A neutral sort of hum, neither a confirmation nor denial.
Jaskier screams into the pillow again, and this appears to be a new habit of his-- yelling his lungs out into something that muffles the sound to release sexual frustration. To be honest, it's a far better solution than going out to fuck the stable boy, so Geralt can live with the increased possibility of getting a pillow thrown at his head. He's had worse things thrown in his direction.
Geralt raises one eyebrow as the bard turns pink and mentions the thought of it, and the other joins it when Jaskier's hand makes a very obvious pumping motion at cock-height. He perhaps oughtn't be surprised that Jaskier took care of his own tensions in such a way after the fact, but it's a bit different to be told as such directly to his face.
(He does not, and by gods never will tell Jaskier about the times when their inn rooms had been adjacent and he either had not had the coin for or there simply wasn't a brothel available, and he had been able to hear everything that the bard had done with his conquests through the thin walls. He had relieved tensions of his own, telling himself that it was nothing more than a simple biological response.)
"If you've thought about it in her presence," he says, trying not to think too much about how appealing the flush on Jaskier's face is, "she likely already knows. She can read minds, Jaskier."
So... there's probably nothing to bother hiding? It may not be much of a comfort to the bard, though, knowing that his terrible secret is likely not a secret at all. And, really, Yen had given him a number of cutting, knowing looks when he'd been staring a little too intently at the bard, so a number of Geralt's secrets are likely not secrets to her, either.
"And she would kill the both of us for suggesting it to her, so you'd hardly need to worry about your performance."
Geralt crosses the room and takes the pillow away from Jaskier, tossing it to the other side of the bed. Then, with that half-exasperated, half-amused tone that the bard is so familiar with,
Neutral humming, as far as Jaskier knows, is Geralt not wanting to admit something. So he'll just consider this one a successful read, thank you very much.
"The only thoughts I have whenever I'm around that bloody witch are one-" He raises one finger. "How to insult her, and two-" Another finger joins the first one. "how to get rid of her. So we're good. It was a one time thing and it's never happening again, let's leave this subject behind us now."
There are other thoughts he's had around her that he doesn't mention. The jealousy, the worry about Geralt ending in pieces again. Hopefully those won't show up again now that Geralt is his. And boy, isn't that a lovely thought? He got Geralt's word back in Oxenfurt and he does trust him with his life, but it's still pretty nice to hear again how much Geralt doesn't want her anymore. He wants to stay here, with Jaskier, take him to his family and his home. It makes him feel all warm inside and puts a smile on his face.
I think it's time for you to go / Away from my man and me / That's the way it's going to be. ♪
Suddenly Geralt is next to him, teasing him with that question and that affectionate tone that makes Jaskier's musician ears tingle. It should be weird, shouldn't it? How the somber mood Rinde brought onto them has suddenly been lifted, and now well, here they are, joking about this whole fiasco. Jaskier wouldn't have it any other way though, it's what sharing his life with a witcher is like. Never normal, never boring - that's why he loves him so, why he can actually settle down with him and still be thoroughly satisfied at the end of the week.
(The fact Geralt doesn't confirm or deny being interesting in threesomes doesn't go unnoticed, but Jaskier is fine with that. They can talk about their wants and needs in bed later on.)
"I don't think so? If you haven't figured out by now that I've masturbated to the thought of you plenty of times the last two decades, then you haven't been paying attention." His voice is light, filled with affection for the witcher. Geralt is being so understanding, Jaskier feels silly for having been so worried in the first place. "Now come here and kiss me, you marvelous wolf."
From his spot on the bed, he raises his arms and makes 'grabby hands' at Geralt, his head tilting with a grin when a thought comes to his mind.
"Do you think Chireadan would hear us if I blew you right now?"
Jaskier's mood brightened enough that it could almost be called light, and, considering that they entered Rinde with the mood about as low as it could get without someone actually dying, is saying something. He had been concerned that cutting through Rinde would end up being a mistake, that he should've just dealt with getting stoned in Ghelibol, but he prefers not being run out of town. And Jaskier would've been upset by that reaction towards him, too.
Geralt huffs a laugh when Jaskier mentions all of his... late-night indiscretions. The times that he had wandered off from camp to have a piss that ended up taking twenty minutes; the long soaks in rivers; the noises that he could hear even when he was off hunting and Jaskier was 'tending the fire'. Tending to something, certainly.
"You aren't as subtle as you think you are," he says, definitely amused now. "I could smell you every time, Jaskier. And hear you, most times."
Witcher senses. Terrible for privacy, useful for not getting eaten alive by monsters.
He leans down to satisfy Jaskier's request for a kiss, pressing it against his grinning mouth. It's short, cut off by the bard's chatter and constant need to speak whatever comes to his mind. This time, though? Geralt is quite fond of his ideas.
"Hm." Geralt would be able to maintain his composure if Jaskier wanted to do such a thing, but it would also take him an absurd amount of time to bring him off that way. He would grow bored and have a sore jaw before he ever brought the witcher to completion. He could offer an alternative, instead; Geralt turns his head a little and scrapes his teeth over Jaskier's earlobe, murmurs to him, "I think a better question is whether you think you can stay quiet for me."
His cheeks gain a pink blush again, but it's totally worth it if it means having Geralt huffing laughter like that.
"You could?" He gulps and licks his lips. "And you didn't mind."
Bloody hell, all this time Geralt has been dealing with Jaskier's masturbating habits and he never said a word about it. Which, when it comes to Geralt, is saying a lot, because he has complained about every single aspect of Jaskier's personality at some point or another. He's told Jaskier to shut up how many times by now? But never to his moaning, never told him to wash away the smells...
The witcher stood by his side and absorbed it all. Bollocks.
Jaskier bites his lip, already feeling his blood boiling, and it immediately starts traveling south when he hears Geralt talk directly into his ear like that. He's always had a thing for that deep voice, and now that it is dirty talking to him, Jaskier can't stop a whimper from echoing in the room.
Which transforms into a groan when the witcher sinks down to his knees in front of him - Jaskier stops breathing for a second there.
"Fuck, Geralt."
Geralt of Rivia, the mighty witcher, destroyer of monsters, is on his knees, offering to suck his cock. It's such a trusting, powerful, erotic, intoxicating image - it makes his heart race and his throat go dry. Callused fingers fall on the top of the witcher's head and pet it a couple of times to then make their way down and cup Geralt's face, his thumb brushing his lips.
"You're the most magnificent beauty I've ever had the pleasure to be with." He murmurs, a small tent already forming in his pants. "I cannot be quiet, Geralt - I never was, not in life and not in bed, and with you? I'll be singing until the priestesses of Melitele hear me all the way from their temple."
"That is the idea," he replies to the bard's cursing, amused by his enthusiastic response. His heart rate had been a tic or two higher from the embarrassment of their discussion, but it jumps the moment that Geralt is down on his knees. Good-- Geralt prefers to have a solid biological indicator of interest. A heart rate is always honest.
Jaskier's pretty musician hands flutter over his head like restless birds; gentle little touches, stroking his hair and pushing a few errant strands out of his face before moving down to his cheeks, his jaw. His thumb pushes against Geralt's lips and he keeps his mouth soft, letting the bard do as he pleased.
There's some bullshit that he says while Geralt is preoccupied with the burgeoning scent of arousal coming from the bard-- his usual lines, stupid things about beauty that Geralt is sure that he's heard him say to any number of barmaids and farmer's daughters. It must be practically muscle-memory for him by now, to spout off some romantic drivel to whoever has gone down on their knees for him, even though it's not necessary for a a witcher like Geralt. He would go down on his knees for him regardless of what words are said, if that's what pleases him.
"Silence is a skill that must be practiced," he says, reaching for the buttons on Jaskier's trousers. They are more easily undone than the fiddly ones at Jaskier's throat. "We have an opportunity--"
He is interrupted by a knock at the door, and just gets to his feet in time for it to open. Chireadan pokes his head in, and his gaze falls on Jaskier, sitting on the bed with his face flushed and trousers unbuttoned, and then to Geralt, standing before him with his face very carefully neutral.
"Sorry to interrupt," the elf says, "I wanted to catch you before you were ready for bed. There's, ah, there are a few nekkers that are wandering a bit close to the stables, and I was hoping you might chase them off before they bother the horses?"
Nekkers. Of fucking course, there are more monsters to deal with, right when he tries to move past fucking kissing with the bard. He would think that he's cursed, except that no curse is this fucking stupid.
"I have plenty of fun skills I can show you in bed, darling."
Silence is definitely not one of them, and he isn't interested in practicing it either. He loves the sound of his own voice, and he enjoys seeing his lovers react to his moaning and whimpering, letting them know how much he's enjoying them. And then there's Geralt, who needs to hear it even a hundred times more. Jaskier is going to worship that gorgeous body until he runs out of words, which -considering his education- isn't happening any time soon.
Geralt's hands reaches for his pants buttons and Jaskier's hips thrust up against them, the mere brush of fingers against his groin already making him gasp. He hadn't lied to Geralt when he had said he enjoys foreplay and build-up, but he's been pining after the witcher for twenty years, their finally coming together keeps being interrupted which causes even more sexual tension, he hasn't fucked since before captivity and he hasn't had an orgasm since Oxenfurt. Jaskier is desperate.
Which means he cries out to the ceiling when they get interrupted yet again.
"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"
Hopefully that doesn't alert the nekkers, mmh?
This time, he doesn't help Geralt get ready, too frustrated and angry at the world. Like the drama queen he is, he falls face down on the bed and covers the back of his head with a pillow.
"This is the gods finally punishing me for loving freely and openly, for finding pleasure and affection in the most unlikely places, against their godly wishes." He whines away. "Years of need satisfied in various beds so they punish me by stealing from me the one I want the most."
The craving in those last two words can be tasted in the fucking air. Jaskier waves goodbye at Geralt, not trusting himself to even throw a kiss at him, and considers a good wanking like he did in Oxenfurt. But there's nothing sexy what's going on outside - he can hear the screeches and agony of the nekkers, can picture their smell in his mind. Eugh.
He ends up falling asleep while waiting for Geralt. Without an orgasm. Again.
