Geralt saying he doesn't want Yennefer any longer should be a reason for celebration, it should be the final push he needs to run to Geralt's arms and promise him forever.
But it isn't.
How did they end up like this? Cuddling, but because of nightmares. Sharing a love confession, but because of a class. Getting a nickname, but as a way to placate him. Knowing Geralt's heart is free, but in exchange of poking at his wounds. Jaskier learned at 18, on the road, that the world isn't like the ballads said, but still... this is so incredibly, utterly wrong on a whole new level.
He winces at Geralt's outburst, at least, and looks down at his hands, feeling like shit for having caused him pain. Jaskier never wants to cause Geralt more pain than what he already goes through everyday... and yet he doesn't apologize. Respect doesn't make history. If he hadn't pushed, they wouldn't be here, finally getting the truth of the matter out in the open. Jaskier is as patient as he can when it comes to Geralt, knows it's not the witcher's fault that he can't communicate for shit. But to have his love confession twisted like this? There's only so much he can take, only so much poetry he can spin mean words into. His heart aches for Geralt's broken problem, yet the petty bitch in him can only think I told you so, you didn't listen.
...actually, that doesn't sound half bad.
"About fucking time." He surprises himself by managing not to snap. His tone is still bitter and hurt, but his voice is hushed - things are resting on cracked ice, he realizes, and he's scared that it'll break again, like that day in the mountain. Even at moments like this, Geralt is still the best thing that has ever happened to him, something he doesn't want to lose. He's kept his feelings hidden all these years not to lose this friendship, and he can now feel it slipping through his fingers like sand. "How many times have I said you didn't have to take all that horsehit, Geralt? That you didn't have to be in fucking pieces, to endure insults and mistreatment, that you deserve better than that?"
Blue eyes follow the fingers on his lap as the pick at his nails. Another moment that should be good (Geralt learning that lesson), stained by this emotional hurricane.
"I consider myself an expert in reading you, yet half of the time, I still can't tell what you want. The conversation we had before Pavetta's betrothal still rings in my ears, so many years later, knowing you didn't mean half of it. So hearing you express a personal wish right now... it should make me happy. And it kind of does." Not being able to take it any longer, he looks up again, because if he's going down, he wants to save the last of his pride. He doesn't have much of it when it comes to Geralt, dumbass lovefool that he is, but if there's one thing he can say without shame is that he never gave in to Geralt's anger. Jaskier has always been fearless in front of the witcher, and he can't change that now. "Yet it also makes me doubt everything again. 'Whatever you want', you said. Was it only because you felt guilty? Do you truly want the White Wolf's bard by your side again? As a barker? As a travel companion? As a friend? As-- anything else? I've bared my feelings for you so many times by now, Geralt of Rivia. Someone out there will want you, I said. Let's go to the coast, I said."
A pause. He swallows the sob that threatens to escape.
"I love you, my song said." Thank the gods he's already sitting, or his trembling legs wouldn't have supported him through that admission. It's the closest he's been to saying it directly. "Something you weren't supposed to find out, because losing your friendship is the most terrifying thing that could happen to me, and yet... here we are, I say."
Every minute longer this conversation goes-- if it could even be called a conversation, it's devolved into something more like an argument, or just a screaming match-- Geralt feels more and more like it's not just a mis-step that he took, it's a fatal one, where there's no solid ground stand on. A step right out into the void, and this is just the vertigo before the long, long fall.
Only a few days before things went to shit. This has to be a record.
"Deserve better?" There's an incredulity in his tone, like Jaskier told him that-- well, like he told him that Geralt of fucking Rivia deserves better than a tumultuous relationship with an emotionally unavailable sorceress. Sounds like exactly what he deserves, a broken relationship with an equally broken woman. "And I should go back to what, Jaskier? Nothing? Paying thrice as much to bed whores who reek of disgust? At least Yen told me that she fucking wanted me, and directly, not hiding it in songs and hoping that I'll parse what's true and what's embellishment."
When he'd said whatever you want, he'd meant it, but he'd also wanted for there to be a clear answer for it. For Jaskier to say 'we are friends', and it be so, or 'we're traveling companions' or, hell, he would have even taken 'we're nothing', even if hearing that would've been like taking a harpoon to the chest. He could have survived that blow, even if it hurt. What he doesn't want is this uncertainty, saying one thing and meaning another and leaving him to try to sort through the mess of it. Half of Jaskier's songs are lies to begin with, so how's he supposed to tell the things that the bard means from the things that are just another example of respect not making history?
"I don't talk in fucking riddles, Jaskier, whatever you want means whatever you want!"
He feels like he wants to rip out his fucking hair for how much of a mess this is, how little control he feels like he has over the situation. Every time he tries to clear it up, it just seems to get worse, like a struggle in a silty river. The more you try to swim, the cloudier the water gets.
"Don't tell me what your fucking song says, tell me what you're saying. Tell me what pleases you, and it's yours."
There's something like a plea in his voice, like desperation; give him solid ground to catch his feet on.
"Maybe I wouldn't have felt the need to be smooth and sneaky if you hadn't kept pushing me away!"
So much for not snapping, huh? But the witcher isn't the only one feeling like ripping his fucking hair out. Jaskier finally leaves the desk, stomping and opening his arms again, voice raising.
"Don't accuse me of hiding when the entire fucking Continent knew except you, Geralt of Rivia! How was I supposed to reach out to you when you couldn't even say the word FRIEND? I did ask, didn't I, right before the djinn fiasco! One little request, as simple as counting to two: to be considered a friend after a bloody decade. Instead I get 'filling-less pie'! Fuck off, bard! We aren't friends, bard!" A snort that echoes in the whole room. "And you expect me to confess after that? Even NOW you think you would've gone back to nothing instead of ME!"
And it hurts like hell. The sob that he has been swallowing can't be contained any longer, and he lets it escape his lips as he feels his stomach asking him to run, throw out and then fill it with vodka until he's puking again. Maybe that way he can expel all the pieces of his broken heart as well.
"What do you want me to say, Geralt? That I want you, that I need you, that I love you? Well, I DO! I HAVE, for over twenty years!" He hits his chest with both hands when he says that, the stomping stopping at the bottom of the stairs where he looks up at Geralt with an hurricane in his eyes. "I've wanted you since I saw you brooding in that inn in Posada, smelling of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. I've loved you since you offered Filavandrel your fucking throat, like the noble bastard you are!"
He rubs the tears off his eyes before continuing, which is pointless. He probably has no dignity left. And if he does, then he'll lose it when he talks to the dean about having to stay here during the winter after all, with his tail between his legs.
"I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting." He almost spits the words in a very ironic gesture, because he still wants to defend his art in the middle of this mess. His songs are who he is - insulting them, accusing them of being riddles, is insulting Jaskier himself. "Even after you threw me away like an old dog at the top of that mountain, I kept singing that with the most sincere emotion I could evoke. I want everything with you, Geralt. But I also know what won't please me: you giving it to me because you feel guilty, or lonely, or because I'm the only one available. You've never wanted my pity - I don't want yours either."
His arms drop - so does his head. He's tired, defeated. "So excuse me-" The sarcasm is thick in that one."-for not expecting anything from a man with no 'wants'. I was content with having what I could - your company. But I won't settle down for any less than being sincerely wanted in return."
Even one night stands have given him that. Jaskier ran away from a house filled with fake money friends and avoids paying for sex for a reason, after all.
Wanted him since Posada, loved him since Filavandrel. Those two events were barely hours apart, took place on the same fucking day over two decades ago. And Geralt could not say the same-- back then, Jaskier had been a boy with dust and sunshine in his hair, and when Geralt found him trailing after him like a lost puppy, he'd known he would be trouble. Even if he had found something attractive in his soft eyes and long legs, he had been barely more than a child, and if Geralt had even thought about putting a hand on him, he would've had to turn his own sword on himself.
But years later-- there was always a reason that Jaskier was so popular, that he could walk into a tavern and have a dozen offers by the end of the night and pick as many of those as he wanted. And Geralt would go to bed his whores.
Geralt smells salt and water, and heartache-- a cold smell, like wintergreen-- and Jaskier scrubs at his face, at his red-rimmed eyes. It isn't the first time that Geralt has seem him cry, or even probably the first time that he'd caused it, but this is the most he's ever felt because of it, this twist in his chest.
"No one wants witchers. How could you love me," he says, voice low and a little hoarse, "after I've been cruel to you?"
The possibility that Jaskier might harbor that kind of affection for him had been, at least until this moment, an absurdity. Something that didn't even bear thinking about. If the bard wanted a lover, after all, he could walk into any tavern or lord's court and find a dozen more suitable than Geralt and have them in his arms by nightfall. Why bother with a witcher who takes twenty years to admit that they are friends? Regardless of what he writes about nobility and bravery, there's little in Geralt that anyone would want to keep.
"There are things. That I want."
And usually he takes those things and puts them in a box in his head, sets them aside and doesn't look at it again. Witchers are not supposed to feel and they're not supposed to want; there's only the Path, endless and bloody and full of monsters. Sometimes, Geralt wonders if they made him wrong, if something happened during his Trials that left him flawed-- like Coën's eyes, but on the inside. Invisible. Hungry, wanting, defective.
No one wants witchers. Usually that would get a speech from Jaskier, a long and scolding string of fancy words that would remind Geralt witchers do deserve better and someone out there does want him.
Not today. Jaskier is exhausted, barely able to deal with the punches thrown at his own self-esteem to take care of Geralt's on top of that. But Jaskier is still Jaskier, a bard that doesn't allow words to fly by without consequence, doesn't allow questions about himself to go unanswered.
"How could you allow me to follow you if I was annoying you and spoiling your blessed silence?"
It's not something anywhere close to what witchers go through, nowhere close to be looked down upon and discriminated by society. He knows that. But again, he's feeling tired and petty, he just wants to make a very simple point: the good times surpass the bad, and nobody is perfect. That's how human interaction works.
Jaskier's breathing stops for a moment when he hears that question, the voice so small that it claws at Jaskier's instincts to run and take care of Geralt when he feels like that, instincts that were born when he was 18 and have only grown since then, becoming part of the man he's today. His hands close in tight fists, nails digging into skin as he reminds himself not to hope again, because he had been doing that since the night of his rescue and it's only brought this mess of an argument.
And yet-- I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting.
"Only if you swear--" His voice breaks, and he swallows another sob, takes a deep breath before trying again, before raising blue eyes once more in a final effort. "Because you HAVE to swear, Geralt, on your swords or on Roach or anything, but you got to promise me that you don't want this because you don't know how to deal with your guilt. Promise me you don't want this only to make me feel better after the dragon hunt, and the Nilgaardian soldiers, and--" He raises a hand to indicate the air between them. "--this. Promise me you want this for yourself, because you understand you're allowed to want things, because you want to be happy, because this is what I truly mean to you. I don't need poetry or epic confessions, only honesty. If you do--"
Chin raised high, he takes a step forward, offering himself for more gestures and words if they come. But only one step, no more, because he's spent two decades reaching out, and it's Geralt's turn to do the same. To give the first step into something more - the true step, and not a song.
"--then yes. I'd love nothing else than for you to want this."
Jaskier is inches away from tears but he steps forward anyway, offers up his fool heart to Geralt again. This is the true blessing that Jaskier can give him, this second (third, fourth, hundredth) chance that Geralt doesn't and will never deserve. The witcher steps down that last step to meet him on even ground, and finally, finally, there is hope of solid footing.
"I swear." He hates the uncertainty of wanting in his life that's already full of uncertainties, but if this wanting is a sign that he is flawed, an improperly made weapon, than so be it. He's tired of this fight. "I swear on the Path. On the Trials that made me."
He steps close, for once the one violating personal space, and leans forward, bends his head down to press his forehead to Jaskier's neck. He breathes, and the scent of him is tainted by their arguing and histrionics, but it's still Jaskier. It's the scent that haunted him for so many winters, until he could set his feet on the road that ran toward its owner come spring. His hands rest on the bard's hips; he itches to put them around his back and crush him to his chest, but he refrains. Leaves a way open for Jaskier to pull away and escape if he so chooses, to not cage him.
"Vizima," he says into Jaskier's skin. "The sight-reading contest, against that troubadour you hate. You remember."
It had been some ten years prior, well before the mountain or the djinn. There was to be a real competition later that week, one with prize money and accolades and all that rot, that the bard was really there for, but the man who sponsored Valdo Marx was deeply competitive with Jaskier's sponsor and had arranged for a friendly wager. An improvisation contest between the two bards, held at his estate; officially there was no money involved, just bragging rights, though Geralt would've eaten his own armor if there weren't side bets going on under the table. He hadn't even really planned on being in Vizima at the time, only had even gotten an invitation to the event at all because he had finished a contract for the sponsoring lord. And even then, he only actually attended because it sounded exactly like the kind of situation that Jaskier would need rescued from at the end.
