"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.
They get dressed without any further incident, which Geralt mostly chalks up to the fact that Jaskier's libido has been recently satiated. Hopefully he would remain satiated at least until the evening; there's too much work to be done between all the repairs and Ciri's training to take a sex break in the middle of the day.
Jaskier chats companionably the entire way back up to their rooms, apparently content to carry the lion's share of the conversation. He grabs Geralt's hand along the way, just to twine their fingers loosely together as they walk, and the witcher finds that anything that he would've said has dried up in his throat. The bard's hand is the same as it always has been, smooth-skinned except for the callouses he earned from countless hours of playing the lute, but it feels so warm when pressed against Geralt's palm. Has he always been so warm?
He lets go when they reach their room. He has to, of course, because he needs to go and fetch the supplies he'll need for copying and re-binding the books in the library, but even so-- Geralt's hand feels cold without it.
There's a brief flash of light as the coin arcs through the air, and Geralt catches it. He turns it over a few times in his hand. It doesn't have all of the marks and divots that he'd expect on a coin that's been in circulation for over twenty years, all because it's been tucked away safely in Jaskier's lute case. Safely and uselessly, a memento of something that hadn't happened the way that he remembered. Geralt could give him better keepsakes than this, things that are more practical than a coin that never gets spent. Even the rings and other gaudy baubles that Jaskier has from other lovers or that he bought for himself have their purposes beyond just sitting in a pocket-- they can be hocked for cash if necessary.
"It's a coin," he says, and tosses it back to Jaskier. "Use it to buy something. Even if I had given it to you then, it would've been so that you could've fed yourself, not to sit in your bag."
What good is a coin unless it's spent, after all? He would be content with any coin that he put into Jaskier's hands going towards keeping him warm and fed and cared for. For a hot meal or the shelter of an inn or a bath to clean off the dust of the road. Better even for it to be used on a brothel stay, he'd suppose. That would be satisfying a need, too.
And that goes double for when he'd been eighteen. He's a hale man these days, but when he'd been that young, he'd been lean and wiry and still growing into his own skin. Any coin that he'd gotten should've gone towards filling his belly, because stale bread picked up from the floor wasn't enough.
The heavy smell of disappointment invades the room as soon as Geralt tosses the coin back to Jaskier, who barely manages to catch it before it hits the floor. His reflexes usually aren't that bad, but he's feeling a bit shaken by Geralt's response.
He's told the witcher (at least twice by now) that he doesn't expect poetry and flowers from him, and he meant it. But they've also agreed Geralt would be nicer from now own, express himself better, just try a little more when it comes to understanding feelings and... well. Jaskier thought keepsakes were a safe topic to approach, considering the gifts he's found in this room the day they arrived.
Speaking of... yeah, that can a good place to start. Jaskier points at the book on the shelf as he speaks.
"And that's a ribbon. I gave it to you to use on your hair." A pause, a little frown appearing as his mind goes down memory road. "Or for a wound. I'm not sure which specific one it is." He sighs as he flips the coin, sending it up in the air before it lands on his hand again. "I misunderstood whom the coin was for that day. I get it. I promise I do," he adds with frustration in his voice. He doesn't like being wrong about something he considers so important, but there's no way around it this time. "But is it truly too late to still give it meaning now?"
As a calloused thumb rubs the coin in his palm, Jaskier hums the chorus of Toss a Coin, wondering if Geralt really hasn't made the connection yet - not only to the song, but also to the fact it's important because of the memory behind it.
Respect doesn't make history, he had told Geralt that day. And he still stands by it. Part of him, however... part of him wants at least part of the song to be true, to carry the memory of their meeting in its lyrics, for everyone to celebrate the crossing of their paths every time they sing it, every time it gets stuck in their heads the same way Jaskier stuck to Geralt's side: determined, perhaps a little annoying, but managing to stick because it still puts a smile on your face.
Jaskier's scent sours, all because of a single coin. Did it mean that much to him, to have this one coin be from Geralt? To tie this in to the lyrics of the song that made him famous? And could there really be all that many good memories tied up in this? Geralt remembers that hunt well, and none of it was something that he would've wanted to memorialize with a fucking keepsake. Did he miss some grand moment in between punching a teenager in the stomach and getting beaten up by elves?
"It can have whatever meaning you want it to," he says. "It's yours. Though I don't see why you wouldn't want a better keepsake than an old coin."
Hell, his lute is a far better memento of the whole thing than the coin. He got a fucking lute from the king of the elves after they broke his old one, which he then went on to use to compose the damn coin song to begin with, but it's the coin that he wants to have meaning. Is it because it was the first thing that Geralt gave him? Or, well, that he thought he gave to him, anyway.
Geralt goes over to him and picks up his things, to carry them down to the library for him. All of these notebooks and quills and things seems excessive, but who's he to argue?
"Are you ready to go? I've already kept Eskel waiting."
"It's mine?" Jaskier asks with raised eyebrows, his lips curling a little bit even - not a full smile yet, but they're getting there. One of the issues is that it hadn't been truly his after all. "I want whatever keepsake I can get from our travels together, and this is the only one I have from our first meeting. The lute doesn't count, it came later and is a memory of meeting the elves."
Although the lute does count as a keepsake of the moment his heart started falling for Geralt, he supposes. And yeah, he can't argue with Geralt's logic: objects can have the meaning one gives to them, they represent the idea behind the memory. In any other context, Jaskier would be reciting poetry about the concept. Now, though, it continues to bother him. Perhaps it's because he hadn't kept it as a keepsake at first - he just grabbed it like he grabs any other coin given by his audience. Geralt giving it to him is what makes it special... would it hurt the witcher to bring that meaning back?
Then again, Geralt calling yours is pretty intense for his talking standards. With a sigh and a nod, he puts the coin back in the lute case, then approaches his lover to grab half of his things from his arms. That way they both have a free hand, which obviously means Jaskier chooses to hand-hold their way to the library.
Does that mean he will still silent and drop the matter? Of course not, it's Jaskier.
"Isn't it an important memory for you as well?" The question is out of lips as soon as they give three steps out of the room. "Meeting you changed my life, Geralt. There's a before and an after Posada in my story."
Jaskier takes back half of his things, and though Geralt frowns, he doesn't object. It would be useless, anyway-- Jaskier will do as he will, regardless of what the witcher says. At least he's only carrying some of his things, rather than all. Jaskier shouldn't overwork himself in the next few days, not now that he's so high up in the mountains. The air is thinner here than it is down in the valley, and he'll need a little time to adjust to it.
"Meeting you was important," he says, and Jaskier's hand is warm and comfortable in his. He laces a few of their fingers together, letting his thumb rub gently against his knuckles. "But I prefer not to think about how I treated you."