And on top that, they get up at way too damn early in the morning, not even able to enjoy an extra hour or two of cuddling. Chireadan greets them with breakfast (great) and a very amused and knowing look (not so great when they haven't done anything to even deserve it). At least the mood is better when they find themselves on the road again, thanks to leaving Rinde behind and their little adventure in the bedroom (failure as it was, his balls may be blue but his heart is lighter for it). He fills the silence with his own voice like the old times, keeping his singing to a hush or hum not to call attention to them.
The babbling doesn't last as long as the old times, though, because Geralt is pushing really hard, and they aren't stopping to camp unless they absolutely have to. It tires Jaskier out so hard that he doesn't even try anything when pushing their bedrolls together, happy to be sleeping in the arms of a walking furnace in the middle of the nocturnal autumn chill.
So he's kinda tired and sleepy when one afternoon they stop by the river to refill their waterskin and let the horses drink, not quite catching what Geralt says while he's washing his face.
"What now?" Jaskier blinks up at him, trying to understand what has been said to him. Something about not sharing? "Geralt, my dear, I think there's enough river for all four of us."
Jaskier yowls his displeasure at the interruption like a cat in heat, and while Geralt certainly understands his frustration, he would appreciate it being expressed in a quieter fashion. Especially because he hears the nekkers become more agitated after his yelling fit, and that means that it's going to be an even more annoying job, and it is already deeply annoying. He buckles himself into his armor while the bard mopes, fetches his silver sword, and leaves the cottage to vent his frustrations on the monsters. Once those are dispatched, he follows their tracks back to a nest, and must go through the process of destroying that, too, lest more of the little bastards show up. And, because Geralt cannot possibly be given a break, even once, the nekkers had decided that the best place for their nest was in a hollow where all the run-off from the manure piles went.
Chireadan lets him use the rain barrel outside to clean himself afterwards.
They are able to leave early the next morning, with full bellies and a generous re-stocking of Geralt's medical supplies. All in all, it could have been a far worse stop, the previous night's mishap aside.
They make for the southern pass of the Kestrels, and the further north they go, the more bitter the air becomes. The morning frost can hardly be called morning, as it lingers until the afternoon some days. The cold is coming early, and it's what Geralt had feared-- there may already be snow on the way up to Kaer Morhen. Now it is a matter of hoping that there isn't much, that it's still traversable by a bard and the horses. Geralt cannot allocate precious time for rest, even though the pace is hard on Jaskier-- even he can't keep up his customary stream of chatter.
It gives Geralt time to think. Some might argue that Geralt with time to think is an eminently bad thing, but, if nothing else, the road is good for it. His thoughts are mostly preoccupied with this thing that's burgeoning between himself and Jaskier, the transition of their relationship from something strained and undefined right into would-be lovers. His mind keeps returning to what the bard had said in the cottage, about being open to the idea.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he is selfish. Bringing a third into the bed with them-- despite the fact that they had yet to even make it to bed themselves-- is another opportunity for Jaskier to find someone more suited for him, someone with more to offer than a mutant. Though it is likely that only a whore would deign to grace the bed of a witcher, even with Jaskier to improve the situation, the bard has fallen for whores before. Too risky.
And thoughts of that brings his mind to what he had thought of between himself and Jaskier and Yen. It's impossible, of course, unless the bard and the sorceress manage to suddenly put aside their quarrels with each other, which all seem to stem from a source awkwardly Geralt-adjacent. And though they do snipe at each other every time they are together, Yen doesn't do it out of disinterest; she would not speak to him if she found him boring. It has also not escaped his notice that, those squabbles aside, they are not dissimilar from each other-- they enjoy good food and good liquor and other fine things, prefer comforts and luxuries. Yen would make an excellent subject for any number of ballads, being just as steeped in, as Jaskier put it, death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak, with the bonus of being an incredible beauty and in possession of a reputation that doesn't need rehabilitation. Mages are well-respected wherever they go, and in her company, Jaskier would never need to sleep on a lice-infested palliasse, or make camp in the rain, or eat stringy rabbit stewed over a campfire. She would keep him dressed in as much fashionable silk as he desires. They would make a striking pair, his bright colors and her stark blacks, like a raven in the company of a nightingale.
One might think, in fact, that based off of temperament and interests, Jaskier and Yennefer are far better suited for each other than Geralt is for either one of them.
Sours the fantasy a little, that.
They stop one afternoon to water the horses and refill their skins, and the bard seems to appreciate the chance to wash himself up a little in the stream. The water is brilliantly cold, fresh run-off from the mountain peaks, and Geralt has kept his hands busy with the waterskins while Jaskier bathes his face. That's likely why he didn't hear him, he was too busy splashing water on himself to listen properly.
Geralt's mouth twists; of course there's enough fucking river, Jaskier. It's a river.
"Not that." He caps the waterskins once they're full, keeping his eyes on them as he gets them ready to hang back from the saddlebags. "What you said in the cottage, about a third."
It had been days ago, sure, but Jaskier couldn't have forgotten? Or perhaps he had, and Geralt was bringing it up for nothing. Geralt stands with the filled containers and carries them to the horses, attaching one to each and making sure that they're secure.
"I would prefer not to share."
But that is, ultimately, all it is-- a preference. A suggestion. If Jaskier insists, Geralt will still give him what he wants, even if that's a body that isn't his warming the sheets.
It takes Jaskier a moment to react. It's not like he doesn't remember, he definitely does, he isn't forgetting that night any time soon. But the sudden topic of conversation takes him by surprise, catches him unprepared. He can only blink for a couple of seconds until he finally murmurs an "oh".
Geralt approaches the horses, leaving him behind like the big coward he is, and Jaskier curses under his breath and hurries after him, feeling his heart getting stuck in his throat. Nobody else can cause that in him, only Geralt. Once upon a time, the Countess de Stael had been close, but not even her was a love this raw and passionate. This intimate and trusting. Jaskier had bedded her and hasn't bedded Geralt yet, but he can still say that any sign of trust from the witcher has meant more than burying his face between her thighs.
Jaskier has always looked for true love. He falls for everyone he meets and has fun with them, burns through crushes faster than Roach burns through sugar cubes. They're temporary, but that doesn't make them any less real, and he's left a piece of his heart with each them. What he's always sought, however, is someone to give his whole heart to. Someone that wouldn't cage him and would keep his interest after a week, a month, a year.
He found it when he was 18.
So he's absolutely honest when he replies, "It's alright, Geralt. We don't have to do anything you don't want to." Once he reaches Geralt's side, he grabs a witcher hand between both of his and gives it a squeeze. "I'll expect you to respect my preferences, and you can trust me to respect yours as well."
He comes even closer, pressing his whole body against Geralt's to remind him he's here and he belongs to him. He even drops a little kiss to the corner of the witcher's mouth, probably overwhelming Geralt with a deep sweet scent. Usually saying 'no thanks' to a particular kink shouldn't be a big deal, but this is Geralt and well...
"I know how hard is for you to tell me your wants, my dear witcher, so thank you for telling me this. Although I'm curious to know what prompted you to bring up the subject so suddenly." Now frowning a little, he tilts his head, blue eyes squinting a bit. "Have you been thinking about this since we left Rinde?"
Jaskier takes his refusal surprisingly gracefully; Geralt had thought that he might press or whine, as he sometimes does when the witcher denies him other little things. He only reaches forward and clasps one of Geralt's hands, squeezing it warmly and telling him things about respect and trust. And, well, of course Geralt would only ever do the things that he had been given permission for-- he would never take exploit him in such a way, use his inhuman strength or any other advantage to take something from him that isn't freely given. He'd sooner turn his own sword on himself.
It's hard to feel his warmth through all of their layers of clothing, but Jaskier presses against him and kisses him at the corner of his mouth, sweet and soft. Geralt closes his eyes, just for a moment, and breathes when he's leaned in close, and--
floral oil, lute wax, affection, a barely-there spicy hint of lust, meadowsweet that he'd picked to feed to Pegasus and Roach as a treat, water where the fringe of his hair got wet--
commits this moment to memory.
"Hm." A neutral hum again, though Jaskier has, in twenty years, gained the ability to read past even his most carefully ambivalent tones. "There has been time."
The closest to an admission that he'll get.
"If you're finished, we should keep moving. There will only be a few more hours of daylight."
Is he finished? With the water, yes. With Geralt? Absolutely not.
A neutral hum again, oh dear. And time? Time to think about what? Potential threesomes? The hows and the whos? He guesses Geralt has probably never had a threesome, considering his usual limited companion options, but Jaskier wouldn't have minded paying for a whore even if he wasn't his favorite choice. Hell, maybe with him as a mediator, he could've chatted someone up and--
Oh. Of course. How could he not see it before?
"You were worried."
Another kiss is in order, this time fully on Geralt's mouth, sweet and tender and just full of affection, a hand even reaching up to cup Geralt's face and bring him down to make their foreheads touch when they pull apart. He hopes his silly comment back on Rinde hasn't been haunting the witcher's mind too badly, but this is Geralt, and Jaskier knows how low his self-esteem can go. Thank the gods he spoke up about it instead of bottling it up, though - Jaskier is so proud of him right now.
"I love you, Geralt of Rivia. Don't you dare forget that. This--" He points a flapping finger between them. "-means we're a couple now. I've been the witcher's bard for twenty years, now it just happens to carry a new meaning. Remember, that's why I got--"
He touches his chest and blinks when he finds nothing there. Oh, of course. He hid it back in Rinde! Since they still have a few days of road and forests left, Jaskier takes the chance to do a bit more of showing off (even if it's just the two of them) before they arrive to Ard Carraigh, where he knows he'll have to hide it again.
After letting go of Geralt, he reaches inside his cloak, takes the wolf brooch off his doublet and puts it back outside, this time over the heart area of the cloak. Then he grabs Geralt's hand and puts it on top of it, wondering if even through all the layers of cloth he can still hear his heartbeat.
"A wolf to claim and protect the songbird's heart."
Housewives worry, overwrought bards worry, witchers do no such thing. At most, witchers brood, which is far more serious and contemplative than mere worrying. And it's also something that Geralt has immense practice in, he is a champion brooder. He broods with nuance.
The impact of his protest, however, is probably deeply undercut by the sweet kiss he gets after it, the way that Jaskier presses their foreheads together and Geralt just lets him. He lets him do whatever he wants, touch his face, pull him around, take things out of his hands, with impunity. Says he loves him. Something in Geralt's chest twists up again at the words.
