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..."
Jaskier's voice rises in indignation, chastising Geralt for his games. Seeing the bard worked up like this, with his cock hard and his face flushed a pretty rosy hue, is exactly why he did it, along with the amusement that he'd get from knowing that Jaskier's sitting in the library with sore balls because of his own insatiable libido. But he refuses to leave the baths until he's taken care of his little problem, and that's hardly the worst outcome that could have come from this. Sure, Eskel might become impatient and get annoyed with how long they're taking, but-- well, he's free to walk in and see what the holdup is. Not that he'd stay for very long, nor does he think that Jaskier would entirely mind if he made an appearance. Nothing would come of it, other than Eskel getting irritated and having to quickly leave before he sees his own brother in a compromising position with a very horny bard.
One of the bard's pretty hands dips below the surface of the water, and Geralt feels it brush against his thigh before it wraps around Jaskier's cock. He takes his time about it, too; keeps his hand gentle and teasing rather than the quick, efficient strokes that Geralt knows that he'd prefer while on the road, when it was solely for the purposes of tending to a biological need. The quick, furtive fumblings that he'd indulge in while wrapped up in his bedroll, trying to stay quiet enough for a witcher's ears to not overhear him. He could never manage to be quite quiet enough, though, and Geralt always heard him.
And his sex drive had been... prodigious, when he was young. Chasing after skirts every night that they were in town, coming back to the room smelling like sex and satisfaction. It was tolerable-- so long as the bard didn't end up in the bed of someone he shouldn't-- if they were sleeping in separate beds, but almost insufferable when they had to share and the scent was inescapable. At the time, he'd thought that it was simple jealousy that Jaskier could find bed partners wherever he went without even having to pay a penny. But maybe he wouldn't have found it so objectionable if instead of a foreign scent lingering on the bard's skin, there had been his own.
But that's an old jealousy-- there aren't any nameless paramours leaving their traces on Jaskier anymore, certainly not until spring. Jaskier thumbs at the head of his cock and Geralt rumbles his approval low in his throat, smells the salt tang of precum and the steadily growing scent of lust. The bard's head rests against his shoulder and Geralt tips his nose into his hair, breathes deep. His hands wander along his wet back.
"And how would I help you?" He lets his voice drop low, and it's half because he knows how much Jaskier likes it, half because of his own interest in the proceedings. "How would I touch you, Jaskier?"
Having chosen to stay close to Geralt turns out to be both a blessing and a curse. He's supposed to be dragging this out, playing with the witcher, but one mere second of hearing that approving rumble makes his whole body shiver. Fuck, it's not fair how much he wants and loves this man. For a moment he considers changing his tactics and move to the other side of the pool like he originally wanted, but then Geralt is breathing his scent again and caressing his back. The bastard.
The only moving Jaskier ends up doing is pressing his body against the witcher's, his free hand holding onto his very thick arm. If he hadn't already decided to do a whole thing about touching himself, he would just rut against Geralt's thigh - hell, if he didn't have to answer those questions, he would bury his face in those glorious pecs.
And it's not like he can ignore the questions. This is Jaskier, shutting up isn't something he does. Besides, Geralt has obviously been trapped by the retelling of his fantasies, and this bard loves an attentive audience eating out of the palm of his hand. Let the witcher know how much time they've wasted because of his stubbornness.
"L-like -ah- like you did everything else: methodically." He takes a deep breath and forces his hand to slow down again, or he won't be able to last until storytime is over. "It would be our first time, so you approached it like you approach a hunt you didn't have the details of. You absorbed as much information as you could and found out the most efficient way to go about it..." A peck for Geralt's shoulder scar, a simple way of saying this is being said as a compliment. "Your fingers would touch every inch of my cock slowly, testing-" His hand does exactly that. "-as your eyes would watch me with more intensity than usual to know what got a reaction out of me. And once you knew what my body liked, you would concentrate on those spots with the same efficiency you stabbed a monster on its weak spot..."
He moans Geralt's name then as his hands close around his balls the same way the witcher had done the night before. While Jaskier is nowhere close to having a marked body as Geralt does, both of them having calloused fingers makes the fantasy feel more real. His nails dig in the witcher's skin as his hips start bucking underwater, fucking his own hand the same way he fucked Geralt's all those hundreds of times he imagined it.
