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.
Sighing with relief, Jaskier follows Geralt inside, blue eyes going from corner to corner with curiosity, taking in every detail. His family has hunting cabins that he visited when he was a kid, but he knows not to expect any level of luxury here. He's been expecting a tiny, basic thing; and so he's taken by surprise at the amount of provisions waiting for them in the cupboards. Huh.
Curiosity is forgotten, however, when the fireplace comes to life. Jaskier is already running towards it before Geralt even tells him to, not even bothering to take off his cloak. He stretches his arms and hands, even stirs his legs one by one to shake off the chill. The sight of blankets and furs brings a little smile to his face and he quickly sits down on the floor, starting to work on a new warmth cocoon around his cloak.
This one doesn't close yet, however. He stretches an arm, blanket extended over it like a cape, and tilts his head at Geralt, voice soft when he speaks.
"Come, my dear witcher. You need to warm up too. And most importantly, to rest. Don't think I haven't noticed your lack of sleep." Unlike many other times when Jaskier would scold Geralt for not taking good care of himself, this time he tries to sound teasing and understanding - it's the only way they have to survive until they get to Kaer Morhen. He gets it. He hates it that it has to be this way, but he gets it. "And I know you won't do it now either, but at least allow yourself a moment to sit and cuddle your lover. Enough work for today, my wolf, you've done well."
Jaskier bundles himself up in front of the fire, stretching out his limbs as the temperature in the room starts to rise and his muscles start to thaw out. It's not exactly a luxury cabin, and the hearth will only do so much to keep the place warm, but with enough blankets and shared body heat, they should at least be comfortable enough to sleep. Or, well, comfortable enough for Jaskier to sleep; Geralt would maintain his usual vigilance, even if the likelihood of a Nilfgaardian ambush is slim this high up the mountain. But there are other dangers-- wolves, wyvern, the occasional basilisk. Nothing that a witcher couldn't handle, but too much for a bard.
Even if he doesn't have the strength or training of a witcher, though, Jaskier is still observant. The lack of sleep and strenuous pace has started to wear on even a witcher, more than what Geralt could reasonably conceal. He hasn't taken a look at his reflection in several days, but Geralt's certain that there are dark circles under his eyes, a haggardness to his face. His jaw is a little itchy with stubble that's getting on its way to being a beard.
"In a minute."
He takes some of the food, mostly the jerky and pickles, and digs around in one of the drawers-- there, the one with a false bottom, and underneath it is a bottle of vodka, one that he'd hidden here years ago so that one of his brothers wouldn't drink the damn thing before he could. There aren't any glasses, but they've shared before. Geralt returns to the bard's side, sitting down heavily in front of the fire and getting under the blankets with him. It's good, both because it's practical and because Jaskier is safe and solid and warm against his side.
"This place only gets used in autumn, on hunting trips. Provisions for the winter," he says, popping open the lid of the pickles and yanking the cork out of the vodka bottle. "Won't be anyone coming down this late in the year. Lucky it's still stocked."
Geralt takes a piece of the jerky and bites into it-- venison, he thinks. A bit tough, but edible, and most importantly, safe for humans. He pushes the bag towards Jaskier.
A minute, huh? Jaskier pouts for the sake of it, always a lover of the dramatics, but he doesn't protest openly. His eyes follow Geralt's movements instead, beaming at the sight of food and laughing when he takes out a hidden bottle of vodka.
"Sneaky witcher." He comments with a grin.
Geralt is now a wall of warmth by his side and Jaskier wishes they could travel like this all the fucking time, but alas. He lets him get comfortable first, opening and putting down their dinner for easy reach, and once that's done, it's time to steal a lap again. Unlike his last two tries, however, Jaskier doesn't sit directly on Geralt's marvelous thighs - he sits on the floor between them, resting his back against the witcher's hard chest. Pulls the blankets a little tighter around then and- ah, perfection.
"I had been about to ask you where all the food came from - for a moment I thought Vesemir kept it stocked for when you and your brothers came by. But that answers my question." He says before munching on some jerky. Definitely not the best quality out there, but at this point of traveling? He'll eat raw squirrels. "So you're finally taking some of what humanity owes you back." A poetic way of saying stealing. Patting Geralt's knee now. "You're making a bad boy out of me, Geralt of Rivia."