Jaskier switches the silver wolf brooch from his doublet to the outside of his cloak, and the display is only acceptable because they're in the middle of nowhere right now. Once they get close to Ard Carraigh and the road gets busier, he'll have to hide it again, put it underneath his cloak-- formerly Geralt's. The witcher himself will also have to hide his hair, since it's his most noticeable feature.
"Keep that under your cloak in Ard Carraigh so that I don't have to protect your body as well."
His hand rests over Jaskier's heart, and though he can't feel the beat of it through all of that fabric, he can still hear it. Steady and even, as though counting out beats per measure in a composition.
"If we keep this pace, we'll be in town by the day after tomorrow. After that, we follow the Gwenllech until we reach the Witcher's trail. There's a hunting cabin about halfway up where we can take shelter."
(His protest never had any impact at all, regardless of the kiss. Jaskier only snorted. Sorry, Geralt.)
Welp, there goes the cute little moment they were having. At least Geralt has reacted well to the gestures of affection, doing his sniffing and keeping his hand on Jaskier's chest. So he'll take it as a win - he knows better than expecting gran romantic gestures from the man, but he wishes he would at least not get bloody scolded after such poetic words of love.
"Yes, mom, I know." He says while rolling his eyes. "I'll hide it as soon as we see the walls in the distance."
The hand on his chest is brought to his lips for a peck - the fact it has gloves on is irrelevant, it's about the romance and giving Geralt all the affection his touch starvation deserves. Now he can go back to Pegasus feeling like a proper gentleman that has treated his lover right, which is very, very important!
"A hunting cabin? With a fireplace and an actual bed? You should've mentioned that before, dear witcher. Let us depart."
They keep pushing their way north, barely stopping at all and when they do, waking up to frost on their hair. They don't even have time to take more than basic care of their horses, and Jaskier promises them extra sugar cubes and an extra long session of brushing when they finally make it to Kaer Moher.
It's only two more days to Ard Carraigh but they feel like forever. Without their usual stops to camp, without music and with little to no chatter, the trip drags on to incredibly dull levels. If he wasn't so tired, Jaskier would sing at the sight of the city in front of them. Instead, he makes sure to hide his brooch and pull up his hood.
Never in his life has he tried so hard to go unnoticed, it goes against every bard instinct in him.
The inn is almost empty, travelers already being scarce at this time of the year even if snow hasn't fallen yet. They have plenty of rooms to choose from, and the innkeeper, trying to get some business going before winter kills it for a few months, offers them a discount if they rent two. Jaskier doesn't want two, it'd be a waste of coin and, most importantly, it'd keep him away from Geralt. But they can't risk attracting bigot attention if they ask for just one double bed, so Jaskier sighs and asks for a room with twin beds instead.
It wouldn't be the first time they share a tiny bed anyway, and Jaskier has fucked in closets. It can't get worse than this.
(Famous last words.)
As soon as they put a foot inside their room for the night, Jaskier runs to throw himself face down on the bed, not even bothering to take off his cloak or boots first.
"Geralt." He speaks as he nuzzles the hell out of a pillow - oh, how has he missed the comfort. "If you don't Igni that fireplace right now, I'll become a snowflake. And not because I'm pretty and unique."
Geralt pushes them thorugh the pass, only allowing them to rest when it was absolutely necessary. It wears on Jaskier and Geralt doesn't like having to drive him forward like this, pushing him on a forced march at a pace that is nearly unsustainable. Probably is unsustainable, over a long enough period of time. But it was only two more days to Ard Carraigh, and then the bard could have a good night's rest in a real bed. Once he was at Kaer Morhen, he could sleep as much as he pleased.
Upon entering the city, Jaskier hides his brooch and pulls up his hood, and Geralt covers his own white head with the hood of his cloak. The inn is mostly empty and they have no issue with getting a room; as is their custom, Jaskier negotiates for the lodgings and price while Geralt stands back at tries to look as non-threatening as possible. They get a twin room, which is fine for keeping up appearances, and the bard seems like he has never been happier to get himself into an inn room. He all but flings himself onto the bed, still fully dressed, while Geralt drops their packs and props his swords up against the wall.
"Hm."
It's an affirming grunt this time, and Geralt gestures a sign to the fireplace. It flares into life, crackling merrily and filling the room with warmth. Geralt crosses over to the bed that Jaskier has claimed, purposefully making his footsteps loud enough to hear so that he wouldn't be sneaking up on him. Aside from being desperately tired, the bard seems fine; nothing some food and a good night's sleep wouldn't fix.
"Get some rest, Jaskier," he says. "We made decent time today."
He'll let the bard have his rest and go down to fetch some food for the both of them. They could take their dinner in their room, avoid the empty common room as much as possible.
Jaskier just hums in agreement. He knows he should be the one going downstairs and asking for food not to risk having shit served at them because of a witcher. But now that he's landed on the bed, he can't bring himself to stand up again. Geralt is being sneaky though, isn't he? He isn't advertising himself for contracts, and he's very good at making everyone ignore him so they leave him alone. They should be fine, right?
Right.
He falls in a drowsy state, closing his eyes and turning off his brain, although it's not quite sleeping. The nightmares will come without Geralt cuddling him, and he shouldn't be drawing attention on them. It does count as resting though, and when Geralt returns with their food, he feels a little less like shit.
Chairs are pushed together so they can eat with their bodies touching, because Jaskier is desperate for the comfort of human contact, and their sup is had under a comfortable silence, which shows how hungry he's been as well. There's only some fruit left when Jaskier decides hey, he doesn't need cutlery to eat that so fuck it, gonna climb Geralt's lap now. He sits across those wonderful thick thighs and buries his nose in the witcher's neck, nuzzling like a needy puppy - the only reason why he isn't hugging him as well is because of the bitten pear in his hands.
The fare that Geralt brings brings back to the room isn't bad-- there aren't many patrons, so the innkeeper has no qualms with getting rid of food that would otherwise just be waiting in the kitchen. It likely helps that Geralt is trying to present himself as nothing more than a traveler, asking after no contracts and making no mention of witcher's work. It's a decent dinner-- thick venison stew with root vegetables, crusty bread, some pickled vegetables, a little fruit from the end-of-the-year harvest. Ale for the both of them.
Geralt takes the time while he's down there to take stock of the patrons; nothing seemed amiss, mostly drovers and merchants, maybe a local or two. People that he would expect to be here. The common room was relatively quiet, with the main excitement being a few games of gwent.
They eat after he returns with the food, quiet and companionable. It's... good. It's like things were before the mountain, except that Jaskier is too tired for endless chatter and he would not have dared sit so close before. Geralt is about to reach for a dagger to cut an apple with when Jaskier decides that their current level of closeness is insufficient, and just climbs right into his lap.
Definitely far bolder than he'd ever been before.
The witcher hums, brow furrowing a little, but doesn't push him off as he might have done a year ago. He lets his arms settle around the bard, holding the apple and the knife-- not the one he uses to take monster heads as trophies, thankfully-- and starts cutting the fruit into slices and eating them off the knife.
"That's only because you can't sit yourself in it."
Though Jaskier has certainly gotten uncomfortably close to the campfire some nights, close enough that Geralt thought that he might set himself alight. There hadn't been any unfortunate fire-related incidents, yet.
Not only Geralt doesn't push him, he puts his arms around him too, and once again they find themselves eating while kind-of-cuddling, which is as good as it can get. At least, in their current situation. Jaskier makes a mental note to get Geralt naked in bed sometime and have wine and cheese while tangled in the sheets... or maybe in a bathtub, if they can find one big enough.
He chuckles at the comment. "Now I have you, my dear? Not anymore. You could put a fire-proof spell on me and I'll still choose your lap."
The fact Geralt is eating the apple off the knife doesn't go unnoticed. How can this man make everything automatically sexy? Jaskier considers for a moment if it's his loved-tinted eyes and arrives to a conclusion, a guy eating food off a knife as if it was nothing definitely gives him extra attractive points. Witcher or not.
After leaving the pear on his lap for a moment, Jaskier reaches out and grabs Geralt's wrist, which he knows he can only do because they're eating, sort-of-cuddling and Geralt just lets him takes things from him. He guides the hand to his own mouth incredibly slowly, not wanting to fuck up and get hurt - his scent shows how nervous he is about is, yet very determined.
When the apple is safely in his lips though, all bets are off. He drops Geralt's hand and grabs his face instead to feed the apple to him directly from mouth to mouth, kissing him sweetly... in both the metaphorical and literal way now, thanks to the fruit juice on their tongues.
Jaskier reaches out and takes his wrist, the one holding a damn knife that has a slice of apple sitting on its blade; Geralt tilts his head a little at him, a curious gesture, and lets him move his arm. He wrinkles his nose at the odd, anxious smell that he can detect coming from the bard, until the knife is at his lips and Geralt is keeping his hand very still. His hand is steady.
The bard takes the apple slice from the knife, and Geralt watches the movement of his lips, his mouth, the brief flash of white teeth, with all of the sharp focus that he watches an approaching monster. He likes the shape of Jaskier's mouth, he decides-- soft, pink lips, the little rough patch near one corner where he'd bitten it, breath sweet with the scent of pear and apple. A hint of ale underneath that.
He lets the bard's hand guide him in, gets a bite of the fruit between his lips-- sweet on his tongue, sweeter when he chases Jaskier's lips and tastes pear, too. Geralt drops the knife and the apple, letting them fall to the floor and freeing his hands to grab at Jaskier, one going to his back and the other to his thigh. There's only so much that he can touch while the bard is sitting across his legs; there's so much more than he could do in a bed. They have two, it so happens, and that's fine-- that means they can get one of them as messy as they please and there's still a spare.
Geralt picks him up, hefting him like he hardly weighed anything at all, and brings him over to one of the beds. He doesn't toss him onto it quite as vigorously as he did at Oxenfurt, if only because this mattress isn't nearly as plush as that one, but Jaskier looks just as nice spread out on a shitty mattress as a good one.
No one knows that he's a witcher here, though. No one's going to go knocking at his door, begging him to slay a beast.
"If you want to save that doublet, you'd better take it off now."