This is shaping up to be a very nice morning for the both of them-- Jaskier's second orgasm of the day, and Geralt has gotten to watch him have both of them. He had originally intended to let Jaskier suffer through his own absurd libido, but he'll enjoy this little show just as well. The bard's hand grips onto his bicep as he leans in close, his body a long line of warmth down Geralt's front, and his hand can't even make it most of the way around the witcher's arm.
Jaskier's hand moves slowly over himself, teasing and gentle and drawing it out for as long as possible as he described all the things he fantasized about, his voice a lovely, low drawl. The scent of lust and need is almost overwhelming on his skin, heady and spicy-sweet, physical proof of the veracity of his words. Not that he thinks that Jaskier would outright lie about what he wanted, but he's prone to exaggeration-- his scent is proof of the magnitude of his lust for what he describes.
A lust that drives him to buck his hips into his hand, chasing his release while imagining a witcher's rough, sword-calloused palm around him. Geralt hums low in his throat, and it's really only by virtue of his slow pulse that he hasn't gotten himself into an uncomfortable situation, cock-wise, just from the demonstration on how Jaskier likes to be touched. He can ignore that for a while yet; he has a better idea.
"Jaskier," he says, grasping the bard's wrist with one hand and gently pulling it away from his prick. He takes him by the shoulders and turns him around, then tugs him back so that his back rests against his front, his chin hooked over the bard's shoulder. This way he can see what he's doing, can drag his palms down the length of his body and underneath the water easily. He leaves his cock alone for now and instead cups his sack, stroking his thumb along the smooth, soft curve of them. His other hand tips Jaskier's head back, exposing the long line of his throat, still mottled with healing bruises.
"Would I tell you that you're a hunt I've been planning for twenty years? That I heard you every time you touched yourself in your bedroll, your fist in your mouth to try to keep yourself quiet? That I know which of your lovers pleased you the most by your smell, and how they bruised you?" He nips at the exposed throat, letting him feel just the edge of those teeth; enough to thrill him, not enough to hurt. "Or that I heard all the things that you said in your sleep, everything you begged me for in your dreams?"
Mercy, then-- he brings both hands to bear underneath the water, taking Jaskier's cock into his fist and tugging it quick and efficient, putting to good use the practical demonstration that the bard had given him. And this time he gets to be touched just how he likes with the hands that he'd been dreaming of, no need to pretend that the callouses were in the wrong place from lute strings rather than sword grips.
As soon as Geralt's hand closes around his wrist, Jaskier enters drama queen mode (did he ever leave it, really). Thinking Geralt is still trying to give him blue balls, he struggles against the hold, trying to get his hand back on his cock and not to lose momentum.
"Fuck no, I said I'm not leaving until--"
Thankfully Geralt is extremely fast and efficient with his movements, and Jaskier quickly catches on what the witcher is going for. He can feel that thick dick against the curve of his ass and hums his approval - a pity it isn't quite awoken yet. For a short moment there, he considers sending his hands to his back, help Geralt join him in his pleasure, but the witcher is going all out and Jaskier doesn't have time to even think. His balls are a sensitive spot of his and Geralt's already abusing that knowledge - if the witcher wasn't holding him, Jaskier would've already slipped on the water. Instead he throws his head back and moans loudly, body arching and hands landing on his lover's strapping thighs.
Every stroke of that thumb on his sack sends sparks of pleasure throughout his whole body, makes him dig his nails on witcher skin and his toes curl underwater. It's so much better than any fantasy he's ever had - not only because it's the real thing, but because they're doing it in the hot springs of Kaer Morhen, out in the open where anyone could find them, or at least hear and smell them. It's not a crappy bed in an inn, it's not on the bumpy ground of the forest - it's at Geralt's home, in the water the others may bathe themselves later on. Part of him wants to be found, wants them all to know how much Geralt likes this normal, "delicate", average human body that still manages to keep up with a witcher.
Is the thrill of potential exhibitionism that sends a shiver down his spine and get his heart beating really fast? Or is Geralt's deep, sensual voice whispering dirty talk into his ear? Both, the answer is always both.
And oh, what sweet words are leaving that mouth that usually doesn't say much. Confessions of twenty years of knowing things and not actually doing anything about them, it's amazing how much of a turn-on and pure frustration they are at the same time. And yet... Jaskier has to shake his head.
"N-no, that wasn't-- oh fuck, yes, yes, give me your fucking teeth--" Is he begging? He's totally begging, coming undone under Geralt's ministrations, one of his hands coming up to grab the back of the witcher's neck and pull him as close as possible. "You wouldn't-- gods, Geralt-- you wouldn't say those things. That-- it would mean you knew and didn't reciprocate. It would... hurt..."