Shortly after Jaskier took that coin, after all, Geralt had sunk his fist into the bard's stomach. He had thought it was for the boy's own good at the time, but now he wouldn't be able to raise a hand to him like that even if held at swordpoint. He doesn't like to think about the week or so afterwards, when Jaskier would wince when he sat up in the morning.
The path to the library is a well-kept one, so the halls are in decent repair and aren't too draughty, even for a human bard. There are a few places along the route that look out over the courtyard, repurposed into the witchers' training grounds.
"The memories you associate with that coin are more pleasant than mine."
Though how Jaskier has managed to avoid attaching an unpleasant memory like being slugged by a surly witcher onto that coin is beyond him.
The thumb rubs his knuckles, the words meeting you was important rub his heart - both are equally warm and make him smile, his scent sweetening with delight. He can't help gasping and looking at Geralt with wide eyes, though, when he adds the rest.
He's only been meaning to bring meaning back to the coin, he hadn't expected to bring out old feelings as well. Well, not so old perhaps, because apparently Geralt still feels bad about it right now. Jaskier is torn between melting at the sweetness of the statement and feeling bad for the witcher and his twenty-year-old guilt.
"And you've been carrying this remorse with you all this time?" He squeezes the witcher's hand. "Geralt..."
The door of the library appears in front of them then. Jaskier is about to curse their luck, but he realizes he can actually use this: letting go of Geralt's hand, he rushes inside, but only to drop his stuff on the table and then hurry back to his lover's side.
Well, not literally his side. Jaskier stands chest to chest with his witcher as he raises his hands to gently cup Geralt's face before leaning in to kiss him. There's no lust in it, no tongue or exploring - just a kind touch of lips with all his love put into it.
"Don't feel bad, my dear," he says when he finally breaks the kiss, but he keeps their foreheads touching, his thumb stroking Geralt's cheek. "I insulted you, and you responded in the only language they taught you between these walls - if anything, it bothers me more than you don't speak up against that dreadful misnomer more often."
He offers a smile then, one that's kinda smug. Scratch that, very smug.
"And alright, I do appreciate the fact my pain has haunted you, it's good for my ego after so many years of-" He imitates Geralt's voice. "we're not friends. But hey! You've admitted you do associate memories to that coin now, and that's all I need - if we both consider it a symbol of our meeting, then its importance shall carry on in the pocket of my lute case. Think of the punch as the first misstep a baby gives, falling to the ground only to stand up again and walk properly for the rest of his life."
Jaskier rushes off into the library to set his things down, though really he didn't need to hurry because Geralt's carrying the other half of his things. He returns just to kiss him, hands gentle on either side of his jaw, and it's a simple kiss-- soft, sweet, almost chaste if anything Jaskier could do could be called that. He feels it in his chest the same way that he does when the bard says I love you, those terrible little words that burrow into the core of him.
He frowns, then, at the bard's ego-- and at his unintentional feeding of it. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised that Jaskier managed to stroke his own ego from Geralt's longstanding guilt about their first meeting, but well. At least he's pleased now.
"I wasn't a child, Jaskier," he says. "I knew what I was doing. I thought it best for you to run back to your University after your first encounter with a monster than to die on the second."
The bard has survived every monster encounter thus far. Geralt dreads the day that luck runs dry.
"Come," he says, and only breaks away from Jaskier's gentle grip because he has to. There's still a wall for him to fix, and books for Jaskier to go through. "Let me show you the things you aren't supposed to touch."
He sets the rest of Jaskier's things on the table, then leads him to the back of the library where there's a section cordoned off with an iron gate. The gate itself isn't locked, but serves as a warning for the contents beyond. The tomes on those shelves have curses attached to them, and after so many decades, it's hard to say if the magic that was originally laid on them is still in the same shape. Like all magic, curses are Chaos. Geralt warns him not to touch anything past the gate if he values his life and/or cock.
Once the bard is settled in, though, Geralt is free to go down to the western wall and meet with Eskel to help with the repairs. The other witcher is annoyed, of course, at his tardiness, and when asked why he's late gets a simple reply-- the bard's horny.
As a consequences of his lateness, though, Eskel makes Geralt keep working even into the lunch hour and goes to fetch the bard himself.
"Time for lunch, bard," he says as he enters the library. "Let's try not to be late for anything else today."
"What a curious thing to say," he replies softly, his thumbs still stroking the witcher's cheeks. "I don't remember meeting any monsters in Posada."
But alright, it seems that's all the feelings they're getting out today. Which is a lot for Geralt's standards, so Jaskier counts it as a very productive morning. The gate Geralt takes him to doesn't look very impressive, to be honest - Jaskier had sneaked into more protected places at the university. His curiosity (or shall we say, nosiness) will make him touch those books anyway!
...or maybe not. Thank the gods Geralt warns him about those curses, or this bard wouldn't have had much to fuck Geralt with later.
Book work is the kind of chore he usually enjoys in small doses, hyperactive as he is and all. But today? Time freaking flies. It's fascinating to look at all these witcher texts, even the 'normal' ones like Geography and History books, because some of them are so fucking old, it's like having a window into the past.
He doesn't even realize he's hungry until Eskel snaps him out of his concentration. And no, he doesn't squeal in surprise, that's all lies! Don't believe Eskel when he mentions it later! (Fucking wolves and their fucking silent steps he swears...)
"I hope you aren't trying to imply that was my fault. That was all your brother," he replies as he follows Eskel out. The witcher arches an eyebrow, not believing him. Jaskier huffs. "That arsehole! To think he complains about MY lies!"
He tries to tell Eskel the real story, but he isn't sure how much he actually listens considering how many times he tells Jaskier he doesn't want to know the details of his brother's sexual life. But at least that little issue is out of the way, there's more story exchange coming, and Jaskier can't be happier. Eskel tells him some anecdotes about the trouble they used to get into when they were kids and gets a bit awkward (perhaps flustered, even?) when Jaskier declares them both to be adorable.
Oh, these witchers and their inability to accept compliments. Jaskier is going to wear them down eventually.
The day continues to be fantastic when Ciri joins him in the library for her first lesson. And said lesson ends up not having that much studying, to be honest. They end up chatting a lot about court life and various nobles they've met through the years, sharing stories about particularly nasty ones that would pretend to like them anyway for the sake of their image. There's some discussion about the current politics and how things got to where they are now as well, so the afternoon isn't completely lost - but even if it had been, Jaskier wouldn't have minded. Ciri needs this - to simply relax and be able to remember her old life without getting about it.
(They're so caught up in their little conversation that they don't even notice Geralt stopping by to only watch and smell them for a moment. See? Damn witchers and their sneaky ways!)