The farther they go north, they more tired and colder their bones get. As blue as his balls are at the moment, Jaskier surprisingly hasn't entered Ard Carraigh with many expectations for the night. He starts the kiss because he likes affection and kissing Geralt is fun, and maybe he can get some making out of it. Perhaps even a hand job if they got lucky?
Turns out Geralt is ready to go, and suddenly Jaskier is perfectly awake - one could say the bard doesn't carry his heart in his own sleeve but in Geralt's. (And his cock as well, let's be honest here.) Yet the witcher has never made Jaskier feel restless or caged - he knows that if he says no right now, Geralt will let go and not resent him for it. He's free to ask as little or as much of Geralt as it pleases him - they aren't shackled to each other, they're companions in their mutual freedom. Jaskier couldn't ask for more.
Well, actually, yes, he wants to ask for a good dicking, please and thank you.
He giggles in Geralt's arms while he drops kisses all over that handsome face, and he would've started to work on a hickey of his own if he hadn't been tossed on the bed so soon - no complaints though. In fact, he throws his head back and laughs as his hands start working on the doublet as fast as they can.
"One day, my dear witcher, I want you to fuck me while you hold me so easily in those thick, strong arms of yours." He stretches one of his (very fit thanks to all the walking) legs to reach in between Geralt's thighs and rub his groin with his foot. "Against the wall, a pillar, or a tree - matters not. I want to be stuck between a hard place and the witcher's third sword."
With the doublet out of the way and a foot still teasing Geralt, Jaskier sits back against the cushions and undoes the laces of his chemise, his chin high in the air to expose his neck for the wolf as an index finger curls in a silent invitation for the witcher to join him on the bed.
Jaskier sheds the doublet in record time, like every time Geralt tells him to strip, he's trying to beat his own record. He laughs, brilliantly and happily, and the sound of it combined with the sight of him makes heat curl in Geralt's guts. He hums at the suggestion, only with minor annoyance at the whole third sword thing, because fuck, Jaskier, did you have to write a song about his cock? He files the idea away for later-- if Jaskier wants to be pinned to a wall, than Geralt will find a suitable wall to pin him to.
For now, though, they have been frustrated in their past two attempts at sex, and Geralt doesn't want to go for a third. He'll indulge all of Jaskier's fantasies and desires later, when they're finally ensconced at Kaer Morhen and there are months of long winter days ahead of them.
The bard's leg stretches out and he presses the soft sole of his foot against Geralt's groin, and the lovely friction of it against his cock-- still soft itself but slowly becoming interested in the proceedings-- gets him growling. He grabs Jaskier's ankle, using it to pull his legs open wide, making space for himself as he kneels between them. The chemise is unlaced, which reveals an attractive amount of surprisingly hairy chest, but not nearly enough. Geralt grabs the garment and yanks it over the bard's head, throwing it to the floor without a care for how expensive it probably is.
"Careful, bard," he says, his voice pitched low as he grabs him by the hip with one hand and, leaning over, braces himself on the bed with the other. Caging him. "A witcher's blade may very well be too much for you."
Oh, that growl. It's always been inherently sexy, but now it's gotten ten times more erotic based solely on the fact Jaskier himself is provoking it with the mere touch of his foot on clothed dick. His whole body shivers at the sound, his own cock definitely reacting already, a semi already forming in his pants when Geralt grabs his ankle and opens his legs.
Laughing again, because gods, Geralt is dirty-talking to him and isn't that a pleasure, Jaskier does some leg opening of his own, the heels of his feet burying themselves in the mattress as he tries to look as inviting as possible. There's witcher everyone around him, surrounding him, but it doesn't intimidate him - this is the one cage the songbird doesn't mind. In fact, it's the one cage he enjoys playing in.
"In the battlefield, mayhap." He replies with a hushed, sultry tone right against Geralt's ear as his hands start working on the buttons of the witcher's pants with as much ease as they did on his own doublet. "But this is my playground, dear witcher. I can handle anything you throw at me." He nibbles on the lobe before speaking again. "Remember, darling: I've never been afraid of you."
And it's back to the kisses then, one on Geralt's ear before he starts making his way down to a very pale neck where pecks stop being pecks and the kisses become open mouthed, sucking and nibbling soon joining in an effort to leave his own mark on the witcher, the same way he had left hundreds on marks on Jaskier himself. Will it heal fast, part of him wonders, but even if the answer is yes, he'll keep at it. Because it's fun, because it's a turn-on, because it makes his heart race at the thought of the mighty wolf letting his little bird claim him like this.
Meanwhile, one of his hands makes its way inside Geralt's pants to grope at his groin through his smallclothes. Usually Jaskier isn't so quick to jump on that area, enjoying the sensuality of undressing and foreplay, but frustration is getting to him. He's been dying to touch Geralt like this since fucking Posada, that feeling only intensifying since he saw him naked for the first time, and so far since they got together, he hasn't even managed to get a witcher boner going. An appreciative hum vibrates against the witcher's neck as Jaskier starts stroking that bulge, letting Geralt know how much he likes the feeling of the third sword in his hand even while still clothed.
Jaskier's mouth and hands are as confident in this arena as Geralt's in a battle; the sureness of a man with experience on his side. He is, if his reputation is even the slightest bit true, a master in the bedroom, as excellent a lover as he is a musician. He might leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake, but he never leaves an unsatisfied bed-partner.
Geralt hums as the bard finds an acceptable place on his neck to suck and bite at, even tilts his head a little to give him better access to that spot. The bruise won't last, not against the mutagens that accelerate his healing, but for a little while, his skin will hold the mark left behind by Jaskier's mouth.
The bard then delves a hand underneath the waistband of Geralt's pants, bold as you please, and the witcher makes a surprised grunt as his fingers close around his third sword. There's plenty for him to get his hand on-- more, if he had been a normal man with a normal man's pulse, instead of a witcher whose cock is as slow to get going as his heart. Even so, it's not entirely unaffected; there is life in Geralt's pants, his cock thickening a little under the bard's tender attentions.
"Jask..."
He tips his hips into Jaskier's touch and remembers that he has hands of his own that ought to be doing things; he runs one from the bard's hip to chest, thumbing across one of his nipples just to see if he'd get a reaction. Jaskier's body is unexplored territory, and Geralt fully intends to become a master of it--
He hears feet on the stairs. Heavy, not the barmaid's or the innkeeper's. The creak of leather, muffled slightly by padding-- armor. The metallic, slithering sound of steel being drawn.
Geralt is up and off of him in an instant, buttoning up his fucking trousers and tossing the bard's doublet and chemise back at him on his way towards his swords.
"Get your things and get out the fucking window," he says, yanking his sword out of its sheath. They're outside the door, he can hear them, and he is barely within range when the door bursts open and he swings his sword. There's a scream from one of the men in the hall who had been trying to get in, then a low thump as his severed arm fell to the floor, sword still clutched in hand.
The thumb on his nipple gets another appreciative hum from Jaskier, but what really gets a reaction out of him is that damn nickname - his hand squeezes Geralt's dick at the lovely sound, already salivating at the thought of such a mighty sword inside him. First hickey done, he pulls his head back to appreciate his work...
Except he suddenly finds himself without witcher.
"Wha--"
The shock only lasts a second - they haven't traveled together twenty years without Jaskier learning a thing or two about Geralt's way to do things. This reaction means the witcher has sensed something, and Jaskier doesn't need to see or hear the thing himself to trust Geralt's orders. With the experience of hundreds of escapes from cuckold husbands and a string of various forms of fuck under his breath, Jaskier picks up all their things except for Geralt's potions and other sword, and proceeds to climb out of the window with the agility usually saved for dancing or fucking.
As his head disappears, he yells one last thing: "Chop their dicks off!"
The blue balls frustration is real, okay.
Luckily their room is on the back of the building, meaning Jaskier doesn't have to come across the guards that he guesses are at the entrance. It leaves him near the stables, too, earning him an arched eyebrow from the stable boy when he sees him arrive with no clothes on his upper body but plenty of things in his arms. He tosses a coin (get it) to the boy to get the horses ready as he dresses back, trying to keep an ear out for any noises - screams are starting to come out of the window, making the stable boy nervous but Jaskier very pleased. As long as none of it sounds like Geralt, there won't be nothing to worry about.
(Speaking of coin, they sure just wasted some on that room, didn't they? Fuck these assholes, Geralt better makes them suffer.)
The stable boy has many questions, but for once, Jaskier isn't up for a talk. He barely gets to tell the boy 'thank you' before rushing out with the horses, stopping under their window again... to whistle. It's the sound that Geralt usually uses to call Roach, except done in a lower volume, not wanting to alert any more guards - but he knows his wolf's ears will be able to pick it up.
Jaskier follows his orders without arguing, and as much of a contrary little shit as the bard could be when he put his mind to it, he at least has the good sense after twenty years to listen to Geralt in an emergency. And this? This is an emergency. There are two more men behind the first, stepping over the fallen body of their comrade to get at him. Geralt parries the first, delivering a swift kick to his middle while his blade is knocked wide. One swift stroke of the blade opens him up from hip to shoulder, spilling his guts on the floor. The other hesitates at the brutal efficiency in which his ally was killed, and Geralt cuts him down just as quickly.
Chop their dicks off, Jaskier yells to him. While Geralt agrees with the sentiment, he's got bigger problems than just avenging their ruined evening. One of his strikes had bisected the assailant's coin purse along with his body, and the currency that spilled out was undeniably Nilfgaardian florens.
None of these men could leave this place alive. Geralt couldn't allow them to report back to Nilfgaard and betray their location, because the moment that they know he's been spotted in the north, they'll send more. They'll keep hunting. And Ard Carraigh is too close to Kaer Morhen.
Geralt goes down the stairs, into the common room of the tavern. More of them are waiting for him, and thankfully most of the normal patrons seem to have cleared out. The witcher takes care of them. By the time he's done, the floor is slick and there's a commotion starting out front, likely from everyone telling the city guard that there's a madman inside slaughtering people.
He runs back to their room, just in time to hear the whistle from below the window, a lower version of his call for Roach. He swings his scabbards over his shoulder and grabs his potion bag, then vaults out of the window and onto the waiting horse below.
"Go!"
A command both for Roach and Jaskier, to start galloping down the road out of town, heading further north.