He sounds so pathetic right now, especially when the next confession reaches his lips - he may regret it later if Geralt teases him for it, but right now his brain isn't making good decisions, blurry with lust as it is. His mouth keeps running as his ass is rubbed against his lover's groin, silently asking for it.
"You would tell me that... that you liked watching me dance, that my singing of bawdy songs made you uncomfortable in those tight pants of yours, that-- fuuuck. Geralt, Geralt, just like that, you're so good to me, love..." Fantasies of a performer, of an attention whore, of a poet that wants to know his art has the effect he intended. It seems a different fantasy is the one that becomes real, though: Geralt is, indeed, methodically using what he's learned to masturbate Jaskier exactly as he likes it, making him forget about rubbing his ass and instead buck directly into those hands he loves so much. "You would say that you stayed until the end of my performance because you liked watching everyone's faces when they realized... yes, yes, more-- when they realized that no matter how much flirting and winking I did in my show I, ah fuck, I-- I still would go back to you."
Judging from the bard's heartrate and the increasingly desperate way that he ruts into Geralt's hand, he enjoys the dirty talk-- just maybe not exactly the flavor of dirty talk that Geralt tries. Thankfully, Jaskier's the talkative sort and steers him towards the sort of dirty talk that he wants, with a side order of all but begging him to get his teeth into him. The teeth stay gentle-- but the words, those he can fix. Follow Jaskier's lead and give him what he wants to hear.
And what he wants, apparently, is plenty of ego-stroking to go along with the cock stroking. He oughtn't be surprised, the only thing bigger than Jaskier's dramatics is his ego. He shouldn't have ever told him about that thing in Vizima, about seeing the sight-reading contest; clearly it's gone to his head, the knowledge that Geralt is fond of his fillingless-pie voice.
"Is that why you always relished singing your bawdy songs?" he says, giving the hard cock in his fist a gentle squeeze; he almost fancies that he can feel the relentless pulse of blood in it, pounding through the thick vein on the underside in time with his heart. "Flirting around with your doublet open and your chemise half undone, singing at the top of your lungs about cock? I had half a mind to pull you out of taverns by that ridiculous fucking bow on the back of your trousers every time you started playing Fishmonger's Daughter. Was that what you were hoping for? That one day I'd crack and toss you over my shoulder in the middle of your set?"
And wouldn't that be a fine way to start an evening? Or it would be, anyway, if it wouldn't have surely resulted in a dozen men trying to stone him for making off with the bard to have his evil witchery way with him. And it wouldn't matter how much the bard would try to insist that he's a willing participant in the evil witchery way, Geralt would still end up either stoned or arrested. Ah, well. That's why this is dirty talk, just a fantasy.
"I could throw you into bed and really give you something to sing about."
He could give him something to sing about right now. Jaskier's been keen on getting a witcher's fangs into his neck, and though Geralt still refuses to put those teeth anywhere near such delicate structures, the bard does have a tempting strip of muscle that runs from neck to shoulder. He presses his lips to it for just a moment before biting down, the pressure firm enough to bruise but not enough to draw blood. A kind introduction to witcher fangs, while his hand continues to jack the bard's prick just how he likes it.
Geralt squeezes his cock as he fixes the topic of his dirty talk, and Jaskier swears he's in fucking heaven. Moaning and pretty much mewling like an animal in heat, he nods to every question Geralt asks, relishing the fact the witcher has noticed. Yes, of course that's why he likes playing dirty songs. There are other reasons as well, like simply enjoying the faces of conservative assholes when they hear what he has to say about sex and relationships, completely scandalous for the society they live in.
That second when their faces morph as they realize Fshmonger's Daughter is about fucking a monster? Priceless. Jaskier never gets tired of it, and his ego grows a bit more every time he gets away with singing it in court.
But the main reason is definitely the attention and power. Having all eyes in the room, regardless of gender and sexual orientation, watching him with desire, feeling some heat in their groins without understanding why. He teases with winks, pushes the boundaries of how much flesh is allowed to be shown through his opened chemise, makes them notice his perky butt by the use of a strategically placed bow. Could these tactics work on an antisocial witcher that usually sticks to whores and one insane sorceress?
Turns out the answer is yes, and that thought is as pleasurable as the hand that touches him.
"S-so it did work," he manages to mumble with a short chuckle, a touch of pride and glee mixing in his scent under the overwhelming lust. So many years of thinking the opposite and now... Geralt is right, every confession of his strokes his ego more. "I, ah, I do love it when you ma-manhandle me... imagine their faces, Geralt, come on..."