It's Vesemir's turn to be in charge of dinner tonight, but he does ask them to come and set up the table, and of course they both accept. Jaskier almost drops the cluttery, though, when Cirilla asks him to tell her the full story of her mother's betrothal. That came quicker than Jaskier expected! Even with Vesemir around and the others probably in their way, he asks her. She says yes, it's okay. She wants to know, needs to know. Besides, it's Geralt's story as much as it is hers, so his family should know the details as well.
Which means Geralt has probably told them like two sentences about that day. He should've seen that coming. Jaskier the bard to the rescue, fixing his lover's mistakes!
When the four younger witchers approach the mess hall, they'll hear Jaskier's voice... imitating Geralt's.
"All I hope for you my good lords, at your final breath: a shitless death. But I doubt it."
Cirilla laughs, and... oh, is that a snort by Vesemir? Jaskier sure is achieving a lot of difficult accomplishments today.
Geralt nearly misses lunch by the time he gets back from the wall, only catching the tail-end of a few anecdotes that Eskel's telling to entertain Jaskier. Harmless things, really, about their youthful indiscretions at the keep, back when it was still full of witchers and witchers-to-be. With that many boys running around, it was inevitable that they'd get themselves into some kind of mischief-- aarding the younger children into haystacks and stealing white gull from the cellars, that kind of thing. Undoubtedly nothing worse than what the bard would've gotten into as a wealthy man's son with free range of an estate.
After that, there's more work to be done-- finishing up the wall, then helping Lambert and Coën with the southern hall's roof. The Griffin is a diligent and steady worker, with good hands and a good eye for construction; Lambert is mostly thumbs and hit his own with a hammer at least three times before his brothers arrived. It puts him in a terrible mood for the rest of it, which isn't at all helped by Eskel or Geralt. Especially not when Eskel aards him off of the roof.
A while later, Geralt heads back inside to check on the bard and his charge; Jaskier had agreed to give Ciri lessons in the more civilized subjects, things that she ought to learn that witchers wouldn't be able to teach her. There's no one better for it, really-- the bard's had both a nobleman's upbringing and a formal education at Oxenfurt. He's a professor at said university, so surely he would be able to handle being the private tutor of one precocious princess, right?
Geralt goes to check on them anyway.
They're in the middle of some discussion of politics when Geralt comes across them in the library, wrapped up quite cozily with a fire banked in the hearth for warmth. Redanian politics has never been a topic that Geralt's had much interest in, so he knows little about the names and events that the bard's talking about, other than the ruling monarchs. Ciri seems quite engaged in the discussion, however, so he assumes that it must be going well. Neither of them notice him as he stands, leaning against one of the library stacks, listening to their steady human heartbeats. Jaskier smells pleased and relaxed, as does his child surprise, and that's... good. They're safe and well, and what else could he ask for?
Well. Other than, perhaps, some news of Yennefer. The rumors out of Sodden had been concerning, and though he doesn't think that she had perished there, he would have liked some hint that she had gotten out all right.
Geralt leaves the bard and his charge to their political lessons. His presence would only interrupt them, and he has no valuable input to offer. He's best employed right now with manual labor alongside his brothers, shoring up the keep.
By dinnertime, all four of them are tired and sore, ready to sit down for a heavy meal and then laze around in front of a fire for a few hours with some of Lambert's questionable alcohol. On the way in, they all could hear Jaskier entertaining Vesemir and Ciri, his voice pitched as low and gravelly as it could get to imitate Geralt's. The Cintran banquet, going by the fact that he's repeating that bit he said about shitless deaths.
The four witchers pile in, cold and hungry, and it's a good thing that Vesemir is nearly done with the food. Lambert's already starting on the bread, taking a few rolls without even waiting for butter.
"Telling tales again, Jaskier?" Geralt says, putting a hand on Jaskier's waist to move him aside while he reaches for the rolls himself. His hand gets smacked with a wooden spoon for it; Vesemir has a quick hand with that particular weapon. He's told to wait for supper while Lambert shoves the entirety of one of his pilfered rolls straight into his mouth, smug as you please. Vesemir points the spoon at him as well-- a silent warning that his knuckles won't be safe either if he tries that shit again.
(Little princesses, however, ask for it first-- may I have a roll, please, Vesemir?-- with wide, sweet eyes and are given permission for it, and told to go get the butter too. No wooden spoons for those little knuckles.)
The sudden wooden spoon smack startles Jaskier, making him jump with a mumbled oh fuck. The only reason why he hasn't tried to steal a roll himself is that he's been too busy telling Cirilla the story she asked for, so obviously talking has priority over eating, because this is Jaskier. Now he's grateful he didn't even get to try - learned this lesson without getting hurt, thank the gods for small mercies.
The shock goes away quickly, though, because here's Geralt returning to his side and putting a hand on his waist. Jaskier's scent instantly changes from startled to amorous, sweet with adoration for the witcher together with that little spicy touch of lust that happens every time Geralt touches him so kindly. Or touches him in general. Or when he's nearby. Or when he simply exists in the general area...
It also means he can't stop himself and leans in to kiss the witcher's cheek. So Cirilla takes over the answer in between bread bites.
"I asked him to tell me the whole story of my mother's betrothal."
"Emphasis on whole," Jaskier interjects with a teasing tone as he takes his seat at the table next to Geralt. "Because certain someone continues to be stingy with the details."
"Wait, this about how Geralt asked for the Law of Surprise?" Lambert asks. Jaskier and Cirilla nod. "Oh fuck yes, I've been wanting to know about this one too. Go on, bard."
Lambert makes an urging gesture with his hand that makes Jaskier snicker. It's not different from what happened at the springs, he realizes - these are all the important tales of Geralt's life. Monster hunts are interesting and all, but Cintra and Posada? Those are a unique situation that makes witchers extra curious.
They're also proof that the witcher can have more than the Path. Jaskier wonders if they realize that or they think they only want to hear these stories to make fun of Geralt.
And so the story gets told throughout dinner. Cirilla is curious about many things and Jaskier does his best to answer as many questions as possible, even if there are some details about the hidden politics behind the visitors he doesn't know about. It is obvious she appreciates his efforts, though, because sometimes she takes over to explain some things about Cintra, giving Jaskier a break to actually eat.
(She's getting better, he'd like to think. Her eyes still look kinda sad, but she talks proudly of her home, without hesitation or stumbling over her words. He'll have to ask Geralt later for a better comparison.)
Jaskier grins at her when the story gets to the part of the brawl and Geralt defending Dunny. "Remember what he had told me earlier about the petty squabbles of men?"
Oh, look at that, it seems the storytelling included the kikimora incident. Cirilla giggles.
"That he doesn't get involved."
"And what did he do?"
It's Eskel that replies, "He got involved."
