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."
He asks before capturing that thumb in his mouth to start sucking on it, blue eyes fixed on gold during the whole deal - challenge accepted, they say. Truth to be told, Geralt is right, Jaskier is able to make noise even while giving blowjobs. In fact, it's hard for him to stay silent right now too, even when it's just a thumb, because he wants to express how much he enjoys doing this, and he knows the vibrations add to the experience as well.
But he has a point to make.
Thin lips wrap around the whole thumb, tongue licking its entire length from all sides as Jaskier's hands matches the movement inside Geralt's pants. When his mouth finally pulls back, it stays for a minute at the tip, sucking on it and making a show of licking the edge where nail meets skin before letting go completely. Looking incredibly smug, Jaskier licks his lips as well.
"In case you've forgotten, darling, I just happen not to go in for that." Silence, he means in a little throwback to their first day together. His voice lowers to a sultry tone filled with lust when he remembers Rinde, and isn't that ironic? "Fuck, Geralt, trust me when I say I haven't forgotten about it. I'll be incredibly noisy when I take up that offer, how could I not? Having you on your knees in front of me..."
With a little whimper escaping this throat at the memory, he kisses Geralt again, more desperate than ever, arousal thick in his scent. His hips thrust as well, trying to find at least a little bit of friction, anything to keep his body from exploding with desire. Ignoring his need for Geralt hadn't been easy the last twenty years, but at least he was able to distract his boners in other beds. It turns out that actually having Geralt for himself and not being allowed to enjoy him is far more frustrating. We're of limited means right now, Geralt said, and Jaskier can't disagree - but even if they don't fuck tonight, they can at least get each other off at last. First orgasm together, the thing he's been wanting since he was eighteen.
No more interruptions.
"Have you ever even sucked cock before, Geralt?" The question is murmured against the witcher's neck as Jaskier starts dropping little kisses on pale skin, pushing his hand a little lower to try and get Geralt's balls a an extra incentive, since only stroking seems not to be doing much. "Have you been with a man in any way, I wonder." He has known Geralt is like him, a lover of both sexes, for a while now - but he's never known the details. Still not getting any kind of reaction in his hand, his fingers slow down, his voice loses the eroticism, starting to gain an edge of nervousness. "Have you ever enjoyed the touch that only a man can truly--"
It's not everyday that Jaskier loses track of his string of poetic babbling, but he's getting really worried now. The last four times, he's blamed the lack of boner on the fact they didn't go too far. Now though, well-- he can't possibly be this bad at it, right? He knows he has a bit of an ego (only a bit, Jask?), but even dropping any exaggerations about his skills, he would like to think he's been doing a decent job in foreplay not to get even a little reaction in return.
He pulls back his hand, looking at Geralt with a frown and his head tilted. He promised on the trials that made him that it isn't pity, Jaskier reminds himself, but his stomach still turns with doubt.
"Geralt? Do you even like the male touch? My touch? I cannot seem to get you going and it isn't exactly encouraging."
Jaskier's mouth slips over his thumb, encasing it in the warm, wet heat of his mouth. The bard tongues it, sucks it slow and thorough like Geralt could only imagine that he would a cock. He watches him intently, unblinkingly, and the slight hitch to his breath when Jaskier ran his tongue along the edge of his nail-- the thought of how it would feel on the head of his cock-- is surely just the bard's imagination.
And that slowly awakening cock of his is starting to stir, albeit only a little; there's heat starting to pool in his gut and he's a little more plump under Jaskier's hand. His point has been made, and made quite eloquently for someone not using a single word.
Jaskier preoccupies his mouth with Geralt's own again, his narrow hips giving an aborted little jerk as though trying to find some relief. Geralt takes pity on him, shifts him so that he can move a thigh between his legs and give him something to rut against. There's something very appealing about the desperation in him, in the biting, aggressive kiss and the way that he tries to press every inch of himself against Geralt; his earnest, raw wanting. Geralt could get drunk on just the smell of him alone.