Indeed, it's only a fantasy, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it. The mental image of Geralt picking him up in the middle of a performance is too good - even better if he's performing somewhere fancy, the scandal among the nobles would be delicious. And considering how much Geralt hates nobles? Jaskier is sure the witcher can appreciate the idea as well: the pretty songbird that everyone wanted but nobody was able to keep has been caught by the 'mutant' they hate so much. It's poetry in its purest form.
There's the start of another mumbled sentence, intending to tell Geralt how much he's given him to write about since last night already, but the witcher chooses that moment to fucking finally bite him. That delightful sting on his sensitive flesh pushes him through the edge and Jaskier can barely say fuck before coming in the water, head thrown back over Geralt's shoulder as his whole body shudders and his feet struggle to keep their balance on the slippery surface when every nerve is too busy bursting with pleasure. His hands hold onto Geralt's mighty muscles as he chases his orgasm to make it last as much as possible, his hips thrusting erratically into Geralt's hand, his mind incapable of speech for once.
It's a release of self-consciousness, of any thought whatsoever. It's having pure, raw ecstasy running through every vein and taking over his mind - no need of control, of decision making. Only the pleasure crashing inside him and the feeling of Geralt's body pressed outside his own.
And thank the gods for that strong body behind him, because Jaskier slumps right against it when he comes to reality, panting but still grinning like the happiest man alive.
"...you're going to be the death of me, Geralt of Rivia." His head is turned to look for Geralt's neck to nuzzle, the closest thing he can do to cuddling right now - his legs still feel like jelly, making it hard to move. "And I can't think of a more magnificent way to go."
Jaskier's a sight when he comes, his head resting on Geralt's shoulder, back arched and body trembling as he strokes him all the way through it. He doesn't need to worry about whether or not his legs are stable enough to hold him, not when the witcher can take his weight easily and keep him upright. He wouldn't want to miss a moment of this, of Jaskier's hips pushing his rosy prick into his fist and the hot white spurts of come that are washed away in the water.
It's a good thing that Geralt has such good control over his own body, otherwise he might have been in the same position that Jaskier had been in-- hard and left wanting. Even so, there's a little life in his cock, the beginnings of an erection that could have turned into something if he let it. But he has work to do and it would take far too much time to get his blood up enough, so he chooses to ignore it and instead focus on kissing the bite mark that he left on Jaskier's shoulder. It's already started to turn red from the pressure and would certainly darken throughout the day; by the time they have lunch, it ought to be nicely bruised. He shouldn't take pleasure in the sight of his marks on the bard's skin, but he still likes the look of them.
Jaskier slumps back against him, his face turned to press into Geralt's neck. His panting breaths are warm against his throat, his heart still beating a quick drum-beat in his chest. Geralt's hands trail up to the bard's sides, holding him securely while he rests after his exertion. He runs the palm of one of his hands over Jaskier's stomach, feeling his diaphragm expand and contract with his breathing.
"Hm." It's a vague reply to his statement, but Jaskier and mortality are two things that he doesn't enjoy thinking about, even in jest. He's spent too many years trying to keep the bard from an early death either from getting too close to a dangerous monster or angry cuckolds, he wouldn't undo his own good work by killing the bard via orgasm. No matter how appealing such an end might be to him.
"You should follow me on fewer hunts if you want to die on my third sword."
Since Jaskier's legs aren't particularly keen on bearing him anywhere, Geralt slides an arm underneath his knees and hoists him up, carrying him as he steps out of the bath. He deposits the bard on a stone bench-- the stone is kept faintly warm by the same geothermal activity that heats the springs-- and fetches towels for them both to dry off with. Can't have a damp bard walking around the keep, after all.
"Here," he says, tossing one of them to him. "We're late."
Which is technically his fault, but also Jaskier's for being incorrigible.
There's no post-coital cuddling thanks to their current position, but Geralt definitely knows how to make up for it. Kissing the bite mark is absolutely adorable and puts a little smug smile on Jaskier's face, insisting on the biting has definitely paid off. Geralt is hella possessive, isn't he? As long as it doesn't get in the way of his everyday-not-serious flirting, he can't say he minds. Ah, but it doesn't end there, oh no, there are also hands running on his body, keeping him close, supported, cherished even. Jaskier lets out a cute little happy sigh as his scent slowly leaves lust behind to transform into that sweet, floral smell that matches his afterglow: satisfied and simply content.
