how fiction (and gossip!) tends to twist the real details - but this is extra funny for Lambert and Eskel, who know what a big monster nerd Geralt is. Jaskier couldn't be more pleased by this reaction.
"It was at that moment that the truth became obvious in my eyes - golden eyes, white hair, two scary looking swords! I had found myself a witcher, and not just any witcher, oh no, it was no other than Geralt of Rivia!" His free hand traces an arc in the air, as if picturing the name in front of him. "Geralt of Rivia himself, leaving to fulfill his next contract, but not without leaving me his last coin!"
He still has that coin, hidden in the little pocket he sewed himself inside his lute case together with the Pankratz crest ring and the silver buttercup brooch gifted to him by the Countess de Stael.
"And that's when you followed him?" Eskel asks, being that the only detail Geralt ever gave him. Jaskier nods.
"And that's when I followed him indeed! A chance to experience real adventure, how could I let the opportunity slip from my calloused grasp?"
"Real adventure. With a witcher," Cöen says next, because nothing said so far has helped his confusion.
"Is that skepticism I hear in your voice~?" He squeezes Geralt's thigh then, a little gesture that works as preemptive comfort. "I suppose I could say something about first impressions... but I also suppose he never told you he punched me."
Lamber laughs once again, but Eskel raises his head and looks at his brother with a shocked face. "You fucking what?"
"Yet you continued to follow," Cöen comments with the same confusion still in his voice.
"To be fair, I did call him Butcher. Not the best way to offer my services as a barker, now is it." Cöen's raised eyebrows tell Jaskier he is still not making any sense. The bard waves his hand, dismissing any doubts any witcher in the other spring may have about his intentions. "You see, real butchers don't mind being called that. I had hurt his feelings -sorry about that by the way, my dear- the feelings of a witcher, who the stories tell are not supposed to have any. I hadn't only found adventure - I had also found myself a puzzle."
And possibly an incredible cock to take to bed, but again, not including that part.
The other witchers have some comments about that, too, not liking being reminded of that little myth around their people. They fall silent, however, when Jaskier's body language suddenly changes: the histrionics instantly disappear, letting his hand fall on top of Geralt's on his waist, and dropping his voice to a more natural conversation tone - he closes his eyes as well as he leans back against Geralt's chest, the memory coming back to him and putting a soft smile on his face.
This? This isn't storytelling - this is sharing.
"You know what happens next - well, you have an idea. We were captured by the elves. And Geralt..." His voice is filled with respect, admiration, awe. "It's been over twenty years, but I still remember his words clearly: leave him, he's just a bard. They shared their struggles with him and he listened, advised them from a place that resonated with them because they shared a common antagonist: bigotted humans." His voice is raised a little bit then, raw with emotion. "He fucking bared his neck to the king of elves without hesitation! It was the bravest, most noble act I'd ever seen in my life - and trust me, I had met my share of knights already by then."
Perhaps not something he should be sharing, considering he just confessed he had been very young back in Posada. Would this give away his noble childhood? Hopefully it doesn't derail the conversation.
"I recognize a muse when I see one," he finishes his story as he turns his head to nuzzle Geralt's neck. "And a bard must always follow his muse."
Jaskier starts to tell yet another wildly embellished story, this one about the time that they had met-- and he's barely a dozen words in before the lying starts. Smell of fresh bread his leather-clad witcher ass, the only thing that tavern smelled like was a heinous mix of vomit, sour ale, and onion. Perhaps with a slight undertone of old sweat from too many unwashed bodies. The lies continue to mount, adding to the pile the assertion that Jaskier had earned a meal rather than had it pelted at his head, that their eyes met at all before the bard approached his table to speak with him (nevertheless that there were sparks, whatever that might mean), the way he completely skipped over the tragic opening line of I love how you just sit in the corner and brood...
Geralt's face is set into a neutral and generally unimpressed expression, at least until Jaskier gets to the part about leaving his last coin. Then there's an interesting face journey that occurs across the witcher's countenance-- neutrality to thoughtfulness to confusion, complete with heavily furrowed brow; then dawning realization. Jaskier had already continued on with the story by the time his face had finished its contortions, but the other witchers would've certainly seen it.
Jaskier squeezes his thigh briefly as the story progresses, as though in warning or perhaps comfort-- just before he mentions the punch that Geralt had leveled into Jaskier's gut all those years ago. It isn't a memory that he relishes, and he had done it solely for the sake of driving the bard away from him before any real harm could befall him. Jaskier had been so young at the time, barely old enough to be wandering the world on his own. And Geralt couldn't see how he would survive at his side-- either he would leave of his own accord after he'd seen his first real monster, or he would die in that encounter. Better, then, that the first monster that he encounters be Geralt himself-- something he could survive and then go back to the safety of civilization.
He hadn't known that Jaskier had taken the punch as the first piece in a puzzle, not the warning that it was. What would he have had to do to scare him off? Would he have had to be so extreme as to pin him to the ground, bared fangs at his tender throat like his namesake? Draw his sword?
Jaskier's mood shifts and he leans back against Geralt's chest, and he has to adjust his hold on the bard a little to comfortably accommodate him. The part about Filavandrel and the elves is at least mostly accurate, even if it's deeply colored by the bard's own biased perspective. Brave and noble, he says, like there's anything noble about getting your ass kicked and your throat nearly slit. The very same throat that Jaskier's pressing his face against like an affectionate cat, or at least like what Geralt would assume a cat would be like if he would have ever been able to pet one.
"And what does the muse have to think about all this?" Coën asks, watching the bard curl himself into Geralt's lap with those mutagen-damaged eyes.
"Hm," Geralt grunts, making no move to displace Jaskier from his seat. "Half of it's wild embellishment, a quarter outright lies. That leaves another quarter that's roughly the truth, which is more than most of his songs."
"What's the lie about the coin?" Lambert cuts in, his chin propped on the heel of his hand. "Your face looked like you'd gotten a mouth full of wyvern bile."
The face journey most certainly had not gone unnoticed. He could lie, but Eskel is particularly adept at sniffing out his falsehoods, and Lambert wouldn't be satisfied unless he gives a decent answer.
"...The coin," he says, "was for my drink."
There's a moment where that statement sinks in, and then Lambert busts out laughing.
Having a that's not what happened moment is inevitable, Jaskier actually expects it to be the first thing Geralt says. The witcher doesn't disappoint, and Jaskier huffs and nudges him in protest - it's more performative than anything. Some things never change.
What does get a bigger, real reaction out of him is Lambert's question. His eyes open instantly, wide and shocked, and Jaskier pulls away from Geralt to turn and look directly at his face.
"What lie about the coin?"
It's the one thing he didn't lie about!
...but it seems it's not entirely true, either.
"...oh. I thought--"
Jaskier worries his lower lip and looks away, not knowing what to say, and isn't that something? It's not easy to embarrass Jaskier - in fact, the bard is quite shameless. Many people have mocked him in the past and he's always replied with wordplay, allowing his silver tongue to come in his defense. He's always been sure of his decisions: it doesn't matter how foolish others think they are, he doesn't agree. He sees his own logic and passion behind them, they're perfectly valid.
This time, though. This time he does feel as much of a fool as Lambert's laughter implies.
So what can a performer do in an awkward situation such as this? The show must go, gotta distract the audience with something else, even if said audience is probably smelling the shift in his scent.
"Oh well, it matters not!" His laughter is kinda awkward as well, pretty forced to say the least. He decides to go back to searching for his soap, needing to look away from those intense yellow eyes for at least a moment. "The rest is true, and that's what is important! I may've followed, but Geralt let me do so - my ego isn't so big to think a witcher wouldn't be able to leave me behind if he so wished."
Aha!, he mumbles to himself when he finds his target, which he proceeds to take back to his grooming bag in exchange for Geralt's shaving kit. Keeping himself busy means not having to think about how Toss a coin just lost that little extra meaning it had behind it, right? Riiiiight.
"Dunk, my dear, we need to rinse the soap off your head before it hardens into a griffin nest," he lowly tells Geralt as he taps his shoulder before turning to the witchers in the other spring. "Any other questions before I ask for a story in return? Cöen, my good man, you still look confussed as hell," he says with a chuckle. Cöen shrugs. "You and Eskel are my friends now too. So the quicker you accept there's one human out there that cares, the better for your stress levels. Oh! Two, two humans, we should count the princess as well."
Yeah, he left Lambert out on purpose. They'll get there eventually. Maybe? Hopefully.
Geralt hadn't intended on embarrassing Jaskier, but the sour scent of it creeps in on what had previously been light and happy. He'd been just as surprised about the coin revelation as the bard-- he hadn't known that Jaskier had taken the coin with him, he'd thought that he'd just dropped it on the table to pay for his drink and left. Probably doesn't sound as good in a ballad, though, if you have to say that you stole a coin from a tavern in an unfortunate misunderstanding rather than that the White Wolf left you his last coin.
Ultimately, though, it probably doesn't matter. It hadn't taken too long for the bard to start to worm his way into Geralt's life, for the witcher to start sharing his things with him. It had barely been two nights on the road before Jaskier's supplies of stale bread from Posada had dried up and he'd been left with nothing to eat, and Geralt had shared his dinner with him so that the foolish boy wouldn't starve. He would, without a doubt, give his last coin to Jaskier if he needed it, though the bard isn't usually the one without funds these days. It'd be more likely to be the other way around, with Jaskier spending the last of his coin to make sure that Geralt has sturdy armor and sharp swords and a potion bag full of his necessary herbs. At some point in the many years that they'd traveled together, Jaskier had gone from being his charge to his keeper, and even now he isn't sure how that switch came about.
He could have left him behind at any point and resumed his independence, but didn't, not for any more than a winter season-- except for one time on a mountaintop. There won't be any repeats of that.
Jaskier taps his shoulder and tells him to dunk his head, and Geralt does as he's told; leans forward to plunge his entire head in the bath, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair to get all of the soap out. He pushes it back from his face when he raises his head from the water again, now rinsed and clean and feeling much better than it did before they started. Jaskier has always been a good hand at cleaning him up, though.
He surfaces in time to listen to Coën's response.
"You're the first human I've seen that travels with a witcher," he says. "It's a novelty, I guess. How long did you say that you've been doing this?"
Jaskier's brought over the shaving kit, which is a decent enough indication that Geralt needs to put his face within Jaskier's easy reach. He leans his back against the wall of the bath, where the bard could easily sit behind him and have access to his stubbly cheeks. He prefers being clean-shaven anyway, and, as with most aspects of personal grooming, he prefers it when Jaskier does it for him.
Geralt does as he's told without hesitation, and it's the kind of gesture that makes Jaskier feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Can't the other witchers see this, understand its meaning? How can Jaskier not follow this man when he tells him so much with a simple sign? It should be so obvious! People are always complaining about how verbose Jaskier is, how actions speak louder than words yet fail to see it when that actually happens.
See, words are important because witchers are dumbasses.
It's really nice to see how their routine is kept even after that year apart and is adapted to the walls of Kaer Morhen, even under the curious eyes of Geralt's brothers - he leans back against the wall of the bath and Jaskier instantly understands what is being asked from him, so he wastes no time in climbing and sitting behind Geralt, legs lazily resting over the witcher's broad shoulders. Jaskier has never been shy (and even if he had been, the road would've cured him of it pretty quickly) but right now he feels a bit exposed anyway - his dick is quickly hidden between his thighs and behind Geralt's head so hopefully Lambert won't try to bring attention to it (Jaskier isn't small by any means, but next to these witchers? any human could develop a complex), and then there's the subject of his new scars, which he isn't used to quite yet. It's not like witchers would even care about scars, considering the obvious, but what he yelled at Vesemir the other day may make them curious.