Just joking. Or maybe not, considering Geralt has been showing him the real world since he was eighteen. Then again, this is the man that wished death on Valdo Marx without any need of external influences...
Geralt would much prefer to not travel like this, pushing the bard and their horses to exhaustion on a forced march from sun-up to well after sundown. It's a miserable pace, and he has some concerns that if it lasts for too much longer, Jaskier may run the risk of illness-- it hadn't been that long ago that he'd been badly injured, and though he'd healed well, he shouldn't be straining himself.
He'll rest at Kaer Morhen. Geralt will find him an appropriate room-- he'd want to put him somewhere away from an external wall, for warmth, but knowing Jaskier, he'll want a view-- and get him wrapped up in furs and tucked away into a proper bed, feed him up well. A few days of that and he'd be back to his usual prattling and incessant lute-strumming. He'll be excellent company for Ciri, much better than a group of old witchers.
But for now, he has the bard leaning back against his chest, apparently trying to absorb as much of his body heat as possible.
"Not exactly," he replies. "The supplies are a... courtesy. Whoever uses the cabin last makes sure it is stocked enough for the next. There are few human hunters who will come this far up the mountains, though, and no later than early autumn. What we're eating now is probably the leftovers from one of Eskel's or Lambert's hunting trips, to stock up Kaer Morhen's larders for winter."
He takes another bite of the jerky, grimacing a little at how much effort he has to put into chewing the damn stuff.
"Judging from how fucking tough this venison is, Lambert."
His youngest brother never was all that great at curing meat, thank gods he's got other talents. Geralt washes it down with a swig of vodka, savoring the warmth that blossoms in his chest.
"So, we are not taking anything that isn't ours to take. I'd say your virtue is still intact, but I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face."
The jerky is quite tough indeed, so Jaskier goes for the pickles next, throwing his head back a little when he realizes Geralt is offering a bit more of witcher insight, so to speak. Oh, how he adores hearing all these details! He stays silent for a moment, absorbing the information like a freaking sponge.
There's still so much he doesn't know about witcher life, even after twenty years. Especially concerning how they relate to each other and their living together - he's definitely learned almost everything about the Path itself. Soon, he knows, he'll have access to all of it, he will have plenty of minds to pick for content for his ballads. Still, there's something to be said about having Geralt sharing this by his own decision, making Jaskier chuckle when he throws a jab at Lambert. It's more than witcher lore, it's a look into the bond with his brothers, and Jaskier treasures it.
"Commendable organization and a very kind way to look after each other, how delightful. I can't wait to meet them and watch you interact all together in one room."
He's always been curious about witchers dealing with other witchers, but this is above all that - he's dying to see Geralt with his family. Once upon a time, he had been close to his brother too, before the prick decided to be all proper and lordly as expected from the heir. Ugh. Jaskier takes the vodka from Geralt's hands and takes a swig as well, wanting alcohol to warm his body but also to shut his mind.
"Oi!" He protests after drinking, giving Geralt a nudge of his elbow - playfully, not really meaning it. "I'm an exceedingly virtuous man! And I know for a fact-" His tone becomes teasing and full of innuendo. "You are planning to take advantage of all those lovely virtues of mine, my dear witcher."
Geralt keeps an eye on Jaskier's food intake-- the jerky's tough but protein is necessary for such a hard hike up the mountain. The pickles are fine, vegetables and whatnot, but he might nudge him back towards the meat if he avoids it too much. It's a perfectly rational and normal level of concern for the man.
"Hm," he replies, and now that they are so close to Kaer Morhen, the fact that Jaskier will, in fact, be interacting with Eskel and Lambert is a real and immediate reality. It's no longer just a hypothetical, the theoretical possibility that his bard might speak to his brothers, it's a terrifying and absolute certainty. And, of course, he's meeting him right after they've instituted a change in their relationship, before there's been any chance to get used to the differences.
Geralt is no oracle, but he foresees a future filled with his brothers being pricks.
He is so preoccupied with this practically prophetic prediction that Jaskier is able to easily swipe the vodka bottle from his hands. That's fine-- the bard can have a little, to warm himself up. Just not enough to get drunk, the only thing worse than this hike would be trying to do it hungover.
