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.
A grunt isn't the best response out there, no, but Jaskier can deal with it. Especially in the context of a fucking Blaviken mention - it could be way worse. A grunt? It's just going back to the old days, something he's used to. Something familiar. Jaskier and Geralt, having one more boring lunch in their long history of boring lunches.
Well, except for the part where Jaskier is sitting on Geralt's lap and running his fingers through his hair. That's definitely new. A good sign, he realizes, that what comes off as an old scene has a little change in it to match the shift in their relationship.
The mood follows them when they leave. Jaskier says good bye and chitchats with the people around them on their way out of the city, and once they've crossed the bridge, he's feeling a bit lighter. This is familiar too, traveling with a brooding Geralt, so Jaskier does what he used to: fills the silence with babbling, which includes talking to their horses, who thankfully are getting along.
Camping and water breaks are the same as they used to be, too, and Jaskier decides that trying anything would be an awful idea (he would like their first time to be on a bed anyway, but what can he say, he's having desperate thoughts here). He sneaks a peck on the lips or cheek when he can, though, to both remind Geralt he's here and he's his, and simply because he can and needs it himself. It's what couples do, he wants to keep in his mind that what happened in Oxenfurt is still real, and he's always a touch starved bard anyway.
At least they still cuddle to sleep at night.
The babbling abruptly stops when Rinde comes into view - Jaskier doesn't brood, not in the way Geralt does (nobody can brood like Geralt, to be fair) but damn if he isn't close to it. It's a big deal for this bard to fall silent after all, and it shows in his body language. His scent becomes sour, his back is tense, and his hand unconsciously reaches for this throat when the memory of that awful day comes back to his mind, completely unwelcome and unwilling to leave.
Distracting himself becomes even harder when, on their way to the nearest inn, a familiar voice greets them.
"I never thought I would see you again."
Chireadan. Unbelievable, just their luck. Jaskier offers a very awkward smile and is about to at least greet him politely when he feels the elves' eyes on his chest... "Bollocks", his lips say instead, and he hurries to take off the brooch and put it on his doublet instead, protected under the cloak.
Which makes Chireadan look incredibly amused. "What brings you back to Rinde?"
Jaskier treats Geralt's broody mood as he would have back before the Mountain-- by mostly ignoring it and chattering away like songbird in spring. He fills the silence with idle talk, either to Geralt, who barely responds, or to their horses, who also don't respond but whose unresponsiveness is only to be expected, as they are horses. Roach, at least, flicks her ears towards the bard whenever he talks, rather than laying them back as she used to do when Jaskier had first started following them.
Geralt frowns at her. Even his fucking horse.
Their stops are similarly familiar; when they make camp at night, Geralt hunts for whatever autumn game he can supplement their supplies with, and Jaskier starts the fire and sets up the cooking pot. They fall back into their routine with almost disturbing ease, like the bard hadn't had a year's absence from his side.
He still lets Jaskier put their bedrolls together at night, and the bard still falls asleep in his arms. He needs it, and Geralt tells himself that this is a far better arrangement than Jaskier waking up in the middle of the night with a screaming fit. And if Geralt presses his nose to the nape of Jaskier's neck and breathes and only then feels settled enough to meditate, well. No one has to know.
The mood gets somehow worse when they get closer to Rinde, which is a notable feat. Jaskier is quiet and tense, Geralt is still darkly brooding, and the day is... actually quite decent, for the time of year. The air is chill but not biting, with a woodsmoke edge to it that's almost pleasant. It's a shame that neither of them are in the mood to appreciate it.
And Geralt is certainly not in the mood to appreciate running into someone that they already know. He wants to make it through Kaedwen without being noticed, not to run into every damned acquaintance they've made in the past twenty-some odd years.
"Hm." His grunts have been taking a curt, short edge as of late. It's even shorter, now-- Chireadan is staring. There's no need for him to stare, and Jaskier apparently doesn't want him staring, either, considering that he cursed about it. "Passing through."
Jaskier usually loves having people staring at him, it means attention. However, he does remember the warning Geralt gave him about the brooch and, while part of him is eager to show it off, Rinde has him more on the edge. Between his own memories haunting him and the possibility of Nilfgaard catching up on them, Jaskier is (for once in his life) willing to behave.