Any questioning may make Geralt feel like crap, and Jaskier wants to avoid that. Less guilt, more purring.
"A novelty!" he comments with a laugh, letting his fingers run through Geralt's hair now that it's been rinsed to avoid any future tangling. He's thorough and gentle, only allowing his nails to scratch Geralt's scalp in a playful way - not hurting, but teasing, wishing for the purring to return. "As an artist and trendsetter, I shall take that as a compliment."
Once the white hair is properly slicked back and out of the way, Jaskier picks a new soap (because you can't use the same soap on your hair and your skin, obviously!) and, after tilting Geralt's head back a bit and dropping a kiss on his nose (Lambert makes fake gagging noises), he starts soaping out that handsome chin that he's sure could break rocks.
"Let's see... we met shortly after I left Oxenfurt so that makes it... twenty-four! Twenty-four years. Hear that, Geralt? Next year is our silver anniversary." The tone of his voice implies something special shall be done for the occasion. Now the witcher's face is white with lather to match his hair, Jaskier changes soap for blade and starts shaving after whispering blade incoming as a warning, his touch as gentle and careful as if he were changing the strings of his lute. Geralt is good at staying still, so he makes his job extra easy.
"This is our first winter together, however," he continues to speak unaware of the staring his current grooming tool is getting from the witchers in the other pool. Jaskier's attention is on Geralt's face (and the grass is green!). "We've gone on our separate ways on more than one occasion, as the lives of two wanderers demanded it. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not?"
The year apart after the dragon hunt surely helped Geralt see things from a new perspective, Jaskier thinks. He would've prefered it to happen with less pain, insults and arguments, but he can't argue against the results.
Jaskier sits behind him, legs draped over his shoulders so that his feet dip into the water. If they had been at an inn with a wooden tub, the bard would've had to pull up a chair behind him to get the right angle, but this way is easier with how the pools are carved down into the rock. Geralt brings one hand up to wrap around the bard's ankle, his thumb tracing lightly over the firm tendon that runs up the back of his heel. He hums softly at the gentle scratch of nails over his scalp as Jaskier finger-combs his hair into some kind of order, keeping it out of his face for his shave.
The bard chatters away while he soaps up Geralt's face, using a particular kind that he favors for this purpose because of its good lather. He only half pays attention to what's being said, preoccupied with his soothing touch, the delicate way he handles Geralt's face. He hears Jaskier's warning about the blade and the cold touch of it doesn't alarm him as it would if it came from anyone else; it's just Jaskier, though, wielding a straight-razor against his cheeks with a steady hand. Geralt tips his head when Jaskier requires it, tips his head back against Jaskier's belly when he needs to get at his throat.
"Twenty-four years," Coën says, a touch thoughtfully. Assuming that Geralt wouldn't have started traveling with a literal child, that means-- "The road's been surprisingly kind to you, bard. You must be at least forty. Most men your age would at least have started going gray."
Jaskier is at least forty-- a bit past that, Geralt thinks, though it's always been hard for him to keep track of human ages. What is a forty year old man supposed to look like? Jaskier has always just looked like Jaskier. He remembers that Yennefer had made remarks about his age during the ill-fated dragon hunt, commenting on the state of the crow's-feet around his eyes, but when Geralt opens his to look up at him, he doesn't see much there at all. He must be different from the day that Geralt met him, when he was barely out of boyhood. But his skin is still smooth and supple, his eyes cornflower blue, his lips soft and pink. Boyish good looks, it'd probably be called. How long are humans supposed to hold onto that kind of thing?
"Hm." His brow furrows. Perhaps Jaskier is just naturally predisposed to looking young, either because of simply good genes or from a touch of something nonhuman in his lineage. If the philandering is a family trait as well, it could be very possible for something to have gotten into the bloodline because of a promiscuous great-grandparent. Elf, maybe. Or perhaps selkie or merrow, since Jaskier has mentioned that his home is situated near the ocean. It's nothing that matters much, but it could explain his youthful looks lasting a little longer than they should.
It's not the purring he wanted, but soft humming is still an excellent reaction. At least Geralt is still relaxed! And Jaskier has to hum as well, enjoying the thumb that lightly rubs his heel. He hopes they can recreate this position on tubs in the future - Jaskier doesn't need to hide his feelings (and lust!) anymore, and their grooming sessions shall reflect this. If he wants to climb in with a wet Geralt, now he can.
The shaving is paused after Coën's comment, because Jaskier is Jaskier and he's gotta be dramatic, meaning: he opens his arms and throws his head back as he exclaims "Thank you!" to the sky. "Trust the wise and enhanced eyes of a witcher to see the truth!"
Wise, he says, as if he wasn't always calling witchers dummies. But this is obviously a jab at certain witch's constant reminders of Jaskier's age - Yennefer knows those are the insults that actually hurt him and she never hesitates to poke Jaskier right there in his humanity. To have a witcher (aka someone incredibly aware of how short human life can be) tell him he's doing fine helps tremendously to keep some worries at bay.
Someday he won't be able to follow Geralt anymore, he knows. But he doesn't want to think about it - which is incredibly selfish, because Geralt has enough issues with bonds and loss, this is something they should chat about. For someone that always insists on talking about things and to use words, Jaskier stays silent about this particular subject. My Lady Destiny, let us have some years of happiness before we need to plan for the end.
"I'm turning forty-two this spring," he clarifies as he returns to his task. "Most men my age don't appreciate good grooming, deeming it a female trait. Funny little detail for you to mention gray hairs, however. I hadn't had any until recently - only two, but I still quickly took care of them. I'd like to think I can blame them on the stress of staying away from the war instead of my age."
The war... and the mountain argument. That's got to be it, right? He can't be getting gray hairs already, he won't accept it.
(Following that reasoning, being captured and tortured should've given him hundreds of gray hairs. His mind chooses to ignore that, wanting to keep up the illusion.)
The actual shaving is done now, but the grooming session is far from over. Jaskier exchanges his blade for a bottle of chamomile oil, which Geralt can recognize as the one that often ends up on his lovely bottom. He pours some on his fingers and rubs his hands to spread it before they land on Geralt's face for a gentle after-shave massage.
Jaskier has to frow as well, though, when he sees Geralt's doing so.
"Ooooh nonononono, nope, I know that face, that's not a relaxed face. What's in your mind now, my dear? It better not be witcher logic. Is this conversation putting ideas in your head?"
Forty-two. Forty-two year old men had lines around their eyes, didn't they, and around their mouths. Laugh lines-- from years of smiling and laughing and talking. Jaskier should've had those, just by virtue of living a life full of mirth, but his face is smooth as ever. Maybe it isn't exactly the same as the face he had at eighteen, less of the lingering boyish baby-fat around the cheeks, but it's still barely aged past that. Mid-twenties, maybe?
He looks the same as the night before the banquet in Cintra, when Jaskier had knelt before him while he soaked in the bath and said maybe someone out there will want you.
Oh, Geralt thinks. He really had missed so many things, hadn't he? Someone had already wanted him, even back then. But that would have nothing to do with why he looks the same as he did around that time, he should focus on the more important things. He doubts that it's the result of a potion; even if Jaskier had stupidly rummaged through his potion bag and gotten into something that he shouldn't, it wouldn't have made him youthful, it would've killed him. Yen possibly had something that would have this kind of result, but she'd never give it to Jaskier. And Geralt would have noticed if he'd been going to mages for aging treatments or if he'd been using magic to keep himself young.
"Hm," it's a considering hum. He reaches up with one hand and grazes his fingers along the smooth edge of Jaskier's jawline. "You haven't aged. How did I not notice?"
"You've seen his face for twenty fucking years and didn't notice that it never changed? Fuck, none of you are allowed to call me unobservant ever again," Lambert says. "If you do know why, bard, never tell him. He'll drive himself crazy trying to figure it out, it'll be hilarious."
Geralt frowns in annoyance, mostly because Lambert's right and he would gnaw at this mystery until he gets an answer that satisfies him. "It can't be anything magical. Medallion would've picked up on it. Could be a touch of elf in your bloodline. Or selkie or merrow, since you lived near the coast."
"If it's selkie, it's distant. And they're rare, anyway, I haven't even heard of anyone coming across one," Coën says.
"And Geralt could've had one in his fucking bed and wouldn't have figured it out even if he was balls-deep in--" Lambert adds, and is mercifully interrupted by Eskel shoving his head underwater.
"Did you have any particularly promiscuous grandmothers? Or great-grandmothers," Geralt asks, with all the tact that could be expected of him-- that is to say, none at all. It's probably a good thing that Jaskier isn't holding a blade to his throat anymore. "Ones that went to the shore often without their husbands, maybe."
And maybe fished for pike in peculiar rivers, to reuse a phrase that he'd once used on Jaskier.
That hum is a considering hum... and a considering hum can be a dangerous one. He is right, isn't he, there's some bullshit witcher logic incoming! Jaskier is bracing himself for something really dumb when suddenly there's a hand grazing his jawline. That's... actually kind of sweet? Huh. He turns his head a bit to kiss and nuzzle those fingers, but all movement stops when Geralt makes his comment.
You gotta be fucking kidding him.
"I thought you being blind to me wanting you since I saw you in bloody Posada was the peak of witcher obliviousness, but somehow you still managed to prove me wrong." The worst part is, he can't even be mad at Lambert for his teasing this time, because he's 100% right. Jaskier sees that frown and tries to make it go away by massaging it with his thumbs. "Haven't aged is a little too much, don't you think? I know I don't look eighteen anymore. I have aged... some..."
But he can't argue with the rest - he does know he looks pretty damn good for his age. And what's wrong with that? Why do these silly witchers need to over-analyze this? Listen to them - selkie or merrow, this is ridiculous. Lambert jokes about it again, and Jaskier can't stop the laughter this time. Once again, the prick is fucking right.
He chokes on his own laughter, though, when Geralt makes his awkward question
"WHAT?!" he asks with that high pitched tone that usually is brought out by monsters and cuckold husbands threatening his manhood. "What the fuck, Geralt?! I'm not talking about my grandmother's sex life!" Which is ironic, because he usually doesn't have any issues gossiping about other people's sex lives, relatives included. But some people are off-limits, and that includes his beloved granny. So here comes the hands-on-his-waist-like-a-housewife stand. "How would you like it if I asked you about Vesemir's?"
Lambert pulls a face and Eskel laughs - although he's wrinkling his nose as well. "You really know what words can stab you the deepest, don't you, bard?"
Jaskier smiles smugly at him and winks before turning to Geralt with a sigh. While he thinks Lambert is funnily right, he doesn't actually want Geralt to drive himself crazy trying to figure it out.
"It's probably a touch of elf blood that sneaked in the family over five generations ago. You know how the history of the Continent goes." He raises his eyebrows at Geralt, a silent equivalent of wink wink nudge nudge. It's incredibly common (at least among nobles) to have some elf blood in the family tree, but Jaskier really doesn't want to bring attention to it because he knows Lambert will have a lot to say about it. He's already mentioned meeting knights when young, more clues is walking too close to the danger line. "I promise I haven't done anything magically stupid, it's just good genes. So please don't worry, would you? Because I know you are, I recognize that face."