"You have a few virtues," he concedes, barely even responding to the bony elbow that Jaskier pokes him with. His voice is playful and flirtatious despite the frigid temperatures; perhaps Jaskier's libido is powerful enough to stand up against even the deepest chill. Or there could be no follow-through for this, just teasing and innuendo. Fine, either way.
"I won't be taking advantage of anything, including your virtues," he says, leaning in to speak into Jaskier's ear, his voice a warm rumble. Contrarily to what just came out of his mouth, he puts his hands high up on Jaskier's warm thighs, "until you're begging me for it."
Jaskier had seemed quite pleased when Geralt had talked dirty to him before; that's good enough incentive for him to continue. Learning how to bed the bard the way he likes is similar to figuring out how to hunt a new beast for the first time. Gather information, exploit weaknesses, synthesize into a solid tactical approach.
Geralt doesn't need to worry, Jaskier isn't planning to get drunk - he thinks the hangover is a horrible idea as much as the witcher does. But hey, if vodka is on the menu, one can't let it go untasted, right? A couple of swings never hurt anyone.
There aren't many things in the Continent that can kill Jaskier's libido, and the cold is definitely not one of them. Besides, exercise keeps you warm, right? And sex counts as exercise. Perfect logic.
(Or maybe Jaskier is just that horny.)
"...fuck." He gasps.
That tactical approach is a success, Jaskier's body immediately reacts to it, shivering and not because of the cold, pushing back against Geralt until there is not an inch of free space between them, the spike of arousal peeking into his scent. Jaskier is a man of words and sounds, of expressions of love, want and desire. He's also an attention whore. So of course he loves this, loves having all the attention of the man he loves on him, hearing him talk about what he wants to do to him and him alone. Especially when...
"I love your voice." He's never said that before, he realizes - he's complimented Geralt's body and abilities plenty of times, but he never praised his voice. Probably because he never had a not-horny way to make such compliment in the first place. "It's deep and powerful, and I could close my eyes and come just to the sound of it. Tell me, oh mighty witcher-" It's not begging, not quite yet, but he plays with the edges of this tone to make it almost so. His hands fall on top of Geralt's and give them a squeeze before moving up to stroke those strong arms. "--which of this humble bard's virtues do you want to take advantage of the most? As you already know... I'm always open to requests."
Jaskier smells like lust again, the change in his scent coming quicker than Geralt would've thought possible without the intervention of a succubus, except that he's known Jaskier for two godsdamned decades. His libido would be impressive for a young man, nevertheless a forty-year-old one, and it's gotten him into plenty of trouble. It's a good thing that Geralt likes the smell on him, the way it gives his scent that spicy-sharp edge. He wouldn't tire of it, even after another few decades. Maybe not ever.
Geralt huffs a laugh next to Jaskier's ear, amused at his confession. He'd already noticed that Jaskier is terribly fond of his voice, though this is the first time that the bard has told him exactly how much. Perhaps it makes sense that the bard is enamored of voices, considering how enamored he is of his own. And there's a certain shift in Jaskier's voice as he talks, this lovely note that sounds like yearning, like wanting. He likes the sound of it, when it's for him. And when he asks like that, how can Geralt refuse, or neglect to give him what he wants in the voice that he's so fond of? The bard likes it when he talks, so he'll talk.
"There's nothing humble about you, bard," he says, squeezing Jaskier's warm thighs. "Were we back in Oxenfurt, I wouldn't have to choose. I'd have all of you in that ridiculous bed and make you late for your own classes."
Fuck, if that werewolf hadn't shown up in Oxenfurt, he would've been able to ruin the bard in that soft bed, give him everything he had ever wanted, indulge all of his fantasies. Or, at least, indulge in as many of them as Jaskier could manage in one night without a rest. The man is forty, after all.
"We're of limited means right now." A shame. But there is one definite selling point about this cabin-- there isn't going to be a single soul for miles. They're alone, as much as any two people can be alone in this world. "But I think I'd like to see the virtues of your hands. Can you do that for me?"
His pretty, deft hands, the ones that pluck at his lute with such dexterity. He brushes his lips over the bard's ear, speaks in that low voice that he loves.
Oh gods, another huffed laugh - such a magical sound. Jaskier could swear he's gotten more of those in the past few days than he did in two decades, and that thought alone is warmer than the fireplace itself. It's a good sign, great even; and he can't wait to see how else this shift in their relationship will impact their daily interactions with each other.