Marx had played first, a new composition written specifically for this little contest, and it was... fine. Full of sound and fury, Geralt hadn't paid that much attention to it, more interested in partaking in the good food and good wine until Jaskier inevitably got in trouble. What was supposed to happen was that Jaskier would take Valdo's sheet music and play it, having never seen it before, and then they would do the same for Jaskier's composition-- the bard that played the unfamiliar work the best would then be crowned the winner and superior musician.
Jaskier had taken the sheet music, turned it upside down with a flourish, played the opening bar or two, then played them backwards; riffed and improvised and deconstructed the composition, imitated Marx's own playing and then picked it apart and put it together again, parodied and mocked it. Jaskier wasn't even done before Marx stormed out of the room, outplayed and humiliated. And Geralt, standing in a corner to avoid being noticed or having to engage with anyone around him, had listened in stunned silence as he realized that Jaskier was very good at what he did. He might even actually be great at it. The whole thing had been like watching an amateur swordsman challenge a master to a duel, unaware of how outmatched he was.
Marx's sponsor had to admit defeat on his behalf, as the troubadour was too humiliated to even return to the party, and Geralt had caught a glimpse of Jaskier's face while he was surrounded by congratulatory guests. It was joyous, proud, and brilliant, his grin infectious, his eyes like stars. And Geralt had felt some answering swell in his chest, something that felt a lot like pride and pleasure and a terrible want, so sharp and sudden that he might have thought he was stabbed except that there wasn't any blood. He should have gone to congratulate him, because he knew how much Jaskier hated this troubadour-- or if he had been honest, congratulate him, pull him down an empty hallway and into an unused bedroom and then congratulate him--
but instead, he left. Fled, as though he could outrun the hungry thing under his skin that saw Jaskier's smile and wanted it for its own. Left the whole fucking city and didn't see Jaskier again for another month, miles and miles to the north. He didn't even know if the bard had known he was in Vizima to begin with, nevertheless at that particular party.
Jaskier, being the poetic drama queen that he is, had intended to say swear on your life, a common request in romantic stories. But Geralt has so little care for his own life, always ready to throw it away for the sake of saving a kitten from a tree, that Jaskier babbled his way through that one too.
A promise made on the Path and the Trials shakes him to his core and leaves him breathless.
Fuck. Bloody fucking hell. Jaskier said he didn't need poetry - which isn't entirely true, he loves being told pretty words as much as he enjoys giving them out, but he said it for the sake of Geralt, because he can live without it as long as he has him by his side, because he knew that asking for a true confession would scare the witcher away. And yet... On the Trials that made me. And bloody yet the bastard gives him words that poets would kill for to incorporate in their pieces!
How can he be so bad at this yet so romantic at the same time?
Thank the gods for those big, powerful hands coming to hold him, because Jaskier can feel his legs becoming jelly - he wouldn't have been able to be standing much longer after such a promise. His heart is buzzing once again, his scent slowly goes back to his usual sweetness and-- fuck, Geralt is on his neck, his breathing on his skin sending a shiver down Jaskier's spine. Calloused fingers land on the witcher's neck and stroke him gently, his free arm wraps around that big chest to hold him close to say yes, this is absolutely happening, you're mine now.
Because it is. It's happening. Jaskier can barely believe it, and he hangs onto Geralt as if his life depended on it.
I’ll keep the king / Keep him safe at bay / I’ll keep him safe from the dark things that wait / In that house at the top of the rock.
But what is this about Vizima and a sight-reading contest? You remember. Oh! Yes, of course he does. How could he not? One of the best days of his life. One of the most generous sponsors he's ever had the pleasure to work in, one that truly liked and appreciated Jaskier's music and didn't only hire the most famous name he could find to show him off in front of the other lords. Vardo bloody Marx had been there too, and just being in the same room than the asshole should've been bad news, but having him for the competition was actually great because it meant he would have the chance to sweep the floor with him.
And Jaskier truly loves music competitions. The attention, the crowds, the celebration of music, the different styles being played together, the stroke to his ego, the coin, the wine and food, fucking an admirer or two (or three...) afterwards. So when the sponsor offered a little contest for fun, how could he refuse? Valdo made fun of him before it started, he remembers, told him that Jaskier was nothing without the White Wolf. It got his blood boiling, and he made good use of it - he channeled that anger, and his pride, his talent, the adrenaline of having a lute in his hands handed by the fucking king of elves...
Respect doesn't make history. Jaskier twisted Valdo's composition with the same manipulative inspiration and passion he uses to slam the masses' opinion on witchers, and destroyed it with the effectiveness he wishes he could have on such prejudices. While he stayed there, surrounded by people's praises, his soul almost elevated to a new plane of existence just over how happy he was, he had one thought:
I wish Geralt could see this.
...wait a minute.
"You were there?!" Yep, the high pitch is back, enjoy. "Bloody hell, Geralt! Do you have any idea how I wished back then that you could've been there with me? I wanted to share that moment with you! So what did you do, watched the competition and then r-"
--ran away. Oh. Emotions got the best of the witcher, didn't they? After his comments about the whore bedding yesterday, Jaskier is able to stop himself just in time. His head tilts, resting his temple against the witcher's.
"That's why I took me a while to find you again after that, huh? You're lucky there aren't pillows in this room." He teases, obvious mirth in his voice. "So it was my talent that caught you in the end after all." Which makes his chest feel warmer than the sun itself. "And this was what, over a decade ago? All this time we could've..." A sigh. "We're both imbeciles."
Hey, that's compromise, right?
The hand on Geralt's neck moves to cup his face, raising it to make gold eyes fall on blue ones - which look at the witcher in front of him with pure adoration. "You don't have to be afraid of this, my dear."
Not dear witcher, but my dear. And before Geralt can reply, Jaskier leans in and covers the witcher's lips with his own.
One of Jaskier's arms wraps around his chest and the other lands on his neck, ghosting over his skin and hair as he rumbles out a long, slow sigh. There's a hunger in his skin for this, these gentle hands that roam wherever they please, and he doesn't want him to stop. Maybe doesn't want him to ever stop. Confident that the bard has no desire to escape from his grasp, Geralt shifts his hands from Jaskier's hips to around his back, pulling him in until the bard is a long line of warmth along his front. Sweetness seeps back into his scent and the witcher wants to drown in it, breathe him in so deep that he'll always be in his lungs.
Jaskier remembers Vizima, but of course he would-- he had a rightfully earned victory over his rival troubadour, even if the man later tried to soften the blow to his reputation by spreading rumors that Jaskier had cheated. It didn't matter, though, not when Jaskier also placed highly in the competition later that week, returning north with a full purse and enough stories to talk Geralt's ear off for days. By the time they met again, Geralt had forced that greedy wanting down until it was a bare simmer in the back of his mind. After this, he doesn't know if he can do it again; the only beast that he can't conquer.
The bard pieces together what happened, though, with Geralt's meager words and his general pattern of behavior. So much for those songs that Jaskier wrote about him, calling him noble and brave-- the brave witcher, running away from his his own damned emotions because he saw a bard smile from across the room. If only Vesemir could see him now, see that all of his training and tutelage had been unable to withstand prolonged contact with this one man, that Geralt, for all his extra mutagens and experimentation, is weak.
Geralt hums in vague affirmation of Jaskier's suspicions as to why he was difficult to locate; he had tried to keep himself busy with contracts in the north until he felt stable again, in control. Any job had been fine, from simple drowners to werewolves to a katakan up near Hengfors. That last one had been bad-- Geralt left that encounter with two scarred puncture marks near his inner elbow where it had bitten him.
The witcher would have preferred to keep his face where it is, but Jaskier's hands move to cup his jaw and he lets him move his head as he pleases. The bard's eyes are blue, like cornflowers, and his gaze is so soft and fond that it makes that thing choke up in Geralt's chest again, the same thing that made him flee Vizima.
Jaskier's lips are just as soft and tender as his gaze against Geralt's, and, gods old and new, if this is how he kissed all those barmaids and courtiers, than he understands why they went so willingly with Jaskier to dark corners. A sound wrenches its way out of his throat that he barely recognizes, but it's low and broken as though Jaskier had killed him rather than kissed. Like he'd gutted him where he stands. Geralt pulls back just a fraction, only enough to speak and breathe each others' air.
Thousands of times Jaskier has touched Geralt's body - from daily nudges and taps on his shoulder to tending his wounds and rubbing oil on his lovely bottom. There's been lots of cuddling lately, too. Yet it's a whole new feeling to be pressed against that thick, strong body and be embraced by arms that are capable to decapitate a monster yet control their power just for him. It's safe. It's cozy. It's warm. It's home.
If they weren't in the middle of an university building, he would ask Geralt to pick him and carry him to their room just like this.
And the kiss! Oh, what a kiss, twenty years of pining exploding into a kiss that Jaskier swears tastes like a spark of magic and a touch of wilderness. He keeps it soft for now, making sure Geralt understands how much affection is going through, guiding the witcher's lips against his to tell him yes, this is right, keep doing it. The sound he hears coming from the deepness of Geralt's very own soul makes his heart skip a beat and his scent suddenly gains a very faint but unmistakable hint of arousal.
Jask. Damn. He can get used to that pretty quickly.
"Fuck, Geralt." He says after licking his own lips, feeling his whole body burning under the weight of that sound and that nickname. "If you keep calling me that, there won't be anything I'll be able to say no to." His thumb traces the lines of Geralt's mouth as a little rhythm leaves his throat, inspiration taking over. "Darling, kiss me like you want to feel safe, because my lips want to know all the places you've been hurt so they can take it all away."
Musician fingers bury themselves in Geralt's hair to push just as Jaskier dives in for a new kiss, this one a little more demanding and passionate. Two decades and all the drama from the last week or so have drained all his patience, and now he wants the reward he deserves for his loyalty. He kisses, he nibbles, he lets the tip of his tongue peek out to tease with a promise that yes, this witcher is definitely wanted.
Geralt hadn't thought it was possible for Jaskier to smell better than he already does, but he says Jask a warm thrum of arousal creeps in among the floral notes, and it's spicy and welcoming and he very badly wants to know what the bard will smell like when he has him on his back in bed. And the only thing that he could think of that would be better than Jaskier spread out underneath him like a feast and scent heavy with lust would be if he was all of that and smelled like Geralt, too. A claim rubbed into his skin, even if it's one that only other witchers would be able to read.
The bard's thumb traces over his lips, and Geralt kisses that, too.
"Composing?" he asks in the moments before Jaskier's lips crash back into his, and then there's no time for words. Not when there are fingers digging into his hair, pushing Geralt's head wherever he wants it, the delicious scrape of teeth over his lower lip. He deepens the kiss when Jaskier allows it, chases his tongue and the heat of his mouth and wants more. He wants, he wants.
Geralt steps forward, pushing Jaskier back until his legs hit the desk again, then slips his hands down to the bard's thighs to lift him onto its surface. He stands between Jaskier's legs and kisses along his jaw, over to his ear, and rumbles Jask into it, his voice rough.
"Talk to me."
Then he drags his teeth over the bolt of his jaw, moves down to the tender skin of his neck. Jaskier's doublets always have such high fucking collars, even if most of the time he was around Geralt and not in polite company, he wore them undone with his entire chemise showing, like a backwater tart. Geralt never paid attention to it, never cared about the detail's of Jaskier's foppish fashion. But he taught a class today, like a proper lecturer, and Geralt has to tug at the little buttons on the garment with an impatient growl to reveal more skin.
"So many fucking buttons."
He's half tempted to rip the thing open and to hell with all the buttons.
How dare he kiss his thumb like that! Geralt is being cute and that should illegal.
Geralt deepens the kiss as well and Jaskier takes it, giving as much open mouth and tongue in return. I can take it, he wants to say, I'm not made of glass, I can take a witcher. And thanks to all the gods, Geralt understands this, he isn't being gentle with the 'weak human', he's letting passion take over just the way Jaskier likes it. In the middle of the classroom, too, which adds a whole injection of adrenaline in his body.
What truly makes his blood boil, however, is Geralt suddenly mandhandling him. Fuck.
Jaskier doesn't put up any kind of fight at all, although it's not like Geralt couldn't push him anyway if he wanted - the point still stands. In fact, as soon as his thighs are lifted, Jaskier is wrapping them around Geralt's waist, pulling him closer to make their groins meet, his scent now fully spiced with lust.
The kisses along his jaw are nice and all too, but what makes him throw his head and groan loud and dirty is the rumbled nickname in his ear.
"Fuck, Geralt." Talk? Oh, he can talk, alright, not even a boner (or a semi, to be more accurate at the moment) can stop him from talking. Jaskier is as loud and chatty during sex as he is the rest of the time. And let's not even begin on the fact Mr Blessed Silence is the one asking him for it. So Jaskier talks while enjoying the feeling of Geralt's teeth on his skin (which sends delicious shivers through his whole body) and letting his hands roam all over Geralt's muscles, groping thick arms and sculpted pecs. "Do you have any idea how much I've dreamed of you grabbing me and taking me like this? Of feeling your mouth on my burning skin and your mighty hands pulling me apart as easily as if I was a virginal maiden having her first time? How have I wanted to praise the curvatures of your bo-"
The complaint about the buttons interrupts him and Jaskier, who has learned to take off fucking corsets with his eyes closed, can only laugh.