Jaskier is indignant that he asked about any promiscuous grandmothers in his family tree, but for all he knows, promiscuity could be hereditary. In that case, Jaskier had to get it honestly from somewhere, and it could very well be the same place that he got his touch of whatever is making his face stay youthful. And, really, you'd think that Jaskier would love to talk about anything that would be scandalous to his family, considering how much he dislikes them. A grandmother who dallied with mer-folk or selkies would fit that bill quite nicely.
Geralt's frown deepens when he mentions Vesemir's sex life. He doesn't know what his pseudo-father got up to during those years when he actually left the keep and he doesn't want to. Hell, he doesn't know what Vesemir gets up to for the entire rest of the year and the less he knows about it, the better.
"Hm."
A touch of elf blood, generations back. It could explain his face, the way that he's managed to avoid the ravages of time that plague the rest of his contemporaries, but--
A touch of elf blood that far back wouldn't change much about his lifespan. Maybe it would extend his life a little, but probably not more than half a decade. A pittance in comparison to the disparity in their lifetimes. More likely, it will just allow him to hold on to his youthful appearance for longer into his life, let him always look good for his age. If he had been a quarter-something-- whether elf or merrow or selkie-- he could have had decades more life, maybe even enough that by the time he was getting old, Geralt would be, too.
"I'm not worried," he says, and that's half-true. He's not worried about what Jaskier thinks he's worried about. "And if you had messed around with magic, I would have known. If nothing else, from the disaster you would've caused."
That last bit is just a tease, and he softens it with a squeeze to Jaskier's ankle, then runs his hand up the bard's warm calf. He's struck, not for the first time, by the strength in his legs, and since Jaskier has spent so much time in the past rubbing all of the kinks out of Geralt's muscles, perhaps he ought to consider returning the favor...
"Yeah, I'm done with this," Lambert says, levering himself up out of the bath. "You two can keep watching whatever the fuck this," he gestures towards Geralt and Jaskier, "is, but I've had enough."
The youngest Wolf takes a towel and stalks off to get dressed before leaving; Eskel sighs and hauls himself out of the bath as well. "Try not to take too long, Geralt," he says, "we've still got the wall to finish before we get snowed in."
Coën follows a minute or two afterward, getting reluctantly out of the bath. "I should make sure that Lambert doesn't go up on the roof by himself, he might fall. See you later, Geralt. Jaskier."
And then they're alone again.
"Pass me the file from your bag," Geralt says. "I should get you to the library soon."
"Ah yes, this is obviously the face of an unworried man," he replies with all the sarcasm he can muster. The tease is detected, but he wouldn't be Jaskier if he didn't get at least a little bit offended by it. "Oi! Had I powers, I would be a magical wonder!"
He intends to nudge Geralt with his foot for the transgression, but the witcher is now running his hand up his calf and, well. That feels nice. Very nice. Jaskier hums his appreciation - he can truly get used to this touchy Geralt that isn't afraid of PDA. Not that he remembers that this is PDA because for a short moment there, he forgets about the witchers in the other spring. It's just Geralt's hand on his leg and his own oily fingers on the witcher's face and...
And Lambert is a jealous fucking asshole, that's what he is.
Jaskier sticks his tongue out at him, but Eskel gets a sweet smile in return. Damn if the view isn't nice, but this time Jaskier is ready for it, so he can control himself better. "I promise I'll send him to you soon." Coën gets a nod, and Jaskier watches those three fine asses leave for a second before he remembers something that makes him yell after them. "You all owe me a story at dinner!"
They got a full exciting retelling of his first meeting with Geralt and then leave without returning the favor? The nerve.
Their little moment is over, he supposes. Geralt is right, he needs to take him to the library soon, and Eskel awaits him to work. Jaskier drops one last kiss on the witcher's nose before jumping back in the water to properly wash himself - he can be quick when he wants to! He's in the middle of soaping his hair when Geralt makes his request.
"Your file? What for?" He looks at Geralt with a confused look on his face - he would be tilting his head if it wouldn't get soap in his eyes for it. "You don't need to hide your fangs from me. Is it because of Cirilla?"
There no other humans in the keep, so Jaskier doesn't see the point. Unless this is one of those things that only Geralt got, like the white hair? Does he hide the fangs even from his brothers? That would be extra shitty, Kaer Morhen should be the place where Geralt can be himself, free of bigotted judgement!
Jaskier gets back in the bath to finish washing himself, since he's spent most of his time here pampering his witcher. He can make quick work of it when he puts his mind to it-- always did in cold rivers and streams, for obvious reasons-- and, anyway, they'll have plenty of time throughout the next few months to lounge about. When the real deep freeze sets in, perhaps in a month or so, and they can't even leave the keep, they could spend all day soaking in the baths if they so desired.
Since the bard's busy getting himself clean, Geralt goes through the toiletries bag himself to find the file. Their things haven't been mingled for very long, since they only started traveling together again a few weeks ago, and he has to dig around a bit, trying to find where it's gotten to.
"No. It's not for her."
Ciri's already seen his fangs and isn't frightened by them. And while his brothers don't have teeth like he does-- theirs are barely bigger or sharper than normal human canines, and don't need to be filed or hidden-- the fact that he does doesn't upset them. It's just another way that his additional mutations set him apart from even his own kind; a monster among monsters.
At least this is something about himself that he can change. He can make this part of himself harmless, for Jaskier's sake, and it only requires a little bit of discomfort. That's a small price to pay, really. He would gladly endure worse.
"Where did you put it?" he says, pulling out a large bottle of oil and peering in to see if the file had fallen underneath it.
Usually, it'd be in one of the side pockets of his toiletries bag, but those are full of more soap this time. How much soap does Jaskier have? Did he think that they wouldn't have soap at Kaer Morhen, and he'd have to supply a whole keep's worth of the stuff for the winter? Hell, they make the stuff, usually with whatever rendered animal fats they have left over from hunting. Sometimes Eskel puts goat milk in it.
Oh, Jaskier had known there would be soap at Kaer Morhen - but he also had known it would be the same kind of soap Geralt uses it, aka a bland, basic bar. And this bard needs more than simple soap made from fat, thank you very much. Maybe if they took better care of their skin they wouldn't be blaming good looks on silkie blood, tsk.
It's not for Cirilla, Geralt says, and that's... confusing to hear. On one hand, it's relieving to know she isn't scared of Geralt's mutations, that she won't put her "father" in an awkward situation. He's proud of her for being so accepting, really, and happy for Geralt to have another person that accepts him for who he is.
On the other hand though... if it isn't for Cirilla, then what the fuck is he doing this for? It makes no sense. The question is on the tip of his tongue when he resurfaces after rinsing his hair, only to find Geralt rummaging through the toiletries bag.
"By the gods! Geralt, what has gotten into you?" Jaskier comes closer and grabs Geralt's wrist, stopping him from taking out even more bottles of oil and bars of soap. It's not like he minds Geralt touching all this stuff (it is theirs, after all) but there obviously is something going on. Blue eyes search for gold filled with concern. "You know I don't mind your fangs, and you said Cirilla doesn't mind either. I'm going to assume your brothers are out of the question as well, because you've told me you only do this for humans and from what I've seen so far, I have trouble imagining them caring about such a thing anyway. You've confessed to me that the process isn't exactly painless, and it isn't like you to be vain about your looks..."
His hands squeeze the wrists in them, wet yet encouraging. "Then what is it? Talk to me, love."
Geralt is about to take more things out of the toiletries bag-- half out of spite, at this point, for how dramatic Jaskier's being about it-- when he hears Jaskier slosh through the water as he wades towards him. The bard's hand around his wrist is nothing; he could ignore it if he wanted to, could just keep doing whatever he wanted because Jaskier is just human. He doesn't have a witcher's strength, and his hands are delicate. The pressure of those fingers around his wrist arrests him regardless.
Jaskier tries to catch his eyes, and when Geralt looks at him, his face is written with concern. Worried, even though there's nothing for him to be worried about. This is just a little sacrifice for what Jaskier wants from him. And the fact that this is for what Jaskier wants from him makes his question so confusing; of course it isn't for vanity or his brothers or Ciri. It's for Jaskier.
"Last night," he says. "You asked me to bite you. Did you forget already?"
It seems strange that he would, considering how adamant he was about being bitten when they were in bed together. Practically despondent when he refused, but that's why he promised him later-- he could do it once his teeth are filed down to a harmless length. Once his task is done, he'll be able to leave as many marks on him as he'd like, bite him up to his heart's content.
"No, I didn't. But what does that have to do with--" Understanding suddenly kicks in, and Jaskier can feel a hurricane of emotions getting stuck in his chest. "Bollocks."
I can't feel love, the noble bastard had said. Then what the fuck would one call a sacrifice such as this?
His hands start trembling and Jaskier moves them away, gesturing wildly as his mouth opens and closes without actually saying a word - for once in his life, he's speechless. The only sound he can hear is his quickening heartbeat eachoing in his ears. Is his scent giving away the mix of feelings he's going through right now?
Like every bit of love and adoration he has for the man in front of him...
Like the distress, the misery, the need to do something to fix this and feeling absolutely helpless.
And can't forget the anger, oh no, can't forget the fury that runs through his passionate veins and wants to find Vesemir and burn his ears with insults until he understands how bloody fucked up this is.
It's that thought that shakes him out of his shock, that reminds him who is the real victim here: Geralt. He has no right to feel upset, he's just a fancy human brat with an easy life. What he needs to be is comforting, suportive.
"You big, caring, noble, obstinate oaf," he mumbles as he throws himself at his lover, giving him the hug of the century. A second is needed so he can swallow the ball of emotions stuck in his throat, which wants to come out as crying or screaming - or both at the same time, if that's possible. When he pulls back, he grabs Geralt's face with both hands and rests his forehead against the witcher's, eyes as intense as the tone of his voice. "Listen to me, and you better listen well. There's no bloody orgasm in the whole Continent worth your pain."
Humans have always been inscrutable creatures, but Jaskier even more so than the average one-- there are so many different emotions that mix into his scent that it's almost impossible to discern what any of them mean. There's anger and misery and the awful salt tinge of potential tears, and somehow also the undertone of how Jaskier smells when he's pleased with Geralt, and he doesn't understand how that combination is supposed to make any sort of sense to him. Without his nose to guide him, the vast spectrum of human emotion becomes almost unfathomable.
Then the bard insults and compliments him in the same breath-- though he's fairly used to that, Jaskier does that almost on a regular basis-- and throws himself into his arms, and he's lucky that Geralt has the good reaction time to catch him even when he's slippery and wet. There are a lot of reasons why Geralt would like to have Jaskier warm and wet in his arms, but right now that's overshadowed by his own confusion.
Jaskier catches his face between his hands and presses their foreheads together, a gentle and intimate gesture. Geralt is still terribly confused.
"I'm in far worse pain after almost every hunt," he says. "This is minor and does no permanent harm. It doesn't matter."
He's always been overly concerned about Geralt's well-being, but this seems like an overabundance of caution-- fussing over minor hurts. Just as unnecessary as fussing over children when they scrape their knees or fall out of trees. If it wouldn't leave him with a permanent injury or a scar, than there's no reason for him not to go ahead with it, if it would get Jaskier what he wants.
