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.
There isn't a damn thing that's humble about Jaskier, especially not since the success of Toss a Coin.
But he does seem to greatly enjoy Geralt playing along with his little game, telling him little teasing things in his growling voice. And, really, he has no room to talk about liking voices, considering how his scent spikes whenever Geralt drops his own into lower registers. It makes him shiver, and the witcher cocks his head slightly to one side, considering how he might be able to take advantage of this when he does finally get the bard on his back.
Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt's knee-- kind of a down-grade from where it had been before, but his eyes have softened and so have his words. They're still very pretty words, probably prettier ones than he needs to waste on Geralt, meant to comfort him. It's... kind, probably. Jaskier is a gentle kind of man, tries to soothe even when the witcher doesn't need it.
"A distraction is a distraction, and a distracted witcher is a dead one."
But that's neither here nor there. It's bad enough that after a few weeks without a whore or a visit from Yennefer meant that Geralt's brain would wander to salacious thoughts about a certain bard and his vocal range. Worse is spending too much time on how those thoughts might manage to distract him during a hunt.
His mouth twists a little in annoyance at the comment about his trousers. He keeps getting comments like that, both from the women in brothels and, sometimes, normal folk. And, yes, he prefers for his trousers to be well fitted, but that's purely for practical reasons-- excess fabric would impede his movement during combat with unnecessary bulk.
"My trousers aren't that tight."
He takes the offered half-tart, but eats it without a hint of coyness-- it's the same way that he would finish anything that was left of Jaskier's meals on the road. When they were traveling, the bard usually got better food, anyway, especially in regions that weren't quite as taken by his pro-witcher songs. They would usually give the previous night's leftovers to Geralt rather than fresh fare, or, if he was particularly unlucky, something from several days past that was just barely better than rancid.
Oxenfurt, of course, has been accommodating, and Geralt washes down the tart with what's left of his perfectly decent ale.
Geralt stands, then, and takes Jaskier's elbow to lead him off. A few of the people near them notice and grin knowingly, someone off in the distance whistles. Geralt's jaw tightens when he hears it, but he resolutely ignores it.
Guess who is throwing his head back to laugh? This bard. "You've obviously never admired your clothed lovely bottom on a mirror. Remind me to show you later."
Because those are definitely very, very tight pants. Jaskier hopes he manages to take them off easily, he has a reputation to maintain! But he's never pull off pants so tight, Geralt wears them like a second skin. No complaints about the view, though. (Well, except for the times when it has provoked boners at the most inopportune moments. At least he won't have to hide them during camping anymore from now on, right? Oh fuck, is Ciri coming with them and cockblocking them in between towns? Now that's a worry bigger than the pants themselves.)
Jaskier doesn't expect any coyness from Geralt, his plan is to feed him some sweet delicacies and finish the tarts faster. And it works, so he considers this a victory. Especially when Geralt finally stands and drags him away - aww, yes, this is exactly what he's been wishing for. With a grin that could almost split his face, Jaskier winks at the whistlers and waves at his audience, readily throwing himself at Geralt as soon as they are out of the dining hall. He hugs that thick arm with both of his and presses his body against the witcher's, keeping his voice low but sultry as they walk through to the hallways to their room.
"If we weren't surrounded by people, I'd ask you to pick me up and carry me to bed. My skin still tingles at the memory of your hands pushing me on that desk."
Jaskier hangs off of his arm once they're out of the dining hall, pressing up against him and grinning and smelling like light and flowers and lust. Geralt allows him to do this, even though it probably would be easier for him to just pick him up and carry him to their rooms.
Once they make it through the halls, Geralt unlocks the door and flings it open, dragging the bard inside after him. He slams the door shut again with one hand and then pins Jaskier to it with the other, grabbing a handful of ridiculous silk doublet to manhandle him with. He crowds him, cages him with his bulk-- the only way that Jaskier would probably ever suffer to be caged-- and dips his head to the hollow of his throat, breathing deep. Geralt rumbles low in his chest at the scent of him, all the better now that there aren't a hundred conflicting scents from the dining hall muddying it.
"Fuck," he says, his face pressed against the skin of his throat and teeth scraping against a bruise. "You smell so fucking good, Jask."
Flowers and sweat and satisfaction and want, all the fucking perfume-makers on the Continent couldn't come up with something that smelled better than that.
"If you don't get this thing off," he tugs at the silk doublet, "I'm going to rip it off you."
The warning is a courtesy, mostly because Geralt doesn't want to have to deal with his whining in the morning if he does tear it right off of him. But it's also a threat that he'll gladly follow through with, as the fine fabric wouldn't stand a chance against witcher strength and he'd leave it in tatters on the floor with ease. And with pleasure, too. Since this is a thing that he can acknowledge now, he could be honest with himself and admit that Jaskier's clothes would look far better in shreds on the floor than on his body.
This is definitely the good kind of caging Jaskier has been hoping for! A cute little gasp escapes his lips when he's pinned against the door, his scent quickly filling with lust. And when Geralt leans in to sniff, well, Jaskier doesn't hesitate: his hands immediately move to the witcher's hair and neck, and a leg positions itself between Geralt's.
You smell so fucking good. Such a simple compliment, yet it shakes Jaskier to his core. He's always been a slut for praise, had a boner for pretty words. However, this is extremely different from the usual flirting he gets from other people - it's not about the way he dresses, or the perfumes he uses, or the way he spins his words, which are all things he creates. And he's proud of them, don't take him wrong. But Geralt's words go beyond that, they dig deeper, praising Jaskier for his natural scent, for who he simply is.
It makes both his heart flutter and his blood travel south.
"And it's all for you, my wolf." He's keeping that nickname, he decides, especially when Geralt is acting like a puppy, being all cute with his nose buried in Jaskier's throat.
The comment about his doublet makes him laugh, it also adds a new layer of spice to his scent - someone likes the idea. Jaskier gives Geralt's hair a playful tug before reluctantly moving his hands away to take off his lute and leave it gentle against the door before starting to undress.
"As alluring as having you ripping my clothes off sounds, I'm rather fond of this doublet." He teases as he takes it off and drops it on top of the basket by the door. It doesn't need washing, but he isn't going to drop his fine silks on the floor! "But I wouldn't mind revisiting this idea later on. I could buy a couple of chemises exclusively for you to have fun with."
Jaskier doesn't stop at the doublet - speaking of chemises, he takes that off too, exposing his hairy (and now flushed) chest. His boots soon follow, he imagines Geralt will find those frustrating as well.
"Where were we?" It's the last thing he says before making their mouths crash against each other in a messy but very passionate kiss, his fingers sneaking under Geralt's shirt to claw at his back and pull him as close as possible.