Geralt hums at the question, have you ever even sucked cock before, and it is perhaps notably not a negative kind of hum. The witcher's history with sucking cock isn't as extensive as Jaskier's undoubtedly is, but he's been in that position once or twice-- he doesn't leave his bedpartners unsatisfied, even if they're just whores. His voice dips into something low and rumbly when Jaskier's hands travel south, cupping his balls, and his hands really are just as clever as he had guessed--
But the pleasant scent sours a little, his hand falters. The bard's customary babbling trails off as he loses the thread of it, and Geralt has never known Jaskier's incessant chatter to fumble like that. He can keep up a monologue without much direct input from his brain.
He's noticed. Of course he's noticed, he's got his hand in Geralt's pants and where there ought to be an erection, he's got a hand full of limp cock. That would be a disappointment for anyone, nevertheless Jaskier, who has twenty years of fantasizing for Geralt to live up to. This was probably never a feature of his daydreams.
"It's not what you think," he says, and internally winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. When has that ever been a good way to start a conversation, especially about one that involves fucking? Gods, he's had to explain this at least a hundred times to a hundred different whores, why is it so much harder now that the audience is Jaskier?
"It's not a lack of... desire," he tries to clarify, and it's really still not going well. "Fuck."
He takes Jaskier's hand and brings it to his throat, pressing the bard's fingers into the soft spot under his jaw where his pulse can be felt. Still slow-- a little faster than normal, a third of a human heart rate instead of a quarter, but still inhumanly slow.
"The slowness of my heart," he tries again, "makes it more difficult for me to bleed out, and also more difficult for... this. I am slow to rise and slower to finish. It's physiology, not unwillingness."
Geralt is entirely willing, he's been willing since fucking Oxenfurt. His cock just gets the message so much slower than the rest of him.
"Most become bored with the effort and time involved. It's... fine, Jaskier, you don't need to worry about it. Let me take care of you, and I can finish on my own."
The thigh between his legs is definitely welcome, and Jaskier does rut against it, especially when Geralt tells him he has, indeed, sucked cock before. And isn't that a wonderful mental image? The witcher on his knees, mouth full of dick? A whore's dick, he realizes, which means Geralt has paid to fuck them, which also means he does know what to do with a man's ass and Jaskier won't have to do any explaining when the time comes and he pushes a vial of oil into the witcher's hands.
(Thank goodness for that, because explaining periods had been weird enough.)
The one who has explaining to do at the moment is Geralt, who starts with it's not what you think and wow, yeah, Jaskier is wincing too. Yikes. Definitely not a good start. He does, however, recognize the expression on Geralt's face - he's struggling with something and talking about it is hard. So Jaskier waits patiently for his lover to find the words he needs, his hand rubbing one of the witcher's arms to remind him that I'm here, you can tell me anything.
Geralt is a man of action rather than words, but still takes Jaskier by surprise when his hand is suddenly grabbed and taken to the witcher's neck. There it is, the feeling of Geralt's pulse under his fingers - it freaked him out a little bit the first he heard it all those years ago, but he's used to it now. Especially after he's spent time cuddling against Geralt's chest, the slow beat of his heart has become a safety blanket, a sign of being in the arms of his dear wolf. In fact, he could swear he knows it well enough by now to tell that it may be going a little faster, perhaps? Could it mean...?
The explanation finally comes and Jaskier's eyes widen, a gasp escaping his lips. Of fucking course, how didn't he think about that? To think he's supposed to be the educated one here!
"...oh." Blink, blink. "Oooooh! So you are enjoying this. Me. Us."
Jaskier smiles, relief exuding from every muscle of his body as tension and nervousness instantly fade away. If Geralt is having a good time, then that's all that matters. The rest? Witcher bullshit. And Jaskier has had twenty years to learn how to deal with all of it.
Something else does offend him, though, so get ready for the now classic dramatic indignation and wagging finger in Geralt's face.