And love, of course. All the affection for the man holding him makes his scent so sweet, one could almost make jam out of it.
That sigh is followed by bright laughter at the mention of the third sword. There aren't enough words to describe how much it delights Jaskier to hear Geralt using that little metaphor he chose for a silly brother song. Honestly, he thought he'd loathe it. Shows how Geralt's sense of humor continues to surprise him.
"None of your swords would ever allow anything to happe-- eep!"
The sudden movement is what causes him to squeal in surprise - for a second Jaskier thinks he's finally lost balance and his butt would be meeting the bottom of the spring. What turns out to be instead is Geralt being his usual noble self. He can't help it, Jaskier has to giggle like a maid being rescued and carried by a knight. Isn't it romantic? And since he's already made the comparison in his head, may as well go all the way: he puts his arms around Geralt's neck and rewards his gallantry with a kiss on the cheek.
"And whose fault is that?" he asks with raised eyebrows as he proceeds to dry himself up.
Despite the rebuttal, he does hurry up, not wanting to get on Eskel's bad side and to prove Vesemir he can be relied on. That won't stop him from chatting all their way out of the springs, though, telling Geralt about the few things he's already enjoyed peeking into in the library and what topics he wants to cover with Cirilla as he holds the witcher's hand between them.
They need to stop by their room first to drop their other clothes and their grooming kit, and Jaskier takes the chance to pick his own quills, inks and notebook - he's sure the library will give him tons of information he'll want to take notes on. Seeing his lute against the wall gives him a pause, though, remembering the story-telling moment they had in the bath. After worrying his lower lip and staring at the lute case as if it contained the answers he's looking for, Jaskier decides to approach it and take out of the items he's hidden in there.
"What do you think I should do with this?" he asks as he turns to Geralt and throws the coin at him.
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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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One of the bard's pretty hands dips below the surface of the water, and Geralt feels it brush against his thigh before it wraps around Jaskier's cock. He takes his time about it, too; keeps his hand gentle and teasing rather than the quick, efficient strokes that Geralt knows that he'd prefer while on the road, when it was solely for the purposes of tending to a biological need. The quick, furtive fumblings that he'd indulge in while wrapped up in his bedroll, trying to stay quiet enough for a witcher's ears to not overhear him. He could never manage to be quite quiet enough, though, and Geralt always heard him.
And his sex drive had been... prodigious, when he was young. Chasing after skirts every night that they were in town, coming back to the room smelling like sex and satisfaction. It was tolerable-- so long as the bard didn't end up in the bed of someone he shouldn't-- if they were sleeping in separate beds, but almost insufferable when they had to share and the scent was inescapable. At the time, he'd thought that it was simple jealousy that Jaskier could find bed partners wherever he went without even having to pay a penny. But maybe he wouldn't have found it so objectionable if instead of a foreign scent lingering on the bard's skin, there had been his own.
But that's an old jealousy-- there aren't any nameless paramours leaving their traces on Jaskier anymore, certainly not until spring. Jaskier thumbs at the head of his cock and Geralt rumbles his approval low in his throat, smells the salt tang of precum and the steadily growing scent of lust. The bard's head rests against his shoulder and Geralt tips his nose into his hair, breathes deep. His hands wander along his wet back.
"And how would I help you?" He lets his voice drop low, and it's half because he knows how much Jaskier likes it, half because of his own interest in the proceedings. "How would I touch you, Jaskier?"
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The only moving Jaskier ends up doing is pressing his body against the witcher's, his free hand holding onto his very thick arm. If he hadn't already decided to do a whole thing about touching himself, he would just rut against Geralt's thigh - hell, if he didn't have to answer those questions, he would bury his face in those glorious pecs.
And it's not like he can ignore the questions. This is Jaskier, shutting up isn't something he does. Besides, Geralt has obviously been trapped by the retelling of his fantasies, and this bard loves an attentive audience eating out of the palm of his hand. Let the witcher know how much time they've wasted because of his stubbornness.
"L-like -ah- like you did everything else: methodically." He takes a deep breath and forces his hand to slow down again, or he won't be able to last until storytime is over. "It would be our first time, so you approached it like you approach a hunt you didn't have the details of. You absorbed as much information as you could and found out the most efficient way to go about it..." A peck for Geralt's shoulder scar, a simple way of saying this is being said as a compliment. "Your fingers would touch every inch of my cock slowly, testing-" His hand does exactly that. "-as your eyes would watch me with more intensity than usual to know what got a reaction out of me. And once you knew what my body liked, you would concentrate on those spots with the same efficiency you stabbed a monster on its weak spot..."