"I see." Chireadan replies with a tone that implies he thinks something is going on. "Are you staying the night then? I can offer bed and supper, if it pleases you, in exchange of updated tidings."
Now that's an offer he doesn't see coming. Jaskier worries his lower lip as he considers it - it'd be free, and fewer people would see them that way. It's not like he'll be performing today -both because of safety and because of his mood- so an inn doesn't even have that in its favor. In theory, it sounds perfect. And yet... it's Chireadan. A good man, as far as Jaskier knows, but he's so linked to the djinn mess, he isn't sure his company would exactly improve the mood.
(And will he ask about Yennefer? Jaskier doesn't want to talk about Yennefer.)
"A very kind invitation, good sir, it's appreciated." Someone has to keep the manners up around here. "If you excuse us for a second..."
Pegasus is brought closer to Roach, and Jasker whispers as lowly as he can - he knows Geralt can hear it.
"Positives: no coin to spend, no extra people to interact with. Negatives: it's fucking him, Geralt!" Alright, so the last part comes off more like hissing than whispering, but he's getting really nervous here. Give him a break. "What do your--" Awkward hand flapping goes here. "--witchery senses say?"
Geralt isn't pleased about the prospect of spending an evening with Chireadan. It should be a boon-- he is a decent man, will likely be discreet, and staying with him would mean saving some coin. Considering that they used much of Jaskier's teaching payments on supplies for the journey, it would be prudent to save as much as they could. They would need to resupply in Ard Carraigh for the trip up the mountain, and there wouldn't be many opportunities for Geralt to take contracts, and too dangerous for Jaskier to sing. Even just being seen in an inn's common room is risky, because any public house could also be hosting Nilfgaardian agents. Avoiding the inn entirely is not an imprudent move.
But.
He's also going to want tidings of Yennefer, which is both a sore subject for him and Jaskier and also one that Geralt likely won't be able to satisfy the elf on. He hasn't seen her for a year, and the last he had heard of her had been some rumors about the Battle of Sodden. She's doing gods only know what now-- or, for all he knows, she could be dead. But that's another thought that makes his chest do strange things, and he dismisses it. Yennefer of Vengerberg is not dead, because Death is neither strong enough nor stubborn enough to keep her.
He glances at Jaskier's nervously flapping hands, a deeply unsubtle gesture. He hums, then answers back in an undertone-- "Mostly harmless."
The prospect of free room and board for them and their horses is too much to pass up. Hopefully, they could use their travel as an excuse to turn in early and avoid as much interaction as possible, then leave as early as possible. Maximum benefit, minimum awkwardness.
"We would appreciate your... hospitality," he says, only gritting his teeth a little at that last word. But that's fine, no one expects good manners from him.
That's quite well said, actually. Especially for Geralt's standards. Jaskier pats his arm as if saying good boy then turns back to Chireadan, trying to put up his best smile, which honestly comes off as kinda awkward. It says quite a bit about how this place puts him in a bad mood, since Jaskier usually is able to keep up decent smiles even in weird situations, like when Geralt wants to talk about defending elves in front of the elf slaying queen.
Chireadan, meanwhile, is quite pleased with this turn of events and proceeds to guide them back to his place. Which happens to be, he explains, a little healer business he's set up for himself. It isn't anywhere as big as an inn, but it does have more room than the average cottage, which means he has enough extra space for two guests and their horses.
It smells of herbs and incense inside, quite strong even for Jaskier's nose, but otherwise it's incredibly clean and well taken care of. Which makes sense, because wounds should be tended in better contexts than tubs filled will selkiemore guts (ahem). It's actually a pretty decent place to stay at, and Jaskier would've easily relaxed in it if circumstances were different.
(When he takes off his cloak, he realizes the brooch is still visible, this time on his doublet. Taking it off again would make call attention to it, so he leaves it there - at least inside there won't be other prying eyes. Under all the bad memories and anxiety this town brings out in him, he can admit it feels nice to have the little wolf out in the open.)
Chireadan indicates two chairs for them to sit at a decently size table and proceeds to take out the tankards and ale, which isn't court quality (obviously) but it isn't the piss-tasting shit from backwater taverns either, and that's already a win.