Gods yes, he murmurs when Geralt mentions the Oxenfurt room, his mind reading within the lines and easily filling the gaps. It could've been the perfect place for their first time together, they could've stayed naked in bed together all night, and then all morning, and taken their sweet time to learn their bodies with the same mastery they usually dedicate to hunting monsters or writing songs.
Geralt keeps talking, and the bastard doesn't need big words to sound poetic - every statement is raw with want, using that voice to his favor now he knows the power it holds. Jaskier knows he'll hate and love having given such information to his witcher in the future. What truly shakes him, though, is hearing that beautiful, honest request.
This is Geralt, the man that doesn't often (if ever) express any wants of his own, asking for Jaskier's hands, complimenting them, wanting them on his god-like body no matter how calloused they are, because he sees the virtue in them. It's the sexiest and highest praise he's ever gotten in his entire life.
With the most incredibly heartfelt fuck and moving on his knees, Jaskier turns around to crash his mouth against Geralt's in a very messy and passionate kiss, his hands falling on the witcher's pants to undo those buttons as easily as he had done in the inn.
"I shall play you so well, darling, you'll be asking for an encore." He murmurs against Geralt's lips before kissing his cheek as well, then moving to nibble on the witcher's ear as those deft fingers of his jump inside black pants to stroke that very thick dick through the smallclothes. "Bloody hell, Geralt, one hand is barely enough to cover you. It's better than every fantasy I've ever had. You'll keep both my hands so busy, my dear - my fingers want to learn every inch of your mighty cock, commit them to memory like the chords of my songs. The mere thought makes my mouth salivate - I've dreamed of taking you with my lips as well, of tasting you with my tongue in exchange of providing you with your dear blessed silence."
If this is the best and sexiest praise that Jaskier has ever gotten, either his previous bedpartners have been surprisingly uncreative or the bard is just particularly biased towards Geralt. More the latter than the former, likely. He has definitely said something right, though, judging by how quickly Jaskier turns on him and crashes their lips together, kissing him like Geralt might disappear at any moment. His hands tug at the line of buttons on the witcher's trousers, opening them with an impressive amount of dexterity considering that his mouth is too preoccupied to look down at what he's doing.
One of Geralt's hands grabs the bard's waist, and he's only a little disappointed at the number of layers between his hand and Jaskier's skin. He could try to pull up the woolen tunics, the many layered shirts that Geralt had insisted that the bard put on to try to keep him warm, but it may well be a useless fight. Too many layers there to get through without removing some first. That's fine-- he can cup the bard's jaw with his other hand, feel both the places where his skin is still as smooth as it was when he was eighteen and the rasp of a few days' worth of stubble.
The bard's deft hand delved into his trousers, his strong musician fingers gripping Geralt's cock, and the movement of his hand sends a warm thrum up his spine. A good start, certainly, but the bard's wrist would get tired before Geralt's cock would make it to half-mast. Regardless, Jaskier sounds enthusiastic about the dimensions of the witcher's third sword, though he has yet to ever see it fully hard due to Geralt's own biology. He knows that he is considered large, enough so that even the whores are sometimes wary of him, but he has learned how to be gentle with their insides. He doesn't enjoy their discomfort. He would have the same consideration for the bard-- if he hates the discomfort of whores, he wouldn't be able to stand Jaskier's-- though Jaskier would have no way of knowing that, based off of the reputation of witchers. He seems to have no reservations about the sword in Geralt's trousers, not even a hint of apprehension in his scent. Fearless, even when he shouldn't be.
Geralt turns his head and kisses the bard again, and he tastes like vodka and pickles.
"Are you ever completely silent?" he asks, running his thumb over Jaskier's soft lower lip. He couldn't believe that the bard would make no noise, even with his mouth stuffed full. "And you are free to be as noisy as you like when I return the favor. The offer I made in Rinde still stands."
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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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Curiosity is forgotten, however, when the fireplace comes to life. Jaskier is already running towards it before Geralt even tells him to, not even bothering to take off his cloak. He stretches his arms and hands, even stirs his legs one by one to shake off the chill. The sight of blankets and furs brings a little smile to his face and he quickly sits down on the floor, starting to work on a new warmth cocoon around his cloak.
This one doesn't close yet, however. He stretches an arm, blanket extended over it like a cape, and tilts his head at Geralt, voice soft when he speaks.