"He got involved!" Jaskier laughs and so does everyone else around the table, including a chuckle from Vesemir. Two in one night? Jaskier is definitely counting this as a very successful day. (Does he mean orgasms or Vesemir's laughter? Yes.) By the time he makes it to Pavetta barfing on the floor and Geralt's heartfelt fuck, the whole table explodes in laughter. It is quite an ironic moment, perfectly timed - it would be wonderful as the cliffhanger of a chapter in a novel. Most importantly, Jaskier is glad Cirilla is able to enjoy it with as much merriment as the rest of them.
Said merriment is interrupted when Lambert suddenly curses and lowers his tankard on the table with more strength than necessary. "Wait a fucking second. If she was pregnant already--- that means she fucked the hedgehog?" Eskel slaps him on the back of his head. "What, don't tell me you aren't thinking it too!"
Cirilla can only hide her face on her hands and mumble "Gross."
It makes sense for Cirilla to be interested in the complete story of her mother's betrothal banquet, considering how young she was when her parents died. Geralt's bare-bones rendition of the tale wouldn't be nearly as satisfying as Jaskier's, and he had more knowledge of courtly things besides. He could give context where Geralt couldn't. His brothers, on the other hand-- well, Lambert wanted to know what happened because it would give him something else to dig on Geralt for.
Jaskier tells the tale over the course of the meal, transforming the story from Geralt's factual report of events into something worthy of one of his ballads, dramatic and exciting and comedic in just the right places. He has a tendency, as he always does, to wax a little bit too poetic about Geralt's supposed heroics during the fight, and the witcher has to pelt him with bits of bread to get him to move on.
At the time, it hadn't been funny, when Pavetta vomited on the floor and the true weight of what had just happened was revealed to all of them. But the way Jaskier tells it makes it seem lighter than it was, and there is a hint of a smile to Geralt's lips for the fact that Cirilla laughs. There are few prices that he wouldn't pay to see his child surprise happy.
And then Lambert starts talking about Pavetta fucking the hedgehog knight.
"He turned back into a man at midnight," Geralt says, because for fuck's sake, Lambert, don't scar his child surprise for life. Does anyone know for sure if Pavetta slept with Duny while he was a hedgehog man? Not anymore, because they can't just go and ask Ciri's parents. Nor should anyone. And, really, no one in this room could judge her for being a monsterfucker, because five out of seven are considered monsters, one of seven is currently fucking one of said monsters, and the last is the end result of the aforementioned Pavetta monsterfucking. So everyone is in a glass house here, there's no room for anyone to throw stones.
Dinner finishes up without any further discussions on the bedroom activities of Ciri's parents, to the betterment of all. Geralt stays behind with Vesemir to do the washing up while the other witchers take Ciri and Jaskier into the great hall, where there was already a fire in the hearth and comfortable chairs around it, and tables set up conveniently for games of Gwent. Lambert fetches a few bottles of his homemade liquor-- white gull for the witchers, vodka for Jaskier, cider for little princesses who weren't supposed to have alcohol. (He sneaks a nip of vodka into the cider when no one's looking, at Ciri's behest. Someone's angling for favorite uncle status, it seems.)
Geralt and Vesemir emerge from the kitchen a little while later, dishes cleaned and everything back in order. The old wolf settles himself in his favorite armchair near the fire with a book, content to spend the rest of the evening reading. Geralt goes to join in the games of Gwent, where Lambert's showing Ciri how to cheat at cards.
Lambert forbids Jaskier from touching the white gull, which of course makes Jaskier want to try it even more. He does manage to steal a glass when the witchers are arguing over who is the real cheater here, but he regrets it a soon as he sniffs it: it makes him dizzy for a few seconds.
Right. Lesson fucking learned, thank you.
It's a very pleasant evening, Jaskier must admit. Calm (which yes he can do, thank you!), relaxed, cozy. He plays and sings for the witchers while they play (and read), laughing at their sibling squabbles and proudly congratulating Cirilla when she manages to win a hand or pull Lambert's tricks successfully. It's a cute little family, and while the circumstances that brought them here aren't exactly the best, Jaskier is glad they have each other - glad they've accepted him in it as well.
Thousand of ballads he'll write about them, Jaskier swears to himself on the spot, and the Continent shall never insult them again.
Cirilla, bless her young soul, starts nodding off soon after Jaskier finally plays the song about her parents' betrothal and it's Vesemir that offers to take her back to her room since he decides it's time for him to go to bed as well. And as soon as he's out of sight, Jaskier can tell the mood of the room instantly shifts - it's not like the witchers were tense before (they weren't) but there's always an obvious wave of restfulness among the "younger" people when an authority figure leaves them alone. It reminds Jaskier of evenings spent in Oxenfurt with fellow students (and eventually fellow teachers) sneaking around once the headmaster was gone.
And that gives Jaskier an idea.
"My dear witchers, how about a little game?" He asks after putting his lute back in its case and pouring himself more vodka. "Ever heard of Never have I ever?"
Lambert laughs, but the others look clueless, so Jaskier proceeds to quickly explain the rules.
"What do you think?"
"You really think you can outdrink *us*, bard?" Lambert asks back.
"Oh, could I?" Jaskier grins. "Never have I ever killed a drowner."
The witchers' faces and cursing that follows are music to his ears.
With Vesemir and Cirilla in bed, the rest of the witchers could relax-- they no longer had to be on their best behavior, or what passed for it, with their mentor and a child around. They could talk about things that they'd never speak of in front of Vesemir or Ciri, swap stories about hunts gone awry that would make their former teacher want to give them remedial lessons and sordid brothel tales that even a girl with a Skelligan grandfather shouldn't hear. (The latter had something of a practical purpose, too-- it's good to know which brothels are willing to host a witcher, even if you aren't going on a three-day binge of debauchery.)
Jaskier, however, has an idea for a game. Or, anyway, knows of one that goes well with drinking, and the rules for it are simple enough. He starts off strong, of course, picking a question that he knows very well will get all four of his witcher companions to drink. There is some mild grumbling about such a low blow, but all of them drink. Eskel is next on the go-around, gestures at Jaskier with his handful of cards.
"You should be careful, bard. You're easy to target, too." He puts down a card that makes Lambert curse, and says, "Never have I ever played a lute."
That will obviously catch Jaskier, and surprisingly, Coën too. The Griffin only shrugs in response, and just says, "I didn't play it well."
It's the Griffin's turn next, and he thinks about his question for a moment, watching Lambert try to recover in his card game. "Never have I ever... been eaten by a selkiemore."
"Gods willing you never will," Geralt says, and takes a drink. "Fucking reeks."
Thankfully, there aren't very many contracts ever put out to deal with selkiemore, since they're rare and, technically, not even carnivorous. If they ever swallow a person, it's usually on on accident, the poor soul just getting swept up into its maw while it trawls the water for plankton. Makes its guts reek something foul, though.