"We don't have many travelers passing by at this time of the year. Snow will start to fall soon." He explains with his back turned to them, busy cutting some bread and cheese for his guests. "We've heard about the fall of Cintra, some refugees even made it here, but didn't stay for long." When he finally comes to the table with a platter of food, his looks is quite serious. "Which is why I'm obliged to ask, if you excuse my indiscretion: are you being followed as well?"
Jaskier suddenly becomes extra aware of the scars on his body and, with his heart beating quite loudly in his ears, puts down the ale with a little more strength than intended.
"We are not." He replies after glancing at Geralt. "We come from Oxenfurt. No Nilfgaardians soldiers in that area-"
There's a puff of air at the end of its sentence - a word left unspoken. Yet?
Chireadan's home is certainly adequate; Geralt's standards are quite low, though, and he would have been fine with sleeping in a barn or hay loft. But there seems to be room in the cottage for two guests, especially since Geralt will share with Jaskier, even if there's space for him to have his own room. Both as a precaution and because his presence seems to be essential for the bard to have decent sleep, and he'll need his strength for the road ahead.
They sit at the elf's table and have decent ale served to them, which Geralt accepts with a curt nod. The whole cottage smells like various herbs and tinctures, hardly unexpected for a healer. Even so, he makes sure that he drinks from his ale before Jaskier does from his own, checking by both smell and taste for any additives. He doesn't expect anything like that from Chireadan, but better to be safe than drugged.
Jaskier's heart jumps at the mention of Cintra and Nilfgaard, his discomfort creeping into his scent.
"There is no significant Nilfgaardian presence in Oxenfurt," he confirms. "And we were not followed."
Geralt had made sure of that when they were traveling. And while it isn't impossible that Nilfgaard could have spies or sympathizers in the city, Geralt had told no one of their ultimate destination, and he couldn't imagine that Jaskier would be so foolish as to spread that information around, either. Not with how recent his kidnapping was. Kaer Morhen is a well enough kept secret; very few outside of the witchers of the Wolf School are aware that it survived its second sacking.
He will not lead Nilfgaard to the only place that he has ever called a home.
"So you said." Chireadan replies with a nod. "I'll take your presence here as a good sign then. You're here because they aren't, correct?"
Jaskier nods too as he munches on some of the food they've been offered. They've been on the road for quite a few days already, it's good to have something other than fruit and dried meat. Chireadan asks a few more questions to know the general state of things - the current Nilfgaard situation and how the other kingdoms are handling it. Luckily for him, unlike Geralt, Jaskier has been keeping up with such matters and has the vocabulary to explain them.
Which eventually takes him to mention the Battle of Sodden.
He gives no names - why would he? He doesn't know those kinds of details, only that Aretuza was there. But of course Chireadan jumps on it without hesitation. Bollocks.
"Was she there too?"
A name isn't needed, it's obvious to know whom he's talking about. His eyes are curious and hungry for the information, even after all these years... well, it's not like Jaskier can talk, now can he? He wants to feel sympathetic for the poor guy, offer comfort and an ear that understands, but just thinking about her (in here, of all places) makes his scent bitter as hell. Jaskier tries to hide his face behind the tankard, but he can't go on without replying.
There's nothing to worry about, he reminds himself. Geralt said he wouldn't take her back. He is the one with a silver wolf on his chest right now. His stomach turns anyway.
"I don't have an answer to that question. I haven't seen or heard of her in over a year." After a pause, he decides to add- "I'm sorry."
Because no matter how bitter he feels, at the end of the day Jaskier is still a romantic, the one person who can understand Chireadan the best, and his heart does feel for him. At least a bit.
Jaskier summarizes the political situation far more accurately and precisely than Geralt would have; he had been more concerned as of late with protecting his Child Surprise and locating his Bard Surprise than with the geopolitical landscape, and feels justified in his lack of response to this line of inquiry. And, of course, Jaskier has been classically trained and comes from a nobleman's background-- all things that lend themselves to understanding and appreciating affairs of state.
Additionally-- Geralt should never be asked to carry a conversation. It's a task that's doomed to failure.
But, of course, it's inevitable that the conversation shifts to Yennefer, especially after Jaskier mentions the battle at Sodden Hill. The sorceresses of Aretuza were there, so asking after her makes logical sense, even if the question sours Jaskier's scent almost immediately. The bard maintains his composure well, though, provides a level and neutral answer. Chireadan looks to Geralt after, as though he might have some other answer for him-- Geralt replies with a one-shouldered shrug and a shake of his head.