"Let you finish on your own? I would never! What kind of lover do you take me for!" A huff as his hands move to his own waist then, any similarities to a scolding housewife are a mere coincidence. Witcher bullshit indeed - not only the heartbeat, but the low self-esteem. And the bastard being his dumb noble self by telling Jaskier he doesn't need to keep up with him. How does Geralt manage to keep on giving him reasons to love him so much? "So you're a slow raiser - big deal! That only means I get to play with you for longer. Am I supposed to be sad at the prospect of long sessions of love making? Because then you don't know me at all, you big oaf. Foreplay, my dear witcher, is what transforms a nice orgasm into an explosion."
He grabs Geralt's face then to kiss him sweetly - not teeth, no tongue. Just a tender kiss filled with affection, not meant to arouse but to reassure.
"I love you, Geralt of Rivia." He says as he makes their foreheads touch. "If your body didn't turn me off when it was spilling its guts on my hands through a bruxa injury, then nothing will."
If anything, it makes Jaskier more sure of his plan to, some day, get Geralt lying down between his thighs on the bed and kiss every scar, massage every muscle, worship every inch of pale skin until he accepts the fact his body makes the fucking gods jealous. Better seal this promise with a kiss...
Which gets interrupted when the door is slammed open.
You got to be kidding him.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Jaskier suddenly finds hinds himself pushed to the floor because of course Geralt doesn't hesitate to stand up (pants buttons undone and everything) and grab his sword, ready to jump into action. Whatever is at the door, the bard can't possibly give a damn, he just has one thing to say about it.
The explanation, for once in Geralt's stupid, verbally-deficient life, is enough. Jaskier understands, and better still, doesn't care that Geralt's physiology has been so drastically altered in this arena. It's-- a relief? Like finally setting down a heavy burden that he'd carried so long he'd forgotten the weight of it.
Jaskier kisses him tenderly, presses their foreheads together, and Geralt feels that vice-like thing twist up his chest again. It's been happening so much more frequently around the bard, and a part of him hates it-- this sign that he's been botched badly enough to have some feeling left, but not so badly that he can return Jaskier's love as purely and truly as it's given. An echo of his sentiment is a poor way to repay two decades of devotion, but Geralt is selfish.
"I'd have no one else's hands putting my guts back in me," he replies, half a joke and half honest truth, tilts his head to meet Jaskier's lips, and--
And the fucking door bursts open. Geralt is on his feet in an instant, ignoring the bard's indignant screech, his sword already in his hand.
"Hey, Geralt, when we told you to make friends, we didn't mean another--"
The figure in the doorway steps inside, nearly as tall and broad as Geralt, but with brown hair instead of white and the same gold witchers' eyes. A grin breaks across his scarred face, pulling up to reveal teeth on the side that's been damaged.
"Oh, you have been making friends, huh? Put that sword down, brother, and," he makes a lazy gesture at Geralt's unbuttoned pants, "put that one away too, yeah?"
"What the fuck are you doing here, Eskel," Geralt growls, sheathing the sword and hastily buttoning up his pants. Fuck, there shouldn't be anyone this far down the mountain this late in the year. And the timing couldn't be more rotten. Is he cursed? Geralt is seriously considering getting himself checked for curses.
"The wyvern have been acting up, so I came down to deal with it. You're welcome, by the way." Eskel made his way over to the cabinets, pulling out another bag of jerky and tearing into a piece. "I saw Roach and decided I'd say hello. Didn't realize you'd be, y'know, getting friendly. You usually show up alone. And now you've brought a kid and a bard, all in one year!"
Eskel nods towards Jaskier, acknowledging the bard. "Hi, by the way. Let's not feed me to the bloody basilisks, if it's all the same to you."
Jaskier sits up and untangles his limbs from all the blankets and furs, ready to run and hide as soon as the noise of blades crashing and limbs falling to the ground begin... except they never come. He looks up, relieved yet confused at the lack of fighting, to find just a man at the door.
Except it's not any man.
Yellow eyes. Two very scary looking swords. Wolf medallion.
Another witcher.
Finally, after so many years! And it's not any witcher, oh no, it's one of Geralt's brothers. Eskel, he can guess by the scars and the lack of being a dick before Geralt says his name. Suddenly his sexual frustration is easily forgotten, Jaskier is fascinated by the scene in front of him, and he watches them interact closely, with all the curiosity and attention of the artist he is.