Geralt doesn't need to ask twice, Jaskier and Pegasus are right beside him carrying the same urgency and desire to get the hell out of here. He doesn't even attempt to get any details, only asking "Nilfgaard?" to confirm his guess before falling silent again, memories of his captivity slowly returning to him.
There's still no fear in him - he never fears anything, not when he's Geralt. But other emotions do sneak into his mind and keep his scent less sweet: worry, mostly; anger too. A bit of sorrow. Will these fuckers never give up? It isn't even about their interrupted sex (although that definitely adds to the frustration), it's about the pain and destruction they're causing everywhere. To Cintra, to Cirilla, to Geralt...
(to his very own skin)
With Queen Calanthe out of the picture, will anyone ever be able to stop them? Not a thought he should be entertaining right now.
(his mind is suddenly very aware of the scars he'd been ignoring all this time)
They push harder than they had already been pushing, wanting to lose any possible trackers behind. It's the incredibly hard cold and white snow that keep Jaskier from talking now, his mouth protected behind the collar of Geralt's (now his) black cloak. The fatigue too, since they aren't stopping unless the horses need it. The road to Kaer Morhen is as treacherous as the witcher had warned him, and Jaskier tries his best to convince Pegasus to just follow Roach's lead instead of depending on his rider.
When the hunting cabin finally comes in sight, Jaskier could almost sing his thanks to all the gods above.
In a very unusual Jaskier gesture, he doesn't run inside right away - the Nilfgaard worry is still fresh in his mind. Instead, he turns to Geralt as he uncovers his mouth, voice a whisper.
Either way, it didn't matter. They were trying to find Jaskier-- and they'd certainly take Geralt, too, if they could get him-- and drag him right back into the waiting arms of an interrogator. The lack of information from them, hopefully, will slow their enemies down.
But it's still a race against time, and they can't tarry. Their only safe harbor is Kaer Morhen, and they must reach it before the snows bury everything until spring. The pace that he sets is brutal-- they only stop to feed and water the horses, and when it's too dark for Jaskier or the horses to see, Geralt gets off and leads them on foot, following him single file. He allows Jaskier a few hours of sleep each night, because the bard would never survive without it, but Geralt does not sleep, doesn't even meditate. His mind's too restless for it, preoccupied with thoughts of Nilfgaard and Ciri and the scars on Jaskier's back. His swords are always close to hand.
When they reach the hunting cabin, the snow is coming down, but Geralt can't force them to continue through the night again. Too dangerous, both because of the difficult terrain and because it gets cold enough at night that the horses and Jaskier may not be able to handle it. He can't risk one of the horses getting a lung bleed. He definitely can't risk Jaskier getting hypothermia.
There aren't any tracks around the cabin; a good sign that it hasn't been disturbed. They stable the horses and Geralt enters the lodgings first, to make sure that nothing is waiting inside.
"It's clear."
It's not a large cabin, but it's still stocked; there's firewood and a hearth, beds with blankets and furs. Some provisions in the cupboards, long-lasting things like flour, jerky, and pickles, a few root vegetables that still look relatively fresh because of the cold temperatures. Geralt throws a few logs into the fireplace and lights them with igni, setting them ablaze. He drags some of the blankets and furs off of the bed, pulling them in front of the fire to warm up.
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A neutral sort of hum, neither a confirmation nor denial.
Jaskier screams into the pillow again, and this appears to be a new habit of his-- yelling his lungs out into something that muffles the sound to release sexual frustration. To be honest, it's a far better solution than going out to fuck the stable boy, so Geralt can live with the increased possibility of getting a pillow thrown at his head. He's had worse things thrown in his direction.
Geralt raises one eyebrow as the bard turns pink and mentions the thought of it, and the other joins it when Jaskier's hand makes a very obvious pumping motion at cock-height. He perhaps oughtn't be surprised that Jaskier took care of his own tensions in such a way after the fact, but it's a bit different to be told as such directly to his face.
(He does not, and by gods never will tell Jaskier about the times when their inn rooms had been adjacent and he either had not had the coin for or there simply wasn't a brothel available, and he had been able to hear everything that the bard had done with his conquests through the thin walls. He had relieved tensions of his own, telling himself that it was nothing more than a simple biological response.)
"If you've thought about it in her presence," he says, trying not to think too much about how appealing the flush on Jaskier's face is, "she likely already knows. She can read minds, Jaskier."
So... there's probably nothing to bother hiding? It may not be much of a comfort to the bard, though, knowing that his terrible secret is likely not a secret at all. And, really, Yen had given him a number of cutting, knowing looks when he'd been staring a little too intently at the bard, so a number of Geralt's secrets are likely not secrets to her, either.
"And she would kill the both of us for suggesting it to her, so you'd hardly need to worry about your performance."
Geralt crosses the room and takes the pillow away from Jaskier, tossing it to the other side of the bed. Then, with that half-exasperated, half-amused tone that the bard is so familiar with,
"Any other revelations for me today?"
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"The only thoughts I have whenever I'm around that bloody witch are one-" He raises one finger. "How to insult her, and two-" Another finger joins the first one. "how to get rid of her. So we're good. It was a one time thing and it's never happening again, let's leave this subject behind us now."
There are other thoughts he's had around her that he doesn't mention. The jealousy, the worry about Geralt ending in pieces again. Hopefully those won't show up again now that Geralt is his. And boy, isn't that a lovely thought? He got Geralt's word back in Oxenfurt and he does trust him with his life, but it's still pretty nice to hear again how much Geralt doesn't want her anymore. He wants to stay here, with Jaskier, take him to his family and his home. It makes him feel all warm inside and puts a smile on his face.
I think it's time for you to go / Away from my man and me / That's the way it's going to be. ♪
Suddenly Geralt is next to him, teasing him with that question and that affectionate tone that makes Jaskier's musician ears tingle. It should be weird, shouldn't it? How the somber mood Rinde brought onto them has suddenly been lifted, and now well, here they are, joking about this whole fiasco. Jaskier wouldn't have it any other way though, it's what sharing his life with a witcher is like. Never normal, never boring - that's why he loves him so, why he can actually settle down with him and still be thoroughly satisfied at the end of the week.
(The fact Geralt doesn't confirm or deny being interesting in threesomes doesn't go unnoticed, but Jaskier is fine with that. They can talk about their wants and needs in bed later on.)
"I don't think so? If you haven't figured out by now that I've masturbated to the thought of you plenty of times the last two decades, then you haven't been paying attention." His voice is light, filled with affection for the witcher. Geralt is being so understanding, Jaskier feels silly for having been so worried in the first place. "Now come here and kiss me, you marvelous wolf."
From his spot on the bed, he raises his arms and makes 'grabby hands' at Geralt, his head tilting with a grin when a thought comes to his mind.
"Do you think Chireadan would hear us if I blew you right now?"
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Geralt huffs a laugh when Jaskier mentions all of his... late-night indiscretions. The times that he had wandered off from camp to have a piss that ended up taking twenty minutes; the long soaks in rivers; the noises that he could hear even when he was off hunting and Jaskier was 'tending the fire'. Tending to something, certainly.
"You aren't as subtle as you think you are," he says, definitely amused now. "I could smell you every time, Jaskier. And hear you, most times."
Witcher senses. Terrible for privacy, useful for not getting eaten alive by monsters.
He leans down to satisfy Jaskier's request for a kiss, pressing it against his grinning mouth. It's short, cut off by the bard's chatter and constant need to speak whatever comes to his mind. This time, though? Geralt is quite fond of his ideas.
"Hm." Geralt would be able to maintain his composure if Jaskier wanted to do such a thing, but it would also take him an absurd amount of time to bring him off that way. He would grow bored and have a sore jaw before he ever brought the witcher to completion. He could offer an alternative, instead; Geralt turns his head a little and scrapes his teeth over Jaskier's earlobe, murmurs to him, "I think a better question is whether you think you can stay quiet for me."
He sinks down to his knees in front of Jaskier.
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"You could?" He gulps and licks his lips. "And you didn't mind."
Bloody hell, all this time Geralt has been dealing with Jaskier's masturbating habits and he never said a word about it. Which, when it comes to Geralt, is saying a lot, because he has complained about every single aspect of Jaskier's personality at some point or another. He's told Jaskier to shut up how many times by now? But never to his moaning, never told him to wash away the smells...
The witcher stood by his side and absorbed it all. Bollocks.
Jaskier bites his lip, already feeling his blood boiling, and it immediately starts traveling south when he hears Geralt talk directly into his ear like that. He's always had a thing for that deep voice, and now that it is dirty talking to him, Jaskier can't stop a whimper from echoing in the room.
Which transforms into a groan when the witcher sinks down to his knees in front of him - Jaskier stops breathing for a second there.
"Fuck, Geralt."
Geralt of Rivia, the mighty witcher, destroyer of monsters, is on his knees, offering to suck his cock. It's such a trusting, powerful, erotic, intoxicating image - it makes his heart race and his throat go dry. Callused fingers fall on the top of the witcher's head and pet it a couple of times to then make their way down and cup Geralt's face, his thumb brushing his lips.
"You're the most magnificent beauty I've ever had the pleasure to be with." He murmurs, a small tent already forming in his pants. "I cannot be quiet, Geralt - I never was, not in life and not in bed, and with you? I'll be singing until the priestesses of Melitele hear me all the way from their temple."
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Jaskier's pretty musician hands flutter over his head like restless birds; gentle little touches, stroking his hair and pushing a few errant strands out of his face before moving down to his cheeks, his jaw. His thumb pushes against Geralt's lips and he keeps his mouth soft, letting the bard do as he pleased.
There's some bullshit that he says while Geralt is preoccupied with the burgeoning scent of arousal coming from the bard-- his usual lines, stupid things about beauty that Geralt is sure that he's heard him say to any number of barmaids and farmer's daughters. It must be practically muscle-memory for him by now, to spout off some romantic drivel to whoever has gone down on their knees for him, even though it's not necessary for a a witcher like Geralt. He would go down on his knees for him regardless of what words are said, if that's what pleases him.