"Don't know."
He's not nearly as sympathetic as Jaskier is, though, perhaps, he should be. He has no desire to continue to talk about Yennefer, however, not after everything that has transpired between them. He doesn't want to have to explain to Chireadan why he doesn't know where the sorceress is, or whether she is all right.
That day on the mountain meant heartbreak for multiple people, not just the bard. Jaskier knows this, knows he should feel sympathetic for many of the members of that hunting party. Geralt especially - just because it frustrated him how much the witcher always ignored his advice when it came to certain sorceress, it didn't mean he was happy to see Geralt broken.
Right now though, considering his current mood and how he feels about her in general, he can't help feeling a bit smug over the fact Geralt hasn't seen her for so long and doesn't try to check if Chireadan saw her again after the djinn incident either. It's such a huge change from that I'm in that cursed them a year ago, and Jaskier is living for it.
In a second, you'll be wrapped around my finger, because I can do it better. There's no other, so when's it gonna sink in? She's so stupid, what the hell were you thinking?
"I understand." The elf's eyes are down, looking at his own hands on the table, probably feeling exposed and embarrassed. "It was bold of me to assume you'd still be in contact with her, my apologies. My eyes must've deceived me that day - I thought I saw a special spark in that scene through the window." He looks at Jaskier then-- "Wouldn't you agree?"
...and Jaskier chokes on his ale. He knew this would be an awful idea, he knew it! Patting his chest, Jaskier suddenly stands up, the chair falling behind him. He's a ball of nerves and he isn't hiding it. Geralt's possible reaction to this... he isn't sure he wants to find out, but the road mood is already somber enough. Can't have another thing added to the pile.
"Thank you! For supper. It was very-" Here comes the flapping hands. "Very nice of you to receive us in your home and I'd love to-- to, ah, sit and chat about the wonders of this world we live in but my-" He glances at Geralt, swallows, then turns to Chireadan again, who is staring at the bard with wide eyes and a very confused expression. "-companion and I need to rest, it's been an incredibly long trip and we should leave early in the morning not to waster another second of precious autumn time."
Still in shock, Chireadan nods and points at the door on the left, a guest room usually assigned to patients but free for their use today. Jaskier rushes into it without another word, and the elf turns to Geralt with a shrug.
A special spark in the window? And Chireadan is looking straight at Jaskier when he says it, like this is something that the bard would know about and be able to answer for him. Jaskier, for all that he had managed to keep his composure when discussing Yen, completely loses it right now, choking on his ale so badly that Geralt thinks he might have to thump him on the back to clear his lungs. The hand flapping returns with a vengeance, and the bard's usually clever tongue trips over itself to come up with an excuse to leave.
Geralt watches him, head tilted slightly and brow furrowed. Chireadan points him to the guest room and Jaskier bolts for it like he's got a cuckolded husband on his heels.
"Hm." The witcher looks back to Chireadan, who both looks and smells immensely confused. That made two of them. "...Good night, I suppose."
That's one way to end the evening early. Geralt would've probably chosen something a little less ridiculous, but it's Jaskier, so maybe he can't expect anything less than dramatic.
He stands and follows after Jaskier, closing the door to the guest room behind him. Geralt breathes deeply, ignoring the clamoring herbal scents in the air and focusing on Jaskier's; he smells mostly of... embarrassment? Panic?
Geralt is too tired to try to parse through what the hell is going on in Jaskier's head by scent alone.
Panic sounds about right. Jaskier already has his doublet off and he's in the process of taking off his boots while sitting on the small bed when Geralt enters the room. Is it too much to ask the gods for the witcher to ignore what just happened and blame it on Jaskier being naturally weird?
Apparently yes, it is too much.
"Nothing! It was nothing!" His eyes don't meet Geralt's, his voice is a little high. "You know me, dear witcher, always needing to make a grand entrance and a grand exit."
Jaskier is nervous, panicking, and a drama queen. Which means he babbles away, as if that could mask his emotions, as if it could help him cover up what he wants to hide, when in fact it actually reveals more than it should. With both boots off, Jaskier lets his back fall on the bed because oh, look at that, the ceiling looks incredibly interesting at the moment.