Jaskier obliges him and takes off the doublet, and Geralt doesn't care where the deposits the garment afterward. He only gives him enough room to pull the chemise over his head, revealing his attractively flushed chest, surprisingly hairy. The witcher watches him as he removes his boots, eyes raking over his body, all of the warm, inviting flesh on display. Once as undressed as he pleases to be, Jaskier is back in his arms and kissing him, impatient and messy.
Geralt wraps an arm around his back, crushing him to his chest, and his other hand gropes over his hip, down to get a solid handful of his ass. All of the walking that Jaskier has done over the years has been to his benefit-- perhaps he ought to complain less about not riding Roach. It's certainly left him with a bottom that fills out his trousers nicely, and gives Geralt plenty to squeeze at while he's chasing his tongue.
The bard's nails scratch at his back and might even leave faint red marks behind; nothing that will last, his enhanced healing will make sure of that, but the brief sting pulls a pleased rumble out of his throat.
He breaks the kiss long enough to speak.
"Bed."
Then grabs Jaskier under the thighs as he did back in that classroom; it hadn't escaped him then how Jaskier enjoys being manhandled. He lifts him to waist height, urges those legs to wrap around him to help bear his weight. The bard isn't heavy, though Geralt would appreciate his cooperation while he walks them over to the bed, getting his mouth back onto his neck as he goes, kissing along the purple-blue marks that mar it. (He bruises beautifully, but the bard could write far better poetry than Geralt about the contrast against his pale skin and the way his flesh bears the imprints of the witcher's teeth.) Then, when he feels the mattress bump against his knees, he tosses the bard onto it; there's something appealing about seeing him bounce on the plush surface. Geralt tears his shirt off and tosses it aside, revealing an expanse of scarred, muscular chest, and follows him onto the bed.
He's getting his mouth onto Jaskier's chest, running his hands over his sides, his stomach, there's so much for him to touch, when--
Frantic bangs on the door. An even more frantic voice saying Master Witcher, Master Witcher, please, there's a werewolf.
Geralt makes a noise that probably rivals a werewolf's growl and pushes himself off of the bed, away from the bard. He stalks to the door and throws it open, undoubtedly to the surprise of the terrified man behind it, and listens with mounting irritation to a panic-stricken account of a rampaging werewolf that had already mauled two people on the streets.
"Fuck," he says, and has probably never meant it more. "Fine. I'll take care of it."
Then slams the door shut and goes to fetch his fucking armor.
All the ass squeezing has Jaskier groaning right into Geralt's mouth, hips already thrusting to look for that delicious friction. With half his clothes out of the way, he's even more aware of the witcher's muscles being crushed against his body - hard, powerful, warm. Jaskier can't wait to put his mouth on them, kiss every scar, get more sexy rumbling from that wide chest. That last one he can do, so he makes sure to let his string-player nails scrape as much of Geralt's back as possible.
As soon as his thighs are grabbed he knows what to do - a little hop and they're wrapped around Geralt's waist just as he throws his head back to offer Geralt all of his neck, hissing a yes with a very prolonged S. It seems the witcher is very good at catching on what Jaskier likes best, and he has to wonder if he won't have to thank the mutagenes for it. Laughing when he's dropped on the bed, Jaskier quickly fixes his position to rest on his elbows and have the best view of Geralt taking off his shirt. It's nothing he hasn't seen before (many of those scars he's stitched himself, after all) but he finally is allowed to ogle, to lick his lips and hum in a very obscene way.
Will a hickey stay for longer than an hour or so, he wonders, or will the healing factor play against him? Only one way to find out.
Geralt doesn't seem to mind his chest being hairy as fuck, thank Melitele, and Jaskier arches his body under him, groaning his lover's name. His hands fall on Geralt's body, ready to grope every inch of muscle...
"You're the most superb, stunning, exquisite beauty--"
...but then the banging on the door comes.
"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"
Maybe it's a prank. It has to be a prank, right? Nope, the man truly has an emergency only a witcher can take care of. Bollocks. Not happy with only letting out a string of insults under his breath this time, Jaskier grabs a pillow, covers his face with it, and screams. He hasn't had an orgasm since before his captivity, how is he supposed to keep on living like this? His poor dick won't survive the trip to Kaer Morhen if he doesn't empty his balls at least once before they get going. At this rate, it's going to fall, he's sure of it!
"I suppose it's too late to change 'friend of humanity' to 'fucker of bards', isn't it?" He comments when Geralt returns to the room, but it's obvious he doesn't really mean it. Huffing, he finally leaves the bed behind and helps Geralt to get ready like he would usually do. A werewolf in the commonly peaceful Oxenfurt city will make a nice story, but Jaskier can't come along - since they're leaving next day after lunch, his lecture this time will be early in the morning, before classes even began. And Jaskier had already been paid in advance so he could do his winter shopping, Pegasus didn't exactly pay for himself.
"Which means I won't allow you to be stingy with the details, you hear me? Especially when I'm sacrificing my love life for it." He pecks Geralt's lips for good luck. "Be careful. I'll try to wait for you. The night is still young..."
He does try, but the night stops being young. Jaskier tries to distract himself with other activities - composing, going over the notes for tomorrow, checking and rechecking all the supplies to see they haven't forgotten anything. Nothing works, his blood is still boiling and the beginning of a tent in his pants won't go away. How could it when the memories of the day keep returning to him? Geralt returning his feelings is something he can't still quite believe, and his skin still tingles on every spot the witcher has touched. Before he realizes what he's doing, his hand is rubbing his clothed groin.
Oh, fuck it. He's earned some release after 20 years of frustrated fantasies. Geralt is obviously not coming back any time soon, and he isn't that old yet not to get it up again if he does end up showing up before crazy o'clock. Pants and smallclothes disappear in seconds, and Jaskier gets in bed with a jar of lavender oil and one of Geralt's shirts, in which he buries his nose to let the scent of destiny and heroics cloud his senses.
Between that and the memories of the last few hours, he doesn't last much.
When Geralt comes back, Jaskier is asleep. And if he cares to check under the covers, he'll notice the bard is only wearing the witcher's black shirt - which is super baggy on him and covers enough. The smell of an orgasm is also thick in the air...
Geralt shrugs back into his shirt and lets Jaskier help him don his armor, as was their usual routine when they had been on the road together. The bard is intimately familiar with the belts and ties, and it takes only a few minutes for him to get kitted out for the hunt.
"Hm." Jaskier is, of course, kidding about changing the lines in the song, but Geralt humors him with a response anyway. "Doesn't scan."
After twenty years of wandering across the Continent with a judgmental bard, Geralt has picked up a thing or two about songs and poetry. Not much, but some things, and even if he wouldn't be able to scan a poem to save his own skin, he knows that it's a thing that's important to making a good one. It's certainly not going to help him kill this fucking werewolf, so it's firmly in the Jaskier's Unnecessary Knowledge category.
Geralt straps his swords to his back and accepts a kiss from the bard.
"Stay inside." Where you'll be safe, he doesn't say. "You won't like a werewolf's bites as much as mine."