Eskel is nearly as big and fit as Geralt (to be expected) and quite handsome as well (fuck these hot witchers, does that come with the mutagens as well?). His attitude is more carefree it seems, but the body language, while not as closed up as Geralt's, Jaskier recognizes as the same. It's a witcher thing, he supposes, the way they move around a room and make sure their surroundings know they are not to be fucked with.
He's also chatty, and quite funny - he makes Jaskier chuckle a couple of times. So not all witchers are part-time mutes, huh? The best part is seeing him tease Geralt, just like brothers would do. There's a sense of family here, and it warms Jaskier's heart to see Geralt does have someone beside his freaking horse.
It's the sudden acknowledgment thrown his way that makes him snap out of his thoughts. Jaskier hurries to stand up, brushing off and fixing his clothes to look presentable. Eskel probably won't care, but he has an image to keep, especially if this is going to be his first official 'meeting the in-laws'. There's still a bit of a tent on his pants showing, and Eskel has probably already smelled it anyway, but better not to make things worse. So he closes Geralt's cloak around him, the wolf brooch a clear symbol on his chest.
As he comes closer, he goes through a thousand different things to say, charming words, maybe an apology. But one look at Geralt reminds him these are witchers, and they don't care for his courtly manners. They like people being direct, honest and, judging by the previous short exchange, maybe with a sense of humor too?
"I would apologize for thinking you were Nilfgardiaan soldiers and wishing you a very slow and agonizing death, but to be fair, that's what you get for interrupting." Okay, so maybe he is still a bit sexually frustrated. He has no shame, may as well use it - it's clear that he's joking anyway. With a friendly smile and his chin high, he extends his hand for Eskel to shake if it pleases him. His eyes never glance away, they meet this new pair of golds with the same determination he's always met Geralt's, silently telling him I'm not afraid. "Hi. I'm Jaskier, but you already knew that, did you not?" A kid and a bard, he said after all. "It's nice to meet a witcher that knows words that aren't just 'fuck'."
Sorry Geralt, but this is too good not to make fun of his beloved white wolf as well.
Eskel takes the bard's offered hand, giving it a brief but amiable shake. Those gold eyes meet the bard's with curiosity, and he might notice the flared nostrils and quick intake of breath that's very similar to how Geralt scents the air. Not a lick of fear. Eskel approves-- when Geralt had brought the little princess, she hadn't been afraid, either. Geralt has a knack for picking up companions who never learned to fear witchers.
"Trust me, if I'd known, I-- well, I'd have come in anyway, it's fucking cold out there. But look at the bright side, bard, now Geralt and I can keep you warm from both sides."
"Eskel--"
Geralt's voice is a low growl, the verbal equivalent of a warning. It's a noise that would've made lesser men run in fear, but Eskel only laughs at it, putting up both his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"I'm joking! It's a joke, Geralt," he says, then turns back to Jaskier and mouths 'grouchy' at him. "We've heard all about you, though, and not just because of that song I couldn't get out of my head for three weeks. But apparently there are a few things we haven't heard about--"
Eskel's eyes stray down to the bard's chest, where that wolf brooch is pinned. Geralt doesn't seem any more pleased that the topic of conversation has strayed into these waters, and tries to bring things around to neutral ground. Something that won't inevitably end with his asshole of a brother digging into things that he doesn't want to talk about or divulging things that he'd said to him when drunk off his ass on white gull, for instance.
"Are the paths ahead still clear?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, they're good enough, even for the horses. We're expecting the first big storm of the season by the end of the week, though, so a few more days and you would've been out of luck." Eskel spies the vodka bottle, then meanders over and swipes it up from the floor. "Your child surprise'll be happy to see you. Vesemir's been making her read bestiaries, I think she's about ready to crawl out of her own skin."
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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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He asks before capturing that thumb in his mouth to start sucking on it, blue eyes fixed on gold during the whole deal - challenge accepted, they say. Truth to be told, Geralt is right, Jaskier is able to make noise even while giving blowjobs. In fact, it's hard for him to stay silent right now too, even when it's just a thumb, because he wants to express how much he enjoys doing this, and he knows the vibrations add to the experience as well.