"Don't listen to that preposterous elf. He doesn't know what he's talking about. I know I won't be standing for that-- that..." A hand is raised to indicate what is on the other side of the door. "Delusion! Yes! That's correct, delusion! There's no way he saw any kind of 'special connection'--" He airquotes with both hands, eyerolling. "--between you and Yennefer when we found you fuc--"
Jaskier's eyes widen when he realizes he's let his mouth roll for too long, both hands coming down to cover his lips. Worry taking over his scent, he turns his head slowly on the bed to look at Geralt, as if waiting for the witcher to snarl at him.
"...we thought you were dead?" He says after lowering his fingers a little, as if that explained everything.
Panic. Nervousness. Attempts at diverting the conversation. This all points to Jaskier being full of shit, and that's one of the scents that Geralt doesn't like on him. Lying. He doesn't like it when people lie to him, and he certainly doesn't like it when Jaskier lies to him. Usually, that's because Jaskier's lies come to bite him in the ass in some stupid, angry husband-shaped way.
Jaskier's hands clap over his mouth before he can get the last word out, but fuck is basically one of Geralt's favorite words, so he knows the shape of it even from someone else's mouth. So that's what's gotten Jaskier so upset-- he saw the two of them in the aftermath of the house collapsing, when they had had some kind of... victory fuck? Glad-to-be-alive sex? Something like that. There was a lot of adrenaline involved, and she had been very beautiful sprawled among the pillows and debris, and the effects of his djinn wish would've just been kicking in.
She had still been very beautiful when Geralt had left her sleeping there, too.
Geralt's mouth twists a little at the revelation. Is he thrilled about it? No. Can he do anything about it? Also no. Jaskier saw what he saw, Geralt can't change that. He can't un-fuck Yennefer, no matter how much the bard might want him to.
"Didn't take you for a voyeur," he says, walking into the room to hang up his cloak. No sense standing at the door. "Is this going to be a problem?"
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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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Well, except for the part where Jaskier is sitting on Geralt's lap and running his fingers through his hair. That's definitely new. A good sign, he realizes, that what comes off as an old scene has a little change in it to match the shift in their relationship.
The mood follows them when they leave. Jaskier says good bye and chitchats with the people around them on their way out of the city, and once they've crossed the bridge, he's feeling a bit lighter. This is familiar too, traveling with a brooding Geralt, so Jaskier does what he used to: fills the silence with babbling, which includes talking to their horses, who thankfully are getting along.
Camping and water breaks are the same as they used to be, too, and Jaskier decides that trying anything would be an awful idea (he would like their first time to be on a bed anyway, but what can he say, he's having desperate thoughts here). He sneaks a peck on the lips or cheek when he can, though, to both remind Geralt he's here and he's his, and simply because he can and needs it himself. It's what couples do, he wants to keep in his mind that what happened in Oxenfurt is still real, and he's always a touch starved bard anyway.
At least they still cuddle to sleep at night.
The babbling abruptly stops when Rinde comes into view - Jaskier doesn't brood, not in the way Geralt does (nobody can brood like Geralt, to be fair) but damn if he isn't close to it. It's a big deal for this bard to fall silent after all, and it shows in his body language. His scent becomes sour, his back is tense, and his hand unconsciously reaches for this throat when the memory of that awful day comes back to his mind, completely unwelcome and unwilling to leave.
Distracting himself becomes even harder when, on their way to the nearest inn, a familiar voice greets them.
"I never thought I would see you again."
Chireadan. Unbelievable, just their luck. Jaskier offers a very awkward smile and is about to at least greet him politely when he feels the elves' eyes on his chest... "Bollocks", his lips say instead, and he hurries to take off the brooch and put it on his doublet instead, protected under the cloak.
Which makes Chireadan look incredibly amused. "What brings you back to Rinde?"
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Geralt frowns at her. Even his fucking horse.
Their stops are similarly familiar; when they make camp at night, Geralt hunts for whatever autumn game he can supplement their supplies with, and Jaskier starts the fire and sets up the cooking pot. They fall back into their routine with almost disturbing ease, like the bard hadn't had a year's absence from his side.