"Of course it fucking matters!" he exclaims as his hands fall on Geralt's shoulders and shove as a way to scold him, but of course Geralt doesn't relent. Bloody brick wall, Jaskier would consider it sexy if he wasn't so furious right now. That's what his scent settles on, anger and sorrow. "I hate it when you talk like this! Just because you are capable of taking pain it doesn't mean you should!"
Deep breaths, he needs to take deep breaths. And a pillow too, he could do with one right to throw at this stubborn wolf's head. Maybe he should stuff that pretty mouth with soap...
Focus, Jask, focus. By the gods, this is the worst way to have such a serious conversation. Standing awkwardly in the springs while Eskel is waiting for his brother... Jaskier makes a mental note to have a proper chat later in bed. Hopefully once his emotions calm down he'll be more successful at it, too.
"Remember back in Gildorf when I jumped off the alderman's window when he found me with his daughter and I sprained my ankle? You scolded me to hell and back for getting hurt over something so foolish. Well, my dear, this is the same. Yes, it is, don't even try to argue. Besides..." He cups Geralt chin, letting his wet thumb brush the witcher's lips. "Who says I want the fangs gone for you to bite me?"
Jaskier pushes at him and might as well be pushing at a brick wall for all that Geralt moves. But he's angry and doesn't have anything on-hand to throw at Geralt's head, so shoving at him is apparently his only recourse. His scent, at least, settles on something that makes sense, something that Geralt can comprehend. That helps; he knows what to expect from an angry bard.
Geralt waits with what, at least in his opinion, is immense patience while Jaskier talks him through a story that Geralt clearly remembers; an incident some time ago between the bard and a pretty girl's virtue that resulted in him taking a quick exit out of a window. It had been a foolish thing for him to do, just asking for trouble, especially when there were other women with less vengeful fathers that he could've bedded. But no! Apparently this girl had a beautiful soul-- more like beautiful tits, as Geralt recalls-- which apparently justified his recklessness, at least until he was properly chastised by his witcher companion.
Now that he thinks about it, one of the reasons that he was so frustrated with Jaskier back then was because, even after he'd gone and fucked the alderman's daughter, he still smelled like lust. And it hadn't gotten any better after he told him that if he was going to act as irresponsibly as a child, than Geralt would treat him like a child and take him over his knee. In hindsight, that was perhaps... a suggestive punishment, though he didn't intend it to be.
Jaskier cups Geralt's jaw and touches his lips, and Geralt keeps his mouth soft for it. The tenderness in the bard's touch is almost unbearable.
"I won't bite you with them," he says, reaching up to gently move the bard's fingers away from his mouth while he talks. "These teeth have gnawed through a striga's throat, Jaskier. I'm not putting them anywhere near yours."
A bite too deep in the wrong place with teeth like his, and-- the result would be unthinkable. He would never be able to forgive himself, nor would he even try.
Geralt says he won't bite him with the full fangs and Jaskier sighs - he isn't surprised, really. The witcher is always worried about hurting him with his mutations, as if he would ever. Jaskier considers using some kind of argument about how he could be hurt by Geralt's strength too and he's touched by those amazing hands anyway, but then Geralt adds more and-- well.
"...they what now?"
A striga. As far as Jaskier knows, Geralt has only fought one of them. There's a chance he could've forgotten to mention the other one, but strigas are fucking dangerous, aren't they? More than the average monster. There's no way Geralt could've escaped a striga hunt without a scar, and Jaskier has already gotten all the stories behind every scar - well, except The One (TM) but he's pretty sure that one belongs to Blaviken.
So this leaves him with only one explanation.
"YOU STINGY BASTARD! YOU BIT A BLOODY STRIGA AND YOU LEFT THAT PART OUT OF THE STORY?" he exclaims as he repeatedly pokes Geralt's chest, dramatics making a full appearance. Look, indignation at least means he isn't sad anymore, right? Anger is still around but it's huffier and less true fury, that's gotta count for something. "Unbelievable! I should start washing your mouth with as much soap as I use for your hair!"
Huff, huff. Dumb witcher and his dumb habit of hiding details from the storyteller himself. Jaskier takes a moment to regain his breath, eyeing Geralt's mouth as he does so. Mmmh.
"...I like the fangs even more now." So if a tiny little bit of lust sneks into his scent, well. Coincidence. Totally.
There's only one striga, in fact, that Geralt's ever had to hunt, and that was the Temerian princess. He had certainly not escaped that hunt without scars, but had, in the process, broken the curse on the poor girl. So the scars were a small price, really, to pay to return her to a human form.
Apparently, he left out the part where he had to bite her to get her to let go of him, or else he may not have returned from that hunt in one piece. Judging from Jaskier's reaction, that's a grievous oversight on his part.
"I didn't think it was particularly important," he says, while Jaskier huffs and threatens to wash his mouth out with soap. If anyone ought to get their mouths cleaned, anyway, it should be the bard-- Geralt is quite certain that the song he wrote about the striga hunt botched quite a few of the facts that he'd told him about hunting strigas and breaking the curse. Perhaps lying bards ought to get their mouths rinsed out until they say things that are true.
Geralt is about to say as much when there's a hint of a spicy-sweet scent in the humid air. Lust, specifically Jaskier's, the scent of which he has become very well acquainted with. Geralt sighs.
"You're incorrigible, Jaskier," he says, unable to help his own fond exasperation, and drops his hands to Jaskier's waist to draw him closer. He buries his nose in the bard's hair, breathing in the scent of him and lavender soap and a hint of spice. It's a good combination for him, even if he's a bit of a slut who apparently can't help but get turned on at the mention of Geralt's mutations.
"No particularly important he says!" He throws his hands in the air as he huffs again. "As if we hadn't spent the past two decades discussing the utter importance of details!"
Which has always been a quite one-sided discussion, but hey, details.
Honestly, it's quite ironic when one thinks about it. Jaskier is getting offended for his own very nosy sake, because while Geralt biting the striga is fucking amazing (kinda nasty too, but mostly amazing), it is not a detail he would've included in the song. It would've crept people off, made them even warier of Geralt aka the exact opposite effect he wants to achieve with his songs. Especially this song in particular, which he spun into a story about the salvation of a soul. Which isn't a lie, to be fair, but as usual, he exaggerated the details and went more for emotions than the actual action for a change.
Geralt reaches out to grab him and, judging by that sigh, Jaskier thinks he's about to be moved to a side so the witcher can access the file... he couldn't be any more wrong. More casual affection - this is a thing they do now, and it delights him. He thought he'd have to wait more for Geralt to get comfortable with it, yet Geralt keeps surpassing his expectations.
"And you like it," he replies with a chuckle as he rests his hands on Geralt's shoulders. "How dare you be cute when I'm mad at you? This is cheating, my dear. Unscrupulous, treacherous cheating."
Yet he doesn't do anything to stop it. He likes it when Geralt scents him, not only because he's a slut for the mutations, but also because it's incredibly romantic. To have a lover enjoy your very raw, natural smell? What else can a fool in love ask for? Not to mention the stroke to his ego.
"I love you. And I love every part of you, fangs included. Promise me you won't file them while we stay here. Please?"
Geralt grunts in response to Jaskier's request, considering it. There's little harm to leaving his fangs as they are while they're in the keep, and, in all honestly, would be what he would've done if Jaskier and Ciri weren't around. There's little need to grind them down when no humans would be around to either be frightened of them or get injured by them. Jaskier's arms are a warm, pleasing weight on his shoulders, keeping him close while he breathes in his scent. Another thing that the bard inexplicably seems to like rather than find strange or unsettling.
He noses his way down from the bard's hair to an attractive spot right behind his ear, where the scent of him is particularly strong. Jaskier doesn't raise a hand to stop him, and he is well aware of the fact that he won't-- the bard is as much a slut for touching and affection as he is for everything else.
He presses a kiss to that pretty little spot, then another just below it; more, in a long trail down Jaskier's pretty neck-- like a sexy bird of some sort, gods forbid a goose-- until he runs out of neck and starts up the other side instead. His skin tastes clean with a hint of lavender soap, and Geralt presses kisses to the places that his mouth had gone last night and left bruises. Unlike witchers, those marks would hang around for days rather than mere hours.
"I'll keep them," he says, a reluctant concession. "But they aren't going into your neck."
Kisses and bruises for the necks of lovely bards, not teeth. That does technically leave the door open for teeth in other parts of his body, ones that have fewer delicate structures in them that could be easily damaged, but that's something to be taken on a case-by-case basis.
Geralt palms his way down from the bard's hips to his ass; it really does fit so very nicely in his hands, one on each cheek, pulling him flush. If he'd had the blood flow of a normal man, this would be the part where Jaskier would feel his arousal digging into his hip, but witcher physiology is on his side for this. When he leans in to kiss him, his body is as calm and composed as it always is-- good, for once, because he plans on riling his bard up a little bit. And considering that Jaskier rarely ever stops reeking of lust, a filthy kiss and some hands-on attention should be easily enough to get him going.
He continues until he feels Jaskier's interest, then breaks the kiss. Tipping his head, he murmurs against the bard's ear in that low, gravelly voice that he knows he likes,
Geralt's nose searches for the spot behind his ear and Jaskier gladly turns his head a bit to offer better access, humming in appreciation at the trail of kisses now worshipping his skin. The second he learned Kaen Morhen has hot springs he decided he wanted to fuck in them, and Geralt seems to be in the same camp.
There's also the fact the witcher didn't get an orgasm earlier, so Jaskier is eager to do something that involves them both. When Geralt agrees to keep the fangs, Jaskier is a little too distracted by the kisses to say anything other than "good" - he can convince him to bite him later, at least he got the fangs to stay and that's the first step done.
He barely gets to mumble a fuck at the ass grab before Geralt is kissing him, and he obviously wastes no time in kissing back, open-mouthed and with lots of tongue. Jaskier presses his body against the witcher's as his hands explore all those mighty muscles and trace every scar - Geralt's plan works wonderfully, because it doesn't take long for Jaskier to be grinding his hips against Geralt's thigh.
A needy whimper escapes his lips when Geralt breaks the kiss, and he can already feel the shiver running through his body when that lovely deep voice murmuring into his ear--
"WHAT!" Oh, look, it's the indignant high pitch. Congrats, Geralt, mission has been accomplished. Jaskier puts his hands on the witcher's chest and pulls back, glaring at his lover with heat in his eyes that is half arousal, half anger. "You horse's arse! You did on purpose!" Huff, huff. Here comes the finger-wagging at Geralt's face. "You think you're so funny, taking advantage of the effect you know you have on me while your prick can ignore it all! Well, joke's on you, because we're not leaving until I've taken care of this! I'm not working alone in a library with blue balls! And if Eskel gets mad at you for taking so long to show up, have fun explaining this to him!"
(Not gonna lie, he would pay good coin to hear that conversation.)
For a second he considers moving to the opposite edge of the spring and putting up a show - Geralt would still be able to smell him, sure, but he wouldn't be able to do the nose-burying thing, and that should be a nice little punishment, he thinks. The thought leaves his mind as soon as it arrives, though. No matter how frustrated he feels, he's still a fool in love, and he likes the idea of having Geralt at arm's reach while he touches himself.
"It's almost as if I was in my 20s again," he comments with a little sigh as he closes his eyes and lets a hand drop underwater. "Two orgasms in one morning. Touching myself and pretending is you."
This should be a quickie, but since he's supposed to be making things harder for Geralt and his daily chores, he takes his sweet time. Calloused fingers explore his own cock as if it was the first time, as if they didn't know exactly how he likes it and what spots he favors to be touched.