"Come, my dear witcher. You need to warm up too. And most importantly, to rest. Don't think I haven't noticed your lack of sleep." Unlike many other times when Jaskier would scold Geralt for not taking good care of himself, this time he tries to sound teasing and understanding - it's the only way they have to survive until they get to Kaer Morhen. He gets it. He hates it that it has to be this way, but he gets it. "And I know you won't do it now either, but at least allow yourself a moment to sit and cuddle your lover. Enough work for today, my wolf, you've done well."
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Even if he doesn't have the strength or training of a witcher, though, Jaskier is still observant. The lack of sleep and strenuous pace has started to wear on even a witcher, more than what Geralt could reasonably conceal. He hasn't taken a look at his reflection in several days, but Geralt's certain that there are dark circles under his eyes, a haggardness to his face. His jaw is a little itchy with stubble that's getting on its way to being a beard.
"In a minute."
He takes some of the food, mostly the jerky and pickles, and digs around in one of the drawers-- there, the one with a false bottom, and underneath it is a bottle of vodka, one that he'd hidden here years ago so that one of his brothers wouldn't drink the damn thing before he could. There aren't any glasses, but they've shared before. Geralt returns to the bard's side, sitting down heavily in front of the fire and getting under the blankets with him. It's good, both because it's practical and because Jaskier is safe and solid and warm against his side.
"This place only gets used in autumn, on hunting trips. Provisions for the winter," he says, popping open the lid of the pickles and yanking the cork out of the vodka bottle. "Won't be anyone coming down this late in the year. Lucky it's still stocked."
Geralt takes a piece of the jerky and bites into it-- venison, he thinks. A bit tough, but edible, and most importantly, safe for humans. He pushes the bag towards Jaskier.
"Eat."
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"Sneaky witcher." He comments with a grin.
Geralt is now a wall of warmth by his side and Jaskier wishes they could travel like this all the fucking time, but alas. He lets him get comfortable first, opening and putting down their dinner for easy reach, and once that's done, it's time to steal a lap again. Unlike his last two tries, however, Jaskier doesn't sit directly on Geralt's marvelous thighs - he sits on the floor between them, resting his back against the witcher's hard chest. Pulls the blankets a little tighter around then and- ah, perfection.
"I had been about to ask you where all the food came from - for a moment I thought Vesemir kept it stocked for when you and your brothers came by. But that answers my question." He says before munching on some jerky. Definitely not the best quality out there, but at this point of traveling? He'll eat raw squirrels. "So you're finally taking some of what humanity owes you back." A poetic way of saying stealing. Patting Geralt's knee now. "You're making a bad boy out of me, Geralt of Rivia."
Just joking. Or maybe not, considering Geralt has been showing him the real world since he was eighteen. Then again, this is the man that wished death on Valdo Marx without any need of external influences...
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He'll rest at Kaer Morhen. Geralt will find him an appropriate room-- he'd want to put him somewhere away from an external wall, for warmth, but knowing Jaskier, he'll want a view-- and get him wrapped up in furs and tucked away into a proper bed, feed him up well. A few days of that and he'd be back to his usual prattling and incessant lute-strumming. He'll be excellent company for Ciri, much better than a group of old witchers.
But for now, he has the bard leaning back against his chest, apparently trying to absorb as much of his body heat as possible.
"Not exactly," he replies. "The supplies are a... courtesy. Whoever uses the cabin last makes sure it is stocked enough for the next. There are few human hunters who will come this far up the mountains, though, and no later than early autumn. What we're eating now is probably the leftovers from one of Eskel's or Lambert's hunting trips, to stock up Kaer Morhen's larders for winter."
He takes another bite of the jerky, grimacing a little at how much effort he has to put into chewing the damn stuff.
"Judging from how fucking tough this venison is, Lambert."
His youngest brother never was all that great at curing meat, thank gods he's got other talents. Geralt washes it down with a swig of vodka, savoring the warmth that blossoms in his chest.
"So, we are not taking anything that isn't ours to take. I'd say your virtue is still intact, but I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face."