"Allow me, my dear." Expert fingers open his doublet in seconds before he's leaning again to nibble Geralt's ear and whisper with his best sultry tone. "Mark me, my wolf. Let them know why they shouldn't flirt with me anymore."
Jaskier is easy to manhandle, but only because he's willing-- if there was even a hint of sourness to his smell or the bard protested his grasp, Geralt would let him go immediately. There are some men who enjoy inflicting fear on their bed partners-- and some bed partners who enjoy being on the receiving end-- Geralt can barely tolerate disgust, though, nevertheless true fear.
But Jaskier smells like nothing but willingness and lust, and with his legs wrapped around Geralt's hips, he can feel the hardening length of his cock pressing into him. It's good, perfect, and though it takes longer for Geralt to get going than it does for even Jaskier at forty, a warm thrum of arousal is stirring in his blood. That slow witcher heart of his will pick up the pace eventually. If he could just satisfy Jaskier for the first round or two with his mouth and hands, that might be enough of a delay for the rest of him to catch up, and possibly without the bard noticing so long as he's good enough.
"There's nothing virginal about you," he says, mouth still pressed to the thin skin of his neck while Jaskier feels his way across the witcher's arms and chest and shoulders like he hadn't had his hands on them hundreds of times before.
Jaskier's hands are far more deft at undoing tiny buttons than his are; a necessary skill to have, he supposes, for a man who readily beds ladies in fussy court clothes. Always lousy with buttons and laces, those things. But once the doublet hangs open, Jaskier gives him the prettiest invitation that Geralt has ever received-- to mark up his neck, make it obvious to anyone who laid eyes on him that he is spoken for. Claimed. And, well, enough people have seen Geralt skulking around Oxenfurt to draw their own conclusions about who put bruises all over the bard's neck.
"Fuck, Jask."
That growling edge is back in his voice and Geralt wastes little time in tugging the lacy collar of his chemise away from his neck, leaving all that pretty, pale skin vulnerable to him. He goes for the throat with the brutal efficiency of a witcher, starting high up near his jaw and working his way down, sucking and biting until there's a trail of red marks going down it that are sure to darken. Then he moves to the other side-- thoroughness is the mark of a good witcher-- and does the same there, so there's no hiding it. Even the tallest collar wouldn't be able to hide all the bruises.
He takes Jaskier's chin in his hand and turns his head this way and that, admiring his work and making a low, approving noise at the sight of it.
"Now, the rest."
He starts to push the doublet off of Jaskier's shoulders, to get to the rest of his clothes underneath.
Jaskier usually has better boner control than this. No, really. It'd be very inconvenient to have a hard-on in the middle of a performance, wouldn't it? Besides, you don't get a reputation with the ladies by quickly jumping on things. He enjoys the chase, the foreplay, the build-up. The art of seduction. But it's hard to stay in control when twenty years of pining, fantasies and sexual tension are crashing against him, manhandling him and growling because he likes the way he whispers in his ear.
So here he is, with a tent already in his pants. Geralt is over one hundred years old and has fucked the most powerful sorceress in the Continent. The fact Jaskier can provoke him with such simple words is a powerful thought that could almost make him come on the spot.
The virginal comment had definitely been a metaphor but damn if Geralt doesn't make him feel a bit like that. His toes curl inside his boots as the witcher starts working on the hickeys, Jaskier's body arching under it, his hips thrusting to get at least some pressure rubbed against his groin. His head is thrown back as much as possible to expose his neck and playful fingers try to rub Geralt's nipples through his shirt.
"You like that, don't you, oh White Wolf? You like, aah, Geralt-" Excuse him for a second to moan as dirtily as he can. "You like marking me as yours. You like making a claim."
Which is incredibly hot, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't fantasies about it. Would Geralt be just like a wolf? Wild, territorial, rough? Would he like to bite and mandhandle him? When Geralt was having a bad day over the world treating him like shit, Jaskier would feel a bit guilty for having those fantasies that played so much into witcher stereotypes and he would masturbate to more romantic thoughts instead: laying down with Geralt and giving him the kindness he deserves in a long session of soft love making filled with pretty words and kisses to his scars.
He will do that later, too, that's for sure. Jaskier is a versatile lover and when it comes to Geralt, he wants it all. For now though, he's feeling as desperate as his lover does, so he'll enjoy every second of what the the wolf has to offer him.
"Bravo, Master Witcher." He says with a grin when Geralt raises his chin to admire his neck as an artist would admire the paint they just applied. "You've made a canvas out of m-"
Knock knock. "Master Jaskier? Are you still-- eep!" The maid that has entered the room quickly turns around, but the red on her ears is still rather obvious.
Jaskier mumbles a bollocks but he isn't too surprised by this turn of events, and he replies casually while still having his hands on Geralt's chest and his legs around him. "My apologies, ah- who is it? Margaret? Gretel? I know it's not Rose-"
"It's Anastasia, Master Jaskier. And I should be the one to apologize..." She's nervous and trembling, probably worried about her job.
"Anastasia, right, you're new." The girl nods. "So this is your first time finding me like this! Don't worry, sweet girl, you aren't the first one and you won't be the last." He offers a wink to Geralt when he says that. The maid can only eep again. "Now you can join the betting pool with your coworkers - let me know how that is going when you have the chance, by the way. Am I being summoned because I haven't handed in today's report yet?" Anastasia nods again. "Tell them I'll be right there. Thank you, Anastasia."
The girl runs away as soon as Jaskier pronounces the first letter of her name, closing the door behind her a little stronger than her manners would usually allow her to. With a sigh, Jaskier unlocks his legs and starts buttoning up his doublet - thankfully, Geralt has done a good job so the hickeys are still visible.
"Sorry, my dear, duty calls. If we were staying here all winter I'd just ignore them, but if we want to leave tomorrow with decent coin I need to at least attempt to behave." He gently cups Geralt's face with both hands and gives him a sweet, tender kiss. "I love you. You've made me the happiest man alive today, and I'll show exactly how much later tonight. Will I see you at dinner?"
There's a knock at the classroom door and Geralt startles, reaching for swords that aren't there because of course they aren't, he's in fucking Oxenfurt. He should have heard anyone approach but he was too busy with Jaskier, too wrapped up in the bard's scent and the taste of his throat and the little noises that he makes to pay attention to what's outside the door. When Geralt looks over his shoulder, there's a very embarrassed-looking maid in the doorway, her back turned to them in an attempt at discretion.
Jaskier has yet to release Geralt's hips from the grip of his thighs, nor does he stop tracing his fingers over the witcher's chest. It's... distracting. Geralt draws in a sharp breath as his thumb runs over one of his nipples again, and their perkiness is rather annoyingly visible underneath the relatively thin linen of his shirt. Jaskier manages to have a whole conversation with the maid without even an ounce of shame for the position they're in. He's even cheeky enough to wink at Geralt with the implication that he's been caught in this very kind of position many times before, and Geralt is sure that the maid hears the low growl he made at you won't be the last by the nervous noise she makes in response.
The witcher would've far preferred to just snap at the girl to leave and pick back up right where he left off, even if it would probably scare her, but apparently this is important and Jaskier has to run off to attend to his reporting. The girl runs off and Jaskier has to make himself presentable again, doing up his doublet and smoothing out his clothes, and when Geralt steps back to let him stand, he misses the warmth of him. Then he's pissed at himself for such a stupid reaction, what, is he going to turn into a fucking wilting flower after a few kisses? He's not Jaskier.
Jaskier kisses him again, all sweet and tender, and Geralt melts into it. So much for not being the swooning maiden, fuck.
"Yes," he says, when Jaskier asks about dinner. "I'll be there."
Of course he'll be there. Where else would he be?
Geralt watches Jaskier leave the classroom and, once he's gone and the door has closed behind him, he leans against the desk that he'd just had the bard on top of and scrubs his hands over his face, and says one incredibly heartfelt,
"Fuck."
He waits for Jaskier outside the doors of the dining hall, reluctant to go inside and face a crowd of strangers who all know much more about him than he does them. And there's that part where they were caught in the classroom earlier, and Geralt doesn't know Oxenfurt very well specifically but he is entirely, painfully certain that the maid has spread that piece of gossip all across the campus by now. If he has to hear every comment that everyone makes about what went on in that room, he at least wants to have Jaskier sitting there with him, and preferably a very large tankard of ale.
After throwing his lute on his back, Jaskier picks up his book and papers, feeling like a student again when he "casually" holds them in front of him to cover his boner. He can't help throwing one look at Geralt before leaving - his pants don't show anything, which disappoints him for a moment before he notices his nipples do. Oh, so he hadn't done so badly then. And to be fair, they've only been kissing - Jaskier just happens to be a horny arse.
A horny arse that grins proudly as he walks through the halls of the university with his neck marked by the White Wolf.
Usually he reports to the head of the arts department, but today the dean is there too, sighing and not even a bit surprised at Jaskier being himself. He gets scolded for it, of course, but honestly? He's never given a damn about fucking around the university, and he won't start now - specially today of all days. He's in bloody heaven, his mere existence proof of the kind of love that he usually sings about: one that lives through a long time, through hardship, through death, heartbreak and heroics, and is rewarded at the end.
Finding Geralt waiting for him makes his heart flutter, it's just as if he was arriving to a date. He knows Geralt is probably avoiding the people inside, but if that was only the case, he also knows the witcher would've been perfectly capable of finding a corner for himself to brood and drink alone.
"Hey, handsome." It's his greeting as he comes closer and grabs Geralt's hand to guide him inside, getting some looks and giggles as the walk by, even a wolf-whistle or two. Luckily the comments aren't thrown at the their faces and it's kept as whispered gossip, most likely because even if people respect Geralt around here, they still know not to mess with a fucking witcher (sadly they don't consider the fact Geralt can hear them anyway). Many people thought they were already together when they arrived anyway, so they mostly stick to updating the betting pool and teasing a little Jaskier when they approach them to chitchat.
And speaking of Jaskier... he decides to sit next to Geralt instead of across now, shoulders and legs bumping, absorbing the warmth the witcher's body is always exuding, and even letting his hand drop on Geralt's thigh while drinking or watching other bards and dancers perform. His scent is intoxicatingly sweet, mirth making his eyes sparkle - only to shine even brighter when he sees what the maid brings them for dinner.
"Seafood stew! Oh, Geralt, you need to taste this delicacy--"
There's much poetry he has to say about this dish, and the sounds he makes while he eats them are almost obscene. The university kitchens usually avoid such complex and expensive dishes, but then he realizes they are the only ones having it. Huh. Maybe a gift from a person Geralt saved? He makes a mental note to ask him about later. Now it's time to perform, and with all this romance and passion burning brightly in his veins, he's ready to leave the White Wolf ballads behind for this one night.
He starts romantic, throwing charming smiles and winks at Geralt any time he has the chance.
My dearest one, my darling dear / Your mighty words astound me / But I've no need for mighty deeds / When I feel your arms around me But I would bring you rings of gold / I'd even sing you poetry / And I would keep you from all harm / If you would stay beside me
But as ale and seafood settle in his stomach and the memories of what they did in the classroom return to his mind whenever those golden eyes fall on him, his songs go up in heat.
When I press an ear up to your breast / I can hear the rhythm start / It's hard to tell our beats apart / So I hope you're listening right now/ Because I can barely hold my tongue / The things we do could warm the sun
Until he can't take it anymore and he allows his voice to break as picks the most subtle yet dirtiest of his lyrics.
And rock right up to the side of my mountain / Climb until you reach my peak / And reach right into the bottom of my fountain / I wanna play in your deep Then dip me under where you can feel my river flowing and flow / Hold me 'til I scream for air to breathe / And wash me over until my well runs dry / Send all your sins all over me
A round of applause follows his performance, and Jaskier usually would stay on the floor to bask into and absorb the attention, but tonight he's a man with a mission - a mission filled with desire, passion and twenty years of wanting. When he returns to Geralt's side, sweaty and panting, he sits on the edge of the table and leans in to speak into his ear.
"Tell me, my dear. Did you like my choice of songs?"
Jaskier takes his hand to lead him inside, and Geralt pretends it's just to lead him, just to make sure that they don't get separated in the crowded dining hall as they weave through, avoiding waitstaff and musicians and bards who are getting ready to play. He notices the stares from the people already at their tables, hears-- much to his displeasure-- the wolf-whistles. He catches little snippets of conversation as they walk, like
--I heard they got caught in a classroom--, one student says to another across their table.
--they say he was tearing off all of Professor Jaskier's clothes, like a beast--, another whispers to her friend, sneaking looks at Geralt as he goes by.
--hey, says a man at a table not far from theirs, they call him the White Wolf, right? Do you think that means he's got a cock like--
Geralt stops listening.