"Silence is a skill that must be practiced," he says, reaching for the buttons on Jaskier's trousers. They are more easily undone than the fiddly ones at Jaskier's throat. "We have an opportunity--"
He is interrupted by a knock at the door, and just gets to his feet in time for it to open. Chireadan pokes his head in, and his gaze falls on Jaskier, sitting on the bed with his face flushed and trousers unbuttoned, and then to Geralt, standing before him with his face very carefully neutral.
"Sorry to interrupt," the elf says, "I wanted to catch you before you were ready for bed. There's, ah, there are a few nekkers that are wandering a bit close to the stables, and I was hoping you might chase them off before they bother the horses?"
Nekkers. Of fucking course, there are more monsters to deal with, right when he tries to move past fucking kissing with the bard. He would think that he's cursed, except that no curse is this fucking stupid.
"Fine. I'll look into it."
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Silence is definitely not one of them, and he isn't interested in practicing it either. He loves the sound of his own voice, and he enjoys seeing his lovers react to his moaning and whimpering, letting them know how much he's enjoying them. And then there's Geralt, who needs to hear it even a hundred times more. Jaskier is going to worship that gorgeous body until he runs out of words, which -considering his education- isn't happening any time soon.
Geralt's hands reaches for his pants buttons and Jaskier's hips thrust up against them, the mere brush of fingers against his groin already making him gasp. He hadn't lied to Geralt when he had said he enjoys foreplay and build-up, but he's been pining after the witcher for twenty years, their finally coming together keeps being interrupted which causes even more sexual tension, he hasn't fucked since before captivity and he hasn't had an orgasm since Oxenfurt. Jaskier is desperate.
Which means he cries out to the ceiling when they get interrupted yet again.
"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"
Hopefully that doesn't alert the nekkers, mmh?
This time, he doesn't help Geralt get ready, too frustrated and angry at the world. Like the drama queen he is, he falls face down on the bed and covers the back of his head with a pillow.
"This is the gods finally punishing me for loving freely and openly, for finding pleasure and affection in the most unlikely places, against their godly wishes." He whines away. "Years of need satisfied in various beds so they punish me by stealing from me the one I want the most."
The craving in those last two words can be tasted in the fucking air. Jaskier waves goodbye at Geralt, not trusting himself to even throw a kiss at him, and considers a good wanking like he did in Oxenfurt. But there's nothing sexy what's going on outside - he can hear the screeches and agony of the nekkers, can picture their smell in his mind. Eugh.
He ends up falling asleep while waiting for Geralt. Without an orgasm. Again.
And on top that, they get up at way too damn early in the morning, not even able to enjoy an extra hour or two of cuddling. Chireadan greets them with breakfast (great) and a very amused and knowing look (not so great when they haven't done anything to even deserve it). At least the mood is better when they find themselves on the road again, thanks to leaving Rinde behind and their little adventure in the bedroom (failure as it was, his balls may be blue but his heart is lighter for it). He fills the silence with his own voice like the old times, keeping his singing to a hush or hum not to call attention to them.
The babbling doesn't last as long as the old times, though, because Geralt is pushing really hard, and they aren't stopping to camp unless they absolutely have to. It tires Jaskier out so hard that he doesn't even try anything when pushing their bedrolls together, happy to be sleeping in the arms of a walking furnace in the middle of the nocturnal autumn chill.
So he's kinda tired and sleepy when one afternoon they stop by the river to refill their waterskin and let the horses drink, not quite catching what Geralt says while he's washing his face.
"What now?" Jaskier blinks up at him, trying to understand what has been said to him. Something about not sharing? "Geralt, my dear, I think there's enough river for all four of us."
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Chireadan lets him use the rain barrel outside to clean himself afterwards.
They are able to leave early the next morning, with full bellies and a generous re-stocking of Geralt's medical supplies. All in all, it could have been a far worse stop, the previous night's mishap aside.
They make for the southern pass of the Kestrels, and the further north they go, the more bitter the air becomes. The morning frost can hardly be called morning, as it lingers until the afternoon some days. The cold is coming early, and it's what Geralt had feared-- there may already be snow on the way up to Kaer Morhen. Now it is a matter of hoping that there isn't much, that it's still traversable by a bard and the horses. Geralt cannot allocate precious time for rest, even though the pace is hard on Jaskier-- even he can't keep up his customary stream of chatter.
It gives Geralt time to think. Some might argue that Geralt with time to think is an eminently bad thing, but, if nothing else, the road is good for it. His thoughts are mostly preoccupied with this thing that's burgeoning between himself and Jaskier, the transition of their relationship from something strained and undefined right into would-be lovers. His mind keeps returning to what the bard had said in the cottage, about being open to the idea.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he is selfish. Bringing a third into the bed with them-- despite the fact that they had yet to even make it to bed themselves-- is another opportunity for Jaskier to find someone more suited for him, someone with more to offer than a mutant. Though it is likely that only a whore would deign to grace the bed of a witcher, even with Jaskier to improve the situation, the bard has fallen for whores before. Too risky.
And thoughts of that brings his mind to what he had thought of between himself and Jaskier and Yen. It's impossible, of course, unless the bard and the sorceress manage to suddenly put aside their quarrels with each other, which all seem to stem from a source awkwardly Geralt-adjacent. And though they do snipe at each other every time they are together, Yen doesn't do it out of disinterest; she would not speak to him if she found him boring. It has also not escaped his notice that, those squabbles aside, they are not dissimilar from each other-- they enjoy good food and good liquor and other fine things, prefer comforts and luxuries. Yen would make an excellent subject for any number of ballads, being just as steeped in, as Jaskier put it, death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak, with the bonus of being an incredible beauty and in possession of a reputation that doesn't need rehabilitation. Mages are well-respected wherever they go, and in her company, Jaskier would never need to sleep on a lice-infested palliasse, or make camp in the rain, or eat stringy rabbit stewed over a campfire. She would keep him dressed in as much fashionable silk as he desires. They would make a striking pair, his bright colors and her stark blacks, like a raven in the company of a nightingale.
One might think, in fact, that based off of temperament and interests, Jaskier and Yennefer are far better suited for each other than Geralt is for either one of them.
Sours the fantasy a little, that.
They stop one afternoon to water the horses and refill their skins, and the bard seems to appreciate the chance to wash himself up a little in the stream. The water is brilliantly cold, fresh run-off from the mountain peaks, and Geralt has kept his hands busy with the waterskins while Jaskier bathes his face. That's likely why he didn't hear him, he was too busy splashing water on himself to listen properly.
Geralt's mouth twists; of course there's enough fucking river, Jaskier. It's a river.
"Not that." He caps the waterskins once they're full, keeping his eyes on them as he gets them ready to hang back from the saddlebags. "What you said in the cottage, about a third."
It had been days ago, sure, but Jaskier couldn't have forgotten? Or perhaps he had, and Geralt was bringing it up for nothing. Geralt stands with the filled containers and carries them to the horses, attaching one to each and making sure that they're secure.
"I would prefer not to share."
But that is, ultimately, all it is-- a preference. A suggestion. If Jaskier insists, Geralt will still give him what he wants, even if that's a body that isn't his warming the sheets.
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Geralt approaches the horses, leaving him behind like the big coward he is, and Jaskier curses under his breath and hurries after him, feeling his heart getting stuck in his throat. Nobody else can cause that in him, only Geralt. Once upon a time, the Countess de Stael had been close, but not even her was a love this raw and passionate. This intimate and trusting. Jaskier had bedded her and hasn't bedded Geralt yet, but he can still say that any sign of trust from the witcher has meant more than burying his face between her thighs.
Jaskier has always looked for true love. He falls for everyone he meets and has fun with them, burns through crushes faster than Roach burns through sugar cubes. They're temporary, but that doesn't make them any less real, and he's left a piece of his heart with each them. What he's always sought, however, is someone to give his whole heart to. Someone that wouldn't cage him and would keep his interest after a week, a month, a year.
He found it when he was 18.
So he's absolutely honest when he replies, "It's alright, Geralt. We don't have to do anything you don't want to." Once he reaches Geralt's side, he grabs a witcher hand between both of his and gives it a squeeze. "I'll expect you to respect my preferences, and you can trust me to respect yours as well."
He comes even closer, pressing his whole body against Geralt's to remind him he's here and he belongs to him. He even drops a little kiss to the corner of the witcher's mouth, probably overwhelming Geralt with a deep sweet scent. Usually saying 'no thanks' to a particular kink shouldn't be a big deal, but this is Geralt and well...
"I know how hard is for you to tell me your wants, my dear witcher, so thank you for telling me this. Although I'm curious to know what prompted you to bring up the subject so suddenly." Now frowning a little, he tilts his head, blue eyes squinting a bit. "Have you been thinking about this since we left Rinde?"
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It's hard to feel his warmth through all of their layers of clothing, but Jaskier presses against him and kisses him at the corner of his mouth, sweet and soft. Geralt closes his eyes, just for a moment, and breathes when he's leaned in close, and--
floral oil, lute wax, affection, a barely-there spicy hint of lust, meadowsweet that he'd picked to feed to Pegasus and Roach as a treat, water where the fringe of his hair got wet--
commits this moment to memory.
"Hm." A neutral hum again, though Jaskier has, in twenty years, gained the ability to read past even his most carefully ambivalent tones. "There has been time."
The closest to an admission that he'll get.
"If you're finished, we should keep moving. There will only be a few more hours of daylight."
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A neutral hum again, oh dear. And time? Time to think about what? Potential threesomes? The hows and the whos? He guesses Geralt has probably never had a threesome, considering his usual limited companion options, but Jaskier wouldn't have minded paying for a whore even if he wasn't his favorite choice. Hell, maybe with him as a mediator, he could've chatted someone up and--
Oh. Of course. How could he not see it before?
"You were worried."
Another kiss is in order, this time fully on Geralt's mouth, sweet and tender and just full of affection, a hand even reaching up to cup Geralt's face and bring him down to make their foreheads touch when they pull apart. He hopes his silly comment back on Rinde hasn't been haunting the witcher's mind too badly, but this is Geralt, and Jaskier knows how low his self-esteem can go. Thank the gods he spoke up about it instead of bottling it up, though - Jaskier is so proud of him right now.