Lambert's up next, and considering that his game of gwent's going poorly, getting Eskel drunk might be the only way that he wins. "Never have I ever fucked a succubus," he says, and Eskel's the only one that takes a drink.
"A succubus?" Geralt says, eyebrows rising towards his hairline. Eskel grins and shrugs, apparently perfectly willing to leave the story there and let everyone wonder about it. Though Geralt's sure that he could get it out of him later, once he's good and sloshed; Eskel never holds out on out him for long.
Then it's Geralt's turn. "Hm. I've never... taught at Oxenfurt."
Jaskier rolls his eyes at Eskel, but drinks as he should.
"A target!" He exclaims with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You're going to lose this game pathetically if you pick a target! The strategic key is finding the common denominator and--" And just like that, he goes from gamesplaining Eskel to beaming at Coën. "You WHAT! How come you didn't tell me!"
Silly witchers, always keeping the best details to themselves. Since the selkiemore thing doesn't apply to him, he takes that opportunity to shower Coën with questions about his lute playing, but Jaskier gets sidetracked again at the mention of sex with a succubus. Look, it's not his fault there are so many interesting tales being told at the same time, alright? This is why he likes this game so much in the first place.
"Fucked a succubus!" He says with a delighted gasp, eyes widening and sparkling with curiosity. "You can actually do that and survive? Or was it a witcher thing? Was it good? Would you do it again? What about an incubus? Eskel, don't give me that look, I need to hear the whole--"
Wait, never mind, time to indignantly gasp at Geralt with a hand on his chest. He's hurt, Geralt. HURT!
"You dare to target your beloved! This is harassing! Harassing I say!" Eskel is chuckling, and since he was the one to start the whole targeting deal, Jaskier glares at him and back at Geralt before saying, "Never have I ever asked for the Law of Surprise!"
An effective way to get Geralt and Eskel both, Jaskier thinks, considering the current company of Cirilla and Scorpion. What Jaskier doesn't see coming, though (and maybe he should've) is the fact everyone ends up drinking. Gaping, he looks from one witcher to the next, not believing what he's seeing.
"Unbelievable. Is that the only way witchers know how to ask for rewards?"
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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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Jaskier chats companionably the entire way back up to their rooms, apparently content to carry the lion's share of the conversation. He grabs Geralt's hand along the way, just to twine their fingers loosely together as they walk, and the witcher finds that anything that he would've said has dried up in his throat. The bard's hand is the same as it always has been, smooth-skinned except for the callouses he earned from countless hours of playing the lute, but it feels so warm when pressed against Geralt's palm. Has he always been so warm?
He lets go when they reach their room. He has to, of course, because he needs to go and fetch the supplies he'll need for copying and re-binding the books in the library, but even so-- Geralt's hand feels cold without it.
There's a brief flash of light as the coin arcs through the air, and Geralt catches it. He turns it over a few times in his hand. It doesn't have all of the marks and divots that he'd expect on a coin that's been in circulation for over twenty years, all because it's been tucked away safely in Jaskier's lute case. Safely and uselessly, a memento of something that hadn't happened the way that he remembered. Geralt could give him better keepsakes than this, things that are more practical than a coin that never gets spent. Even the rings and other gaudy baubles that Jaskier has from other lovers or that he bought for himself have their purposes beyond just sitting in a pocket-- they can be hocked for cash if necessary.
"It's a coin," he says, and tosses it back to Jaskier. "Use it to buy something. Even if I had given it to you then, it would've been so that you could've fed yourself, not to sit in your bag."
What good is a coin unless it's spent, after all? He would be content with any coin that he put into Jaskier's hands going towards keeping him warm and fed and cared for. For a hot meal or the shelter of an inn or a bath to clean off the dust of the road. Better even for it to be used on a brothel stay, he'd suppose. That would be satisfying a need, too.
And that goes double for when he'd been eighteen. He's a hale man these days, but when he'd been that young, he'd been lean and wiry and still growing into his own skin. Any coin that he'd gotten should've gone towards filling his belly, because stale bread picked up from the floor wasn't enough.
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He's told the witcher (at least twice by now) that he doesn't expect poetry and flowers from him, and he meant it. But they've also agreed Geralt would be nicer from now own, express himself better, just try a little more when it comes to understanding feelings and... well. Jaskier thought keepsakes were a safe topic to approach, considering the gifts he's found in this room the day they arrived.
Speaking of... yeah, that can a good place to start. Jaskier points at the book on the shelf as he speaks.
"And that's a ribbon. I gave it to you to use on your hair." A pause, a little frown appearing as his mind goes down memory road. "Or for a wound. I'm not sure which specific one it is." He sighs as he flips the coin, sending it up in the air before it lands on his hand again. "I misunderstood whom the coin was for that day. I get it. I promise I do," he adds with frustration in his voice. He doesn't like being wrong about something he considers so important, but there's no way around it this time. "But is it truly too late to still give it meaning now?"
As a calloused thumb rubs the coin in his palm, Jaskier hums the chorus of Toss a Coin, wondering if Geralt really hasn't made the connection yet - not only to the song, but also to the fact it's important because of the memory behind it.
Respect doesn't make history, he had told Geralt that day. And he still stands by it. Part of him, however... part of him wants at least part of the song to be true, to carry the memory of their meeting in its lyrics, for everyone to celebrate the crossing of their paths every time they sing it, every time it gets stuck in their heads the same way Jaskier stuck to Geralt's side: determined, perhaps a little annoying, but managing to stick because it still puts a smile on your face.
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"It can have whatever meaning you want it to," he says. "It's yours. Though I don't see why you wouldn't want a better keepsake than an old coin."
Hell, his lute is a far better memento of the whole thing than the coin. He got a fucking lute from the king of the elves after they broke his old one, which he then went on to use to compose the damn coin song to begin with, but it's the coin that he wants to have meaning. Is it because it was the first thing that Geralt gave him? Or, well, that he thought he gave to him, anyway.
Geralt goes over to him and picks up his things, to carry them down to the library for him. All of these notebooks and quills and things seems excessive, but who's he to argue?
"Are you ready to go? I've already kept Eskel waiting."
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Although the lute does count as a keepsake of the moment his heart started falling for Geralt, he supposes. And yeah, he can't argue with Geralt's logic: objects can have the meaning one gives to them, they represent the idea behind the memory. In any other context, Jaskier would be reciting poetry about the concept. Now, though, it continues to bother him. Perhaps it's because he hadn't kept it as a keepsake at first - he just grabbed it like he grabs any other coin given by his audience. Geralt giving it to him is what makes it special... would it hurt the witcher to bring that meaning back?