Then-- though, god, he hates the fucking Path sometimes-- he leaves, heads out to speak with witnesses and find out the route the beast is taking, track it through the dark city streets. Word, at least, has spread about the monster on the loose, so many of the inhabitants have the good sense to stay inside and bar their doors. He finds the werewolf before it can claim another victim, but not before it injures her. The fight drags on for longer than Geralt would like it to, but the girl lives and the monster dies. It's a better ending than he usually gets on his hunts, and after tying a makeshift bandage around the bite wound, he brings the girl to the university for treatment. The physician has to be brought from his bed because of the early hour, but the wound is cleaned and stitched with silver thread. Luckily for her, it's exceedingly rare to spread lycanthropy through bites, and there should be little concern that she'll get it and turn hairy during the full moon, too.
By the time the witcher returns to Jaskier's room, it's near four in the morning and the bard is, of course, asleep. Geralt hardly expected him to stay awake for this long, or to still be in the mood for anything. The moment he steps inside, though, he can smell the bard's release-- and only his. Some jealous thing in Geralt's chest settles a little, and he strips off his bloody armor and leaves it on the floor to clean later in the morning. Clad only in his short braies, he walks silently to the bed and lifts the covers, to climb in himself. He catches a glimpse of the bard in one of his shirts, practically swimming in the over-large garment, and that same jealous thing in his chest almost purrs at the sight. Mine, it says. When he gets under the blankets, arranging himself so that he is closest to the door and Jaskier is tucked up safely against his body, and he presses his nose to the nape of his neck and breathes. Warmth, satisfaction, the sharp, pungent scent of spilled seed, all of it mixed with faint traces of Geralt's own scent. Almost perfect.
He settles in to meditate until morning, one of his hands pressed to Jaskier's diaphragm, feeling his long, slow breaths and the cadence of his heart in slumber.
The benefit of them having been cuddling since Geralt saved him from the Nilfgaardian soldiers is that him getting into bed doesn't disturb Jaskier. In fact, having slept near each other for years have made them used to their companion's presence, barely noticing it anymore, but this is even better. Still slept but kind aware at the same time, Jaskier mumbles Geralt's name and presses his body against the witcher's as a content sigh leaves his lips. Almost perfect indeed.
He wakes up first, which is definitely uncommon - it usually only happens if Geralt is recovering from injuries. A quick look tells Jaskier he isn't, thank the gods, although it does bother him that Geralt is meditating and not actually sleeping. Sigh. He can't stay annoyed for long, though, because the fact Geralt chose to spoon him and sleep with a hand on Jaskier's heart doesn't go unnoticed. Adorable wolf pup.
"Love you." He whispers as he leans in to kiss Geralt's forehead - it's such a good way to start his morning, remembering how great it feels to be able to say those words freely now. "Rest, my dear witcher, you've earned it."
It's incredibly hard to leave the bed behind - Jaskier wants nothing more than stay in it with his lover the rest of the season, but duty calls. He moves as silently as possible to get ready and leave the room, completely skipping the dinning hall and going straight to his classroom. The good thing about this very early morning classes is that they'll get breakfast delivered to their desks, which makes the lecture more relaxed, like a lunch date with academic friends.
The students are all vibrating with questions about the werewolf and almost don't believe Jaskier when he says he still know nothing about it... yet, anyway. The class goes smoothly, without all the dramatic analysis from the previous day - Jaskier gets that when he leaves the lecture and makes his way to hand in his last report. Lots of teasing and congratulations are thrown his way, someone in the art department even mentions something about the ballad of the wolf and the lark that is being currently worked on.
Geralt is probably going to hate it, but he can't say he minds.
The kitchen is his next stop before going back - they need to finish packing, so he wants to ask for their lunch to be taken to their bedroom, so it can be a quick meal. Imagine his surprise when the cook tells him there's still seafood stew left, and where it all comes from in the first place. The entire staff giggles when Jaskier is left speechless and his legs become jelly.
What is it that he thought last time? How could a man be so bad yet amazing at this at the same time? Yeah. Jaskier is so touched he could almost cry.
Actions speak louder than words, that's his Geralt. Jaskier needs to pick a grand gesture in return, because sex and "I love you" obviously isn't enough, not after yesterday. It has to mean something in Geralt-speech, and it has to be big. That's how Jaskier finds himself back in the market, heart still stuck in his throat, looking for a very specific piece he had seen yesterday, before their argument/confession, and thought it was too soon to buy.
Not anymore.
There is a tray with ale and stew waiting at the room desk for Geralt to return, but as soon as he opens the door, he'll find himself with an armful of bard tackling him and kissing him as if his life depended on it. Lunch can wait.
"You went FISHING for me! And you didn't say anything, like the magnificent, noble bastard you are." Another kiss, this one shorter but still extremely passionate. "I love you, more than poetry and songs can ever dream to put into words. Here." He pushes a black velvet pouch in Geralt's hands, which contains a very specific piece of jewelry inside, its meaning obvious. "Go on, put it on me. Make your claim, my wolf."
For once, Geralt rouses himself from meditation after Jaskier has already left. The side of the bed where Jaskier had been sleeping is still a little warm, so he can't have been gone for too long. Geralt gets out of bed shortly after he's awake, preferring not to linger underneath the blankets without another warm body there with him; he has plenty that he needs to get done in a relatively short period of time. The horses need to be prepared, their belongings packed up. His armor has to be cleaned off from last night's werewolf hunt. Geralt had already planned out the route that they would take to Kaer Morhen, and when Jaskier returns from his class, he'll have to inform him of it fully. The most direct route would take them through Rinde, and he has a feeling that the bard will kick up a fuss about it, just from the negative connotations associated with the place.
Geralt's not exactly thrilled, either. But following the Pontar is the best way that they can go, and if no one does anything abysmally stupid while they're there, hopefully they'll only have to be in town for one night.
When the witcher returns from the stables, both horses and their belongings in order, Jaskier is already back and had brought lunch with him. He's interested in the smell of stew when he walks in, but quickly finds himself distracted by an armful of amorous bard. Not the worst thing to come back to, all things considered; he thinks that he might get used to this, but then quashes the thought. Geralt tries to get a word in about the fishing thing, some reasonable explanation for a gesture that has few explanations other than the romantic, but Jaskier cuts him off before he has the chance. He's not surprised, really, he could never get a word in edgewise even before Jaskier had the option of kissing him.
The bard says some silly things about about loving him and then pushes a pouch into Geralt's hand. When he opens it and turns the bag upside down, a silver wolf brooch falls into his palm. He approves of the material-- silver is useful, and he'd been meaning to make sure that Jaskier had something on him that could be useful against monsters in a pinch, perhaps a silver dagger. There might be some still left at Kaer Morhen that would be serviceable, once repaired and sharpened; he may not have the funds for it now.