Jaskier sits next to him, closer than he usually would dare; he's just a hair off from putting himself right in Geralt's lap. Kisses and confessions have made him bold, and while they drink and wait for dinner to be served, watching the musicians and bards perform (mostly with disinterest, on Geralt's part. They're fine, he supposes, but he finds their voices annoying), Jaskier drops a hand onto the witcher's heavy thigh, too high up to be strictly friendly. Geralt swallows a mouthful of ale and he's about to tell Jaskier to try to be a little bit subtle when the bard is distracted by the arrival of two heaping bowls of seafood stew. He recognizes the serving girl from the kitchen this morning, and she gives him a knowing smile as she sets the bowls down. Jaskier is delighted, and seems too wrapped up in his vaguely pornographic appreciation of his food to ask too many questions.
The bard goes up to play once his ale has been drank and his stew finished, and Geralt expects to hear more of Jaskier's White Wolf songs-- instead, though, he sings about love in a more general way, songs that don't explicitly mention Geralt's name but might as well have, considering how many times Jaskier's gaze settles on him during his performance.
Geralt is not a master of words like Jaskier, hasn't been educated to dissect metaphors and turns of phrase, but he's quite certain that the last song that the bard sings is entirely about what he wants to do to his witcher once they get back to his room. If witchers could blush, that might even have been able to raise one on his cheeks-- thankfully, witchers can't blush, so Geralt's complexion can't betray him. And at the end of it, Jaskier saunters back, looking pleased as a cat that got into the cream, and leans over to speak to Geralt. He smells like sweat and flowers and satisfaction, and it's a good scent on him. Geralt wants to undo the buttons at his throat and press his nose to the hollow of it, breathe him in. He refrains, but his gaze certainly wanders down to the bruises that peek out over the top of his collar.
"In three words or less?" he says, "You aren't subtle."
But that review is tempered by the fact that his voice has a hint of amusement to it, half exasperated and half fond. It's useless to try to keep Jaskier from doing whatever he wants, and everyone in this room had already decided what they believe about the two of them before Geralt even stepped in the door. Jaskier's enthusiasm and vast repertoire of suggestive songs probably hasn't made anything worse.
"But your voice grates on me less than the others'." Geralt pushes a cup of wine towards him; he'd had the girl bring some of his favorite, to have after he was done singing. It wouldn't do for a bard to have a dry throat, after all. "Sit with me, if you're done."
Peacocks usually don't know the meaning of subtlety. Jaskier knows how to be subtle when he puts his mind into it, believe it or not - poetry requires it, after all, and he knows how enhance shy ladies with gentle, subtle words when the need arises. It's not his preferred mode to exist in, however. Loud is the way to go - loud voice, loud colors, loud presence; let everyone see him and give him the attention he craves.
Oxenfurt turns this behavior up to eleven. Every one here is at least a little bit weird and, thankfully, very open minded. This city has been built on loudness and bright minds. They're also simply used to Jaskier being Jaskier. Here, he feels more free than anywhere else in the world, he can let loose. The songbird is allowed to sing and do his mating rituals without any threats of a cage.
And now that he can have Geralt however he wants, whenever he wants? Of course he's going to show off, to celebrate this newfound happiness through the art of song and the art of PDA. Gotta make the best of it before they go back to travelling through shitty towns where he'll have to sit across Geralt again if he wants to avoid stones thrown at them.
(An irony, isn't it, considering it's those assholes that call him witcher's whore in the first place.)
'Half exasperated and half fond' may as well be Geralt's constant mood around Jaskier, so he picks up on it easily, throwing his head back to laugh as his hand falls on the witcher's shoulder.
"Of course I wasn't subtle! I wasn't trying to be, my dear. I know you don't like riddles. And that performance--" The hand on Geralt's shoulder slowly travels to the side to brush the back of its fingers against the witcher's neck. "--was for you as much as it was for myself."
The hand leaves to grab the cup when the wine is offered, and Jaskier drinks the entire thing because indeed, that's what his throat deserves, and he's pretty thirsty after all that movement anyway. In more ways than one.
"Less grating he says! Oh, you silly witcher, you aren't tricking me anymore - I know what kind of power my voice holds over you now." That's what made Geralt realize what he wants, isn't it? That's the best review he could've ever gotten. "I must confess, however, that I was expecting you to take us to our room after my marvelous dance, not to ask me to sit with you."
But he does so anyway, quickly hopping off the table to sit as they were before, the sides of their bodies touching and fingers landing on Geralt's thigh.
He neither argues with nor corroborates Jaskier's assertion-- just hums at him and waits for him to take a seat again. He sits near again, their sides pressed together and Jaskier's hand again scandalously high on his thigh. The bard drained his wine quickly, so Geralt gestures to the serving girl to get him another.
"Back to our rooms already?"
Technically, yes, Geralt would want to be somewhere significantly quieter than the dining hall right now. But the ale is quite good, and he'd eaten several bowls of that seafood stew while Jaskier had been performing-- it's good to not have to worry about the cost of keeping his stomach full-- and he could stand to linger for a little while.
"You must think me easy." Mostly because he is, but that's not the point here. Really, he's more interested in making sure that Jaskier is well fed and watered before they go back, but it's also a nice change of pace to tease the bard for once. Turnabout is fair play. "Perhaps I want to make you wait."
He turns his head towards Jaskier, his nose brushing against against the bard's hair; it gives him a chance to breathe in more of that mix of flowers and sweat and wine, with the faint, warm undertone of arousal. It's headier than the wine that Jaskier gets another glass of and grounding amidst the conflicting sounds and scents of the dining hall. Like a safe harbor in a storm.
If the dining hall wasn't so full of noise right now, Jaskier's snort would be echoing all over the room.
"Twenty years, Geralt. Many things could -and shall- I call you, my dear, easy isn't one of them."
One would think that 'making him wait' would be received with whines of protest after such a performance, but there comes that nose brushing his head and Jaskier can only let out a cute little content sigh. This is nice - very nice. Romantic, even. Once gain, Geralt manages to be so without even trying, a big contrast against how much he sucks at it most of the time. Such a complex yet simple man, how could Jaskier not love him?
"You're right." He finally admits as he drops his head on Geralt's shoulder. The newly filled cup of wine is left untouched for now, instead his hand is raised to call for the serving girl that carries the tray of desserts. "Usually this would be one of my favorite parts - the chase. The build up! The foreplay!" Since one hand is still on Geralt's thigh without any plans to pull back for now, only one is left to do all the dramatic gesturing. "Letting the tension build until sparks of magic are twinkling with every touch, and every heated gaze makes promises without the need of words, sending shivers through every bone and muscle of wanting bodies..."
There's more poetry where that come from (there always is), but he's interrupted by the desserts girl finally reaching their spot on the table. Jaskier beams but doesn't move his head from his very cozy spot on Geralt's shoulder, easily choosing the tarts he wants from the tray: one raspberry almond, one strawberries and cream, and a simple egg one. The girl leaves after giving them a sweet look and giggling to herself.
"So you see, dear witcher..." He continues as if there hadn't been any interruptions, free hand grabbing a fork and burying it in the egg tart. "This is what you've made of me. I'm weak and wanting, driven crazy by golden eyes and a lovely bottom in tight pants during two whole decades. You've made this humble bard lost his foot in the path of seduction, I hope you're proud of yourself."
The semi-pornographic sounds make a comeback when Jaskier tastes the tart, and he goes for two more bites before speaking again.
"You're making up for it now, however. This is a lovely moment - I feel fulfilled and content. Food, witcher and wine!" He chuckles as he makes fun of the wording he use on Geralt so many years ago. "I know you don't like loud and crowded places, so thank you."
He raises his fork to offer Geralt some of the tart. Whether Geralt accepts it or not, it doesn't matter, it's already influencing the gossiping. Comments about the beasts slowly disappear to talk about how cute the bard and his witcher are together instead.
Jaskier blathers on about his... seduction, or whatever it is that he does when he's trying to charm some courtly woman into his bed. Something about foreplay and tension and magic, he stops paying attention once he starts talking about chases. It doesn't really matter, anyway, because Jaskier is distracted by a serving girl carrying desserts, and the bard can't resist a selection of sweet things.
"Hm."
Jaskier is fulfilled and content. That's good-- Jaskier ought to get his fill of delicacies and dainty things while he's here at Oxenfurt, because he won't be getting them at Kaer Morhen. And it's... pleasing, to have Jaskier pressed against him, warm and happy and still running high on his successful performance.
Plus, the noises that Jaskier makes when he eats those tarts aren't fit for polite company but, gods, does he like to hear them. He might like to hear more of them, later.
"I'm not one of your tavern wenches, Jask."
Jaskier offers Geralt a piece of that tart like he would offer some dainty morsel to... another kind of tart, one that certainly isn't a brick shithouse of a witcher. He gives Jaskier a look that's both dry and amused, and goes to pick up his tankard of ale rather than take the pastry.
"I prefer to drink." The whispers have started up again, and Geralt tries to ignore it. He still hears them, of course, and they're saying things about how sweet the White Wolf is with his bard, and the witcher can practically see his reputation getting ruined even more. "I've heard so much about your talents, and after all these years, I have to say that I was expecting more."
The nickname is nice to hear in public, but something else distracts him. Jaskier frowns, genuinely confused, and analyses that statement in his head before continuing. After their last few arguments, he's learned to take certain Geralt-related concepts more carefully, otherwise he could start another awkward because you've only bedded whores situation.
"I'm not sure if you're saying that because of ludicrous witcher logic, thinking you don't deserve to be romanced, or because of society's view of relationships, thinking seduction and foreplay aren't needed anymore once you get together. Either way: horseshit. We may fuck one hundred times and I'll still do my best to sweep you off your feet with song, Geralt. What good is love for if I don't express it and make my beloved feel cherished?"
Back in the inn a few days ago, Jaskier had pushed bread and cheese in Geralt's hands because the witcher hadn't been eating. Always taking awful care of himself, this one. This time, however, Jaskier has seen him go for a couple of bowls of stew, and he continues to drink right now (good ale, not piss!), so he doesn't mind having the tart offer turned down. More for himself!
Sadly, he chokes on it when he hears that last comment. Jaskier pulls away from Geralt, mouth open in shock, finger being raised for the obligatory dramatics that Geralt is already used to. The nerve! The scandal! The asshole!
"I didn't hear you complain about my talents back in that classroom!" To make his point, he undoes the first two buttons of his doublet, showing off the marks that decorate his neck. Their thighs are still brushing, but his head and hand don't go back to rest on Geralt - he rests his elbows on the table instead, legs crossing as the dandy he is. "Maybe you should have a chat with your nipples, let them decide what they truly think of my skilled fingers."
And speaking of fingers... he dips two in one of the tarts to bring cream and strawberry to his mouth and veeeeery slowly wrap his lips around them, licking all the food off. He keeps his eyes closed while doing this, not matter if he's dying to look at Geralt, because he's that much of a petty drama queen.
'Ludicrous witcher logic'. What Jaskier thought of as ludicrous, Geralt simply thought of as practical. Dainty finger-foods and poetry are the kind of slow seduction that you use on rich ladies with expensive tastes, ballads and trinkets for farmers' daughters with grand ideas about love who don't know any better yet. Geralt is both a man and a witcher, and he has few needs and even fewer wants. He would get into Jaskier's soft canopy bed with or without the songs and pretty words. Knowing that he is, for now, held in the bard's esteem is enough.
They would see, anyway, if Jaskier still felt like cherishing him or sweeping him off of his feet after four months of being stuck at the keep with him.
There's an amused turn to the corner of his mouth at Jaskier's offense, his exaggerated histrionics, the finger that he waggles at Geralt like a scandalized housewife. His eyes drop to Jaskier's throat when he flicks open a few buttons and bares its bruised surface, and so do quite a few others in the vicinity. The whispers increase in volume and Geralt can't help but roll his eyes.
"I like your fingers just fine," he says, and then Jaskier decides that the best way to show off said fingers is to dip them in cream and practically fellate them. It's quite the sight; Jaskier has a clever tongue and soft lips, and Geralt finds the movement of his throat when he swallows very appealing, especially when covered with his marks. He feels that thrill of interest again, warming his blood more than the ale does.
When the bard leans forward, his doublet pulls up just a little in the back, revealing an inch or two of his chemise; Geralt puts his hand there, running his fingers over the soft fabric that covers his lower back.
"Once you've finished pleasuring your tarts, I could show you."
Jaskier's heart starts racing when he feels that hand on his lower back and a very proud smile appears on his face. Ah-ha! Success! With his ego stroked and feeling incredibly pleased with himself, part of Jaskier wants to cover his fingers in cream and feed it to Geralt directly, but even Mr I've-fucked-in-ever-classroom knows his limits when it comes to public PDA.
"Oh, Geralt. It's not my tarts that are getting pleasure from this little display, believe me."
He licks his lips - both to take care of any leftover cream and because his scent is spiking at the sound of I could show you. Lowering his eyelids a bit and looking as coquettish as he can, he rests his chin on his hand and looks at Geralt with raw want in his eyes, somehow managing to munch on his tarts all the while. He doesn't take as much time with each bite now, definitely wanting to take up Geralt's offer, but he does lick his lips and make cute little sounds when able.