"I love you, Geralt of Rivia. Don't you dare forget that. This--" He points a flapping finger between them. "-means we're a couple now. I've been the witcher's bard for twenty years, now it just happens to carry a new meaning. Remember, that's why I got--"
He touches his chest and blinks when he finds nothing there. Oh, of course. He hid it back in Rinde! Since they still have a few days of road and forests left, Jaskier takes the chance to do a bit more of showing off (even if it's just the two of them) before they arrive to Ard Carraigh, where he knows he'll have to hide it again.
After letting go of Geralt, he reaches inside his cloak, takes the wolf brooch off his doublet and puts it back outside, this time over the heart area of the cloak. Then he grabs Geralt's hand and puts it on top of it, wondering if even through all the layers of cloth he can still hear his heartbeat.
"A wolf to claim and protect the songbird's heart."
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Housewives worry, overwrought bards worry, witchers do no such thing. At most, witchers brood, which is far more serious and contemplative than mere worrying. And it's also something that Geralt has immense practice in, he is a champion brooder. He broods with nuance.
The impact of his protest, however, is probably deeply undercut by the sweet kiss he gets after it, the way that Jaskier presses their foreheads together and Geralt just lets him. He lets him do whatever he wants, touch his face, pull him around, take things out of his hands, with impunity. Says he loves him. Something in Geralt's chest twists up again at the words.
Jaskier switches the silver wolf brooch from his doublet to the outside of his cloak, and the display is only acceptable because they're in the middle of nowhere right now. Once they get close to Ard Carraigh and the road gets busier, he'll have to hide it again, put it underneath his cloak-- formerly Geralt's. The witcher himself will also have to hide his hair, since it's his most noticeable feature.
"Keep that under your cloak in Ard Carraigh so that I don't have to protect your body as well."
His hand rests over Jaskier's heart, and though he can't feel the beat of it through all of that fabric, he can still hear it. Steady and even, as though counting out beats per measure in a composition.
"If we keep this pace, we'll be in town by the day after tomorrow. After that, we follow the Gwenllech until we reach the Witcher's trail. There's a hunting cabin about halfway up where we can take shelter."
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Welp, there goes the cute little moment they were having. At least Geralt has reacted well to the gestures of affection, doing his sniffing and keeping his hand on Jaskier's chest. So he'll take it as a win - he knows better than expecting gran romantic gestures from the man, but he wishes he would at least not get bloody scolded after such poetic words of love.
"Yes, mom, I know." He says while rolling his eyes. "I'll hide it as soon as we see the walls in the distance."
The hand on his chest is brought to his lips for a peck - the fact it has gloves on is irrelevant, it's about the romance and giving Geralt all the affection his touch starvation deserves. Now he can go back to Pegasus feeling like a proper gentleman that has treated his lover right, which is very, very important!
"A hunting cabin? With a fireplace and an actual bed? You should've mentioned that before, dear witcher. Let us depart."
They keep pushing their way north, barely stopping at all and when they do, waking up to frost on their hair. They don't even have time to take more than basic care of their horses, and Jaskier promises them extra sugar cubes and an extra long session of brushing when they finally make it to Kaer Moher.
It's only two more days to Ard Carraigh but they feel like forever. Without their usual stops to camp, without music and with little to no chatter, the trip drags on to incredibly dull levels. If he wasn't so tired, Jaskier would sing at the sight of the city in front of them. Instead, he makes sure to hide his brooch and pull up his hood.
Never in his life has he tried so hard to go unnoticed, it goes against every bard instinct in him.
The inn is almost empty, travelers already being scarce at this time of the year even if snow hasn't fallen yet. They have plenty of rooms to choose from, and the innkeeper, trying to get some business going before winter kills it for a few months, offers them a discount if they rent two. Jaskier doesn't want two, it'd be a waste of coin and, most importantly, it'd keep him away from Geralt. But they can't risk attracting bigot attention if they ask for just one double bed, so Jaskier sighs and asks for a room with twin beds instead.
It wouldn't be the first time they share a tiny bed anyway, and Jaskier has fucked in closets. It can't get worse than this.
(Famous last words.)
As soon as they put a foot inside their room for the night, Jaskier runs to throw himself face down on the bed, not even bothering to take off his cloak or boots first.
"Geralt." He speaks as he nuzzles the hell out of a pillow - oh, how has he missed the comfort. "If you don't Igni that fireplace right now, I'll become a snowflake. And not because I'm pretty and unique."
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Upon entering the city, Jaskier hides his brooch and pulls up his hood, and Geralt covers his own white head with the hood of his cloak. The inn is mostly empty and they have no issue with getting a room; as is their custom, Jaskier negotiates for the lodgings and price while Geralt stands back at tries to look as non-threatening as possible. They get a twin room, which is fine for keeping up appearances, and the bard seems like he has never been happier to get himself into an inn room. He all but flings himself onto the bed, still fully dressed, while Geralt drops their packs and props his swords up against the wall.
"Hm."
It's an affirming grunt this time, and Geralt gestures a sign to the fireplace. It flares into life, crackling merrily and filling the room with warmth. Geralt crosses over to the bed that Jaskier has claimed, purposefully making his footsteps loud enough to hear so that he wouldn't be sneaking up on him. Aside from being desperately tired, the bard seems fine; nothing some food and a good night's sleep wouldn't fix.
"Get some rest, Jaskier," he says. "We made decent time today."
He'll let the bard have his rest and go down to fetch some food for the both of them. They could take their dinner in their room, avoid the empty common room as much as possible.
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Right.
He falls in a drowsy state, closing his eyes and turning off his brain, although it's not quite sleeping. The nightmares will come without Geralt cuddling him, and he shouldn't be drawing attention on them. It does count as resting though, and when Geralt returns with their food, he feels a little less like shit.
Chairs are pushed together so they can eat with their bodies touching, because Jaskier is desperate for the comfort of human contact, and their sup is had under a comfortable silence, which shows how hungry he's been as well. There's only some fruit left when Jaskier decides hey, he doesn't need cutlery to eat that so fuck it, gonna climb Geralt's lap now. He sits across those wonderful thick thighs and buries his nose in the witcher's neck, nuzzling like a needy puppy - the only reason why he isn't hugging him as well is because of the bitten pear in his hands.
"You're so much better than the fireplace."
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Geralt takes the time while he's down there to take stock of the patrons; nothing seemed amiss, mostly drovers and merchants, maybe a local or two. People that he would expect to be here. The common room was relatively quiet, with the main excitement being a few games of gwent.
They eat after he returns with the food, quiet and companionable. It's... good. It's like things were before the mountain, except that Jaskier is too tired for endless chatter and he would not have dared sit so close before. Geralt is about to reach for a dagger to cut an apple with when Jaskier decides that their current level of closeness is insufficient, and just climbs right into his lap.
Definitely far bolder than he'd ever been before.
The witcher hums, brow furrowing a little, but doesn't push him off as he might have done a year ago. He lets his arms settle around the bard, holding the apple and the knife-- not the one he uses to take monster heads as trophies, thankfully-- and starts cutting the fruit into slices and eating them off the knife.
"That's only because you can't sit yourself in it."
Though Jaskier has certainly gotten uncomfortably close to the campfire some nights, close enough that Geralt thought that he might set himself alight. There hadn't been any unfortunate fire-related incidents, yet.
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He chuckles at the comment. "Now I have you, my dear? Not anymore. You could put a fire-proof spell on me and I'll still choose your lap."
The fact Geralt is eating the apple off the knife doesn't go unnoticed. How can this man make everything automatically sexy? Jaskier considers for a moment if it's his loved-tinted eyes and arrives to a conclusion, a guy eating food off a knife as if it was nothing definitely gives him extra attractive points. Witcher or not.
After leaving the pear on his lap for a moment, Jaskier reaches out and grabs Geralt's wrist, which he knows he can only do because they're eating, sort-of-cuddling and Geralt just lets him takes things from him. He guides the hand to his own mouth incredibly slowly, not wanting to fuck up and get hurt - his scent shows how nervous he is about is, yet very determined.
When the apple is safely in his lips though, all bets are off. He drops Geralt's hand and grabs his face instead to feed the apple to him directly from mouth to mouth, kissing him sweetly... in both the metaphorical and literal way now, thanks to the fruit juice on their tongues.
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The bard takes the apple slice from the knife, and Geralt watches the movement of his lips, his mouth, the brief flash of white teeth, with all of the sharp focus that he watches an approaching monster. He likes the shape of Jaskier's mouth, he decides-- soft, pink lips, the little rough patch near one corner where he'd bitten it, breath sweet with the scent of pear and apple. A hint of ale underneath that.
He lets the bard's hand guide him in, gets a bite of the fruit between his lips-- sweet on his tongue, sweeter when he chases Jaskier's lips and tastes pear, too. Geralt drops the knife and the apple, letting them fall to the floor and freeing his hands to grab at Jaskier, one going to his back and the other to his thigh. There's only so much that he can touch while the bard is sitting across his legs; there's so much more than he could do in a bed. They have two, it so happens, and that's fine-- that means they can get one of them as messy as they please and there's still a spare.
Geralt picks him up, hefting him like he hardly weighed anything at all, and brings him over to one of the beds. He doesn't toss him onto it quite as vigorously as he did at Oxenfurt, if only because this mattress isn't nearly as plush as that one, but Jaskier looks just as nice spread out on a shitty mattress as a good one.
No one knows that he's a witcher here, though. No one's going to go knocking at his door, begging him to slay a beast.
"If you want to save that doublet, you'd better take it off now."
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Turns out Geralt is ready to go, and suddenly Jaskier is perfectly awake - one could say the bard doesn't carry his heart in his own sleeve but in Geralt's. (And his cock as well, let's be honest here.) Yet the witcher has never made Jaskier feel restless or caged - he knows that if he says no right now, Geralt will let go and not resent him for it. He's free to ask as little or as much of Geralt as it pleases him - they aren't shackled to each other, they're companions in their mutual freedom. Jaskier couldn't ask for more.
Well, actually, yes, he wants to ask for a good dicking, please and thank you.
He giggles in Geralt's arms while he drops kisses all over that handsome face, and he would've started to work on a hickey of his own if he hadn't been tossed on the bed so soon - no complaints though. In fact, he throws his head back and laughs as his hands start working on the doublet as fast as they can.