But.
The meaning of the jewelry is obvious, and it will be obvious to anyone who sees it. A claim, as Jaskier says, and while there's a part of Geralt that would be pleased to have his mark on his bard, the rest of him recognizes that as dangerous. A bard with a silver wolf brooch while Nilfgaard is on the hunt for the White Wolf's bard. It isn't smart, but it's something that Jaskier badly wants.
And, gods, when he brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen with that on him, his brothers are going to have a field day. He'll have to kick both of their asses just to get a moment's peace.
Geralt turns the brooch over and unclasps the pin.
"Bring your cloak."
Once Jaskier complies, he'll pin it near the throat, a bright contrast against the dark fabric.
"Hm." He leaves his hands on Jaskier's sternum longer than necessary, his thumb ghosting over the silver wolf's head. "You may need to cover it. I've seen little of Nilfgaard since we left Vizima, and I don't trust it."
Blue eyes watch Geralt's face closely, trying to find even the smallest of muscle movements for a reaction. Geralt seems to really like the marks on his neck, so this should be a good gift, right? Then again, he doesn't care much about jewelry and other pretty things, so maybe-- Bring your cloak. Oh. Well then.
Jaskier has never put on clothes so fast in his life, not even when a cuckold husband caught him in the act. He looks down at the brooch with the biggest smile on his face, a smile that almost reaches his ears when Geralt's hand stays for longer than it should. There is the gesture in Geraltese he's been looking for! Gift choosing mission has been a success!
"Yeah, yeah, we're being sneaky, I know. Let me enjoy it while I can." His scent overwhelming sweet now, Jaskier grabs the witcher hand on his chest and brings it to his lips to kiss the knuckles, then pulls to bring Geralt with him towards the desk. "Have you chosen a route according to these suspicions of yours, then?"
Once Geralt takes the chair, Jaskier doesn't hesitate to sit on the witcher's lap, cloak and all. He picks the bowl of stew and takes a bite, only to try and feed Geralt next. Sharing is caring, and after learning about the whole fishing deal, he's feeling rather more romantic than usual. He knows there won't be much of this on the road, so he'll try to indulge in the little Oxenfurt time he has left.
Jaskier draws his hand up to his mouth and kisses Geralt's scarred knuckles, and the witcher gives him that exasperated what the hell are you doing kind of look that he's most certainly quite familiar with by now. Apparently the bard's peculiar forms of demonstrative affection aren't going to end now that he's aired his romantic feelings. Geralt is easily led to the table, desk, because lunch is there and he would very much prefer to have a full stomach before they leave. He sits and his lap is soon appropriated by Jaskier, which is... fine, if a bit cumbersome, and Geralt puts an arm around his hips to keep him steady. He draws the line when Jaskier tries to feed him.
"I can feed myself, Jaskier."
He's not an invalid, nor is he one of those couriers that swoons on a chaise lounge before their doting lover. He'll eat his damn stew like the big grumpy brute that he is, because he's godsdamned hungry.
"We'll follow the Pontar east," he says, pulling the other bowl of stew within eating range. "To Rinde. Then we'll cut north through the southern pass of the Kestrel Mountains, to Ard Carraigh. There will be no more stops from there until Kaer Morhen."
It won't be an easy journey, but it's a necessary one, and the fastest route that he can plan. If they're lucky, the weather won't be too bitter by the time they reach the trail leading up to the keep, but Geralt doesn't like to bet on his own luck.
"We'll have to keep a good pace. It's been getting colder here than I'd like, and it'll be colder in the mountains. I've only been caught once in a blizzard on my way to the keep, and it's not something I want to experience again. Nearly killed me."
And if it was nearly the death of a witcher, it would certainly be the death of a bard. If they dawdle too long, or the snows come too early, they wouldn't be able to risk the trip up.
An arm around his hips means Geralt likes having Jaskier on his lap, and that makes up for the fact Geralt doesn't let him feed him (spoilsport!). The witcher's lap is very comfortable and Jaskier is already planning to appropriate as often as possible from now on - there's something to be said about having your lunch while surrounded by wolf warmth and muscle, to say the least.
The real pouting comes when Geralt mentions Rinde - Jaskier's whole body tenses as soon as he hears the word, his scent becoming sour at the memory. Bollocks, he doesn't want to go back to Rinde, even in passing. It's not even about Yennefer (although the fact that's the place where she came into their lives definitely doesn't help), it's about his body still remembering the tumor on his throat as it happened yesterday - his worst nightmare coming to life.
The stew bowl is put down for a moment just so Jaskier can down some wine instead. And by 'some' we mean 'more than half the tankard'.
"I wouldn't want to be caught in a blizzard either. And I understand the need for no stops." It'll be annoying as hell, but he'll endure. It's the price of adventure. Usually he would jump on Geralt's anecdote, it sounds like something ballad worth it, but his mind continues to go through a mental map, considering their options to avoid bloody Rinde. "But why going south to take north again? Why not the northern pass?"
His mind gives him the answer as soon as he finishes asking the question: Blaviken. Fuck. Oh, bloody fucking hell. Catching on his mistake, Jaskier puts his hands up and shakes them, babbling through an attempt to cover his mistake.
"Through Ghelibol, I mean! Good old Ghelibol, home of the largest private library in the Northern Kingdoms! A wonderful and rich history that goes all the way back to the First Landing... not that we're interested in it, that goes without saying, we aren't traveling for sightseeing, I swear I do know that, Geralt."
Rinde isn't exactly full of pleasant memories for Geralt, either-- it's where Yen took his free will and forced him to exact her petty revenge on the townsfolk. But it's a better alternative than going north from Oxenfurt, which would take them to Blaviken. Geralt would go hundreds of miles out of his way to avoid ever setting foot near that fucking pisshole town again and, as a matter of fact, has done exactly that in the past.
Jaskier suggests the northern pass to avoid Rinde, but doesn't realize his mistake until the words are already out of his mouth and Geralt's expression has turned dark. He tries to cover it up by suggesting that they go straight through Ghelibol, babbling some shit about libraries and history. They aren't out on a pleasure tour, they wouldn't have time to stop at any libraries even if Ghelibol weren't a stone's throw away from the town that named him a butcher.
"The Lutonski road will be poor traveling at this time of year," he says, starting off with the least traumatic part of this conversation. "The southern pass will still be clear."
He chases some of the stew with ale. Perhaps if he was a better man, he would risk getting stoned in Ghelibol for Jaskier's sake; he has not attempted to travel through that city since he became the Butcher, but he wouldn't doubt that they had heard about what happened in Blaviken. He would likely not be welcome.
"And I'm not going anywhere near fucking Blaviken." His mouth twists into something sour at the name. Talking about the place is going to put him off his fucking food if he keeps it up. "We're going east and taking the southern pass."