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There's still so much he doesn't know about witcher life, even after twenty years. Especially concerning how they relate to each other and their living together - he's definitely learned almost everything about the Path itself. Soon, he knows, he'll have access to all of it, he will have plenty of minds to pick for content for his ballads. Still, there's something to be said about having Geralt sharing this by his own decision, making Jaskier chuckle when he throws a jab at Lambert. It's more than witcher lore, it's a look into the bond with his brothers, and Jaskier treasures it.
"Commendable organization and a very kind way to look after each other, how delightful. I can't wait to meet them and watch you interact all together in one room."
He's always been curious about witchers dealing with other witchers, but this is above all that - he's dying to see Geralt with his family. Once upon a time, he had been close to his brother too, before the prick decided to be all proper and lordly as expected from the heir. Ugh. Jaskier takes the vodka from Geralt's hands and takes a swig as well, wanting alcohol to warm his body but also to shut his mind.
"Oi!" He protests after drinking, giving Geralt a nudge of his elbow - playfully, not really meaning it. "I'm an exceedingly virtuous man! And I know for a fact-" His tone becomes teasing and full of innuendo. "You are planning to take advantage of all those lovely virtues of mine, my dear witcher."
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"Hm," he replies, and now that they are so close to Kaer Morhen, the fact that Jaskier will, in fact, be interacting with Eskel and Lambert is a real and immediate reality. It's no longer just a hypothetical, the theoretical possibility that his bard might speak to his brothers, it's a terrifying and absolute certainty. And, of course, he's meeting him right after they've instituted a change in their relationship, before there's been any chance to get used to the differences.
Geralt is no oracle, but he foresees a future filled with his brothers being pricks.
He is so preoccupied with this practically prophetic prediction that Jaskier is able to easily swipe the vodka bottle from his hands. That's fine-- the bard can have a little, to warm himself up. Just not enough to get drunk, the only thing worse than this hike would be trying to do it hungover.
"You have a few virtues," he concedes, barely even responding to the bony elbow that Jaskier pokes him with. His voice is playful and flirtatious despite the frigid temperatures; perhaps Jaskier's libido is powerful enough to stand up against even the deepest chill. Or there could be no follow-through for this, just teasing and innuendo. Fine, either way.
"I won't be taking advantage of anything, including your virtues," he says, leaning in to speak into Jaskier's ear, his voice a warm rumble. Contrarily to what just came out of his mouth, he puts his hands high up on Jaskier's warm thighs, "until you're begging me for it."
Jaskier had seemed quite pleased when Geralt had talked dirty to him before; that's good enough incentive for him to continue. Learning how to bed the bard the way he likes is similar to figuring out how to hunt a new beast for the first time. Gather information, exploit weaknesses, synthesize into a solid tactical approach.
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There aren't many things in the Continent that can kill Jaskier's libido, and the cold is definitely not one of them. Besides, exercise keeps you warm, right? And sex counts as exercise. Perfect logic.
(Or maybe Jaskier is just that horny.)
"...fuck." He gasps.
That tactical approach is a success, Jaskier's body immediately reacts to it, shivering and not because of the cold, pushing back against Geralt until there is not an inch of free space between them, the spike of arousal peeking into his scent. Jaskier is a man of words and sounds, of expressions of love, want and desire. He's also an attention whore. So of course he loves this, loves having all the attention of the man he loves on him, hearing him talk about what he wants to do to him and him alone. Especially when...
"I love your voice." He's never said that before, he realizes - he's complimented Geralt's body and abilities plenty of times, but he never praised his voice. Probably because he never had a not-horny way to make such compliment in the first place. "It's deep and powerful, and I could close my eyes and come just to the sound of it. Tell me, oh mighty witcher-" It's not begging, not quite yet, but he plays with the edges of this tone to make it almost so. His hands fall on top of Geralt's and give them a squeeze before moving up to stroke those strong arms. "--which of this humble bard's virtues do you want to take advantage of the most? As you already know... I'm always open to requests."
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Geralt huffs a laugh next to Jaskier's ear, amused at his confession. He'd already noticed that Jaskier is terribly fond of his voice, though this is the first time that the bard has told him exactly how much. Perhaps it makes sense that the bard is enamored of voices, considering how enamored he is of his own. And there's a certain shift in Jaskier's voice as he talks, this lovely note that sounds like yearning, like wanting. He likes the sound of it, when it's for him. And when he asks like that, how can Geralt refuse, or neglect to give him what he wants in the voice that he's so fond of? The bard likes it when he talks, so he'll talk.