He moans Geralt's name then as his hands close around his balls the same way the witcher had done the night before. While Jaskier is nowhere close to having a marked body as Geralt does, both of them having calloused fingers makes the fantasy feel more real. His nails dig in the witcher's skin as his hips start bucking underwater, fucking his own hand the same way he fucked Geralt's all those hundreds of times he imagined it.
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Jaskier's hand moves slowly over himself, teasing and gentle and drawing it out for as long as possible as he described all the things he fantasized about, his voice a lovely, low drawl. The scent of lust and need is almost overwhelming on his skin, heady and spicy-sweet, physical proof of the veracity of his words. Not that he thinks that Jaskier would outright lie about what he wanted, but he's prone to exaggeration-- his scent is proof of the magnitude of his lust for what he describes.
A lust that drives him to buck his hips into his hand, chasing his release while imagining a witcher's rough, sword-calloused palm around him. Geralt hums low in his throat, and it's really only by virtue of his slow pulse that he hasn't gotten himself into an uncomfortable situation, cock-wise, just from the demonstration on how Jaskier likes to be touched. He can ignore that for a while yet; he has a better idea.
"Jaskier," he says, grasping the bard's wrist with one hand and gently pulling it away from his prick. He takes him by the shoulders and turns him around, then tugs him back so that his back rests against his front, his chin hooked over the bard's shoulder. This way he can see what he's doing, can drag his palms down the length of his body and underneath the water easily. He leaves his cock alone for now and instead cups his sack, stroking his thumb along the smooth, soft curve of them. His other hand tips Jaskier's head back, exposing the long line of his throat, still mottled with healing bruises.
"Would I tell you that you're a hunt I've been planning for twenty years? That I heard you every time you touched yourself in your bedroll, your fist in your mouth to try to keep yourself quiet? That I know which of your lovers pleased you the most by your smell, and how they bruised you?" He nips at the exposed throat, letting him feel just the edge of those teeth; enough to thrill him, not enough to hurt. "Or that I heard all the things that you said in your sleep, everything you begged me for in your dreams?"
Mercy, then-- he brings both hands to bear underneath the water, taking Jaskier's cock into his fist and tugging it quick and efficient, putting to good use the practical demonstration that the bard had given him. And this time he gets to be touched just how he likes with the hands that he'd been dreaming of, no need to pretend that the callouses were in the wrong place from lute strings rather than sword grips.
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"Fuck no, I said I'm not leaving until--"
Thankfully Geralt is extremely fast and efficient with his movements, and Jaskier quickly catches on what the witcher is going for. He can feel that thick dick against the curve of his ass and hums his approval - a pity it isn't quite awoken yet. For a short moment there, he considers sending his hands to his back, help Geralt join him in his pleasure, but the witcher is going all out and Jaskier doesn't have time to even think. His balls are a sensitive spot of his and Geralt's already abusing that knowledge - if the witcher wasn't holding him, Jaskier would've already slipped on the water. Instead he throws his head back and moans loudly, body arching and hands landing on his lover's strapping thighs.
Every stroke of that thumb on his sack sends sparks of pleasure throughout his whole body, makes him dig his nails on witcher skin and his toes curl underwater. It's so much better than any fantasy he's ever had - not only because it's the real thing, but because they're doing it in the hot springs of Kaer Morhen, out in the open where anyone could find them, or at least hear and smell them. It's not a crappy bed in an inn, it's not on the bumpy ground of the forest - it's at Geralt's home, in the water the others may bathe themselves later on. Part of him wants to be found, wants them all to know how much Geralt likes this normal, "delicate", average human body that still manages to keep up with a witcher.
Is the thrill of potential exhibitionism that sends a shiver down his spine and get his heart beating really fast? Or is Geralt's deep, sensual voice whispering dirty talk into his ear? Both, the answer is always both.
And oh, what sweet words are leaving that mouth that usually doesn't say much. Confessions of twenty years of knowing things and not actually doing anything about them, it's amazing how much of a turn-on and pure frustration they are at the same time. And yet... Jaskier has to shake his head.
"N-no, that wasn't-- oh fuck, yes, yes, give me your fucking teeth--" Is he begging? He's totally begging, coming undone under Geralt's ministrations, one of his hands coming up to grab the back of the witcher's neck and pull him as close as possible. "You wouldn't-- gods, Geralt-- you wouldn't say those things. That-- it would mean you knew and didn't reciprocate. It would... hurt..."