His tone brooks no arguments; either the bard travels the route that Geralt has planned, or he can go back to the dean and beg for his winter lecturing position and the reservation on his room.
The change in the mood is instant, and Jaskier can feel his stomach dropping. He's fucked up big time. To think he had wanted to at least get a hand or blow job going before leaving, a little extra thank you for Geralt to go with the brooch. But there's no way he's directing the mood back in that direction, and even if he could, he wouldn't dare to try. Geralt and his past deserve more respect than that.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." He never does, does he? His mouth just runs without breaks. "Rinde, southern pass, Ard Carraigh. It's a good plan. I'm in, I promise."
Rinde won't be easy, he knows. But Blaviken would be one hundred times worse. He would never do that to Geralt, especially not after he's fought so hard to convince the man that he deserves kindness and two days at Oxenfurt to know what that kindness can be like. This little vacation, if it can be called that, can't end on a sour note. He refuses.
After a very short moment of hesitation, he kisses Geralt's forehead, and lets his hand run through white hair, hoping to be soothing. Lunch forgotten for now, for once Jaskier knows not to push the subject and only hums a little melody as lowly as possible - it's not 'blessed silence', because the idiot is incapable of that, but hey, close enough, right?
It's up to Geralt if he wants to chew him out now - Jaskier isn't going to risk another punch to his stomach.
If Jaskier wants something amorous out of Geralt, he ought to try better foreplay than bringing up Blaviken. There's nothing that would kill Geralt's already slow-rising cock better than mentioning one of the greatest clusterfucks of his exceptionally long adult life. He might have been amenable to the idea of a little quick fooling around before getting out on the road, even if that wouldn't be nearly enough time for him to get anywhere with it, but now? All amorousness is gone.
"Hm."
A simple grunt as a response is likely a poor comfort for Jaskier, but Geralt's mood has been soured and he wants to finish his damned lunch and get out onto the road as soon as possible. He'll feel better once they're past Rinde and on the other side of the fucking Kestrels, well on the way toward the only place he's ever been able to call home. He likely won't be fine until they're actually inside the fortress and the snows are at least chest-deep on the trail, rendering it completely impassible.
He finishes eating in silence, except for Jaskier's soft humming. When done, he taps Jaskier's thigh and tells him "Up," so that he'll vacate the witcher's lap. If the bard's business in Oxenfurt is concluded, there's no reason for them to linger.
"The horses are ready. Get your things, we're wasting daylight."
The last things that Geralt has to grab are his swords and his potion bag, retrieved from the trunk where he had stored it. Then-- to the horses, and eastward to Rinde.
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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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But he does seem to greatly enjoy Geralt playing along with his little game, telling him little teasing things in his growling voice. And, really, he has no room to talk about liking voices, considering how his scent spikes whenever Geralt drops his own into lower registers. It makes him shiver, and the witcher cocks his head slightly to one side, considering how he might be able to take advantage of this when he does finally get the bard on his back.
Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt's knee-- kind of a down-grade from where it had been before, but his eyes have softened and so have his words. They're still very pretty words, probably prettier ones than he needs to waste on Geralt, meant to comfort him. It's... kind, probably. Jaskier is a gentle kind of man, tries to soothe even when the witcher doesn't need it.
"A distraction is a distraction, and a distracted witcher is a dead one."
But that's neither here nor there. It's bad enough that after a few weeks without a whore or a visit from Yennefer meant that Geralt's brain would wander to salacious thoughts about a certain bard and his vocal range. Worse is spending too much time on how those thoughts might manage to distract him during a hunt.
His mouth twists a little in annoyance at the comment about his trousers. He keeps getting comments like that, both from the women in brothels and, sometimes, normal folk. And, yes, he prefers for his trousers to be well fitted, but that's purely for practical reasons-- excess fabric would impede his movement during combat with unnecessary bulk.
"My trousers aren't that tight."
He takes the offered half-tart, but eats it without a hint of coyness-- it's the same way that he would finish anything that was left of Jaskier's meals on the road. When they were traveling, the bard usually got better food, anyway, especially in regions that weren't quite as taken by his pro-witcher songs. They would usually give the previous night's leftovers to Geralt rather than fresh fare, or, if he was particularly unlucky, something from several days past that was just barely better than rancid.
Oxenfurt, of course, has been accommodating, and Geralt washes down the tart with what's left of his perfectly decent ale.
Geralt stands, then, and takes Jaskier's elbow to lead him off. A few of the people near them notice and grin knowingly, someone off in the distance whistles. Geralt's jaw tightens when he hears it, but he resolutely ignores it.
"Come on, bard."
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Because those are definitely very, very tight pants. Jaskier hopes he manages to take them off easily, he has a reputation to maintain! But he's never pull off pants so tight, Geralt wears them like a second skin. No complaints about the view, though. (Well, except for the times when it has provoked boners at the most inopportune moments. At least he won't have to hide them during camping anymore from now on, right? Oh fuck, is Ciri coming with them and cockblocking them in between towns? Now that's a worry bigger than the pants themselves.)
Jaskier doesn't expect any coyness from Geralt, his plan is to feed him some sweet delicacies and finish the tarts faster. And it works, so he considers this a victory. Especially when Geralt finally stands and drags him away - aww, yes, this is exactly what he's been wishing for. With a grin that could almost split his face, Jaskier winks at the whistlers and waves at his audience, readily throwing himself at Geralt as soon as they are out of the dining hall. He hugs that thick arm with both of his and presses his body against the witcher's, keeping his voice low but sultry as they walk through to the hallways to their room.
"If we weren't surrounded by people, I'd ask you to pick me up and carry me to bed. My skin still tingles at the memory of your hands pushing me on that desk."
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Once they make it through the halls, Geralt unlocks the door and flings it open, dragging the bard inside after him. He slams the door shut again with one hand and then pins Jaskier to it with the other, grabbing a handful of ridiculous silk doublet to manhandle him with. He crowds him, cages him with his bulk-- the only way that Jaskier would probably ever suffer to be caged-- and dips his head to the hollow of his throat, breathing deep. Geralt rumbles low in his chest at the scent of him, all the better now that there aren't a hundred conflicting scents from the dining hall muddying it.
"Fuck," he says, his face pressed against the skin of his throat and teeth scraping against a bruise. "You smell so fucking good, Jask."
Flowers and sweat and satisfaction and want, all the fucking perfume-makers on the Continent couldn't come up with something that smelled better than that.
"If you don't get this thing off," he tugs at the silk doublet, "I'm going to rip it off you."
The warning is a courtesy, mostly because Geralt doesn't want to have to deal with his whining in the morning if he does tear it right off of him. But it's also a threat that he'll gladly follow through with, as the fine fabric wouldn't stand a chance against witcher strength and he'd leave it in tatters on the floor with ease. And with pleasure, too. Since this is a thing that he can acknowledge now, he could be honest with himself and admit that Jaskier's clothes would look far better in shreds on the floor than on his body.