"There's nothing humble about you, bard," he says, squeezing Jaskier's warm thighs. "Were we back in Oxenfurt, I wouldn't have to choose. I'd have all of you in that ridiculous bed and make you late for your own classes."
Fuck, if that werewolf hadn't shown up in Oxenfurt, he would've been able to ruin the bard in that soft bed, give him everything he had ever wanted, indulge all of his fantasies. Or, at least, indulge in as many of them as Jaskier could manage in one night without a rest. The man is forty, after all.
"We're of limited means right now." A shame. But there is one definite selling point about this cabin-- there isn't going to be a single soul for miles. They're alone, as much as any two people can be alone in this world. "But I think I'd like to see the virtues of your hands. Can you do that for me?"
His pretty, deft hands, the ones that pluck at his lute with such dexterity. He brushes his lips over the bard's ear, speaks in that low voice that he loves.
"Can you play me as well as you play your lute?"
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Gods yes, he murmurs when Geralt mentions the Oxenfurt room, his mind reading within the lines and easily filling the gaps. It could've been the perfect place for their first time together, they could've stayed naked in bed together all night, and then all morning, and taken their sweet time to learn their bodies with the same mastery they usually dedicate to hunting monsters or writing songs.
Geralt keeps talking, and the bastard doesn't need big words to sound poetic - every statement is raw with want, using that voice to his favor now he knows the power it holds. Jaskier knows he'll hate and love having given such information to his witcher in the future. What truly shakes him, though, is hearing that beautiful, honest request.
This is Geralt, the man that doesn't often (if ever) express any wants of his own, asking for Jaskier's hands, complimenting them, wanting them on his god-like body no matter how calloused they are, because he sees the virtue in them. It's the sexiest and highest praise he's ever gotten in his entire life.
With the most incredibly heartfelt fuck and moving on his knees, Jaskier turns around to crash his mouth against Geralt's in a very messy and passionate kiss, his hands falling on the witcher's pants to undo those buttons as easily as he had done in the inn.
"I shall play you so well, darling, you'll be asking for an encore." He murmurs against Geralt's lips before kissing his cheek as well, then moving to nibble on the witcher's ear as those deft fingers of his jump inside black pants to stroke that very thick dick through the smallclothes. "Bloody hell, Geralt, one hand is barely enough to cover you. It's better than every fantasy I've ever had. You'll keep both my hands so busy, my dear - my fingers want to learn every inch of your mighty cock, commit them to memory like the chords of my songs. The mere thought makes my mouth salivate - I've dreamed of taking you with my lips as well, of tasting you with my tongue in exchange of providing you with your dear blessed silence."
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One of Geralt's hands grabs the bard's waist, and he's only a little disappointed at the number of layers between his hand and Jaskier's skin. He could try to pull up the woolen tunics, the many layered shirts that Geralt had insisted that the bard put on to try to keep him warm, but it may well be a useless fight. Too many layers there to get through without removing some first. That's fine-- he can cup the bard's jaw with his other hand, feel both the places where his skin is still as smooth as it was when he was eighteen and the rasp of a few days' worth of stubble.
The bard's deft hand delved into his trousers, his strong musician fingers gripping Geralt's cock, and the movement of his hand sends a warm thrum up his spine. A good start, certainly, but the bard's wrist would get tired before Geralt's cock would make it to half-mast. Regardless, Jaskier sounds enthusiastic about the dimensions of the witcher's third sword, though he has yet to ever see it fully hard due to Geralt's own biology. He knows that he is considered large, enough so that even the whores are sometimes wary of him, but he has learned how to be gentle with their insides. He doesn't enjoy their discomfort. He would have the same consideration for the bard-- if he hates the discomfort of whores, he wouldn't be able to stand Jaskier's-- though Jaskier would have no way of knowing that, based off of the reputation of witchers. He seems to have no reservations about the sword in Geralt's trousers, not even a hint of apprehension in his scent. Fearless, even when he shouldn't be.
Geralt turns his head and kisses the bard again, and he tastes like vodka and pickles.
"Are you ever completely silent?" he asks, running his thumb over Jaskier's soft lower lip. He couldn't believe that the bard would make no noise, even with his mouth stuffed full. "And you are free to be as noisy as you like when I return the favor. The offer I made in Rinde still stands."
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