"Tell me, darling." Oh, that's a new one. Jaskier is going to test as many terms of endearment as possible. "Since that day in Vizima, have you ever allowed yourself to imagine how it'd be between us? I know I have."
Jaskier's scent is sweet and warm and so very inviting, all the more so because Geralt knows that it's for him. Jaskier always smells vaguely like arousal, like he is perpetually eyeing some pretty thing that he wants to take to bed. Geralt had gotten used to it and just attributed it to the bard's naturally promiscuous nature, just resigned himself to the fact that, so long as he was traveling with Jaskier, he would have to live with the smell of his salacity. Part of him is beginning to wonder if Jaskier always smelled this way around him because he was around him.
"Hmm."
Geralt rumbles again, his eyes tracking the movement of his mouth, his lips, his throat as he eats his little tarts. Jaskier eats delicately, a remnant of his high-born breeding, Geralt assumes, and must have learned over the years how to make it look attractive. Like it's a little piece of performance art, both a demonstration and a promise. There is naked desire in his eyes, and Geralt can't remember a time when anyone else had looked at him with that kind of focus and purpose. Like he is something not just worth wanting, but also worth keeping.
The witcher leans in a little, so that he can lower his voice. No need to give the people around them even more fodder for gossip.
"Sometimes, in moments of weakness," he replies, "I've thought about how I might make your voice crack."
Jaskier has an impressive vocal range, after all-- sometimes, when he and bard had parted ways and there had been no whores to take the edge off, he'd wondered what he would have to do to make the bard's voice jump octaves, if he could make even that highly-trained throat pitchy with the correct application of witcher stamina.
Being the peacock that he is, Jaskier loves attention. He loves being desired, loves having eyes roaming all over his body wishing to make him theirs. It's a powerful and very intoxicating feeling. The fact it's Geralt of fucking Rivia the one being enchanted by his old yet perfected flirting techniques makes that feeling ten times stronger.
Look at me, he wants to shout to everyone in the room (and maybe into certain sorceress' face). No pretty princess or mighty warrior, it's this humble bard who won over the White Wolf's heart.
Between the rumbling of that deep voice and the way those golden eyes follow every move of his mouth, Jaskier could swear he could come without being touched at all. (And hey, maybe that's an experiment for the future.) And here is Geralt, leaning in and playing along, confessing fantasies about his voice. What better compliment could a bard ask for? His body is shivering at the thought, the spike of arousal as strong as his sweet mirth now.
"I have no doubt in my mind that you'll make me sing undiscovered notes." He replies as a hand returns to Geralt's leg, but not to his thigh this time. It goes to squeeze his knee instead, trying to be comforting. Soothing. "But there's nothing weak about it, Geralt. Emotions don't make you weak - they make you stronger. You fight at your best when you're protecting what you believe in. I may be no swordman, but I know my best friend. I know what pulls at his soul and what he considers worth unsheathing a sword for. I also know my beloved, have watched that body of his move with the gracefulness of a panther and the determination of a wolf, and I've touched myself to the memory of those mighty muscles moving under black armor and extremely tight pants."
...alright, so much for comforting and soothing. He can't help it, they're in the middle of this sensual dance he can't (and doesn't want to) get out of. There's only one tart left, and Jaskier bites half of it only to offer the other half to Geralt. They're leaving after the tarts are gone, right? Well, this is his chance to speed up that process.
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But it isn't.
How did they end up like this? Cuddling, but because of nightmares. Sharing a love confession, but because of a class. Getting a nickname, but as a way to placate him. Knowing Geralt's heart is free, but in exchange of poking at his wounds. Jaskier learned at 18, on the road, that the world isn't like the ballads said, but still... this is so incredibly, utterly wrong on a whole new level.
He winces at Geralt's outburst, at least, and looks down at his hands, feeling like shit for having caused him pain. Jaskier never wants to cause Geralt more pain than what he already goes through everyday... and yet he doesn't apologize. Respect doesn't make history. If he hadn't pushed, they wouldn't be here, finally getting the truth of the matter out in the open. Jaskier is as patient as he can when it comes to Geralt, knows it's not the witcher's fault that he can't communicate for shit. But to have his love confession twisted like this? There's only so much he can take, only so much poetry he can spin mean words into. His heart aches for Geralt's broken problem, yet the petty bitch in him can only think I told you so, you didn't listen.
...actually, that doesn't sound half bad.
"About fucking time." He surprises himself by managing not to snap. His tone is still bitter and hurt, but his voice is hushed - things are resting on cracked ice, he realizes, and he's scared that it'll break again, like that day in the mountain. Even at moments like this, Geralt is still the best thing that has ever happened to him, something he doesn't want to lose. He's kept his feelings hidden all these years not to lose this friendship, and he can now feel it slipping through his fingers like sand. "How many times have I said you didn't have to take all that horsehit, Geralt? That you didn't have to be in fucking pieces, to endure insults and mistreatment, that you deserve better than that?"
Blue eyes follow the fingers on his lap as the pick at his nails. Another moment that should be good (Geralt learning that lesson), stained by this emotional hurricane.
"I consider myself an expert in reading you, yet half of the time, I still can't tell what you want. The conversation we had before Pavetta's betrothal still rings in my ears, so many years later, knowing you didn't mean half of it. So hearing you express a personal wish right now... it should make me happy. And it kind of does." Not being able to take it any longer, he looks up again, because if he's going down, he wants to save the last of his pride. He doesn't have much of it when it comes to Geralt, dumbass lovefool that he is, but if there's one thing he can say without shame is that he never gave in to Geralt's anger. Jaskier has always been fearless in front of the witcher, and he can't change that now. "Yet it also makes me doubt everything again. 'Whatever you want', you said. Was it only because you felt guilty? Do you truly want the White Wolf's bard by your side again? As a barker? As a travel companion? As a friend? As-- anything else? I've bared my feelings for you so many times by now, Geralt of Rivia. Someone out there will want you, I said. Let's go to the coast, I said."
A pause. He swallows the sob that threatens to escape.
"I love you, my song said." Thank the gods he's already sitting, or his trembling legs wouldn't have supported him through that admission. It's the closest he's been to saying it directly. "Something you weren't supposed to find out, because losing your friendship is the most terrifying thing that could happen to me, and yet... here we are, I say."
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Only a few days before things went to shit. This has to be a record.
"Deserve better?" There's an incredulity in his tone, like Jaskier told him that-- well, like he told him that Geralt of fucking Rivia deserves better than a tumultuous relationship with an emotionally unavailable sorceress. Sounds like exactly what he deserves, a broken relationship with an equally broken woman. "And I should go back to what, Jaskier? Nothing? Paying thrice as much to bed whores who reek of disgust? At least Yen told me that she fucking wanted me, and directly, not hiding it in songs and hoping that I'll parse what's true and what's embellishment."
When he'd said whatever you want, he'd meant it, but he'd also wanted for there to be a clear answer for it. For Jaskier to say 'we are friends', and it be so, or 'we're traveling companions' or, hell, he would have even taken 'we're nothing', even if hearing that would've been like taking a harpoon to the chest. He could have survived that blow, even if it hurt. What he doesn't want is this uncertainty, saying one thing and meaning another and leaving him to try to sort through the mess of it. Half of Jaskier's songs are lies to begin with, so how's he supposed to tell the things that the bard means from the things that are just another example of respect not making history?
"I don't talk in fucking riddles, Jaskier, whatever you want means whatever you want!"
He feels like he wants to rip out his fucking hair for how much of a mess this is, how little control he feels like he has over the situation. Every time he tries to clear it up, it just seems to get worse, like a struggle in a silty river. The more you try to swim, the cloudier the water gets.
"Don't tell me what your fucking song says, tell me what you're saying. Tell me what pleases you, and it's yours."
There's something like a plea in his voice, like desperation; give him solid ground to catch his feet on.
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So much for not snapping, huh? But the witcher isn't the only one feeling like ripping his fucking hair out. Jaskier finally leaves the desk, stomping and opening his arms again, voice raising.
"Don't accuse me of hiding when the entire fucking Continent knew except you, Geralt of Rivia! How was I supposed to reach out to you when you couldn't even say the word FRIEND? I did ask, didn't I, right before the djinn fiasco! One little request, as simple as counting to two: to be considered a friend after a bloody decade. Instead I get 'filling-less pie'! Fuck off, bard! We aren't friends, bard!" A snort that echoes in the whole room. "And you expect me to confess after that? Even NOW you think you would've gone back to nothing instead of ME!"
And it hurts like hell. The sob that he has been swallowing can't be contained any longer, and he lets it escape his lips as he feels his stomach asking him to run, throw out and then fill it with vodka until he's puking again. Maybe that way he can expel all the pieces of his broken heart as well.
"What do you want me to say, Geralt? That I want you, that I need you, that I love you? Well, I DO! I HAVE, for over twenty years!" He hits his chest with both hands when he says that, the stomping stopping at the bottom of the stairs where he looks up at Geralt with an hurricane in his eyes. "I've wanted you since I saw you brooding in that inn in Posada, smelling of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. I've loved you since you offered Filavandrel your fucking throat, like the noble bastard you are!"
He rubs the tears off his eyes before continuing, which is pointless. He probably has no dignity left. And if he does, then he'll lose it when he talks to the dean about having to stay here during the winter after all, with his tail between his legs.
"I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting." He almost spits the words in a very ironic gesture, because he still wants to defend his art in the middle of this mess. His songs are who he is - insulting them, accusing them of being riddles, is insulting Jaskier himself. "Even after you threw me away like an old dog at the top of that mountain, I kept singing that with the most sincere emotion I could evoke. I want everything with you, Geralt. But I also know what won't please me: you giving it to me because you feel guilty, or lonely, or because I'm the only one available. You've never wanted my pity - I don't want yours either."
His arms drop - so does his head. He's tired, defeated. "So excuse me-" The sarcasm is thick in that one."-for not expecting anything from a man with no 'wants'. I was content with having what I could - your company. But I won't settle down for any less than being sincerely wanted in return."
Even one night stands have given him that. Jaskier ran away from a house filled with fake money friends and avoids paying for sex for a reason, after all.
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But years later-- there was always a reason that Jaskier was so popular, that he could walk into a tavern and have a dozen offers by the end of the night and pick as many of those as he wanted. And Geralt would go to bed his whores.
Geralt smells salt and water, and heartache-- a cold smell, like wintergreen-- and Jaskier scrubs at his face, at his red-rimmed eyes. It isn't the first time that Geralt has seem him cry, or even probably the first time that he'd caused it, but this is the most he's ever felt because of it, this twist in his chest.
"No one wants witchers. How could you love me," he says, voice low and a little hoarse, "after I've been cruel to you?"
The possibility that Jaskier might harbor that kind of affection for him had been, at least until this moment, an absurdity. Something that didn't even bear thinking about. If the bard wanted a lover, after all, he could walk into any tavern or lord's court and find a dozen more suitable than Geralt and have them in his arms by nightfall. Why bother with a witcher who takes twenty years to admit that they are friends? Regardless of what he writes about nobility and bravery, there's little in Geralt that anyone would want to keep.
"There are things. That I want."
And usually he takes those things and puts them in a box in his head, sets them aside and doesn't look at it again. Witchers are not supposed to feel and they're not supposed to want; there's only the Path, endless and bloody and full of monsters. Sometimes, Geralt wonders if they made him wrong, if something happened during his Trials that left him flawed-- like Coën's eyes, but on the inside. Invisible. Hungry, wanting, defective.
His own voice shouldn't sound so fucking small.
"Can I want this?"
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Not today. Jaskier is exhausted, barely able to deal with the punches thrown at his own self-esteem to take care of Geralt's on top of that. But Jaskier is still Jaskier, a bard that doesn't allow words to fly by without consequence, doesn't allow questions about himself to go unanswered.
"How could you allow me to follow you if I was annoying you and spoiling your blessed silence?"
It's not something anywhere close to what witchers go through, nowhere close to be looked down upon and discriminated by society. He knows that. But again, he's feeling tired and petty, he just wants to make a very simple point: the good times surpass the bad, and nobody is perfect. That's how human interaction works.
Jaskier's breathing stops for a moment when he hears that question, the voice so small that it claws at Jaskier's instincts to run and take care of Geralt when he feels like that, instincts that were born when he was 18 and have only grown since then, becoming part of the man he's today. His hands close in tight fists, nails digging into skin as he reminds himself not to hope again, because he had been doing that since the night of his rescue and it's only brought this mess of an argument.
And yet-- I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting.
"Only if you swear--" His voice breaks, and he swallows another sob, takes a deep breath before trying again, before raising blue eyes once more in a final effort. "Because you HAVE to swear, Geralt, on your swords or on Roach or anything, but you got to promise me that you don't want this because you don't know how to deal with your guilt. Promise me you don't want this only to make me feel better after the dragon hunt, and the Nilgaardian soldiers, and--" He raises a hand to indicate the air between them. "--this. Promise me you want this for yourself, because you understand you're allowed to want things, because you want to be happy, because this is what I truly mean to you. I don't need poetry or epic confessions, only honesty. If you do--"
Chin raised high, he takes a step forward, offering himself for more gestures and words if they come. But only one step, no more, because he's spent two decades reaching out, and it's Geralt's turn to do the same. To give the first step into something more - the true step, and not a song.