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You smell so fucking good. Such a simple compliment, yet it shakes Jaskier to his core. He's always been a slut for praise, had a boner for pretty words. However, this is extremely different from the usual flirting he gets from other people - it's not about the way he dresses, or the perfumes he uses, or the way he spins his words, which are all things he creates. And he's proud of them, don't take him wrong. But Geralt's words go beyond that, they dig deeper, praising Jaskier for his natural scent, for who he simply is.
It makes both his heart flutter and his blood travel south.
"And it's all for you, my wolf." He's keeping that nickname, he decides, especially when Geralt is acting like a puppy, being all cute with his nose buried in Jaskier's throat.
The comment about his doublet makes him laugh, it also adds a new layer of spice to his scent - someone likes the idea. Jaskier gives Geralt's hair a playful tug before reluctantly moving his hands away to take off his lute and leave it gentle against the door before starting to undress.
"As alluring as having you ripping my clothes off sounds, I'm rather fond of this doublet." He teases as he takes it off and drops it on top of the basket by the door. It doesn't need washing, but he isn't going to drop his fine silks on the floor! "But I wouldn't mind revisiting this idea later on. I could buy a couple of chemises exclusively for you to have fun with."
Jaskier doesn't stop at the doublet - speaking of chemises, he takes that off too, exposing his hairy (and now flushed) chest. His boots soon follow, he imagines Geralt will find those frustrating as well.
"Where were we?" It's the last thing he says before making their mouths crash against each other in a messy but very passionate kiss, his fingers sneaking under Geralt's shirt to claw at his back and pull him as close as possible.
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Geralt wraps an arm around his back, crushing him to his chest, and his other hand gropes over his hip, down to get a solid handful of his ass. All of the walking that Jaskier has done over the years has been to his benefit-- perhaps he ought to complain less about not riding Roach. It's certainly left him with a bottom that fills out his trousers nicely, and gives Geralt plenty to squeeze at while he's chasing his tongue.
The bard's nails scratch at his back and might even leave faint red marks behind; nothing that will last, his enhanced healing will make sure of that, but the brief sting pulls a pleased rumble out of his throat.
He breaks the kiss long enough to speak.
"Bed."
Then grabs Jaskier under the thighs as he did back in that classroom; it hadn't escaped him then how Jaskier enjoys being manhandled. He lifts him to waist height, urges those legs to wrap around him to help bear his weight. The bard isn't heavy, though Geralt would appreciate his cooperation while he walks them over to the bed, getting his mouth back onto his neck as he goes, kissing along the purple-blue marks that mar it. (He bruises beautifully, but the bard could write far better poetry than Geralt about the contrast against his pale skin and the way his flesh bears the imprints of the witcher's teeth.) Then, when he feels the mattress bump against his knees, he tosses the bard onto it; there's something appealing about seeing him bounce on the plush surface. Geralt tears his shirt off and tosses it aside, revealing an expanse of scarred, muscular chest, and follows him onto the bed.
He's getting his mouth onto Jaskier's chest, running his hands over his sides, his stomach, there's so much for him to touch, when--
Frantic bangs on the door. An even more frantic voice saying Master Witcher, Master Witcher, please, there's a werewolf.
Geralt makes a noise that probably rivals a werewolf's growl and pushes himself off of the bed, away from the bard. He stalks to the door and throws it open, undoubtedly to the surprise of the terrified man behind it, and listens with mounting irritation to a panic-stricken account of a rampaging werewolf that had already mauled two people on the streets.
"Fuck," he says, and has probably never meant it more. "Fine. I'll take care of it."
Then slams the door shut and goes to fetch his fucking armor.
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As soon as his thighs are grabbed he knows what to do - a little hop and they're wrapped around Geralt's waist just as he throws his head back to offer Geralt all of his neck, hissing a yes with a very prolonged S. It seems the witcher is very good at catching on what Jaskier likes best, and he has to wonder if he won't have to thank the mutagenes for it. Laughing when he's dropped on the bed, Jaskier quickly fixes his position to rest on his elbows and have the best view of Geralt taking off his shirt. It's nothing he hasn't seen before (many of those scars he's stitched himself, after all) but he finally is allowed to ogle, to lick his lips and hum in a very obscene way.
Will a hickey stay for longer than an hour or so, he wonders, or will the healing factor play against him? Only one way to find out.
Geralt doesn't seem to mind his chest being hairy as fuck, thank Melitele, and Jaskier arches his body under him, groaning his lover's name. His hands fall on Geralt's body, ready to grope every inch of muscle...
"You're the most superb, stunning, exquisite beauty--"
...but then the banging on the door comes.
"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"
Maybe it's a prank. It has to be a prank, right? Nope, the man truly has an emergency only a witcher can take care of. Bollocks. Not happy with only letting out a string of insults under his breath this time, Jaskier grabs a pillow, covers his face with it, and screams. He hasn't had an orgasm since before his captivity, how is he supposed to keep on living like this? His poor dick won't survive the trip to Kaer Morhen if he doesn't empty his balls at least once before they get going. At this rate, it's going to fall, he's sure of it!
"I suppose it's too late to change 'friend of humanity' to 'fucker of bards', isn't it?" He comments when Geralt returns to the room, but it's obvious he doesn't really mean it. Huffing, he finally leaves the bed behind and helps Geralt to get ready like he would usually do. A werewolf in the commonly peaceful Oxenfurt city will make a nice story, but Jaskier can't come along - since they're leaving next day after lunch, his lecture this time will be early in the morning, before classes even began. And Jaskier had already been paid in advance so he could do his winter shopping, Pegasus didn't exactly pay for himself.
"Which means I won't allow you to be stingy with the details, you hear me? Especially when I'm sacrificing my love life for it." He pecks Geralt's lips for good luck. "Be careful. I'll try to wait for you. The night is still young..."
He does try, but the night stops being young. Jaskier tries to distract himself with other activities - composing, going over the notes for tomorrow, checking and rechecking all the supplies to see they haven't forgotten anything. Nothing works, his blood is still boiling and the beginning of a tent in his pants won't go away. How could it when the memories of the day keep returning to him? Geralt returning his feelings is something he can't still quite believe, and his skin still tingles on every spot the witcher has touched. Before he realizes what he's doing, his hand is rubbing his clothed groin.
Oh, fuck it. He's earned some release after 20 years of frustrated fantasies. Geralt is obviously not coming back any time soon, and he isn't that old yet not to get it up again if he does end up showing up before crazy o'clock. Pants and smallclothes disappear in seconds, and Jaskier gets in bed with a jar of lavender oil and one of Geralt's shirts, in which he buries his nose to let the scent of destiny and heroics cloud his senses.
Between that and the memories of the last few hours, he doesn't last much.