"Some times I would be in bed and-- ah, fuck." He takes a moment to moan as he lets his thumb pick up the precum that is already forming and massage the head with it. "And I'd imagine you coming back from a hunt... all sweaty, eyes black... and finding me there, moaning your name... fuck, Geralt..." Before he can stop himself, he leans forward and rests his forehead on the witcher's shoulder as he hand starts picking up speed. "You'd slip in bed with me, a-and aah and offer to help..."
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He doesn't complain (yet) though, because Geralt is being, well. Adorable. Jaskier wouldn't have expected all this PDA in front of others, especially other witchers, but he's not about to turn it down any time soon. Jealousy can be invasive and quite toxic, he knows, but Geralt isn't acting on it, he's just being a bit grumpy... and it makes feel Jaskier loved and wanted. Sue him.
His hand moves up to pet Geralt's hair, and winces when he finds soap still there. Right, he didn't get to wash that off, oops. So he lowers it instead, making it land on the back of Geralt's neck, rubbing it softly, telling him it's ok. His other hand lands on Geralt's thigh for a little extra comfort, and his head turns a bit towards his lover as he speaks.
"I love you," he whispers. Part of him knows the other witchers may still hear him, but if Geralt doesn't care about PDA then he won't give a damn about this either. And maybe it can help chase those bedwarmer comments away (or is that too much hoping considering Lambert is, well, Lambert?). Jaskier isn't sure how the whole human emotions are in their scent thing works, but he concentrates on his feelings for Geralt anyway, hoping they come out stronger than any lust that is already fading away anyway. Geralt being affectionate and needy of his scent beats any kind of large cock, no matter how big and sexy it may be, so at least his giddiness over that should show up in his smell.
The rubbing of Geralt's neck continues as Jaskier turns his head again, opposite direction this time, to look at what's going on in the pool next to them. He laughs at Eskel drowning Lambert (this wolf keeps winning points with Jaskier, he really needs to work on that song for him quickly - you can't really hurry art, sadly, but something tells him he'll spend winter very inspired) and then he laughs harder at Cöen's comment.
"That's what I told Geralt when we met - that he smelled of onion," he explains as he sees the chance for a dig too. Cöen makes it so easy, and he's sure Geralt has been stingy with the details of their meeting. "I should've imagined it's a witcher thing. I get the entire Continent to throw coins at you yet soap and oils are, somehow, still missing in your bags." A little huff. "If you pass on any of these habits to the princess I swear I'll write a song that will have everyone throwing bars of soap at your stubborn heads."
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I love you, he says, and he might as well have shouted it to the rafters.
Eskel pauses in his attempts at water-based homicide while Lambert curses and sputters in his grip, the same expression on his face that he'd had back in the cabin-- like this is some joke that he doesn't get. Still doesn't get, apparently, even after having heard it twice. Even Coën looks over at them, confusion writ across his brow. Love is a word that never gets brought up in relation to witchers, even from the mouths of handsy bards who warm their beds. Witcher schools are different in many ways, but save for the Cats, they are similar in how they mutate the emotions out of their boys; none of them know what love is supposed to be like, nor are they supposed to ever expect it.
Geralt tightens his arm around Jaskier's waist, his face still hidden against the bard's neck, surrounded by his sweet and happy scent. That uncomfortable, tight feeling in his chest is back, the one that rears its ugly head whenever Jaskier says such things. The brave and noble White Wolf, undone by a single bard and a four-letter word. So much for all of those ballads about how strong and brave he is.
Jaskier's an endless font of conversation, though, so he quickly moves on from the I love you incident to embellishing history. Which oughtn't be a surprise, he's been hardly doing anything but wildly exaggerating everything since he started following Geralt across the Continent. This is what finally makes Geralt move his face from the bard's neck, looking at him with a furrowed brow and pursed lips.
"You," he says, "said that I smelled like death and destiny, heartbreak and heroics. It was onion."
Perhaps it's somewhat incriminating that he remembers exactly what Jaskier said to him on the day of their meeting, but... well, he remembers quite a lot of what the bard has said to him over the years. He often acted as though he wasn't paying attention to his endless chatter, but it was just that, an act-- one that he had justified for many years as being solely because Jaskier sometimes said useful things rather than for the entertainment value of his stories. Even now he might be hard pressed to give him that compliment, but that was mostly for the sake of his overinflated ego than anything else.
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He holds their curious and confused gazes, not regretting it, no being embarrassed over it. The words were said for Geralt's benefit (a gentle reminder, a point of comfort) but if they serve as a lesson for the other witchers as well, Jaskier will take it, no matter how much his heart hurts to see them so broken at the mere sound of such four-letter word.
Or maybe because of how much it hurts.
Jaskier pats Geralt's thigh when he feels the arm around him tightening (it's fine, we're fine) but he has to laugh (hard, loud and pleased) when he hears that reply to his little anecdote, head thrown back over the witcher's shoulder and everything.
"Aww, you remember!" It's half meaning it half teasing, and he drops a kiss to Geralt's neck again before continuing. "Yes, I did mention those things. I also included onion. So far you've proven me right on all five."
"I wish I could help you with this little disagreement of yours," Eskel interrupts as he crosses his arms on the lip of the bath and rests his chin on it just like Geralt had done some minutes ago, the only difference being the shit-eating grin almost splitting his face. "But we've never gotten the full story of that meeting."
Lambert catches on what Eskel is doing and he hums his approval. The dragonsplaining bomb had been so good, and the witchers are dying to know what other stories Jaskier is hiding in his puffy sleeves. Even Cöen shows interest, knowing less about this than the wolves themselves - every witcher in the Continent is confused as fuck in fact, it feels like a privilege to be here learning about the truth behind this coin tossing business. Their little ruse works like a charm, of course, Jaskier perks up and sits a little straighter, excited to have an audience for his storytelling.
"Oh, it's a tale worth telling a thousand times!" The hand on Geralt's neck leaves so the bard can gesture as much as his dramatic heart desires, but the witcher doesn't need to worry, the other one stays on his thigh. "Picture: a small tavern in Posada, a warm spring day, and the smell of fresh bread out of the oven tickling the noses of the local guests. A young bard, just out of Oxenfurt, finishes a performance that earns him his meal." Sure, that's a way to put it. "A mysterious man drinks his ale, hidden in a dark corner. Blue eyes meet gold across the room and believe me, good sirs, the sparks were already in the air!"
It's hard to tell if these good sirs believe him or not. Lambert's frown shows he definitely doesn't, and Cöen continues to be confused. Eskel, meanwhile, is incredibly amused, having to bite his tongue not to laugh as he keeps glancing at Geralt to check his reaction. Jaskier is fine with all of this - attention is attention, baby.
"Curious and fearless I approached him," and aroused at the sight as well, but he's not including that. "You must have a review for me, I asked! Three words or less!" And it seems he isn't including his awful pick-up line either. "They don't exist, the mysterious man replies, only to clarify the bard's confusion a second later: the creatures in your song!"
Now that makes them laugh. Witchers are too familiar with how fiction (and gossip!) tends to twist the real details - but this is extra funny for Lambert and Eskel, who know what a big monster nerd Geralt is. Jaskier couldn't be more pleased by this reaction.
"It was at that moment that the truth became obvious in my eyes - golden eyes, white hair, two scary looking swords! I had found myself a witcher, and not just any witcher, oh no, it was no other than Geralt of Rivia!" His free hand traces an arc in the air, as if picturing the name in front of him. "Geralt of Rivia himself, leaving to fulfill his next contract, but not without leaving me his last coin!"
He still has that coin, hidden in the little pocket he sewed himself inside his lute case together with the Pankratz crest ring and the silver buttercup brooch gifted to him by the Countess de Stael.
"And that's when you followed him?" Eskel asks, being that the only detail Geralt ever gave him. Jaskier nods.
"And that's when I followed him indeed! A chance to experience real adventure, how could I let the opportunity slip from my calloused grasp?"
"Real adventure. With a witcher," Cöen says next, because nothing said so far has helped his confusion.
"Is that skepticism I hear in your voice~?" He squeezes Geralt's thigh then, a little gesture that works as preemptive comfort. "I suppose I could say something about first impressions... but I also suppose he never told you he punched me."
Lamber laughs once again, but Eskel raises his head and looks at his brother with a shocked face. "You fucking what?"
"Yet you continued to follow," Cöen comments with the same confusion still in his voice.
"To be fair, I did call him Butcher. Not the best way to offer my services as a barker, now is it." Cöen's raised eyebrows tell Jaskier he is still not making any sense. The bard waves his hand, dismissing any doubts any witcher in the other spring may have about his intentions. "You see, real butchers don't mind being called that. I had hurt his feelings -sorry about that by the way, my dear- the feelings of a witcher, who the stories tell are not supposed to have any. I hadn't only found adventure - I had also found myself a puzzle."
And possibly an incredible cock to take to bed, but again, not including that part.
The other witchers have some comments about that, too, not liking being reminded of that little myth around their people. They fall silent, however, when Jaskier's body language suddenly changes: the histrionics instantly disappear, letting his hand fall on top of Geralt's on his waist, and dropping his voice to a more natural conversation tone - he closes his eyes as well as he leans back against Geralt's chest, the memory coming back to him and putting a soft smile on his face.
This? This isn't storytelling - this is sharing.
"You know what happens next - well, you have an idea. We were captured by the elves. And Geralt..." His voice is filled with respect, admiration, awe. "It's been over twenty years, but I still remember his words clearly: leave him, he's just a bard. They shared their struggles with him and he listened, advised them from a place that resonated with them because they shared a common antagonist: bigotted humans." His voice is raised a little bit then, raw with emotion. "He fucking bared his neck to the king of elves without hesitation! It was the bravest, most noble act I'd ever seen in my life - and trust me, I had met my share of knights already by then."
Perhaps not something he should be sharing, considering he just confessed he had been very young back in Posada. Would this give away his noble childhood? Hopefully it doesn't derail the conversation.
"I recognize a muse when I see one," he finishes his story as he turns his head to nuzzle Geralt's neck. "And a bard must always follow his muse."
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Geralt's face is set into a neutral and generally unimpressed expression, at least until Jaskier gets to the part about leaving his last coin. Then there's an interesting face journey that occurs across the witcher's countenance-- neutrality to thoughtfulness to confusion, complete with heavily furrowed brow; then dawning realization. Jaskier had already continued on with the story by the time his face had finished its contortions, but the other witchers would've certainly seen it.
Jaskier squeezes his thigh briefly as the story progresses, as though in warning or perhaps comfort-- just before he mentions the punch that Geralt had leveled into Jaskier's gut all those years ago. It isn't a memory that he relishes, and he had done it solely for the sake of driving the bard away from him before any real harm could befall him. Jaskier had been so young at the time, barely old enough to be wandering the world on his own. And Geralt couldn't see how he would survive at his side-- either he would leave of his own accord after he'd seen his first real monster, or he would die in that encounter. Better, then, that the first monster that he encounters be Geralt himself-- something he could survive and then go back to the safety of civilization.
He hadn't known that Jaskier had taken the punch as the first piece in a puzzle, not the warning that it was. What would he have had to do to scare him off? Would he have had to be so extreme as to pin him to the ground, bared fangs at his tender throat like his namesake? Draw his sword?