He still lets Jaskier put their bedrolls together at night, and the bard still falls asleep in his arms. He needs it, and Geralt tells himself that this is a far better arrangement than Jaskier waking up in the middle of the night with a screaming fit. And if Geralt presses his nose to the nape of Jaskier's neck and breathes and only then feels settled enough to meditate, well. No one has to know.
The mood gets somehow worse when they get closer to Rinde, which is a notable feat. Jaskier is quiet and tense, Geralt is still darkly brooding, and the day is... actually quite decent, for the time of year. The air is chill but not biting, with a woodsmoke edge to it that's almost pleasant. It's a shame that neither of them are in the mood to appreciate it.
And Geralt is certainly not in the mood to appreciate running into someone that they already know. He wants to make it through Kaedwen without being noticed, not to run into every damned acquaintance they've made in the past twenty-some odd years.
"Hm." His grunts have been taking a curt, short edge as of late. It's even shorter, now-- Chireadan is staring. There's no need for him to stare, and Jaskier apparently doesn't want him staring, either, considering that he cursed about it. "Passing through."
There's that patented Geralt-brand sociability.
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"I see." Chireadan replies with a tone that implies he thinks something is going on. "Are you staying the night then? I can offer bed and supper, if it pleases you, in exchange of updated tidings."
Now that's an offer he doesn't see coming. Jaskier worries his lower lip as he considers it - it'd be free, and fewer people would see them that way. It's not like he'll be performing today -both because of safety and because of his mood- so an inn doesn't even have that in its favor. In theory, it sounds perfect. And yet... it's Chireadan. A good man, as far as Jaskier knows, but he's so linked to the djinn mess, he isn't sure his company would exactly improve the mood.
(And will he ask about Yennefer? Jaskier doesn't want to talk about Yennefer.)
"A very kind invitation, good sir, it's appreciated." Someone has to keep the manners up around here. "If you excuse us for a second..."
Pegasus is brought closer to Roach, and Jasker whispers as lowly as he can - he knows Geralt can hear it.
"Positives: no coin to spend, no extra people to interact with. Negatives: it's fucking him, Geralt!" Alright, so the last part comes off more like hissing than whispering, but he's getting really nervous here. Give him a break. "What do your--" Awkward hand flapping goes here. "--witchery senses say?"
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But.
He's also going to want tidings of Yennefer, which is both a sore subject for him and Jaskier and also one that Geralt likely won't be able to satisfy the elf on. He hasn't seen her for a year, and the last he had heard of her had been some rumors about the Battle of Sodden. She's doing gods only know what now-- or, for all he knows, she could be dead. But that's another thought that makes his chest do strange things, and he dismisses it. Yennefer of Vengerberg is not dead, because Death is neither strong enough nor stubborn enough to keep her.
He glances at Jaskier's nervously flapping hands, a deeply unsubtle gesture. He hums, then answers back in an undertone-- "Mostly harmless."
The prospect of free room and board for them and their horses is too much to pass up. Hopefully, they could use their travel as an excuse to turn in early and avoid as much interaction as possible, then leave as early as possible. Maximum benefit, minimum awkwardness.
"We would appreciate your... hospitality," he says, only gritting his teeth a little at that last word. But that's fine, no one expects good manners from him.
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Chireadan, meanwhile, is quite pleased with this turn of events and proceeds to guide them back to his place. Which happens to be, he explains, a little healer business he's set up for himself. It isn't anywhere as big as an inn, but it does have more room than the average cottage, which means he has enough extra space for two guests and their horses.
It smells of herbs and incense inside, quite strong even for Jaskier's nose, but otherwise it's incredibly clean and well taken care of. Which makes sense, because wounds should be tended in better contexts than tubs filled will selkiemore guts (ahem). It's actually a pretty decent place to stay at, and Jaskier would've easily relaxed in it if circumstances were different.
(When he takes off his cloak, he realizes the brooch is still visible, this time on his doublet. Taking it off again would make call attention to it, so he leaves it there - at least inside there won't be other prying eyes. Under all the bad memories and anxiety this town brings out in him, he can admit it feels nice to have the little wolf out in the open.)
Chireadan indicates two chairs for them to sit at a decently size table and proceeds to take out the tankards and ale, which isn't court quality (obviously) but it isn't the piss-tasting shit from backwater taverns either, and that's already a win.