Then again, Geralt calling yours is pretty intense for his talking standards. With a sigh and a nod, he puts the coin back in the lute case, then approaches his lover to grab half of his things from his arms. That way they both have a free hand, which obviously means Jaskier chooses to hand-hold their way to the library.
Does that mean he will still silent and drop the matter? Of course not, it's Jaskier.
"Isn't it an important memory for you as well?" The question is out of lips as soon as they give three steps out of the room. "Meeting you changed my life, Geralt. There's a before and an after Posada in my story."
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"Meeting you was important," he says, and Jaskier's hand is warm and comfortable in his. He laces a few of their fingers together, letting his thumb rub gently against his knuckles. "But I prefer not to think about how I treated you."
Shortly after Jaskier took that coin, after all, Geralt had sunk his fist into the bard's stomach. He had thought it was for the boy's own good at the time, but now he wouldn't be able to raise a hand to him like that even if held at swordpoint. He doesn't like to think about the week or so afterwards, when Jaskier would wince when he sat up in the morning.
The path to the library is a well-kept one, so the halls are in decent repair and aren't too draughty, even for a human bard. There are a few places along the route that look out over the courtyard, repurposed into the witchers' training grounds.
"The memories you associate with that coin are more pleasant than mine."
Though how Jaskier has managed to avoid attaching an unpleasant memory like being slugged by a surly witcher onto that coin is beyond him.
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He's only been meaning to bring meaning back to the coin, he hadn't expected to bring out old feelings as well. Well, not so old perhaps, because apparently Geralt still feels bad about it right now. Jaskier is torn between melting at the sweetness of the statement and feeling bad for the witcher and his twenty-year-old guilt.
"And you've been carrying this remorse with you all this time?" He squeezes the witcher's hand. "Geralt..."
The door of the library appears in front of them then. Jaskier is about to curse their luck, but he realizes he can actually use this: letting go of Geralt's hand, he rushes inside, but only to drop his stuff on the table and then hurry back to his lover's side.
Well, not literally his side. Jaskier stands chest to chest with his witcher as he raises his hands to gently cup Geralt's face before leaning in to kiss him. There's no lust in it, no tongue or exploring - just a kind touch of lips with all his love put into it.
"Don't feel bad, my dear," he says when he finally breaks the kiss, but he keeps their foreheads touching, his thumb stroking Geralt's cheek. "I insulted you, and you responded in the only language they taught you between these walls - if anything, it bothers me more than you don't speak up against that dreadful misnomer more often."
He offers a smile then, one that's kinda smug. Scratch that, very smug.
"And alright, I do appreciate the fact my pain has haunted you, it's good for my ego after so many years of-" He imitates Geralt's voice. "we're not friends. But hey! You've admitted you do associate memories to that coin now, and that's all I need - if we both consider it a symbol of our meeting, then its importance shall carry on in the pocket of my lute case. Think of the punch as the first misstep a baby gives, falling to the ground only to stand up again and walk properly for the rest of his life."
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He frowns, then, at the bard's ego-- and at his unintentional feeding of it. Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised that Jaskier managed to stroke his own ego from Geralt's longstanding guilt about their first meeting, but well. At least he's pleased now.
"I wasn't a child, Jaskier," he says. "I knew what I was doing. I thought it best for you to run back to your University after your first encounter with a monster than to die on the second."
The bard has survived every monster encounter thus far. Geralt dreads the day that luck runs dry.
"Come," he says, and only breaks away from Jaskier's gentle grip because he has to. There's still a wall for him to fix, and books for Jaskier to go through. "Let me show you the things you aren't supposed to touch."
He sets the rest of Jaskier's things on the table, then leads him to the back of the library where there's a section cordoned off with an iron gate. The gate itself isn't locked, but serves as a warning for the contents beyond. The tomes on those shelves have curses attached to them, and after so many decades, it's hard to say if the magic that was originally laid on them is still in the same shape. Like all magic, curses are Chaos. Geralt warns him not to touch anything past the gate if he values his life and/or cock.
Once the bard is settled in, though, Geralt is free to go down to the western wall and meet with Eskel to help with the repairs. The other witcher is annoyed, of course, at his tardiness, and when asked why he's late gets a simple reply-- the bard's horny.
As a consequences of his lateness, though, Eskel makes Geralt keep working even into the lunch hour and goes to fetch the bard himself.
"Time for lunch, bard," he says as he enters the library. "Let's try not to be late for anything else today."
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But alright, it seems that's all the feelings they're getting out today. Which is a lot for Geralt's standards, so Jaskier counts it as a very productive morning. The gate Geralt takes him to doesn't look very impressive, to be honest - Jaskier had sneaked into more protected places at the university. His curiosity (or shall we say, nosiness) will make him touch those books anyway!
...or maybe not. Thank the gods Geralt warns him about those curses, or this bard wouldn't have had much to fuck Geralt with later.
Book work is the kind of chore he usually enjoys in small doses, hyperactive as he is and all. But today? Time freaking flies. It's fascinating to look at all these witcher texts, even the 'normal' ones like Geography and History books, because some of them are so fucking old, it's like having a window into the past.
He doesn't even realize he's hungry until Eskel snaps him out of his concentration. And no, he doesn't squeal in surprise, that's all lies! Don't believe Eskel when he mentions it later! (Fucking wolves and their fucking silent steps he swears...)
"I hope you aren't trying to imply that was my fault. That was all your brother," he replies as he follows Eskel out. The witcher arches an eyebrow, not believing him. Jaskier huffs. "That arsehole! To think he complains about MY lies!"
He tries to tell Eskel the real story, but he isn't sure how much he actually listens considering how many times he tells Jaskier he doesn't want to know the details of his brother's sexual life. But at least that little issue is out of the way, there's more story exchange coming, and Jaskier can't be happier. Eskel tells him some anecdotes about the trouble they used to get into when they were kids and gets a bit awkward (perhaps flustered, even?) when Jaskier declares them both to be adorable.
Oh, these witchers and their inability to accept compliments. Jaskier is going to wear them down eventually.
The day continues to be fantastic when Ciri joins him in the library for her first lesson. And said lesson ends up not having that much studying, to be honest. They end up chatting a lot about court life and various nobles they've met through the years, sharing stories about particularly nasty ones that would pretend to like them anyway for the sake of their image. There's some discussion about the current politics and how things got to where they are now as well, so the afternoon isn't completely lost - but even if it had been, Jaskier wouldn't have minded. Ciri needs this - to simply relax and be able to remember her old life without getting about it.
(They're so caught up in their little conversation that they don't even notice Geralt stopping by to only watch
and smellthem for a moment. See? Damn witchers and their sneaky ways!)It's Vesemir's turn to be in charge of dinner tonight, but he does ask them to come and set up the table, and of course they both accept. Jaskier almost drops the cluttery, though, when Cirilla asks him to tell her the full story of her mother's betrothal. That came quicker than Jaskier expected! Even with Vesemir around and the others probably in their way, he asks her. She says yes, it's okay. She wants to know, needs to know. Besides, it's Geralt's story as much as it is hers, so his family should know the details as well.