Jaskier's mood shifts and he leans back against Geralt's chest, and he has to adjust his hold on the bard a little to comfortably accommodate him. The part about Filavandrel and the elves is at least mostly accurate, even if it's deeply colored by the bard's own biased perspective. Brave and noble, he says, like there's anything noble about getting your ass kicked and your throat nearly slit. The very same throat that Jaskier's pressing his face against like an affectionate cat, or at least like what Geralt would assume a cat would be like if he would have ever been able to pet one.
"And what does the muse have to think about all this?" Coën asks, watching the bard curl himself into Geralt's lap with those mutagen-damaged eyes.
"Hm," Geralt grunts, making no move to displace Jaskier from his seat. "Half of it's wild embellishment, a quarter outright lies. That leaves another quarter that's roughly the truth, which is more than most of his songs."
"What's the lie about the coin?" Lambert cuts in, his chin propped on the heel of his hand. "Your face looked like you'd gotten a mouth full of wyvern bile."
The face journey most certainly had not gone unnoticed. He could lie, but Eskel is particularly adept at sniffing out his falsehoods, and Lambert wouldn't be satisfied unless he gives a decent answer.
"...The coin," he says, "was for my drink."
There's a moment where that statement sinks in, and then Lambert busts out laughing.
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What does get a bigger, real reaction out of him is Lambert's question. His eyes open instantly, wide and shocked, and Jaskier pulls away from Geralt to turn and look directly at his face.
"What lie about the coin?"
It's the one thing he didn't lie about!
...but it seems it's not entirely true, either.
"...oh. I thought--"
Jaskier worries his lower lip and looks away, not knowing what to say, and isn't that something? It's not easy to embarrass Jaskier - in fact, the bard is quite shameless. Many people have mocked him in the past and he's always replied with wordplay, allowing his silver tongue to come in his defense. He's always been sure of his decisions: it doesn't matter how foolish others think they are, he doesn't agree. He sees his own logic and passion behind them, they're perfectly valid.
This time, though. This time he does feel as much of a fool as Lambert's laughter implies.
So what can a performer do in an awkward situation such as this? The show must go, gotta distract the audience with something else, even if said audience is probably smelling the shift in his scent.
"Oh well, it matters not!" His laughter is kinda awkward as well, pretty forced to say the least. He decides to go back to searching for his soap, needing to look away from those intense yellow eyes for at least a moment. "The rest is true, and that's what is important! I may've followed, but Geralt let me do so - my ego isn't so big to think a witcher wouldn't be able to leave me behind if he so wished."
Aha!, he mumbles to himself when he finds his target, which he proceeds to take back to his grooming bag in exchange for Geralt's shaving kit. Keeping himself busy means not having to think about how Toss a coin just lost that little extra meaning it had behind it, right? Riiiiight.
"Dunk, my dear, we need to rinse the soap off your head before it hardens into a griffin nest," he lowly tells Geralt as he taps his shoulder before turning to the witchers in the other spring. "Any other questions before I ask for a story in return? Cöen, my good man, you still look confussed as hell," he says with a chuckle. Cöen shrugs. "You and Eskel are my friends now too. So the quicker you accept there's one human out there that cares, the better for your stress levels. Oh! Two, two humans, we should count the princess as well."
Yeah, he left Lambert out on purpose. They'll get there eventually. Maybe? Hopefully.
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Ultimately, though, it probably doesn't matter. It hadn't taken too long for the bard to start to worm his way into Geralt's life, for the witcher to start sharing his things with him. It had barely been two nights on the road before Jaskier's supplies of stale bread from Posada had dried up and he'd been left with nothing to eat, and Geralt had shared his dinner with him so that the foolish boy wouldn't starve. He would, without a doubt, give his last coin to Jaskier if he needed it, though the bard isn't usually the one without funds these days. It'd be more likely to be the other way around, with Jaskier spending the last of his coin to make sure that Geralt has sturdy armor and sharp swords and a potion bag full of his necessary herbs. At some point in the many years that they'd traveled together, Jaskier had gone from being his charge to his keeper, and even now he isn't sure how that switch came about.
He could have left him behind at any point and resumed his independence, but didn't, not for any more than a winter season-- except for one time on a mountaintop. There won't be any repeats of that.
Jaskier taps his shoulder and tells him to dunk his head, and Geralt does as he's told; leans forward to plunge his entire head in the bath, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair to get all of the soap out. He pushes it back from his face when he raises his head from the water again, now rinsed and clean and feeling much better than it did before they started. Jaskier has always been a good hand at cleaning him up, though.
He surfaces in time to listen to Coën's response.
"You're the first human I've seen that travels with a witcher," he says. "It's a novelty, I guess. How long did you say that you've been doing this?"
Jaskier's brought over the shaving kit, which is a decent enough indication that Geralt needs to put his face within Jaskier's easy reach. He leans his back against the wall of the bath, where the bard could easily sit behind him and have access to his stubbly cheeks. He prefers being clean-shaven anyway, and, as with most aspects of personal grooming, he prefers it when Jaskier does it for him.
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See, words are important because witchers are dumbasses.
It's really nice to see how their routine is kept even after that year apart and is adapted to the walls of Kaer Morhen, even under the curious eyes of Geralt's brothers - he leans back against the wall of the bath and Jaskier instantly understands what is being asked from him, so he wastes no time in climbing and sitting behind Geralt, legs lazily resting over the witcher's broad shoulders. Jaskier has never been shy (and even if he had been, the road would've cured him of it pretty quickly) but right now he feels a bit exposed anyway - his dick is quickly hidden between his thighs and behind Geralt's head so hopefully Lambert won't try to bring attention to it (Jaskier isn't small by any means, but next to these witchers? any human could develop a complex), and then there's the subject of his new scars, which he isn't used to quite yet. It's not like witchers would even care about scars, considering the obvious, but what he yelled at Vesemir the other day may make them curious.
Any questioning may make Geralt feel like crap, and Jaskier wants to avoid that. Less guilt, more purring.
"A novelty!" he comments with a laugh, letting his fingers run through Geralt's hair now that it's been rinsed to avoid any future tangling. He's thorough and gentle, only allowing his nails to scratch Geralt's scalp in a playful way - not hurting, but teasing, wishing for the purring to return. "As an artist and trendsetter, I shall take that as a compliment."
Once the white hair is properly slicked back and out of the way, Jaskier picks a new soap (because you can't use the same soap on your hair and your skin, obviously!) and, after tilting Geralt's head back a bit and dropping a kiss on his nose (Lambert makes fake gagging noises), he starts soaping out that handsome chin that he's sure could break rocks.
"Let's see... we met shortly after I left Oxenfurt so that makes it... twenty-four! Twenty-four years. Hear that, Geralt? Next year is our silver anniversary." The tone of his voice implies something special shall be done for the occasion. Now the witcher's face is white with lather to match his hair, Jaskier changes soap for blade and starts shaving after whispering blade incoming as a warning, his touch as gentle and careful as if he were changing the strings of his lute. Geralt is good at staying still, so he makes his job extra easy.
"This is our first winter together, however," he continues to speak unaware of the staring his current grooming tool is getting from the witchers in the other pool. Jaskier's attention is on Geralt's face (and the grass is green!). "We've gone on our separate ways on more than one occasion, as the lives of two wanderers demanded it. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not?"
The year apart after the dragon hunt surely helped Geralt see things from a new perspective, Jaskier thinks. He would've prefered it to happen with less pain, insults and arguments, but he can't argue against the results.
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The bard chatters away while he soaps up Geralt's face, using a particular kind that he favors for this purpose because of its good lather. He only half pays attention to what's being said, preoccupied with his soothing touch, the delicate way he handles Geralt's face. He hears Jaskier's warning about the blade and the cold touch of it doesn't alarm him as it would if it came from anyone else; it's just Jaskier, though, wielding a straight-razor against his cheeks with a steady hand. Geralt tips his head when Jaskier requires it, tips his head back against Jaskier's belly when he needs to get at his throat.
"Twenty-four years," Coën says, a touch thoughtfully. Assuming that Geralt wouldn't have started traveling with a literal child, that means-- "The road's been surprisingly kind to you, bard. You must be at least forty. Most men your age would at least have started going gray."
Jaskier is at least forty-- a bit past that, Geralt thinks, though it's always been hard for him to keep track of human ages. What is a forty year old man supposed to look like? Jaskier has always just looked like Jaskier. He remembers that Yennefer had made remarks about his age during the ill-fated dragon hunt, commenting on the state of the crow's-feet around his eyes, but when Geralt opens his to look up at him, he doesn't see much there at all. He must be different from the day that Geralt met him, when he was barely out of boyhood. But his skin is still smooth and supple, his eyes cornflower blue, his lips soft and pink. Boyish good looks, it'd probably be called. How long are humans supposed to hold onto that kind of thing?
"Hm." His brow furrows. Perhaps Jaskier is just naturally predisposed to looking young, either because of simply good genes or from a touch of something nonhuman in his lineage. If the philandering is a family trait as well, it could be very possible for something to have gotten into the bloodline because of a promiscuous great-grandparent. Elf, maybe. Or perhaps selkie or merrow, since Jaskier has mentioned that his home is situated near the ocean. It's nothing that matters much, but it could explain his youthful looks lasting a little longer than they should.
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The shaving is paused after Coën's comment, because Jaskier is Jaskier and he's gotta be dramatic, meaning: he opens his arms and throws his head back as he exclaims "Thank you!" to the sky. "Trust the wise and enhanced eyes of a witcher to see the truth!"
Wise, he says, as if he wasn't always calling witchers dummies. But this is obviously a jab at certain witch's constant reminders of Jaskier's age - Yennefer knows those are the insults that actually hurt him and she never hesitates to poke Jaskier right there in his humanity. To have a witcher (aka someone incredibly aware of how short human life can be) tell him he's doing fine helps tremendously to keep some worries at bay.
Someday he won't be able to follow Geralt anymore, he knows. But he doesn't want to think about it - which is incredibly selfish, because Geralt has enough issues with bonds and loss, this is something they should chat about. For someone that always insists on talking about things and to use words, Jaskier stays silent about this particular subject. My Lady Destiny, let us have some years of happiness before we need to plan for the end.
"I'm turning forty-two this spring," he clarifies as he returns to his task. "Most men my age don't appreciate good grooming, deeming it a female trait. Funny little detail for you to mention gray hairs, however. I hadn't had any until recently - only two, but I still quickly took care of them. I'd like to think I can blame them on the stress of staying away from the war instead of my age."
The war... and the mountain argument. That's got to be it, right? He can't be getting gray hairs already, he won't accept it.
(Following that reasoning, being captured and tortured should've given him hundreds of gray hairs. His mind chooses to ignore that, wanting to keep up the illusion.)
The actual shaving is done now, but the grooming session is far from over. Jaskier exchanges his blade for a bottle of chamomile oil, which Geralt can recognize as the one that often ends up on his lovely bottom. He pours some on his fingers and rubs his hands to spread it before they land on Geralt's face for a gentle after-shave massage.
Jaskier has to frow as well, though, when he sees Geralt's doing so.
"Ooooh nonononono, nope, I know that face, that's not a relaxed face. What's in your mind now, my dear? It better not be witcher logic. Is this conversation putting ideas in your head?"
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He looks the same as the night before the banquet in Cintra, when Jaskier had knelt before him while he soaked in the bath and said maybe someone out there will want you.