"We don't have many travelers passing by at this time of the year. Snow will start to fall soon." He explains with his back turned to them, busy cutting some bread and cheese for his guests. "We've heard about the fall of Cintra, some refugees even made it here, but didn't stay for long." When he finally comes to the table with a platter of food, his looks is quite serious. "Which is why I'm obliged to ask, if you excuse my indiscretion: are you being followed as well?"
Jaskier suddenly becomes extra aware of the scars on his body and, with his heart beating quite loudly in his ears, puts down the ale with a little more strength than intended.
"We are not." He replies after glancing at Geralt. "We come from Oxenfurt. No Nilfgaardians soldiers in that area-"
There's a puff of air at the end of its sentence - a word left unspoken. Yet?
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They sit at the elf's table and have decent ale served to them, which Geralt accepts with a curt nod. The whole cottage smells like various herbs and tinctures, hardly unexpected for a healer. Even so, he makes sure that he drinks from his ale before Jaskier does from his own, checking by both smell and taste for any additives. He doesn't expect anything like that from Chireadan, but better to be safe than drugged.
Jaskier's heart jumps at the mention of Cintra and Nilfgaard, his discomfort creeping into his scent.
"There is no significant Nilfgaardian presence in Oxenfurt," he confirms. "And we were not followed."
Geralt had made sure of that when they were traveling. And while it isn't impossible that Nilfgaard could have spies or sympathizers in the city, Geralt had told no one of their ultimate destination, and he couldn't imagine that Jaskier would be so foolish as to spread that information around, either. Not with how recent his kidnapping was. Kaer Morhen is a well enough kept secret; very few outside of the witchers of the Wolf School are aware that it survived its second sacking.
He will not lead Nilfgaard to the only place that he has ever called a home.
"Regardless, we will not linger."
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Jaskier nods too as he munches on some of the food they've been offered. They've been on the road for quite a few days already, it's good to have something other than fruit and dried meat. Chireadan asks a few more questions to know the general state of things - the current Nilfgaard situation and how the other kingdoms are handling it. Luckily for him, unlike Geralt, Jaskier has been keeping up with such matters and has the vocabulary to explain them.
Which eventually takes him to mention the Battle of Sodden.
He gives no names - why would he? He doesn't know those kinds of details, only that Aretuza was there. But of course Chireadan jumps on it without hesitation. Bollocks.
"Was she there too?"
A name isn't needed, it's obvious to know whom he's talking about. His eyes are curious and hungry for the information, even after all these years... well, it's not like Jaskier can talk, now can he? He wants to feel sympathetic for the poor guy, offer comfort and an ear that understands, but just thinking about her (in here, of all places) makes his scent bitter as hell. Jaskier tries to hide his face behind the tankard, but he can't go on without replying.
There's nothing to worry about, he reminds himself. Geralt said he wouldn't take her back. He is the one with a silver wolf on his chest right now. His stomach turns anyway.
"I don't have an answer to that question. I haven't seen or heard of her in over a year." After a pause, he decides to add- "I'm sorry."
Because no matter how bitter he feels, at the end of the day Jaskier is still a romantic, the one person who can understand Chireadan the best, and his heart does feel for him. At least a bit.
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Additionally-- Geralt should never be asked to carry a conversation. It's a task that's doomed to failure.
But, of course, it's inevitable that the conversation shifts to Yennefer, especially after Jaskier mentions the battle at Sodden Hill. The sorceresses of Aretuza were there, so asking after her makes logical sense, even if the question sours Jaskier's scent almost immediately. The bard maintains his composure well, though, provides a level and neutral answer. Chireadan looks to Geralt after, as though he might have some other answer for him-- Geralt replies with a one-shouldered shrug and a shake of his head.
"Don't know."
He's not nearly as sympathetic as Jaskier is, though, perhaps, he should be. He has no desire to continue to talk about Yennefer, however, not after everything that has transpired between them. He doesn't want to have to explain to Chireadan why he doesn't know where the sorceress is, or whether she is all right.
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Right now though, considering his current mood and how he feels about her in general, he can't help feeling a bit smug over the fact Geralt hasn't seen her for so long and doesn't try to check if Chireadan saw her again after the djinn incident either. It's such a huge change from that I'm in that cursed them a year ago, and Jaskier is living for it.