Which means Geralt has probably told them like two sentences about that day. He should've seen that coming. Jaskier the bard to the rescue, fixing his lover's mistakes!
When the four younger witchers approach the mess hall, they'll hear Jaskier's voice... imitating Geralt's.
"All I hope for you my good lords, at your final breath: a shitless death. But I doubt it."
Cirilla laughs, and... oh, is that a snort by Vesemir? Jaskier sure is achieving a lot of difficult accomplishments today.
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After that, there's more work to be done-- finishing up the wall, then helping Lambert and Coën with the southern hall's roof. The Griffin is a diligent and steady worker, with good hands and a good eye for construction; Lambert is mostly thumbs and hit his own with a hammer at least three times before his brothers arrived. It puts him in a terrible mood for the rest of it, which isn't at all helped by Eskel or Geralt. Especially not when Eskel aards him off of the roof.
A while later, Geralt heads back inside to check on the bard and his charge; Jaskier had agreed to give Ciri lessons in the more civilized subjects, things that she ought to learn that witchers wouldn't be able to teach her. There's no one better for it, really-- the bard's had both a nobleman's upbringing and a formal education at Oxenfurt. He's a professor at said university, so surely he would be able to handle being the private tutor of one precocious princess, right?
Geralt goes to check on them anyway.
They're in the middle of some discussion of politics when Geralt comes across them in the library, wrapped up quite cozily with a fire banked in the hearth for warmth. Redanian politics has never been a topic that Geralt's had much interest in, so he knows little about the names and events that the bard's talking about, other than the ruling monarchs. Ciri seems quite engaged in the discussion, however, so he assumes that it must be going well. Neither of them notice him as he stands, leaning against one of the library stacks, listening to their steady human heartbeats. Jaskier smells pleased and relaxed, as does his child surprise, and that's... good. They're safe and well, and what else could he ask for?
Well. Other than, perhaps, some news of Yennefer. The rumors out of Sodden had been concerning, and though he doesn't think that she had perished there, he would have liked some hint that she had gotten out all right.
Geralt leaves the bard and his charge to their political lessons. His presence would only interrupt them, and he has no valuable input to offer. He's best employed right now with manual labor alongside his brothers, shoring up the keep.
By dinnertime, all four of them are tired and sore, ready to sit down for a heavy meal and then laze around in front of a fire for a few hours with some of Lambert's questionable alcohol. On the way in, they all could hear Jaskier entertaining Vesemir and Ciri, his voice pitched as low and gravelly as it could get to imitate Geralt's. The Cintran banquet, going by the fact that he's repeating that bit he said about shitless deaths.
The four witchers pile in, cold and hungry, and it's a good thing that Vesemir is nearly done with the food. Lambert's already starting on the bread, taking a few rolls without even waiting for butter.
"Telling tales again, Jaskier?" Geralt says, putting a hand on Jaskier's waist to move him aside while he reaches for the rolls himself. His hand gets smacked with a wooden spoon for it; Vesemir has a quick hand with that particular weapon. He's told to wait for supper while Lambert shoves the entirety of one of his pilfered rolls straight into his mouth, smug as you please. Vesemir points the spoon at him as well-- a silent warning that his knuckles won't be safe either if he tries that shit again.
(Little princesses, however, ask for it first-- may I have a roll, please, Vesemir?-- with wide, sweet eyes and are given permission for it, and told to go get the butter too. No wooden spoons for those little knuckles.)
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The shock goes away quickly, though, because here's Geralt returning to his side and putting a hand on his waist. Jaskier's scent instantly changes from startled to amorous, sweet with adoration for the witcher together with that little spicy touch of lust that happens every time Geralt touches him so kindly. Or touches him in general. Or when he's nearby. Or when he simply exists in the general area...
It also means he can't stop himself and leans in to kiss the witcher's cheek. So Cirilla takes over the answer in between bread bites.
"I asked him to tell me the whole story of my mother's betrothal."
"Emphasis on whole," Jaskier interjects with a teasing tone as he takes his seat at the table next to Geralt. "Because certain someone continues to be stingy with the details."
"Wait, this about how Geralt asked for the Law of Surprise?" Lambert asks. Jaskier and Cirilla nod. "Oh fuck yes, I've been wanting to know about this one too. Go on, bard."
Lambert makes an urging gesture with his hand that makes Jaskier snicker. It's not different from what happened at the springs, he realizes - these are all the important tales of Geralt's life. Monster hunts are interesting and all, but Cintra and Posada? Those are a unique situation that makes witchers extra curious.
They're also proof that the witcher can have more than the Path. Jaskier wonders if they realize that or they think they only want to hear these stories to make fun of Geralt.
And so the story gets told throughout dinner. Cirilla is curious about many things and Jaskier does his best to answer as many questions as possible, even if there are some details about the hidden politics behind the visitors he doesn't know about. It is obvious she appreciates his efforts, though, because sometimes she takes over to explain some things about Cintra, giving Jaskier a break to actually eat.
(She's getting better, he'd like to think. Her eyes still look kinda sad, but she talks proudly of her home, without hesitation or stumbling over her words. He'll have to ask Geralt later for a better comparison.)
Jaskier grins at her when the story gets to the part of the brawl and Geralt defending Dunny. "Remember what he had told me earlier about the petty squabbles of men?"
Oh, look at that, it seems the storytelling included the kikimora incident. Cirilla giggles.
"That he doesn't get involved."
"And what did he do?"
It's Eskel that replies, "He got involved."
"He got involved!" Jaskier laughs and so does everyone else around the table, including a chuckle from Vesemir. Two in one night? Jaskier is definitely counting this as a very successful day. (Does he mean orgasms or Vesemir's laughter? Yes.) By the time he makes it to Pavetta barfing on the floor and Geralt's heartfelt fuck, the whole table explodes in laughter. It is quite an ironic moment, perfectly timed - it would be wonderful as the cliffhanger of a chapter in a novel. Most importantly, Jaskier is glad Cirilla is able to enjoy it with as much merriment as the rest of them.
Said merriment is interrupted when Lambert suddenly curses and lowers his tankard on the table with more strength than necessary. "Wait a fucking second. If she was pregnant already--- that means she fucked the hedgehog?" Eskel slaps him on the back of his head. "What, don't tell me you aren't thinking it too!"
Cirilla can only hide her face on her hands and mumble "Gross."