"--then yes. I'd love nothing else than for you to want this."
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"I swear." He hates the uncertainty of wanting in his life that's already full of uncertainties, but if this wanting is a sign that he is flawed, an improperly made weapon, than so be it. He's tired of this fight. "I swear on the Path. On the Trials that made me."
He steps close, for once the one violating personal space, and leans forward, bends his head down to press his forehead to Jaskier's neck. He breathes, and the scent of him is tainted by their arguing and histrionics, but it's still Jaskier. It's the scent that haunted him for so many winters, until he could set his feet on the road that ran toward its owner come spring. His hands rest on the bard's hips; he itches to put them around his back and crush him to his chest, but he refrains. Leaves a way open for Jaskier to pull away and escape if he so chooses, to not cage him.
"Vizima," he says into Jaskier's skin. "The sight-reading contest, against that troubadour you hate. You remember."
It had been some ten years prior, well before the mountain or the djinn. There was to be a real competition later that week, one with prize money and accolades and all that rot, that the bard was really there for, but the man who sponsored Valdo Marx was deeply competitive with Jaskier's sponsor and had arranged for a friendly wager. An improvisation contest between the two bards, held at his estate; officially there was no money involved, just bragging rights, though Geralt would've eaten his own armor if there weren't side bets going on under the table. He hadn't even really planned on being in Vizima at the time, only had even gotten an invitation to the event at all because he had finished a contract for the sponsoring lord. And even then, he only actually attended because it sounded exactly like the kind of situation that Jaskier would need rescued from at the end.
Marx had played first, a new composition written specifically for this little contest, and it was... fine. Full of sound and fury, Geralt hadn't paid that much attention to it, more interested in partaking in the good food and good wine until Jaskier inevitably got in trouble. What was supposed to happen was that Jaskier would take Valdo's sheet music and play it, having never seen it before, and then they would do the same for Jaskier's composition-- the bard that played the unfamiliar work the best would then be crowned the winner and superior musician.
Jaskier had taken the sheet music, turned it upside down with a flourish, played the opening bar or two, then played them backwards; riffed and improvised and deconstructed the composition, imitated Marx's own playing and then picked it apart and put it together again, parodied and mocked it. Jaskier wasn't even done before Marx stormed out of the room, outplayed and humiliated. And Geralt, standing in a corner to avoid being noticed or having to engage with anyone around him, had listened in stunned silence as he realized that Jaskier was very good at what he did. He might even actually be great at it. The whole thing had been like watching an amateur swordsman challenge a master to a duel, unaware of how outmatched he was.
Marx's sponsor had to admit defeat on his behalf, as the troubadour was too humiliated to even return to the party, and Geralt had caught a glimpse of Jaskier's face while he was surrounded by congratulatory guests. It was joyous, proud, and brilliant, his grin infectious, his eyes like stars. And Geralt had felt some answering swell in his chest, something that felt a lot like pride and pleasure and a terrible want, so sharp and sudden that he might have thought he was stabbed except that there wasn't any blood. He should have gone to congratulate him, because he knew how much Jaskier hated this troubadour-- or if he had been honest, congratulate him, pull him down an empty hallway and into an unused bedroom and then congratulate him--
but instead, he left. Fled, as though he could outrun the hungry thing under his skin that saw Jaskier's smile and wanted it for its own. Left the whole fucking city and didn't see Jaskier again for another month, miles and miles to the north. He didn't even know if the bard had known he was in Vizima to begin with, nevertheless at that particular party.
"That's when I knew I wanted."
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A promise made on the Path and the Trials shakes him to his core and leaves him breathless.
Fuck. Bloody fucking hell. Jaskier said he didn't need poetry - which isn't entirely true, he loves being told pretty words as much as he enjoys giving them out, but he said it for the sake of Geralt, because he can live without it as long as he has him by his side, because he knew that asking for a true confession would scare the witcher away. And yet... On the Trials that made me. And bloody yet the bastard gives him words that poets would kill for to incorporate in their pieces!
How can he be so bad at this yet so romantic at the same time?
Thank the gods for those big, powerful hands coming to hold him, because Jaskier can feel his legs becoming jelly - he wouldn't have been able to be standing much longer after such a promise. His heart is buzzing once again, his scent slowly goes back to his usual sweetness and-- fuck, Geralt is on his neck, his breathing on his skin sending a shiver down Jaskier's spine. Calloused fingers land on the witcher's neck and stroke him gently, his free arm wraps around that big chest to hold him close to say yes, this is absolutely happening, you're mine now.
Because it is. It's happening. Jaskier can barely believe it, and he hangs onto Geralt as if his life depended on it.
I’ll keep the king / Keep him safe at bay / I’ll keep him safe from the dark things that wait / In that house at the top of the rock.
But what is this about Vizima and a sight-reading contest? You remember. Oh! Yes, of course he does. How could he not? One of the best days of his life. One of the most generous sponsors he's ever had the pleasure to work in, one that truly liked and appreciated Jaskier's music and didn't only hire the most famous name he could find to show him off in front of the other lords. Vardo bloody Marx had been there too, and just being in the same room than the asshole should've been bad news, but having him for the competition was actually great because it meant he would have the chance to sweep the floor with him.
And Jaskier truly loves music competitions. The attention, the crowds, the celebration of music, the different styles being played together, the stroke to his ego, the coin, the wine and food, fucking an admirer or two (or three...) afterwards. So when the sponsor offered a little contest for fun, how could he refuse? Valdo made fun of him before it started, he remembers, told him that Jaskier was nothing without the White Wolf. It got his blood boiling, and he made good use of it - he channeled that anger, and his pride, his talent, the adrenaline of having a lute in his hands handed by the fucking king of elves...
Respect doesn't make history. Jaskier twisted Valdo's composition with the same manipulative inspiration and passion he uses to slam the masses' opinion on witchers, and destroyed it with the effectiveness he wishes he could have on such prejudices. While he stayed there, surrounded by people's praises, his soul almost elevated to a new plane of existence just over how happy he was, he had one thought:
I wish Geralt could see this.
...wait a minute.
"You were there?!" Yep, the high pitch is back, enjoy. "Bloody hell, Geralt! Do you have any idea how I wished back then that you could've been there with me? I wanted to share that moment with you! So what did you do, watched the competition and then r-"
--ran away. Oh. Emotions got the best of the witcher, didn't they? After his comments about the whore bedding yesterday, Jaskier is able to stop himself just in time. His head tilts, resting his temple against the witcher's.
"That's why I took me a while to find you again after that, huh? You're lucky there aren't pillows in this room." He teases, obvious mirth in his voice. "So it was my talent that caught you in the end after all." Which makes his chest feel warmer than the sun itself. "And this was what, over a decade ago? All this time we could've..." A sigh. "We're both imbeciles."
Hey, that's compromise, right?
The hand on Geralt's neck moves to cup his face, raising it to make gold eyes fall on blue ones - which look at the witcher in front of him with pure adoration. "You don't have to be afraid of this, my dear."
Not dear witcher, but my dear. And before Geralt can reply, Jaskier leans in and covers the witcher's lips with his own.
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Jaskier remembers Vizima, but of course he would-- he had a rightfully earned victory over his rival troubadour, even if the man later tried to soften the blow to his reputation by spreading rumors that Jaskier had cheated. It didn't matter, though, not when Jaskier also placed highly in the competition later that week, returning north with a full purse and enough stories to talk Geralt's ear off for days. By the time they met again, Geralt had forced that greedy wanting down until it was a bare simmer in the back of his mind. After this, he doesn't know if he can do it again; the only beast that he can't conquer.
The bard pieces together what happened, though, with Geralt's meager words and his general pattern of behavior. So much for those songs that Jaskier wrote about him, calling him noble and brave-- the brave witcher, running away from his his own damned emotions because he saw a bard smile from across the room. If only Vesemir could see him now, see that all of his training and tutelage had been unable to withstand prolonged contact with this one man, that Geralt, for all his extra mutagens and experimentation, is weak.
Geralt hums in vague affirmation of Jaskier's suspicions as to why he was difficult to locate; he had tried to keep himself busy with contracts in the north until he felt stable again, in control. Any job had been fine, from simple drowners to werewolves to a katakan up near Hengfors. That last one had been bad-- Geralt left that encounter with two scarred puncture marks near his inner elbow where it had bitten him.
The witcher would have preferred to keep his face where it is, but Jaskier's hands move to cup his jaw and he lets him move his head as he pleases. The bard's eyes are blue, like cornflowers, and his gaze is so soft and fond that it makes that thing choke up in Geralt's chest again, the same thing that made him flee Vizima.
Jaskier's lips are just as soft and tender as his gaze against Geralt's, and, gods old and new, if this is how he kissed all those barmaids and courtiers, than he understands why they went so willingly with Jaskier to dark corners. A sound wrenches its way out of his throat that he barely recognizes, but it's low and broken as though Jaskier had killed him rather than kissed. Like he'd gutted him where he stands. Geralt pulls back just a fraction, only enough to speak and breathe each others' air.
"Jask."
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If they weren't in the middle of an university building, he would ask Geralt to pick him and carry him to their room just like this.
And the kiss! Oh, what a kiss, twenty years of pining exploding into a kiss that Jaskier swears tastes like a spark of magic and a touch of wilderness. He keeps it soft for now, making sure Geralt understands how much affection is going through, guiding the witcher's lips against his to tell him yes, this is right, keep doing it. The sound he hears coming from the deepness of Geralt's very own soul makes his heart skip a beat and his scent suddenly gains a very faint but unmistakable hint of arousal.
Jask. Damn. He can get used to that pretty quickly.
"Fuck, Geralt." He says after licking his own lips, feeling his whole body burning under the weight of that sound and that nickname. "If you keep calling me that, there won't be anything I'll be able to say no to." His thumb traces the lines of Geralt's mouth as a little rhythm leaves his throat, inspiration taking over. "Darling, kiss me like you want to feel safe, because my lips want to know all the places you've been hurt so they can take it all away."
Musician fingers bury themselves in Geralt's hair to push just as Jaskier dives in for a new kiss, this one a little more demanding and passionate. Two decades and all the drama from the last week or so have drained all his patience, and now he wants the reward he deserves for his loyalty. He kisses, he nibbles, he lets the tip of his tongue peek out to tease with a promise that yes, this witcher is definitely wanted.
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The bard's thumb traces over his lips, and Geralt kisses that, too.
"Composing?" he asks in the moments before Jaskier's lips crash back into his, and then there's no time for words. Not when there are fingers digging into his hair, pushing Geralt's head wherever he wants it, the delicious scrape of teeth over his lower lip. He deepens the kiss when Jaskier allows it, chases his tongue and the heat of his mouth and wants more. He wants, he wants.
Geralt steps forward, pushing Jaskier back until his legs hit the desk again, then slips his hands down to the bard's thighs to lift him onto its surface. He stands between Jaskier's legs and kisses along his jaw, over to his ear, and rumbles Jask into it, his voice rough.
"Talk to me."
Then he drags his teeth over the bolt of his jaw, moves down to the tender skin of his neck. Jaskier's doublets always have such high fucking collars, even if most of the time he was around Geralt and not in polite company, he wore them undone with his entire chemise showing, like a backwater tart. Geralt never paid attention to it, never cared about the detail's of Jaskier's foppish fashion. But he taught a class today, like a proper lecturer, and Geralt has to tug at the little buttons on the garment with an impatient growl to reveal more skin.
"So many fucking buttons."
He's half tempted to rip the thing open and to hell with all the buttons.
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Geralt deepens the kiss as well and Jaskier takes it, giving as much open mouth and tongue in return. I can take it, he wants to say, I'm not made of glass, I can take a witcher. And thanks to all the gods, Geralt understands this, he isn't being gentle with the 'weak human', he's letting passion take over just the way Jaskier likes it. In the middle of the classroom, too, which adds a whole injection of adrenaline in his body.
What truly makes his blood boil, however, is Geralt suddenly mandhandling him. Fuck.
Jaskier doesn't put up any kind of fight at all, although it's not like Geralt couldn't push him anyway if he wanted - the point still stands. In fact, as soon as his thighs are lifted, Jaskier is wrapping them around Geralt's waist, pulling him closer to make their groins meet, his scent now fully spiced with lust.
The kisses along his jaw are nice and all too, but what makes him throw his head and groan loud and dirty is the rumbled nickname in his ear.