In a second, you'll be wrapped around my finger, because I can do it better. There's no other, so when's it gonna sink in? She's so stupid, what the hell were you thinking?
"I understand." The elf's eyes are down, looking at his own hands on the table, probably feeling exposed and embarrassed. "It was bold of me to assume you'd still be in contact with her, my apologies. My eyes must've deceived me that day - I thought I saw a special spark in that scene through the window." He looks at Jaskier then-- "Wouldn't you agree?"
...and Jaskier chokes on his ale. He knew this would be an awful idea, he knew it! Patting his chest, Jaskier suddenly stands up, the chair falling behind him. He's a ball of nerves and he isn't hiding it. Geralt's possible reaction to this... he isn't sure he wants to find out, but the road mood is already somber enough. Can't have another thing added to the pile.
"Thank you! For supper. It was very-" Here comes the flapping hands. "Very nice of you to receive us in your home and I'd love to-- to, ah, sit and chat about the wonders of this world we live in but my-" He glances at Geralt, swallows, then turns to Chireadan again, who is staring at the bard with wide eyes and a very confused expression. "-companion and I need to rest, it's been an incredibly long trip and we should leave early in the morning not to waster another second of precious autumn time."
Still in shock, Chireadan nods and points at the door on the left, a guest room usually assigned to patients but free for their use today. Jaskier rushes into it without another word, and the elf turns to Geralt with a shrug.
"Good night?"
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Geralt watches him, head tilted slightly and brow furrowed. Chireadan points him to the guest room and Jaskier bolts for it like he's got a cuckolded husband on his heels.
"Hm." The witcher looks back to Chireadan, who both looks and smells immensely confused. That made two of them. "...Good night, I suppose."
That's one way to end the evening early. Geralt would've probably chosen something a little less ridiculous, but it's Jaskier, so maybe he can't expect anything less than dramatic.
He stands and follows after Jaskier, closing the door to the guest room behind him. Geralt breathes deeply, ignoring the clamoring herbal scents in the air and focusing on Jaskier's; he smells mostly of... embarrassment? Panic?
Geralt is too tired to try to parse through what the hell is going on in Jaskier's head by scent alone.
"What the fuck was that, Jaskier."
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Apparently yes, it is too much.
"Nothing! It was nothing!" His eyes don't meet Geralt's, his voice is a little high. "You know me, dear witcher, always needing to make a grand entrance and a grand exit."
Jaskier is nervous, panicking, and a drama queen. Which means he babbles away, as if that could mask his emotions, as if it could help him cover up what he wants to hide, when in fact it actually reveals more than it should. With both boots off, Jaskier lets his back fall on the bed because oh, look at that, the ceiling looks incredibly interesting at the moment.
"Don't listen to that preposterous elf. He doesn't know what he's talking about. I know I won't be standing for that-- that..." A hand is raised to indicate what is on the other side of the door. "Delusion! Yes! That's correct, delusion! There's no way he saw any kind of 'special connection'--" He airquotes with both hands, eyerolling. "--between you and Yennefer when we found you fuc--"
Jaskier's eyes widen when he realizes he's let his mouth roll for too long, both hands coming down to cover his lips. Worry taking over his scent, he turns his head slowly on the bed to look at Geralt, as if waiting for the witcher to snarl at him.
"...we thought you were dead?" He says after lowering his fingers a little, as if that explained everything.
(No, Jaskier, it doesn't explain shit.)
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Jaskier's hands clap over his mouth before he can get the last word out, but fuck is basically one of Geralt's favorite words, so he knows the shape of it even from someone else's mouth. So that's what's gotten Jaskier so upset-- he saw the two of them in the aftermath of the house collapsing, when they had had some kind of... victory fuck? Glad-to-be-alive sex? Something like that. There was a lot of adrenaline involved, and she had been very beautiful sprawled among the pillows and debris, and the effects of his djinn wish would've just been kicking in.
She had still been very beautiful when Geralt had left her sleeping there, too.
Geralt's mouth twists a little at the revelation. Is he thrilled about it? No. Can he do anything about it? Also no. Jaskier saw what he saw, Geralt can't change that. He can't un-fuck Yennefer, no matter how much the bard might want him to.
"Didn't take you for a voyeur," he says, walking into the room to hang up his cloak. No sense standing at the door. "Is this going to be a problem?"
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