"One day, my dear witcher, I want you to fuck me while you hold me so easily in those thick, strong arms of yours." He stretches one of his (very fit thanks to all the walking) legs to reach in between Geralt's thighs and rub his groin with his foot. "Against the wall, a pillar, or a tree - matters not. I want to be stuck between a hard place and the witcher's third sword."
With the doublet out of the way and a foot still teasing Geralt, Jaskier sits back against the cushions and undoes the laces of his chemise, his chin high in the air to expose his neck for the wolf as an index finger curls in a silent invitation for the witcher to join him on the bed.
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For now, though, they have been frustrated in their past two attempts at sex, and Geralt doesn't want to go for a third. He'll indulge all of Jaskier's fantasies and desires later, when they're finally ensconced at Kaer Morhen and there are months of long winter days ahead of them.
The bard's leg stretches out and he presses the soft sole of his foot against Geralt's groin, and the lovely friction of it against his cock-- still soft itself but slowly becoming interested in the proceedings-- gets him growling. He grabs Jaskier's ankle, using it to pull his legs open wide, making space for himself as he kneels between them. The chemise is unlaced, which reveals an attractive amount of surprisingly hairy chest, but not nearly enough. Geralt grabs the garment and yanks it over the bard's head, throwing it to the floor without a care for how expensive it probably is.
"Careful, bard," he says, his voice pitched low as he grabs him by the hip with one hand and, leaning over, braces himself on the bed with the other. Caging him. "A witcher's blade may very well be too much for you."
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Laughing again, because gods, Geralt is dirty-talking to him and isn't that a pleasure, Jaskier does some leg opening of his own, the heels of his feet burying themselves in the mattress as he tries to look as inviting as possible. There's witcher everyone around him, surrounding him, but it doesn't intimidate him - this is the one cage the songbird doesn't mind. In fact, it's the one cage he enjoys playing in.
"In the battlefield, mayhap." He replies with a hushed, sultry tone right against Geralt's ear as his hands start working on the buttons of the witcher's pants with as much ease as they did on his own doublet. "But this is my playground, dear witcher. I can handle anything you throw at me." He nibbles on the lobe before speaking again. "Remember, darling: I've never been afraid of you."
And it's back to the kisses then, one on Geralt's ear before he starts making his way down to a very pale neck where pecks stop being pecks and the kisses become open mouthed, sucking and nibbling soon joining in an effort to leave his own mark on the witcher, the same way he had left hundreds on marks on Jaskier himself. Will it heal fast, part of him wonders, but even if the answer is yes, he'll keep at it. Because it's fun, because it's a turn-on, because it makes his heart race at the thought of the mighty wolf letting his little bird claim him like this.
Meanwhile, one of his hands makes its way inside Geralt's pants to grope at his groin through his smallclothes. Usually Jaskier isn't so quick to jump on that area, enjoying the sensuality of undressing and foreplay, but frustration is getting to him. He's been dying to touch Geralt like this since fucking Posada, that feeling only intensifying since he saw him naked for the first time, and so far since they got together, he hasn't even managed to get a witcher boner going. An appreciative hum vibrates against the witcher's neck as Jaskier starts stroking that bulge, letting Geralt know how much he likes the feeling of the third sword in his hand even while still clothed.
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Geralt hums as the bard finds an acceptable place on his neck to suck and bite at, even tilts his head a little to give him better access to that spot. The bruise won't last, not against the mutagens that accelerate his healing, but for a little while, his skin will hold the mark left behind by Jaskier's mouth.
The bard then delves a hand underneath the waistband of Geralt's pants, bold as you please, and the witcher makes a surprised grunt as his fingers close around his third sword. There's plenty for him to get his hand on-- more, if he had been a normal man with a normal man's pulse, instead of a witcher whose cock is as slow to get going as his heart. Even so, it's not entirely unaffected; there is life in Geralt's pants, his cock thickening a little under the bard's tender attentions.
"Jask..."
He tips his hips into Jaskier's touch and remembers that he has hands of his own that ought to be doing things; he runs one from the bard's hip to chest, thumbing across one of his nipples just to see if he'd get a reaction. Jaskier's body is unexplored territory, and Geralt fully intends to become a master of it--
He hears feet on the stairs. Heavy, not the barmaid's or the innkeeper's. The creak of leather, muffled slightly by padding-- armor. The metallic, slithering sound of steel being drawn.
Geralt is up and off of him in an instant, buttoning up his fucking trousers and tossing the bard's doublet and chemise back at him on his way towards his swords.
"Get your things and get out the fucking window," he says, yanking his sword out of its sheath. They're outside the door, he can hear them, and he is barely within range when the door bursts open and he swings his sword. There's a scream from one of the men in the hall who had been trying to get in, then a low thump as his severed arm fell to the floor, sword still clutched in hand.
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Except he suddenly finds himself without witcher.
"Wha--"
The shock only lasts a second - they haven't traveled together twenty years without Jaskier learning a thing or two about Geralt's way to do things. This reaction means the witcher has sensed something, and Jaskier doesn't need to see or hear the thing himself to trust Geralt's orders. With the experience of hundreds of escapes from cuckold husbands and a string of various forms of fuck under his breath, Jaskier picks up all their things except for Geralt's potions and other sword, and proceeds to climb out of the window with the agility usually saved for dancing or fucking.
As his head disappears, he yells one last thing: "Chop their dicks off!"
The blue balls frustration is real, okay.
Luckily their room is on the back of the building, meaning Jaskier doesn't have to come across the guards that he guesses are at the entrance. It leaves him near the stables, too, earning him an arched eyebrow from the stable boy when he sees him arrive with no clothes on his upper body but plenty of things in his arms. He tosses a coin (get it) to the boy to get the horses ready as he dresses back, trying to keep an ear out for any noises - screams are starting to come out of the window, making the stable boy nervous but Jaskier very pleased. As long as none of it sounds like Geralt, there won't be nothing to worry about.
(Speaking of coin, they sure just wasted some on that room, didn't they? Fuck these assholes, Geralt better makes them suffer.)
The stable boy has many questions, but for once, Jaskier isn't up for a talk. He barely gets to tell the boy 'thank you' before rushing out with the horses, stopping under their window again... to whistle. It's the sound that Geralt usually uses to call Roach, except done in a lower volume, not wanting to alert any more guards - but he knows his wolf's ears will be able to pick it up.
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Chop their dicks off, Jaskier yells to him. While Geralt agrees with the sentiment, he's got bigger problems than just avenging their ruined evening. One of his strikes had bisected the assailant's coin purse along with his body, and the currency that spilled out was undeniably Nilfgaardian florens.
None of these men could leave this place alive. Geralt couldn't allow them to report back to Nilfgaard and betray their location, because the moment that they know he's been spotted in the north, they'll send more. They'll keep hunting. And Ard Carraigh is too close to Kaer Morhen.
Geralt goes down the stairs, into the common room of the tavern. More of them are waiting for him, and thankfully most of the normal patrons seem to have cleared out. The witcher takes care of them. By the time he's done, the floor is slick and there's a commotion starting out front, likely from everyone telling the city guard that there's a madman inside slaughtering people.
He runs back to their room, just in time to hear the whistle from below the window, a lower version of his call for Roach. He swings his scabbards over his shoulder and grabs his potion bag, then vaults out of the window and onto the waiting horse below.
"Go!"
A command both for Roach and Jaskier, to start galloping down the road out of town, heading further north.
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There's still no fear in him - he never fears anything, not when he's Geralt. But other emotions do sneak into his mind and keep his scent less sweet: worry, mostly; anger too. A bit of sorrow. Will these fuckers never give up? It isn't even about their interrupted sex (although that definitely adds to the frustration), it's about the pain and destruction they're causing everywhere. To Cintra, to Cirilla, to Geralt...
(to his very own skin)
With Queen Calanthe out of the picture, will anyone ever be able to stop them? Not a thought he should be entertaining right now.
(his mind is suddenly very aware of the scars he'd been ignoring all this time)
They push harder than they had already been pushing, wanting to lose any possible trackers behind. It's the incredibly hard cold and white snow that keep Jaskier from talking now, his mouth protected behind the collar of Geralt's (now his) black cloak. The fatigue too, since they aren't stopping unless the horses need it. The road to Kaer Morhen is as treacherous as the witcher had warned him, and Jaskier tries his best to convince Pegasus to just follow Roach's lead instead of depending on his rider.
When the hunting cabin finally comes in sight, Jaskier could almost sing his thanks to all the gods above.
In a very unusual Jaskier gesture, he doesn't run inside right away - the Nilfgaard worry is still fresh in his mind. Instead, he turns to Geralt as he uncovers his mouth, voice a whisper.
"All clear?"
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Either way, it didn't matter. They were trying to find Jaskier-- and they'd certainly take Geralt, too, if they could get him-- and drag him right back into the waiting arms of an interrogator. The lack of information from them, hopefully, will slow their enemies down.
But it's still a race against time, and they can't tarry. Their only safe harbor is Kaer Morhen, and they must reach it before the snows bury everything until spring. The pace that he sets is brutal-- they only stop to feed and water the horses, and when it's too dark for Jaskier or the horses to see, Geralt gets off and leads them on foot, following him single file. He allows Jaskier a few hours of sleep each night, because the bard would never survive without it, but Geralt does not sleep, doesn't even meditate. His mind's too restless for it, preoccupied with thoughts of Nilfgaard and Ciri and the scars on Jaskier's back. His swords are always close to hand.
When they reach the hunting cabin, the snow is coming down, but Geralt can't force them to continue through the night again. Too dangerous, both because of the difficult terrain and because it gets cold enough at night that the horses and Jaskier may not be able to handle it. He can't risk one of the horses getting a lung bleed. He definitely can't risk Jaskier getting hypothermia.
There aren't any tracks around the cabin; a good sign that it hasn't been disturbed. They stable the horses and Geralt enters the lodgings first, to make sure that nothing is waiting inside.
"It's clear."
It's not a large cabin, but it's still stocked; there's firewood and a hearth, beds with blankets and furs. Some provisions in the cupboards, long-lasting things like flour, jerky, and pickles, a few root vegetables that still look relatively fresh because of the cold temperatures. Geralt throws a few logs into the fireplace and lights them with igni, setting them ablaze. He drags some of the blankets and furs off of the bed, pulling them in front of the fire to warm up.
"Get in, warm up."
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