"Fuck, Geralt." Talk? Oh, he can talk, alright, not even a boner (or a semi, to be more accurate at the moment) can stop him from talking. Jaskier is as loud and chatty during sex as he is the rest of the time. And let's not even begin on the fact Mr Blessed Silence is the one asking him for it. So Jaskier talks while enjoying the feeling of Geralt's teeth on his skin (which sends delicious shivers through his whole body) and letting his hands roam all over Geralt's muscles, groping thick arms and sculpted pecs. "Do you have any idea how much I've dreamed of you grabbing me and taking me like this? Of feeling your mouth on my burning skin and your mighty hands pulling me apart as easily as if I was a virginal maiden having her first time? How have I wanted to praise the curvatures of your bo-"
The complaint about the buttons interrupts him and Jaskier, who has learned to take off fucking corsets with his eyes closed, can only laugh.
"Allow me, my dear." Expert fingers open his doublet in seconds before he's leaning again to nibble Geralt's ear and whisper with his best sultry tone. "Mark me, my wolf. Let them know why they shouldn't flirt with me anymore."
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But Jaskier smells like nothing but willingness and lust, and with his legs wrapped around Geralt's hips, he can feel the hardening length of his cock pressing into him. It's good, perfect, and though it takes longer for Geralt to get going than it does for even Jaskier at forty, a warm thrum of arousal is stirring in his blood. That slow witcher heart of his will pick up the pace eventually. If he could just satisfy Jaskier for the first round or two with his mouth and hands, that might be enough of a delay for the rest of him to catch up, and possibly without the bard noticing so long as he's good enough.
"There's nothing virginal about you," he says, mouth still pressed to the thin skin of his neck while Jaskier feels his way across the witcher's arms and chest and shoulders like he hadn't had his hands on them hundreds of times before.
Jaskier's hands are far more deft at undoing tiny buttons than his are; a necessary skill to have, he supposes, for a man who readily beds ladies in fussy court clothes. Always lousy with buttons and laces, those things. But once the doublet hangs open, Jaskier gives him the prettiest invitation that Geralt has ever received-- to mark up his neck, make it obvious to anyone who laid eyes on him that he is spoken for. Claimed. And, well, enough people have seen Geralt skulking around Oxenfurt to draw their own conclusions about who put bruises all over the bard's neck.
"Fuck, Jask."
That growling edge is back in his voice and Geralt wastes little time in tugging the lacy collar of his chemise away from his neck, leaving all that pretty, pale skin vulnerable to him. He goes for the throat with the brutal efficiency of a witcher, starting high up near his jaw and working his way down, sucking and biting until there's a trail of red marks going down it that are sure to darken. Then he moves to the other side-- thoroughness is the mark of a good witcher-- and does the same there, so there's no hiding it. Even the tallest collar wouldn't be able to hide all the bruises.
He takes Jaskier's chin in his hand and turns his head this way and that, admiring his work and making a low, approving noise at the sight of it.
"Now, the rest."
He starts to push the doublet off of Jaskier's shoulders, to get to the rest of his clothes underneath.
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Jaskier usually has better boner control than this. No, really. It'd be very inconvenient to have a hard-on in the middle of a performance, wouldn't it? Besides, you don't get a reputation with the ladies by quickly jumping on things. He enjoys the chase, the foreplay, the build-up. The art of seduction. But it's hard to stay in control when twenty years of pining, fantasies and sexual tension are crashing against him, manhandling him and growling because he likes the way he whispers in his ear.
So here he is, with a tent already in his pants. Geralt is over one hundred years old and has fucked the most powerful sorceress in the Continent. The fact Jaskier can provoke him with such simple words is a powerful thought that could almost make him come on the spot.
The virginal comment had definitely been a metaphor but damn if Geralt doesn't make him feel a bit like that. His toes curl inside his boots as the witcher starts working on the hickeys, Jaskier's body arching under it, his hips thrusting to get at least some pressure rubbed against his groin. His head is thrown back as much as possible to expose his neck and playful fingers try to rub Geralt's nipples through his shirt.
"You like that, don't you, oh White Wolf? You like, aah, Geralt-" Excuse him for a second to moan as dirtily as he can. "You like marking me as yours. You like making a claim."
Which is incredibly hot, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't fantasies about it. Would Geralt be just like a wolf? Wild, territorial, rough? Would he like to bite and mandhandle him? When Geralt was having a bad day over the world treating him like shit, Jaskier would feel a bit guilty for having those fantasies that played so much into witcher stereotypes and he would masturbate to more romantic thoughts instead: laying down with Geralt and giving him the kindness he deserves in a long session of soft love making filled with pretty words and kisses to his scars.
He will do that later, too, that's for sure. Jaskier is a versatile lover and when it comes to Geralt, he wants it all. For now though, he's feeling as desperate as his lover does, so he'll enjoy every second of what the the wolf has to offer him.
"Bravo, Master Witcher." He says with a grin when Geralt raises his chin to admire his neck as an artist would admire the paint they just applied. "You've made a canvas out of m-"
Knock knock. "Master Jaskier? Are you still-- eep!" The maid that has entered the room quickly turns around, but the red on her ears is still rather obvious.
Jaskier mumbles a bollocks but he isn't too surprised by this turn of events, and he replies casually while still having his hands on Geralt's chest and his legs around him. "My apologies, ah- who is it? Margaret? Gretel? I know it's not Rose-"
"It's Anastasia, Master Jaskier. And I should be the one to apologize..." She's nervous and trembling, probably worried about her job.
"Anastasia, right, you're new." The girl nods. "So this is your first time finding me like this! Don't worry, sweet girl, you aren't the first one and you won't be the last." He offers a wink to Geralt when he says that. The maid can only eep again. "Now you can join the betting pool with your coworkers - let me know how that is going when you have the chance, by the way. Am I being summoned because I haven't handed in today's report yet?" Anastasia nods again. "Tell them I'll be right there. Thank you, Anastasia."
The girl runs away as soon as Jaskier pronounces the first letter of her name, closing the door behind her a little stronger than her manners would usually allow her to. With a sigh, Jaskier unlocks his legs and starts buttoning up his doublet - thankfully, Geralt has done a good job so the hickeys are still visible.
"Sorry, my dear, duty calls. If we were staying here all winter I'd just ignore them, but if we want to leave tomorrow with decent coin I need to at least attempt to behave." He gently cups Geralt's face with both hands and gives him a sweet, tender kiss. "I love you. You've made me the happiest man alive today, and I'll show exactly how much later tonight. Will I see you at dinner?"
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Jaskier has yet to release Geralt's hips from the grip of his thighs, nor does he stop tracing his fingers over the witcher's chest. It's... distracting. Geralt draws in a sharp breath as his thumb runs over one of his nipples again, and their perkiness is rather annoyingly visible underneath the relatively thin linen of his shirt. Jaskier manages to have a whole conversation with the maid without even an ounce of shame for the position they're in. He's even cheeky enough to wink at Geralt with the implication that he's been caught in this very kind of position many times before, and Geralt is sure that the maid hears the low growl he made at you won't be the last by the nervous noise she makes in response.
The witcher would've far preferred to just snap at the girl to leave and pick back up right where he left off, even if it would probably scare her, but apparently this is important and Jaskier has to run off to attend to his reporting. The girl runs off and Jaskier has to make himself presentable again, doing up his doublet and smoothing out his clothes, and when Geralt steps back to let him stand, he misses the warmth of him. Then he's pissed at himself for such a stupid reaction, what, is he going to turn into a fucking wilting flower after a few kisses? He's not Jaskier.
Jaskier kisses him again, all sweet and tender, and Geralt melts into it. So much for not being the swooning maiden, fuck.
"Yes," he says, when Jaskier asks about dinner. "I'll be there."
Of course he'll be there. Where else would he be?
Geralt watches Jaskier leave the classroom and, once he's gone and the door has closed behind him, he leans against the desk that he'd just had the bard on top of and scrubs his hands over his face, and says one incredibly heartfelt,
"Fuck."
He waits for Jaskier outside the doors of the dining hall, reluctant to go inside and face a crowd of strangers who all know much more about him than he does them. And there's that part where they were caught in the classroom earlier, and Geralt doesn't know Oxenfurt very well specifically but he is entirely, painfully certain that the maid has spread that piece of gossip all across the campus by now. If he has to hear every comment that everyone makes about what went on in that room, he at least wants to have Jaskier sitting there with him, and preferably a very large tankard of ale.
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A horny arse that grins proudly as he walks through the halls of the university with his neck marked by the White Wolf.
Usually he reports to the head of the arts department, but today the dean is there too, sighing and not even a bit surprised at Jaskier being himself. He gets scolded for it, of course, but honestly? He's never given a damn about fucking around the university, and he won't start now - specially today of all days. He's in bloody heaven, his mere existence proof of the kind of love that he usually sings about: one that lives through a long time, through hardship, through death, heartbreak and heroics, and is rewarded at the end.
Finding Geralt waiting for him makes his heart flutter, it's just as if he was arriving to a date. He knows Geralt is probably avoiding the people inside, but if that was only the case, he also knows the witcher would've been perfectly capable of finding a corner for himself to brood and drink alone.
"Hey, handsome." It's his greeting as he comes closer and grabs Geralt's hand to guide him inside, getting some looks and giggles as the walk by, even a wolf-whistle or two. Luckily the comments aren't thrown at the their faces and it's kept as whispered gossip, most likely because even if people respect Geralt around here, they still know not to mess with a fucking witcher (sadly they don't consider the fact Geralt can hear them anyway). Many people thought they were already together when they arrived anyway, so they mostly stick to updating the betting pool and teasing a little Jaskier when they approach them to chitchat.
And speaking of Jaskier... he decides to sit next to Geralt instead of across now, shoulders and legs bumping, absorbing the warmth the witcher's body is always exuding, and even letting his hand drop on Geralt's thigh while drinking or watching other bards and dancers perform. His scent is intoxicatingly sweet, mirth making his eyes sparkle - only to shine even brighter when he sees what the maid brings them for dinner.
"Seafood stew! Oh, Geralt, you need to taste this delicacy--"
There's much poetry he has to say about this dish, and the sounds he makes while he eats them are almost obscene. The university kitchens usually avoid such complex and expensive dishes, but then he realizes they are the only ones having it. Huh. Maybe a gift from a person Geralt saved? He makes a mental note to ask him about later. Now it's time to perform, and with all this romance and passion burning brightly in his veins, he's ready to leave the White Wolf ballads behind for this one night.
He starts romantic, throwing charming smiles and winks at Geralt any time he has the chance.
My dearest one, my darling dear / Your mighty words astound me / But I've no need for mighty deeds / When I feel your arms around me
But I would bring you rings of gold / I'd even sing you poetry / And I would keep you from all harm / If you would stay beside me
But as ale and seafood settle in his stomach and the memories of what they did in the classroom return to his mind whenever those golden eyes fall on him, his songs go up in heat.
When I press an ear up to your breast / I can hear the rhythm start / It's hard to tell our beats apart / So I hope you're listening right now/ Because I can barely hold my tongue / The things we do could warm the sun
Until he can't take it anymore and he allows his voice to break as picks the most subtle yet dirtiest of his lyrics.
And rock right up to the side of my mountain / Climb until you reach my peak / And reach right into the bottom of my fountain / I wanna play in your deep
Then dip me under where you can feel my river flowing and flow / Hold me 'til I scream for air to breathe / And wash me over until my well runs dry / Send all your sins all over me
A round of applause follows his performance, and Jaskier usually would stay on the floor to bask into and absorb the attention, but tonight he's a man with a mission - a mission filled with desire, passion and twenty years of wanting. When he returns to Geralt's side, sweaty and panting, he sits on the edge of the table and leans in to speak into his ear.
"Tell me, my dear. Did you like my choice of songs?"
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--I heard they got caught in a classroom--, one student says to another across their table.
--they say he was tearing off all of Professor Jaskier's clothes, like a beast--, another whispers to her friend, sneaking looks at Geralt as he goes by.
--hey, says a man at a table not far from theirs, they call him the White Wolf, right? Do you think that means he's got a cock like--
Geralt stops listening.
Jaskier sits next to him, closer than he usually would dare; he's just a hair off from putting himself right in Geralt's lap. Kisses and confessions have made him bold, and while they drink and wait for dinner to be served, watching the musicians and bards perform (mostly with disinterest, on Geralt's part. They're fine, he supposes, but he finds their voices annoying), Jaskier drops a hand onto the witcher's heavy thigh, too high up to be strictly friendly. Geralt swallows a mouthful of ale and he's about to tell Jaskier to try to be a little bit subtle when the bard is distracted by the arrival of two heaping bowls of seafood stew. He recognizes the serving girl from the kitchen this morning, and she gives him a knowing smile as she sets the bowls down. Jaskier is delighted, and seems too wrapped up in his vaguely pornographic appreciation of his food to ask too many questions.
The bard goes up to play once his ale has been drank and his stew finished, and Geralt expects to hear more of Jaskier's White Wolf songs-- instead, though, he sings about love in a more general way, songs that don't explicitly mention Geralt's name but might as well have, considering how many times Jaskier's gaze settles on him during his performance.