Oh, Geralt thinks. He really had missed so many things, hadn't he? Someone had already wanted him, even back then. But that would have nothing to do with why he looks the same as he did around that time, he should focus on the more important things. He doubts that it's the result of a potion; even if Jaskier had stupidly rummaged through his potion bag and gotten into something that he shouldn't, it wouldn't have made him youthful, it would've killed him. Yen possibly had something that would have this kind of result, but she'd never give it to Jaskier. And Geralt would have noticed if he'd been going to mages for aging treatments or if he'd been using magic to keep himself young.
"Hm," it's a considering hum. He reaches up with one hand and grazes his fingers along the smooth edge of Jaskier's jawline. "You haven't aged. How did I not notice?"
"You've seen his face for twenty fucking years and didn't notice that it never changed? Fuck, none of you are allowed to call me unobservant ever again," Lambert says. "If you do know why, bard, never tell him. He'll drive himself crazy trying to figure it out, it'll be hilarious."
Geralt frowns in annoyance, mostly because Lambert's right and he would gnaw at this mystery until he gets an answer that satisfies him. "It can't be anything magical. Medallion would've picked up on it. Could be a touch of elf in your bloodline. Or selkie or merrow, since you lived near the coast."
"If it's selkie, it's distant. And they're rare, anyway, I haven't even heard of anyone coming across one," Coën says.
"And Geralt could've had one in his fucking bed and wouldn't have figured it out even if he was balls-deep in--" Lambert adds, and is mercifully interrupted by Eskel shoving his head underwater.
"Did you have any particularly promiscuous grandmothers? Or great-grandmothers," Geralt asks, with all the tact that could be expected of him-- that is to say, none at all. It's probably a good thing that Jaskier isn't holding a blade to his throat anymore. "Ones that went to the shore often without their husbands, maybe."
And maybe fished for pike in peculiar rivers, to reuse a phrase that he'd once used on Jaskier.
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You gotta be fucking kidding him.
"I thought you being blind to me wanting you since I saw you in bloody Posada was the peak of witcher obliviousness, but somehow you still managed to prove me wrong." The worst part is, he can't even be mad at Lambert for his teasing this time, because he's 100% right. Jaskier sees that frown and tries to make it go away by massaging it with his thumbs. "Haven't aged is a little too much, don't you think? I know I don't look eighteen anymore. I have aged... some..."
But he can't argue with the rest - he does know he looks pretty damn good for his age. And what's wrong with that? Why do these silly witchers need to over-analyze this? Listen to them - selkie or merrow, this is ridiculous. Lambert jokes about it again, and Jaskier can't stop the laughter this time. Once again, the prick is fucking right.
He chokes on his own laughter, though, when Geralt makes his awkward question
"WHAT?!" he asks with that high pitched tone that usually is brought out by monsters and cuckold husbands threatening his manhood. "What the fuck, Geralt?! I'm not talking about my grandmother's sex life!" Which is ironic, because he usually doesn't have any issues gossiping about other people's sex lives, relatives included. But some people are off-limits, and that includes his beloved granny. So here comes the hands-on-his-waist-like-a-housewife stand. "How would you like it if I asked you about Vesemir's?"
Lambert pulls a face and Eskel laughs - although he's wrinkling his nose as well. "You really know what words can stab you the deepest, don't you, bard?"
Jaskier smiles smugly at him and winks before turning to Geralt with a sigh. While he thinks Lambert is funnily right, he doesn't actually want Geralt to drive himself crazy trying to figure it out.
"It's probably a touch of elf blood that sneaked in the family over five generations ago. You know how the history of the Continent goes." He raises his eyebrows at Geralt, a silent equivalent of wink wink nudge nudge. It's incredibly common (at least among nobles) to have some elf blood in the family tree, but Jaskier really doesn't want to bring attention to it because he knows Lambert will have a lot to say about it. He's already mentioned meeting knights when young, more clues is walking too close to the danger line. "I promise I haven't done anything magically stupid, it's just good genes. So please don't worry, would you? Because I know you are, I recognize that face."
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Geralt's frown deepens when he mentions Vesemir's sex life. He doesn't know what his pseudo-father got up to during those years when he actually left the keep and he doesn't want to. Hell, he doesn't know what Vesemir gets up to for the entire rest of the year and the less he knows about it, the better.
"Hm."
A touch of elf blood, generations back. It could explain his face, the way that he's managed to avoid the ravages of time that plague the rest of his contemporaries, but--
A touch of elf blood that far back wouldn't change much about his lifespan. Maybe it would extend his life a little, but probably not more than half a decade. A pittance in comparison to the disparity in their lifetimes. More likely, it will just allow him to hold on to his youthful appearance for longer into his life, let him always look good for his age. If he had been a quarter-something-- whether elf or merrow or selkie-- he could have had decades more life, maybe even enough that by the time he was getting old, Geralt would be, too.
"I'm not worried," he says, and that's half-true. He's not worried about what Jaskier thinks he's worried about. "And if you had messed around with magic, I would have known. If nothing else, from the disaster you would've caused."
That last bit is just a tease, and he softens it with a squeeze to Jaskier's ankle, then runs his hand up the bard's warm calf. He's struck, not for the first time, by the strength in his legs, and since Jaskier has spent so much time in the past rubbing all of the kinks out of Geralt's muscles, perhaps he ought to consider returning the favor...
"Yeah, I'm done with this," Lambert says, levering himself up out of the bath. "You two can keep watching whatever the fuck this," he gestures towards Geralt and Jaskier, "is, but I've had enough."
The youngest Wolf takes a towel and stalks off to get dressed before leaving; Eskel sighs and hauls himself out of the bath as well. "Try not to take too long, Geralt," he says, "we've still got the wall to finish before we get snowed in."
Coën follows a minute or two afterward, getting reluctantly out of the bath. "I should make sure that Lambert doesn't go up on the roof by himself, he might fall. See you later, Geralt. Jaskier."
And then they're alone again.
"Pass me the file from your bag," Geralt says. "I should get you to the library soon."
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He intends to nudge Geralt with his foot for the transgression, but the witcher is now running his hand up his calf and, well. That feels nice. Very nice. Jaskier hums his appreciation - he can truly get used to this touchy Geralt that isn't afraid of PDA. Not that he remembers that this is PDA because for a short moment there, he forgets about the witchers in the other spring. It's just Geralt's hand on his leg and his own oily fingers on the witcher's face and...
And Lambert is a jealous fucking asshole, that's what he is.
Jaskier sticks his tongue out at him, but Eskel gets a sweet smile in return. Damn if the view isn't nice, but this time Jaskier is ready for it, so he can control himself better. "I promise I'll send him to you soon." Coën gets a nod, and Jaskier watches those three fine asses leave for a second before he remembers something that makes him yell after them. "You all owe me a story at dinner!"
They got a full exciting retelling of his first meeting with Geralt and then leave without returning the favor? The nerve.
Their little moment is over, he supposes. Geralt is right, he needs to take him to the library soon, and Eskel awaits him to work. Jaskier drops one last kiss on the witcher's nose before jumping back in the water to properly wash himself - he can be quick when he wants to! He's in the middle of soaping his hair when Geralt makes his request.
"Your file? What for?" He looks at Geralt with a confused look on his face - he would be tilting his head if it wouldn't get soap in his eyes for it. "You don't need to hide your fangs from me. Is it because of Cirilla?"
There no other humans in the keep, so Jaskier doesn't see the point. Unless this is one of those things that only Geralt got, like the white hair? Does he hide the fangs even from his brothers? That would be extra shitty, Kaer Morhen should be the place where Geralt can be himself, free of bigotted judgement!
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Since the bard's busy getting himself clean, Geralt goes through the toiletries bag himself to find the file. Their things haven't been mingled for very long, since they only started traveling together again a few weeks ago, and he has to dig around a bit, trying to find where it's gotten to.
"No. It's not for her."
Ciri's already seen his fangs and isn't frightened by them. And while his brothers don't have teeth like he does-- theirs are barely bigger or sharper than normal human canines, and don't need to be filed or hidden-- the fact that he does doesn't upset them. It's just another way that his additional mutations set him apart from even his own kind; a monster among monsters.
At least this is something about himself that he can change. He can make this part of himself harmless, for Jaskier's sake, and it only requires a little bit of discomfort. That's a small price to pay, really. He would gladly endure worse.
"Where did you put it?" he says, pulling out a large bottle of oil and peering in to see if the file had fallen underneath it.
Usually, it'd be in one of the side pockets of his toiletries bag, but those are full of more soap this time. How much soap does Jaskier have? Did he think that they wouldn't have soap at Kaer Morhen, and he'd have to supply a whole keep's worth of the stuff for the winter? Hell, they make the stuff, usually with whatever rendered animal fats they have left over from hunting. Sometimes Eskel puts goat milk in it.
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It's not for Cirilla, Geralt says, and that's... confusing to hear. On one hand, it's relieving to know she isn't scared of Geralt's mutations, that she won't put her "father" in an awkward situation. He's proud of her for being so accepting, really, and happy for Geralt to have another person that accepts him for who he is.
On the other hand though... if it isn't for Cirilla, then what the fuck is he doing this for? It makes no sense. The question is on the tip of his tongue when he resurfaces after rinsing his hair, only to find Geralt rummaging through the toiletries bag.
"By the gods! Geralt, what has gotten into you?" Jaskier comes closer and grabs Geralt's wrist, stopping him from taking out even more bottles of oil and bars of soap. It's not like he minds Geralt touching all this stuff (it is theirs, after all) but there obviously is something going on. Blue eyes search for gold filled with concern. "You know I don't mind your fangs, and you said Cirilla doesn't mind either. I'm going to assume your brothers are out of the question as well, because you've told me you only do this for humans and from what I've seen so far, I have trouble imagining them caring about such a thing anyway. You've confessed to me that the process isn't exactly painless, and it isn't like you to be vain about your looks..."
His hands squeeze the wrists in them, wet yet encouraging. "Then what is it? Talk to me, love."
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Jaskier tries to catch his eyes, and when Geralt looks at him, his face is written with concern. Worried, even though there's nothing for him to be worried about. This is just a little sacrifice for what Jaskier wants from him. And the fact that this is for what Jaskier wants from him makes his question so confusing; of course it isn't for vanity or his brothers or Ciri. It's for Jaskier.
"Last night," he says. "You asked me to bite you. Did you forget already?"
It seems strange that he would, considering how adamant he was about being bitten when they were in bed together. Practically despondent when he refused, but that's why he promised him later-- he could do it once his teeth are filed down to a harmless length. Once his task is done, he'll be able to leave as many marks on him as he'd like, bite him up to his heart's content.
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I can't feel love, the noble bastard had said. Then what the fuck would one call a sacrifice such as this?
His hands start trembling and Jaskier moves them away, gesturing wildly as his mouth opens and closes without actually saying a word - for once in his life, he's speechless. The only sound he can hear is his quickening heartbeat eachoing in his ears. Is his scent giving away the mix of feelings he's going through right now?
Like every bit of love and adoration he has for the man in front of him...
Like the distress, the misery, the need to do something to fix this and feeling absolutely helpless.
And can't forget the anger, oh no, can't forget the fury that runs through his passionate veins and wants to find Vesemir and burn his ears with insults until he understands how bloody fucked up this is.
It's that thought that shakes him out of his shock, that reminds him who is the real victim here: Geralt. He has no right to feel upset, he's just a fancy human brat with an easy life. What he needs to be is comforting, suportive.