He sounds so pathetic right now, especially when the next confession reaches his lips - he may regret it later if Geralt teases him for it, but right now his brain isn't making good decisions, blurry with lust as it is. His mouth keeps running as his ass is rubbed against his lover's groin, silently asking for it.
"You would tell me that... that you liked watching me dance, that my singing of bawdy songs made you uncomfortable in those tight pants of yours, that-- fuuuck. Geralt, Geralt, just like that, you're so good to me, love..." Fantasies of a performer, of an attention whore, of a poet that wants to know his art has the effect he intended. It seems a different fantasy is the one that becomes real, though: Geralt is, indeed, methodically using what he's learned to masturbate Jaskier exactly as he likes it, making him forget about rubbing his ass and instead buck directly into those hands he loves so much. "You would say that you stayed until the end of my performance because you liked watching everyone's faces when they realized... yes, yes, more-- when they realized that no matter how much flirting and winking I did in my show I, ah fuck, I-- I still would go back to you."
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And what he wants, apparently, is plenty of ego-stroking to go along with the cock stroking. He oughtn't be surprised, the only thing bigger than Jaskier's dramatics is his ego. He shouldn't have ever told him about that thing in Vizima, about seeing the sight-reading contest; clearly it's gone to his head, the knowledge that Geralt is fond of his fillingless-pie voice.
"Is that why you always relished singing your bawdy songs?" he says, giving the hard cock in his fist a gentle squeeze; he almost fancies that he can feel the relentless pulse of blood in it, pounding through the thick vein on the underside in time with his heart. "Flirting around with your doublet open and your chemise half undone, singing at the top of your lungs about cock? I had half a mind to pull you out of taverns by that ridiculous fucking bow on the back of your trousers every time you started playing Fishmonger's Daughter. Was that what you were hoping for? That one day I'd crack and toss you over my shoulder in the middle of your set?"
And wouldn't that be a fine way to start an evening? Or it would be, anyway, if it wouldn't have surely resulted in a dozen men trying to stone him for making off with the bard to have his evil witchery way with him. And it wouldn't matter how much the bard would try to insist that he's a willing participant in the evil witchery way, Geralt would still end up either stoned or arrested. Ah, well. That's why this is dirty talk, just a fantasy.
"I could throw you into bed and really give you something to sing about."
He could give him something to sing about right now. Jaskier's been keen on getting a witcher's fangs into his neck, and though Geralt still refuses to put those teeth anywhere near such delicate structures, the bard does have a tempting strip of muscle that runs from neck to shoulder. He presses his lips to it for just a moment before biting down, the pressure firm enough to bruise but not enough to draw blood. A kind introduction to witcher fangs, while his hand continues to jack the bard's prick just how he likes it.
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That second when their faces morph as they realize Fshmonger's Daughter is about fucking a monster? Priceless. Jaskier never gets tired of it, and his ego grows a bit more every time he gets away with singing it in court.
But the main reason is definitely the attention and power. Having all eyes in the room, regardless of gender and sexual orientation, watching him with desire, feeling some heat in their groins without understanding why. He teases with winks, pushes the boundaries of how much flesh is allowed to be shown through his opened chemise, makes them notice his perky butt by the use of a strategically placed bow. Could these tactics work on an antisocial witcher that usually sticks to whores and one insane sorceress?
Turns out the answer is yes, and that thought is as pleasurable as the hand that touches him.
"S-so it did work," he manages to mumble with a short chuckle, a touch of pride and glee mixing in his scent under the overwhelming lust. So many years of thinking the opposite and now... Geralt is right, every confession of his strokes his ego more. "I, ah, I do love it when you ma-manhandle me... imagine their faces, Geralt, come on..."
Indeed, it's only a fantasy, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it. The mental image of Geralt picking him up in the middle of a performance is too good - even better if he's performing somewhere fancy, the scandal among the nobles would be delicious. And considering how much Geralt hates nobles? Jaskier is sure the witcher can appreciate the idea as well: the pretty songbird that everyone wanted but nobody was able to keep has been caught by the 'mutant' they hate so much. It's poetry in its purest form.
There's the start of another mumbled sentence, intending to tell Geralt how much he's given him to write about since last night already, but the witcher chooses that moment to fucking finally bite him. That delightful sting on his sensitive flesh pushes him through the edge and Jaskier can barely say fuck before coming in the water, head thrown back over Geralt's shoulder as his whole body shudders and his feet struggle to keep their balance on the slippery surface when every nerve is too busy bursting with pleasure. His hands hold onto Geralt's mighty muscles as he chases his orgasm to make it last as much as possible, his hips thrusting erratically into Geralt's hand, his mind incapable of speech for once.