When Geralt comes back, Jaskier is asleep. And if he cares to check under the covers, he'll notice the bard is only wearing the witcher's black shirt - which is super baggy on him and covers enough. The smell of an orgasm is also thick in the air...
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"Hm." Jaskier is, of course, kidding about changing the lines in the song, but Geralt humors him with a response anyway. "Doesn't scan."
After twenty years of wandering across the Continent with a judgmental bard, Geralt has picked up a thing or two about songs and poetry. Not much, but some things, and even if he wouldn't be able to scan a poem to save his own skin, he knows that it's a thing that's important to making a good one. It's certainly not going to help him kill this fucking werewolf, so it's firmly in the Jaskier's Unnecessary Knowledge category.
Geralt straps his swords to his back and accepts a kiss from the bard.
"Stay inside." Where you'll be safe, he doesn't say. "You won't like a werewolf's bites as much as mine."
Then-- though, god, he hates the fucking Path sometimes-- he leaves, heads out to speak with witnesses and find out the route the beast is taking, track it through the dark city streets. Word, at least, has spread about the monster on the loose, so many of the inhabitants have the good sense to stay inside and bar their doors. He finds the werewolf before it can claim another victim, but not before it injures her. The fight drags on for longer than Geralt would like it to, but the girl lives and the monster dies. It's a better ending than he usually gets on his hunts, and after tying a makeshift bandage around the bite wound, he brings the girl to the university for treatment. The physician has to be brought from his bed because of the early hour, but the wound is cleaned and stitched with silver thread. Luckily for her, it's exceedingly rare to spread lycanthropy through bites, and there should be little concern that she'll get it and turn hairy during the full moon, too.
By the time the witcher returns to Jaskier's room, it's near four in the morning and the bard is, of course, asleep. Geralt hardly expected him to stay awake for this long, or to still be in the mood for anything. The moment he steps inside, though, he can smell the bard's release-- and only his. Some jealous thing in Geralt's chest settles a little, and he strips off his bloody armor and leaves it on the floor to clean later in the morning. Clad only in his short braies, he walks silently to the bed and lifts the covers, to climb in himself. He catches a glimpse of the bard in one of his shirts, practically swimming in the over-large garment, and that same jealous thing in his chest almost purrs at the sight. Mine, it says. When he gets under the blankets, arranging himself so that he is closest to the door and Jaskier is tucked up safely against his body, and he presses his nose to the nape of his neck and breathes. Warmth, satisfaction, the sharp, pungent scent of spilled seed, all of it mixed with faint traces of Geralt's own scent. Almost perfect.
He settles in to meditate until morning, one of his hands pressed to Jaskier's diaphragm, feeling his long, slow breaths and the cadence of his heart in slumber.
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He wakes up first, which is definitely uncommon - it usually only happens if Geralt is recovering from injuries. A quick look tells Jaskier he isn't, thank the gods, although it does bother him that Geralt is meditating and not actually sleeping. Sigh. He can't stay annoyed for long, though, because the fact Geralt chose to spoon him and sleep with a hand on Jaskier's heart doesn't go unnoticed. Adorable wolf pup.
"Love you." He whispers as he leans in to kiss Geralt's forehead - it's such a good way to start his morning, remembering how great it feels to be able to say those words freely now. "Rest, my dear witcher, you've earned it."
It's incredibly hard to leave the bed behind - Jaskier wants nothing more than stay in it with his lover the rest of the season, but duty calls. He moves as silently as possible to get ready and leave the room, completely skipping the dinning hall and going straight to his classroom. The good thing about this very early morning classes is that they'll get breakfast delivered to their desks, which makes the lecture more relaxed, like a lunch date with academic friends.
The students are all vibrating with questions about the werewolf and almost don't believe Jaskier when he says he still know nothing about it... yet, anyway. The class goes smoothly, without all the dramatic analysis from the previous day - Jaskier gets that when he leaves the lecture and makes his way to hand in his last report. Lots of teasing and congratulations are thrown his way, someone in the art department even mentions something about the ballad of the wolf and the lark that is being currently worked on.
Geralt is probably going to hate it, but he can't say he minds.
The kitchen is his next stop before going back - they need to finish packing, so he wants to ask for their lunch to be taken to their bedroom, so it can be a quick meal. Imagine his surprise when the cook tells him there's still seafood stew left, and where it all comes from in the first place. The entire staff giggles when Jaskier is left speechless and his legs become jelly.
What is it that he thought last time? How could a man be so bad yet amazing at this at the same time? Yeah. Jaskier is so touched he could almost cry.
Actions speak louder than words, that's his Geralt. Jaskier needs to pick a grand gesture in return, because sex and "I love you" obviously isn't enough, not after yesterday. It has to mean something in Geralt-speech, and it has to be big. That's how Jaskier finds himself back in the market, heart still stuck in his throat, looking for a very specific piece he had seen yesterday, before their argument/confession, and thought it was too soon to buy.
Not anymore.
There is a tray with ale and stew waiting at the room desk for Geralt to return, but as soon as he opens the door, he'll find himself with an armful of bard tackling him and kissing him as if his life depended on it. Lunch can wait.
"You went FISHING for me! And you didn't say anything, like the magnificent, noble bastard you are." Another kiss, this one shorter but still extremely passionate. "I love you, more than poetry and songs can ever dream to put into words. Here." He pushes a black velvet pouch in Geralt's hands, which contains a very specific piece of jewelry inside, its meaning obvious. "Go on, put it on me. Make your claim, my wolf."
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Geralt's not exactly thrilled, either. But following the Pontar is the best way that they can go, and if no one does anything abysmally stupid while they're there, hopefully they'll only have to be in town for one night.
When the witcher returns from the stables, both horses and their belongings in order, Jaskier is already back and had brought lunch with him. He's interested in the smell of stew when he walks in, but quickly finds himself distracted by an armful of amorous bard. Not the worst thing to come back to, all things considered; he thinks that he might get used to this, but then quashes the thought. Geralt tries to get a word in about the fishing thing, some reasonable explanation for a gesture that has few explanations other than the romantic, but Jaskier cuts him off before he has the chance. He's not surprised, really, he could never get a word in edgewise even before Jaskier had the option of kissing him.
The bard says some silly things about about loving him and then pushes a pouch into Geralt's hand. When he opens it and turns the bag upside down, a silver wolf brooch falls into his palm. He approves of the material-- silver is useful, and he'd been meaning to make sure that Jaskier had something on him that could be useful against monsters in a pinch, perhaps a silver dagger. There might be some still left at Kaer Morhen that would be serviceable, once repaired and sharpened; he may not have the funds for it now.
But.
The meaning of the jewelry is obvious, and it will be obvious to anyone who sees it. A claim, as Jaskier says, and while there's a part of Geralt that would be pleased to have his mark on his bard, the rest of him recognizes that as dangerous. A bard with a silver wolf brooch while Nilfgaard is on the hunt for the White Wolf's bard. It isn't smart, but it's something that Jaskier badly wants.