"You big, caring, noble, obstinate oaf," he mumbles as he throws himself at his lover, giving him the hug of the century. A second is needed so he can swallow the ball of emotions stuck in his throat, which wants to come out as crying or screaming - or both at the same time, if that's possible. When he pulls back, he grabs Geralt's face with both hands and rests his forehead against the witcher's, eyes as intense as the tone of his voice. "Listen to me, and you better listen well. There's no bloody orgasm in the whole Continent worth your pain."
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Then the bard insults and compliments him in the same breath-- though he's fairly used to that, Jaskier does that almost on a regular basis-- and throws himself into his arms, and he's lucky that Geralt has the good reaction time to catch him even when he's slippery and wet. There are a lot of reasons why Geralt would like to have Jaskier warm and wet in his arms, but right now that's overshadowed by his own confusion.
Jaskier catches his face between his hands and presses their foreheads together, a gentle and intimate gesture. Geralt is still terribly confused.
"I'm in far worse pain after almost every hunt," he says. "This is minor and does no permanent harm. It doesn't matter."
He's always been overly concerned about Geralt's well-being, but this seems like an overabundance of caution-- fussing over minor hurts. Just as unnecessary as fussing over children when they scrape their knees or fall out of trees. If it wouldn't leave him with a permanent injury or a scar, than there's no reason for him not to go ahead with it, if it would get Jaskier what he wants.
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Deep breaths, he needs to take deep breaths. And a pillow too, he could do with one right to throw at this stubborn wolf's head. Maybe he should stuff that pretty mouth with soap...
Focus, Jask, focus. By the gods, this is the worst way to have such a serious conversation. Standing awkwardly in the springs while Eskel is waiting for his brother... Jaskier makes a mental note to have a proper chat later in bed. Hopefully once his emotions calm down he'll be more successful at it, too.
"Remember back in Gildorf when I jumped off the alderman's window when he found me with his daughter and I sprained my ankle? You scolded me to hell and back for getting hurt over something so foolish. Well, my dear, this is the same. Yes, it is, don't even try to argue. Besides..." He cups Geralt chin, letting his wet thumb brush the witcher's lips. "Who says I want the fangs gone for you to bite me?"
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Geralt waits with what, at least in his opinion, is immense patience while Jaskier talks him through a story that Geralt clearly remembers; an incident some time ago between the bard and a pretty girl's virtue that resulted in him taking a quick exit out of a window. It had been a foolish thing for him to do, just asking for trouble, especially when there were other women with less vengeful fathers that he could've bedded. But no! Apparently this girl had a beautiful soul-- more like beautiful tits, as Geralt recalls-- which apparently justified his recklessness, at least until he was properly chastised by his witcher companion.
Now that he thinks about it, one of the reasons that he was so frustrated with Jaskier back then was because, even after he'd gone and fucked the alderman's daughter, he still smelled like lust. And it hadn't gotten any better after he told him that if he was going to act as irresponsibly as a child, than Geralt would treat him like a child and take him over his knee. In hindsight, that was perhaps... a suggestive punishment, though he didn't intend it to be.
Jaskier cups Geralt's jaw and touches his lips, and Geralt keeps his mouth soft for it. The tenderness in the bard's touch is almost unbearable.
"I won't bite you with them," he says, reaching up to gently move the bard's fingers away from his mouth while he talks. "These teeth have gnawed through a striga's throat, Jaskier. I'm not putting them anywhere near yours."
A bite too deep in the wrong place with teeth like his, and-- the result would be unthinkable. He would never be able to forgive himself, nor would he even try.
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"...they what now?"
A striga. As far as Jaskier knows, Geralt has only fought one of them. There's a chance he could've forgotten to mention the other one, but strigas are fucking dangerous, aren't they? More than the average monster. There's no way Geralt could've escaped a striga hunt without a scar, and Jaskier has already gotten all the stories behind every scar - well, except The One (TM) but he's pretty sure that one belongs to Blaviken.
So this leaves him with only one explanation.
"YOU STINGY BASTARD! YOU BIT A BLOODY STRIGA AND YOU LEFT THAT PART OUT OF THE STORY?" he exclaims as he repeatedly pokes Geralt's chest, dramatics making a full appearance. Look, indignation at least means he isn't sad anymore, right? Anger is still around but it's huffier and less true fury, that's gotta count for something. "Unbelievable! I should start washing your mouth with as much soap as I use for your hair!"
Huff, huff. Dumb witcher and his dumb habit of hiding details from the storyteller himself. Jaskier takes a moment to regain his breath, eyeing Geralt's mouth as he does so. Mmmh.
"...I like the fangs even more now." So if a tiny little bit of lust sneks into his scent, well. Coincidence. Totally.
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Apparently, he left out the part where he had to bite her to get her to let go of him, or else he may not have returned from that hunt in one piece. Judging from Jaskier's reaction, that's a grievous oversight on his part.
"I didn't think it was particularly important," he says, while Jaskier huffs and threatens to wash his mouth out with soap. If anyone ought to get their mouths cleaned, anyway, it should be the bard-- Geralt is quite certain that the song he wrote about the striga hunt botched quite a few of the facts that he'd told him about hunting strigas and breaking the curse. Perhaps lying bards ought to get their mouths rinsed out until they say things that are true.
Geralt is about to say as much when there's a hint of a spicy-sweet scent in the humid air. Lust, specifically Jaskier's, the scent of which he has become very well acquainted with. Geralt sighs.
"You're incorrigible, Jaskier," he says, unable to help his own fond exasperation, and drops his hands to Jaskier's waist to draw him closer. He buries his nose in the bard's hair, breathing in the scent of him and lavender soap and a hint of spice. It's a good combination for him, even if he's a bit of a slut who apparently can't help but get turned on at the mention of Geralt's mutations.
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Which has always been a quite one-sided discussion, but hey, details.
Honestly, it's quite ironic when one thinks about it. Jaskier is getting offended for his own very nosy sake, because while Geralt biting the striga is fucking amazing (kinda nasty too, but mostly amazing), it is not a detail he would've included in the song. It would've crept people off, made them even warier of Geralt aka the exact opposite effect he wants to achieve with his songs. Especially this song in particular, which he spun into a story about the salvation of a soul. Which isn't a lie, to be fair, but as usual, he exaggerated the details and went more for emotions than the actual action for a change.
Geralt reaches out to grab him and, judging by that sigh, Jaskier thinks he's about to be moved to a side so the witcher can access the file... he couldn't be any more wrong. More casual affection - this is a thing they do now, and it delights him. He thought he'd have to wait more for Geralt to get comfortable with it, yet Geralt keeps surpassing his expectations.
"And you like it," he replies with a chuckle as he rests his hands on Geralt's shoulders. "How dare you be cute when I'm mad at you? This is cheating, my dear. Unscrupulous, treacherous cheating."
Yet he doesn't do anything to stop it. He likes it when Geralt scents him, not only because he's a slut for the mutations, but also because it's incredibly romantic. To have a lover enjoy your very raw, natural smell? What else can a fool in love ask for? Not to mention the stroke to his ego.
"I love you. And I love every part of you, fangs included. Promise me you won't file them while we stay here. Please?"
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He noses his way down from the bard's hair to an attractive spot right behind his ear, where the scent of him is particularly strong. Jaskier doesn't raise a hand to stop him, and he is well aware of the fact that he won't-- the bard is as much a slut for touching and affection as he is for everything else.
He presses a kiss to that pretty little spot, then another just below it; more, in a long trail down Jaskier's pretty neck-- like a sexy bird of some sort, gods forbid a goose-- until he runs out of neck and starts up the other side instead. His skin tastes clean with a hint of lavender soap, and Geralt presses kisses to the places that his mouth had gone last night and left bruises. Unlike witchers, those marks would hang around for days rather than mere hours.
"I'll keep them," he says, a reluctant concession. "But they aren't going into your neck."
Kisses and bruises for the necks of lovely bards, not teeth. That does technically leave the door open for teeth in other parts of his body, ones that have fewer delicate structures in them that could be easily damaged, but that's something to be taken on a case-by-case basis.
Geralt palms his way down from the bard's hips to his ass; it really does fit so very nicely in his hands, one on each cheek, pulling him flush. If he'd had the blood flow of a normal man, this would be the part where Jaskier would feel his arousal digging into his hip, but witcher physiology is on his side for this. When he leans in to kiss him, his body is as calm and composed as it always is-- good, for once, because he plans on riling his bard up a little bit. And considering that Jaskier rarely ever stops reeking of lust, a filthy kiss and some hands-on attention should be easily enough to get him going.
He continues until he feels Jaskier's interest, then breaks the kiss. Tipping his head, he murmurs against the bard's ear in that low, gravelly voice that he knows he likes,
"I should get you to the library."
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There's also the fact the witcher didn't get an orgasm earlier, so Jaskier is eager to do something that involves them both. When Geralt agrees to keep the fangs, Jaskier is a little too distracted by the kisses to say anything other than "good" - he can convince him to bite him later, at least he got the fangs to stay and that's the first step done.
He barely gets to mumble a fuck at the ass grab before Geralt is kissing him, and he obviously wastes no time in kissing back, open-mouthed and with lots of tongue. Jaskier presses his body against the witcher's as his hands explore all those mighty muscles and trace every scar - Geralt's plan works wonderfully, because it doesn't take long for Jaskier to be grinding his hips against Geralt's thigh.
A needy whimper escapes his lips when Geralt breaks the kiss, and he can already feel the shiver running through his body when that lovely deep voice murmuring into his ear--
"WHAT!" Oh, look, it's the indignant high pitch. Congrats, Geralt, mission has been accomplished. Jaskier puts his hands on the witcher's chest and pulls back, glaring at his lover with heat in his eyes that is half arousal, half anger. "You horse's arse! You did on purpose!" Huff, huff. Here comes the finger-wagging at Geralt's face. "You think you're so funny, taking advantage of the effect you know you have on me while your prick can ignore it all! Well, joke's on you, because we're not leaving until I've taken care of this! I'm not working alone in a library with blue balls! And if Eskel gets mad at you for taking so long to show up, have fun explaining this to him!"
(Not gonna lie, he would pay good coin to hear that conversation.)
For a second he considers moving to the opposite edge of the spring and putting up a show - Geralt would still be able to smell him, sure, but he wouldn't be able to do the nose-burying thing, and that should be a nice little punishment, he thinks. The thought leaves his mind as soon as it arrives, though. No matter how frustrated he feels, he's still a fool in love, and he likes the idea of having Geralt at arm's reach while he touches himself.
"It's almost as if I was in my 20s again," he comments with a little sigh as he closes his eyes and lets a hand drop underwater. "Two orgasms in one morning. Touching myself and pretending is you."
This should be a quickie, but since he's supposed to be making things harder for Geralt and his daily chores, he takes his sweet time. Calloused fingers explore his own cock as if it was the first time, as if they didn't know exactly how he likes it and what spots he favors to be touched.
"Some times I would be in bed and-- ah, fuck." He takes a moment to moan as he lets his thumb pick up the precum that is already forming and massage the head with it. "And I'd imagine you coming back from a hunt... all sweaty, eyes black... and finding me there, moaning your name... fuck, Geralt..." Before he can stop himself, he leans forward and rests his forehead on the witcher's shoulder as he hand starts picking up speed. "You'd slip in bed with me, a-and aah and offer to help..."
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