It's a release of self-consciousness, of any thought whatsoever. It's having pure, raw ecstasy running through every vein and taking over his mind - no need of control, of decision making. Only the pleasure crashing inside him and the feeling of Geralt's body pressed outside his own.
And thank the gods for that strong body behind him, because Jaskier slumps right against it when he comes to reality, panting but still grinning like the happiest man alive.
"...you're going to be the death of me, Geralt of Rivia." His head is turned to look for Geralt's neck to nuzzle, the closest thing he can do to cuddling right now - his legs still feel like jelly, making it hard to move. "And I can't think of a more magnificent way to go."
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It's a good thing that Geralt has such good control over his own body, otherwise he might have been in the same position that Jaskier had been in-- hard and left wanting. Even so, there's a little life in his cock, the beginnings of an erection that could have turned into something if he let it. But he has work to do and it would take far too much time to get his blood up enough, so he chooses to ignore it and instead focus on kissing the bite mark that he left on Jaskier's shoulder. It's already started to turn red from the pressure and would certainly darken throughout the day; by the time they have lunch, it ought to be nicely bruised. He shouldn't take pleasure in the sight of his marks on the bard's skin, but he still likes the look of them.
Jaskier slumps back against him, his face turned to press into Geralt's neck. His panting breaths are warm against his throat, his heart still beating a quick drum-beat in his chest. Geralt's hands trail up to the bard's sides, holding him securely while he rests after his exertion. He runs the palm of one of his hands over Jaskier's stomach, feeling his diaphragm expand and contract with his breathing.
"Hm." It's a vague reply to his statement, but Jaskier and mortality are two things that he doesn't enjoy thinking about, even in jest. He's spent too many years trying to keep the bard from an early death either from getting too close to a dangerous monster or angry cuckolds, he wouldn't undo his own good work by killing the bard via orgasm. No matter how appealing such an end might be to him.
"You should follow me on fewer hunts if you want to die on my third sword."
Since Jaskier's legs aren't particularly keen on bearing him anywhere, Geralt slides an arm underneath his knees and hoists him up, carrying him as he steps out of the bath. He deposits the bard on a stone bench-- the stone is kept faintly warm by the same geothermal activity that heats the springs-- and fetches towels for them both to dry off with. Can't have a damp bard walking around the keep, after all.
"Here," he says, tossing one of them to him. "We're late."
Which is technically his fault, but also Jaskier's for being incorrigible.
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And love, of course. All the affection for the man holding him makes his scent so sweet, one could almost make jam out of it.
That sigh is followed by bright laughter at the mention of the third sword. There aren't enough words to describe how much it delights Jaskier to hear Geralt using that little metaphor he chose for a silly brother song. Honestly, he thought he'd loathe it. Shows how Geralt's sense of humor continues to surprise him.
"None of your swords would ever allow anything to happe-- eep!"
The sudden movement is what causes him to squeal in surprise - for a second Jaskier thinks he's finally lost balance and his butt would be meeting the bottom of the spring. What turns out to be instead is Geralt being his usual noble self. He can't help it, Jaskier has to giggle like a maid being rescued and carried by a knight. Isn't it romantic? And since he's already made the comparison in his head, may as well go all the way: he puts his arms around Geralt's neck and rewards his gallantry with a kiss on the cheek.
"And whose fault is that?" he asks with raised eyebrows as he proceeds to dry himself up.
Despite the rebuttal, he does hurry up, not wanting to get on Eskel's bad side and to prove Vesemir he can be relied on. That won't stop him from chatting all their way out of the springs, though, telling Geralt about the few things he's already enjoyed peeking into in the library and what topics he wants to cover with Cirilla as he holds the witcher's hand between them.
They need to stop by their room first to drop their other clothes and their grooming kit, and Jaskier takes the chance to pick his own quills, inks and notebook - he's sure the library will give him tons of information he'll want to take notes on. Seeing his lute against the wall gives him a pause, though, remembering the story-telling moment they had in the bath. After worrying his lower lip and staring at the lute case as if it contained the answers he's looking for, Jaskier decides to approach it and take out of the items he's hidden in there.
"What do you think I should do with this?" he asks as he turns to Geralt and throws the coin at him.
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