And, gods, when he brings Jaskier to Kaer Morhen with that on him, his brothers are going to have a field day. He'll have to kick both of their asses just to get a moment's peace.
Geralt turns the brooch over and unclasps the pin.
"Bring your cloak."
Once Jaskier complies, he'll pin it near the throat, a bright contrast against the dark fabric.
"Hm." He leaves his hands on Jaskier's sternum longer than necessary, his thumb ghosting over the silver wolf's head. "You may need to cover it. I've seen little of Nilfgaard since we left Vizima, and I don't trust it."
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Jaskier has never put on clothes so fast in his life, not even when a cuckold husband caught him in the act. He looks down at the brooch with the biggest smile on his face, a smile that almost reaches his ears when Geralt's hand stays for longer than it should. There is the gesture in Geraltese he's been looking for! Gift choosing mission has been a success!
"Yeah, yeah, we're being sneaky, I know. Let me enjoy it while I can." His scent overwhelming sweet now, Jaskier grabs the witcher hand on his chest and brings it to his lips to kiss the knuckles, then pulls to bring Geralt with him towards the desk. "Have you chosen a route according to these suspicions of yours, then?"
Once Geralt takes the chair, Jaskier doesn't hesitate to sit on the witcher's lap, cloak and all. He picks the bowl of stew and takes a bite, only to try and feed Geralt next. Sharing is caring, and after learning about the whole fishing deal, he's feeling rather more romantic than usual. He knows there won't be much of this on the road, so he'll try to indulge in the little Oxenfurt time he has left.
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"I can feed myself, Jaskier."
He's not an invalid, nor is he one of those couriers that swoons on a chaise lounge before their doting lover. He'll eat his damn stew like the big grumpy brute that he is, because he's godsdamned hungry.
"We'll follow the Pontar east," he says, pulling the other bowl of stew within eating range. "To Rinde. Then we'll cut north through the southern pass of the Kestrel Mountains, to Ard Carraigh. There will be no more stops from there until Kaer Morhen."
It won't be an easy journey, but it's a necessary one, and the fastest route that he can plan. If they're lucky, the weather won't be too bitter by the time they reach the trail leading up to the keep, but Geralt doesn't like to bet on his own luck.
"We'll have to keep a good pace. It's been getting colder here than I'd like, and it'll be colder in the mountains. I've only been caught once in a blizzard on my way to the keep, and it's not something I want to experience again. Nearly killed me."
And if it was nearly the death of a witcher, it would certainly be the death of a bard. If they dawdle too long, or the snows come too early, they wouldn't be able to risk the trip up.
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The real pouting comes when Geralt mentions Rinde - Jaskier's whole body tenses as soon as he hears the word, his scent becoming sour at the memory. Bollocks, he doesn't want to go back to Rinde, even in passing. It's not even about Yennefer (although the fact that's the place where she came into their lives definitely doesn't help), it's about his body still remembering the tumor on his throat as it happened yesterday - his worst nightmare coming to life.
The stew bowl is put down for a moment just so Jaskier can down some wine instead. And by 'some' we mean 'more than half the tankard'.
"I wouldn't want to be caught in a blizzard either. And I understand the need for no stops." It'll be annoying as hell, but he'll endure. It's the price of adventure. Usually he would jump on Geralt's anecdote, it sounds like something ballad worth it, but his mind continues to go through a mental map, considering their options to avoid bloody Rinde. "But why going south to take north again? Why not the northern pass?"
His mind gives him the answer as soon as he finishes asking the question: Blaviken. Fuck. Oh, bloody fucking hell. Catching on his mistake, Jaskier puts his hands up and shakes them, babbling through an attempt to cover his mistake.
"Through Ghelibol, I mean! Good old Ghelibol, home of the largest private library in the Northern Kingdoms! A wonderful and rich history that goes all the way back to the First Landing... not that we're interested in it, that goes without saying, we aren't traveling for sightseeing, I swear I do know that, Geralt."
Ground, please swallow him now.
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Jaskier suggests the northern pass to avoid Rinde, but doesn't realize his mistake until the words are already out of his mouth and Geralt's expression has turned dark. He tries to cover it up by suggesting that they go straight through Ghelibol, babbling some shit about libraries and history. They aren't out on a pleasure tour, they wouldn't have time to stop at any libraries even if Ghelibol weren't a stone's throw away from the town that named him a butcher.
"The Lutonski road will be poor traveling at this time of year," he says, starting off with the least traumatic part of this conversation. "The southern pass will still be clear."
He chases some of the stew with ale. Perhaps if he was a better man, he would risk getting stoned in Ghelibol for Jaskier's sake; he has not attempted to travel through that city since he became the Butcher, but he wouldn't doubt that they had heard about what happened in Blaviken. He would likely not be welcome.
"And I'm not going anywhere near fucking Blaviken." His mouth twists into something sour at the name. Talking about the place is going to put him off his fucking food if he keeps it up. "We're going east and taking the southern pass."
His tone brooks no arguments; either the bard travels the route that Geralt has planned, or he can go back to the dean and beg for his winter lecturing position and the reservation on his room.
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"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." He never does, does he? His mouth just runs without breaks. "Rinde, southern pass, Ard Carraigh. It's a good plan. I'm in, I promise."
Rinde won't be easy, he knows. But Blaviken would be one hundred times worse. He would never do that to Geralt, especially not after he's fought so hard to convince the man that he deserves kindness and two days at Oxenfurt to know what that kindness can be like. This little vacation, if it can be called that, can't end on a sour note. He refuses.
After a very short moment of hesitation, he kisses Geralt's forehead, and lets his hand run through white hair, hoping to be soothing. Lunch forgotten for now, for once Jaskier knows not to push the subject and only hums a little melody as lowly as possible - it's not 'blessed silence', because the idiot is incapable of that, but hey, close enough, right?
It's up to Geralt if he wants to chew him out now - Jaskier isn't going to risk another punch to his stomach.
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"Hm."
A simple grunt as a response is likely a poor comfort for Jaskier, but Geralt's mood has been soured and he wants to finish his damned lunch and get out onto the road as soon as possible. He'll feel better once they're past Rinde and on the other side of the fucking Kestrels, well on the way toward the only place he's ever been able to call home. He likely won't be fine until they're actually inside the fortress and the snows are at least chest-deep on the trail, rendering it completely impassible.
He finishes eating in silence, except for Jaskier's soft humming. When done, he taps Jaskier's thigh and tells him "Up," so that he'll vacate the witcher's lap. If the bard's business in Oxenfurt is concluded, there's no reason for them to linger.
"The horses are ready. Get your things, we're wasting daylight."
The last things that Geralt has to grab are his swords and his potion bag, retrieved from the trunk where he had stored it. Then-- to the horses, and eastward to Rinde.
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