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Jaskier tells the tale over the course of the meal, transforming the story from Geralt's factual report of events into something worthy of one of his ballads, dramatic and exciting and comedic in just the right places. He has a tendency, as he always does, to wax a little bit too poetic about Geralt's supposed heroics during the fight, and the witcher has to pelt him with bits of bread to get him to move on.
At the time, it hadn't been funny, when Pavetta vomited on the floor and the true weight of what had just happened was revealed to all of them. But the way Jaskier tells it makes it seem lighter than it was, and there is a hint of a smile to Geralt's lips for the fact that Cirilla laughs. There are few prices that he wouldn't pay to see his child surprise happy.
And then Lambert starts talking about Pavetta fucking the hedgehog knight.
"He turned back into a man at midnight," Geralt says, because for fuck's sake, Lambert, don't scar his child surprise for life. Does anyone know for sure if Pavetta slept with Duny while he was a hedgehog man? Not anymore, because they can't just go and ask Ciri's parents. Nor should anyone. And, really, no one in this room could judge her for being a monsterfucker, because five out of seven are considered monsters, one of seven is currently fucking one of said monsters, and the last is the end result of the aforementioned Pavetta monsterfucking. So everyone is in a glass house here, there's no room for anyone to throw stones.
Dinner finishes up without any further discussions on the bedroom activities of Ciri's parents, to the betterment of all. Geralt stays behind with Vesemir to do the washing up while the other witchers take Ciri and Jaskier into the great hall, where there was already a fire in the hearth and comfortable chairs around it, and tables set up conveniently for games of Gwent. Lambert fetches a few bottles of his homemade liquor-- white gull for the witchers, vodka for Jaskier, cider for little princesses who weren't supposed to have alcohol. (He sneaks a nip of vodka into the cider when no one's looking, at Ciri's behest. Someone's angling for favorite uncle status, it seems.)
Geralt and Vesemir emerge from the kitchen a little while later, dishes cleaned and everything back in order. The old wolf settles himself in his favorite armchair near the fire with a book, content to spend the rest of the evening reading. Geralt goes to join in the games of Gwent, where Lambert's showing Ciri how to cheat at cards.
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Right. Lesson fucking learned, thank you.
It's a very pleasant evening, Jaskier must admit. Calm (which yes he can do, thank you!), relaxed, cozy. He plays and sings for the witchers while they play (and read), laughing at their sibling squabbles and proudly congratulating Cirilla when she manages to win a hand or pull Lambert's tricks successfully. It's a cute little family, and while the circumstances that brought them here aren't exactly the best, Jaskier is glad they have each other - glad they've accepted him in it as well.
Thousand of ballads he'll write about them, Jaskier swears to himself on the spot, and the Continent shall never insult them again.
Cirilla, bless her young soul, starts nodding off soon after Jaskier finally plays the song about her parents' betrothal and it's Vesemir that offers to take her back to her room since he decides it's time for him to go to bed as well. And as soon as he's out of sight, Jaskier can tell the mood of the room instantly shifts - it's not like the witchers were tense before (they weren't) but there's always an obvious wave of restfulness among the "younger" people when an authority figure leaves them alone. It reminds Jaskier of evenings spent in Oxenfurt with fellow students (and eventually fellow teachers) sneaking around once the headmaster was gone.
And that gives Jaskier an idea.
"My dear witchers, how about a little game?" He asks after putting his lute back in its case and pouring himself more vodka. "Ever heard of Never have I ever?"
Lambert laughs, but the others look clueless, so Jaskier proceeds to quickly explain the rules.
"What do you think?"
"You really think you can outdrink *us*, bard?" Lambert asks back.
"Oh, could I?" Jaskier grins. "Never have I ever killed a drowner."
The witchers' faces and cursing that follows are music to his ears.
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Jaskier, however, has an idea for a game. Or, anyway, knows of one that goes well with drinking, and the rules for it are simple enough. He starts off strong, of course, picking a question that he knows very well will get all four of his witcher companions to drink. There is some mild grumbling about such a low blow, but all of them drink. Eskel is next on the go-around, gestures at Jaskier with his handful of cards.
"You should be careful, bard. You're easy to target, too." He puts down a card that makes Lambert curse, and says, "Never have I ever played a lute."
That will obviously catch Jaskier, and surprisingly, Coën too. The Griffin only shrugs in response, and just says, "I didn't play it well."
It's the Griffin's turn next, and he thinks about his question for a moment, watching Lambert try to recover in his card game. "Never have I ever... been eaten by a selkiemore."
"Gods willing you never will," Geralt says, and takes a drink. "Fucking reeks."
Thankfully, there aren't very many contracts ever put out to deal with selkiemore, since they're rare and, technically, not even carnivorous. If they ever swallow a person, it's usually on on accident, the poor soul just getting swept up into its maw while it trawls the water for plankton. Makes its guts reek something foul, though.
Lambert's up next, and considering that his game of gwent's going poorly, getting Eskel drunk might be the only way that he wins. "Never have I ever fucked a succubus," he says, and Eskel's the only one that takes a drink.
"A succubus?" Geralt says, eyebrows rising towards his hairline. Eskel grins and shrugs, apparently perfectly willing to leave the story there and let everyone wonder about it. Though Geralt's sure that he could get it out of him later, once he's good and sloshed; Eskel never holds out on out him for long.
Then it's Geralt's turn. "Hm. I've never... taught at Oxenfurt."
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"A target!" He exclaims with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You're going to lose this game pathetically if you pick a target! The strategic key is finding the common denominator and--" And just like that, he goes from gamesplaining Eskel to beaming at Coën. "You WHAT! How come you didn't tell me!"
Silly witchers, always keeping the best details to themselves. Since the selkiemore thing doesn't apply to him, he takes that opportunity to shower Coën with questions about his lute playing, but Jaskier gets sidetracked again at the mention of sex with a succubus. Look, it's not his fault there are so many interesting tales being told at the same time, alright? This is why he likes this game so much in the first place.
"Fucked a succubus!" He says with a delighted gasp, eyes widening and sparkling with curiosity. "You can actually do that and survive? Or was it a witcher thing? Was it good? Would you do it again? What about an incubus? Eskel, don't give me that look, I need to hear the whole--"
Wait, never mind, time to indignantly gasp at Geralt with a hand on his chest. He's hurt, Geralt. HURT!
"You dare to target your beloved! This is harassing! Harassing I say!" Eskel is chuckling, and since he was the one to start the whole targeting deal, Jaskier glares at him and back at Geralt before saying, "Never have I ever asked for the Law of Surprise!"
An effective way to get Geralt and Eskel both, Jaskier thinks, considering the current company of Cirilla and Scorpion. What Jaskier doesn't see coming, though (and maybe he should've) is the fact everyone ends up drinking. Gaping, he looks from one witcher to the next, not believing what he's seeing.
"Unbelievable. Is that the only way witchers know how to ask for rewards?"