Geralt is not a master of words like Jaskier, hasn't been educated to dissect metaphors and turns of phrase, but he's quite certain that the last song that the bard sings is entirely about what he wants to do to his witcher once they get back to his room. If witchers could blush, that might even have been able to raise one on his cheeks-- thankfully, witchers can't blush, so Geralt's complexion can't betray him. And at the end of it, Jaskier saunters back, looking pleased as a cat that got into the cream, and leans over to speak to Geralt. He smells like sweat and flowers and satisfaction, and it's a good scent on him. Geralt wants to undo the buttons at his throat and press his nose to the hollow of it, breathe him in. He refrains, but his gaze certainly wanders down to the bruises that peek out over the top of his collar.
"In three words or less?" he says, "You aren't subtle."
But that review is tempered by the fact that his voice has a hint of amusement to it, half exasperated and half fond. It's useless to try to keep Jaskier from doing whatever he wants, and everyone in this room had already decided what they believe about the two of them before Geralt even stepped in the door. Jaskier's enthusiasm and vast repertoire of suggestive songs probably hasn't made anything worse.
"But your voice grates on me less than the others'." Geralt pushes a cup of wine towards him; he'd had the girl bring some of his favorite, to have after he was done singing. It wouldn't do for a bard to have a dry throat, after all. "Sit with me, if you're done."
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Oxenfurt turns this behavior up to eleven. Every one here is at least a little bit weird and, thankfully, very open minded. This city has been built on loudness and bright minds. They're also simply used to Jaskier being Jaskier. Here, he feels more free than anywhere else in the world, he can let loose. The songbird is allowed to sing and do his mating rituals without any threats of a cage.
And now that he can have Geralt however he wants, whenever he wants? Of course he's going to show off, to celebrate this newfound happiness through the art of song and the art of PDA. Gotta make the best of it before they go back to travelling through shitty towns where he'll have to sit across Geralt again if he wants to avoid stones thrown at them.
(An irony, isn't it, considering it's those assholes that call him witcher's whore in the first place.)
'Half exasperated and half fond' may as well be Geralt's constant mood around Jaskier, so he picks up on it easily, throwing his head back to laugh as his hand falls on the witcher's shoulder.
"Of course I wasn't subtle! I wasn't trying to be, my dear. I know you don't like riddles. And that performance--" The hand on Geralt's shoulder slowly travels to the side to brush the back of its fingers against the witcher's neck. "--was for you as much as it was for myself."
The hand leaves to grab the cup when the wine is offered, and Jaskier drinks the entire thing because indeed, that's what his throat deserves, and he's pretty thirsty after all that movement anyway. In more ways than one.
"Less grating he says! Oh, you silly witcher, you aren't tricking me anymore - I know what kind of power my voice holds over you now." That's what made Geralt realize what he wants, isn't it? That's the best review he could've ever gotten. "I must confess, however, that I was expecting you to take us to our room after my marvelous dance, not to ask me to sit with you."
But he does so anyway, quickly hopping off the table to sit as they were before, the sides of their bodies touching and fingers landing on Geralt's thigh.
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He neither argues with nor corroborates Jaskier's assertion-- just hums at him and waits for him to take a seat again. He sits near again, their sides pressed together and Jaskier's hand again scandalously high on his thigh. The bard drained his wine quickly, so Geralt gestures to the serving girl to get him another.
"Back to our rooms already?"
Technically, yes, Geralt would want to be somewhere significantly quieter than the dining hall right now. But the ale is quite good, and he'd eaten several bowls of that seafood stew while Jaskier had been performing-- it's good to not have to worry about the cost of keeping his stomach full-- and he could stand to linger for a little while.
"You must think me easy." Mostly because he is, but that's not the point here. Really, he's more interested in making sure that Jaskier is well fed and watered before they go back, but it's also a nice change of pace to tease the bard for once. Turnabout is fair play. "Perhaps I want to make you wait."
He turns his head towards Jaskier, his nose brushing against against the bard's hair; it gives him a chance to breathe in more of that mix of flowers and sweat and wine, with the faint, warm undertone of arousal. It's headier than the wine that Jaskier gets another glass of and grounding amidst the conflicting sounds and scents of the dining hall. Like a safe harbor in a storm.
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"Twenty years, Geralt. Many things could -and shall- I call you, my dear, easy isn't one of them."
One would think that 'making him wait' would be received with whines of protest after such a performance, but there comes that nose brushing his head and Jaskier can only let out a cute little content sigh. This is nice - very nice. Romantic, even. Once gain, Geralt manages to be so without even trying, a big contrast against how much he sucks at it most of the time. Such a complex yet simple man, how could Jaskier not love him?
"You're right." He finally admits as he drops his head on Geralt's shoulder. The newly filled cup of wine is left untouched for now, instead his hand is raised to call for the serving girl that carries the tray of desserts. "Usually this would be one of my favorite parts - the chase. The build up! The foreplay!" Since one hand is still on Geralt's thigh without any plans to pull back for now, only one is left to do all the dramatic gesturing. "Letting the tension build until sparks of magic are twinkling with every touch, and every heated gaze makes promises without the need of words, sending shivers through every bone and muscle of wanting bodies..."
There's more poetry where that come from (there always is), but he's interrupted by the desserts girl finally reaching their spot on the table. Jaskier beams but doesn't move his head from his very cozy spot on Geralt's shoulder, easily choosing the tarts he wants from the tray: one raspberry almond, one strawberries and cream, and a simple egg one. The girl leaves after giving them a sweet look and giggling to herself.
"So you see, dear witcher..." He continues as if there hadn't been any interruptions, free hand grabbing a fork and burying it in the egg tart. "This is what you've made of me. I'm weak and wanting, driven crazy by golden eyes and a lovely bottom in tight pants during two whole decades. You've made this humble bard lost his foot in the path of seduction, I hope you're proud of yourself."
The semi-pornographic sounds make a comeback when Jaskier tastes the tart, and he goes for two more bites before speaking again.
"You're making up for it now, however. This is a lovely moment - I feel fulfilled and content. Food, witcher and wine!" He chuckles as he makes fun of the wording he use on Geralt so many years ago. "I know you don't like loud and crowded places, so thank you."
He raises his fork to offer Geralt some of the tart. Whether Geralt accepts it or not, it doesn't matter, it's already influencing the gossiping. Comments about the beasts slowly disappear to talk about how cute the bard and his witcher are together instead.
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"Hm."
Jaskier is fulfilled and content. That's good-- Jaskier ought to get his fill of delicacies and dainty things while he's here at Oxenfurt, because he won't be getting them at Kaer Morhen. And it's... pleasing, to have Jaskier pressed against him, warm and happy and still running high on his successful performance.
Plus, the noises that Jaskier makes when he eats those tarts aren't fit for polite company but, gods, does he like to hear them. He might like to hear more of them, later.
"I'm not one of your tavern wenches, Jask."
Jaskier offers Geralt a piece of that tart like he would offer some dainty morsel to... another kind of tart, one that certainly isn't a brick shithouse of a witcher. He gives Jaskier a look that's both dry and amused, and goes to pick up his tankard of ale rather than take the pastry.
"I prefer to drink." The whispers have started up again, and Geralt tries to ignore it. He still hears them, of course, and they're saying things about how sweet the White Wolf is with his bard, and the witcher can practically see his reputation getting ruined even more. "I've heard so much about your talents, and after all these years, I have to say that I was expecting more."
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The nickname is nice to hear in public, but something else distracts him. Jaskier frowns, genuinely confused, and analyses that statement in his head before continuing. After their last few arguments, he's learned to take certain Geralt-related concepts more carefully, otherwise he could start another awkward because you've only bedded whores situation.
"I'm not sure if you're saying that because of ludicrous witcher logic, thinking you don't deserve to be romanced, or because of society's view of relationships, thinking seduction and foreplay aren't needed anymore once you get together. Either way: horseshit. We may fuck one hundred times and I'll still do my best to sweep you off your feet with song, Geralt. What good is love for if I don't express it and make my beloved feel cherished?"
Back in the inn a few days ago, Jaskier had pushed bread and cheese in Geralt's hands because the witcher hadn't been eating. Always taking awful care of himself, this one. This time, however, Jaskier has seen him go for a couple of bowls of stew, and he continues to drink right now (good ale, not piss!), so he doesn't mind having the tart offer turned down. More for himself!
Sadly, he chokes on it when he hears that last comment. Jaskier pulls away from Geralt, mouth open in shock, finger being raised for the obligatory dramatics that Geralt is already used to. The nerve! The scandal! The asshole!
"I didn't hear you complain about my talents back in that classroom!" To make his point, he undoes the first two buttons of his doublet, showing off the marks that decorate his neck. Their thighs are still brushing, but his head and hand don't go back to rest on Geralt - he rests his elbows on the table instead, legs crossing as the dandy he is. "Maybe you should have a chat with your nipples, let them decide what they truly think of my skilled fingers."
And speaking of fingers... he dips two in one of the tarts to bring cream and strawberry to his mouth and veeeeery slowly wrap his lips around them, licking all the food off. He keeps his eyes closed while doing this, not matter if he's dying to look at Geralt, because he's that much of a petty drama queen.
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They would see, anyway, if Jaskier still felt like cherishing him or sweeping him off of his feet after four months of being stuck at the keep with him.
There's an amused turn to the corner of his mouth at Jaskier's offense, his exaggerated histrionics, the finger that he waggles at Geralt like a scandalized housewife. His eyes drop to Jaskier's throat when he flicks open a few buttons and bares its bruised surface, and so do quite a few others in the vicinity. The whispers increase in volume and Geralt can't help but roll his eyes.
"I like your fingers just fine," he says, and then Jaskier decides that the best way to show off said fingers is to dip them in cream and practically fellate them. It's quite the sight; Jaskier has a clever tongue and soft lips, and Geralt finds the movement of his throat when he swallows very appealing, especially when covered with his marks. He feels that thrill of interest again, warming his blood more than the ale does.
When the bard leans forward, his doublet pulls up just a little in the back, revealing an inch or two of his chemise; Geralt puts his hand there, running his fingers over the soft fabric that covers his lower back.
"Once you've finished pleasuring your tarts, I could show you."
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"Oh, Geralt. It's not my tarts that are getting pleasure from this little display, believe me."
He licks his lips - both to take care of any leftover cream and because his scent is spiking at the sound of I could show you. Lowering his eyelids a bit and looking as coquettish as he can, he rests his chin on his hand and looks at Geralt with raw want in his eyes, somehow managing to munch on his tarts all the while. He doesn't take as much time with each bite now, definitely wanting to take up Geralt's offer, but he does lick his lips and make cute little sounds when able.
"Tell me, darling." Oh, that's a new one. Jaskier is going to test as many terms of endearment as possible. "Since that day in Vizima, have you ever allowed yourself to imagine how it'd be between us? I know I have."
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"Hmm."
Geralt rumbles again, his eyes tracking the movement of his mouth, his lips, his throat as he eats his little tarts. Jaskier eats delicately, a remnant of his high-born breeding, Geralt assumes, and must have learned over the years how to make it look attractive. Like it's a little piece of performance art, both a demonstration and a promise. There is naked desire in his eyes, and Geralt can't remember a time when anyone else had looked at him with that kind of focus and purpose. Like he is something not just worth wanting, but also worth keeping.
The witcher leans in a little, so that he can lower his voice. No need to give the people around them even more fodder for gossip.
"Sometimes, in moments of weakness," he replies, "I've thought about how I might make your voice crack."
Jaskier has an impressive vocal range, after all-- sometimes, when he and bard had parted ways and there had been no whores to take the edge off, he'd wondered what he would have to do to make the bard's voice jump octaves, if he could make even that highly-trained throat pitchy with the correct application of witcher stamina.
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Look at me, he wants to shout to everyone in the room (and maybe into certain sorceress' face). No pretty princess or mighty warrior, it's this humble bard who won over the White Wolf's heart.
Between the rumbling of that deep voice and the way those golden eyes follow every move of his mouth, Jaskier could swear he could come without being touched at all. (And hey, maybe that's an experiment for the future.) And here is Geralt, leaning in and playing along, confessing fantasies about his voice. What better compliment could a bard ask for? His body is shivering at the thought, the spike of arousal as strong as his sweet mirth now.
"I have no doubt in my mind that you'll make me sing undiscovered notes." He replies as a hand returns to Geralt's leg, but not to his thigh this time. It goes to squeeze his knee instead, trying to be comforting. Soothing. "But there's nothing weak about it, Geralt. Emotions don't make you weak - they make you stronger. You fight at your best when you're protecting what you believe in. I may be no swordman, but I know my best friend. I know what pulls at his soul and what he considers worth unsheathing a sword for. I also know my beloved, have watched that body of his move with the gracefulness of a panther and the determination of a wolf, and I've touched myself to the memory of those mighty muscles moving under black armor and extremely tight pants."
...alright, so much for comforting and soothing. He can't help it, they're in the middle of this sensual dance he can't (and doesn't want to) get out of. There's only one tart left, and Jaskier bites half of it only to offer the other half to Geralt. They're leaving after the tarts are gone, right? Well, this is his chance to speed up that process.
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