But he has a point to make.
Thin lips wrap around the whole thumb, tongue licking its entire length from all sides as Jaskier's hands matches the movement inside Geralt's pants. When his mouth finally pulls back, it stays for a minute at the tip, sucking on it and making a show of licking the edge where nail meets skin before letting go completely. Looking incredibly smug, Jaskier licks his lips as well.
"In case you've forgotten, darling, I just happen not to go in for that." Silence, he means in a little throwback to their first day together. His voice lowers to a sultry tone filled with lust when he remembers Rinde, and isn't that ironic? "Fuck, Geralt, trust me when I say I haven't forgotten about it. I'll be incredibly noisy when I take up that offer, how could I not? Having you on your knees in front of me..."
With a little whimper escaping this throat at the memory, he kisses Geralt again, more desperate than ever, arousal thick in his scent. His hips thrust as well, trying to find at least a little bit of friction, anything to keep his body from exploding with desire. Ignoring his need for Geralt hadn't been easy the last twenty years, but at least he was able to distract his boners in other beds. It turns out that actually having Geralt for himself and not being allowed to enjoy him is far more frustrating. We're of limited means right now, Geralt said, and Jaskier can't disagree - but even if they don't fuck tonight, they can at least get each other off at last. First orgasm together, the thing he's been wanting since he was eighteen.
No more interruptions.
"Have you ever even sucked cock before, Geralt?" The question is murmured against the witcher's neck as Jaskier starts dropping little kisses on pale skin, pushing his hand a little lower to try and get Geralt's balls a an extra incentive, since only stroking seems not to be doing much. "Have you been with a man in any way, I wonder." He has known Geralt is like him, a lover of both sexes, for a while now - but he's never known the details. Still not getting any kind of reaction in his hand, his fingers slow down, his voice loses the eroticism, starting to gain an edge of nervousness. "Have you ever enjoyed the touch that only a man can truly--"
It's not everyday that Jaskier loses track of his string of poetic babbling, but he's getting really worried now. The last four times, he's blamed the lack of boner on the fact they didn't go too far. Now though, well-- he can't possibly be this bad at it, right? He knows he has a bit of an ego (only a bit, Jask?), but even dropping any exaggerations about his skills, he would like to think he's been doing a decent job in foreplay not to get even a little reaction in return.
He pulls back his hand, looking at Geralt with a frown and his head tilted. He promised on the trials that made him that it isn't pity, Jaskier reminds himself, but his stomach still turns with doubt.
"Geralt? Do you even like the male touch? My touch? I cannot seem to get you going and it isn't exactly encouraging."
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And that slowly awakening cock of his is starting to stir, albeit only a little; there's heat starting to pool in his gut and he's a little more plump under Jaskier's hand. His point has been made, and made quite eloquently for someone not using a single word.
Jaskier preoccupies his mouth with Geralt's own again, his narrow hips giving an aborted little jerk as though trying to find some relief. Geralt takes pity on him, shifts him so that he can move a thigh between his legs and give him something to rut against. There's something very appealing about the desperation in him, in the biting, aggressive kiss and the way that he tries to press every inch of himself against Geralt; his earnest, raw wanting. Geralt could get drunk on just the smell of him alone.
Geralt hums at the question, have you ever even sucked cock before, and it is perhaps notably not a negative kind of hum. The witcher's history with sucking cock isn't as extensive as Jaskier's undoubtedly is, but he's been in that position once or twice-- he doesn't leave his bedpartners unsatisfied, even if they're just whores. His voice dips into something low and rumbly when Jaskier's hands travel south, cupping his balls, and his hands really are just as clever as he had guessed--
But the pleasant scent sours a little, his hand falters. The bard's customary babbling trails off as he loses the thread of it, and Geralt has never known Jaskier's incessant chatter to fumble like that. He can keep up a monologue without much direct input from his brain.
He's noticed. Of course he's noticed, he's got his hand in Geralt's pants and where there ought to be an erection, he's got a hand full of limp cock. That would be a disappointment for anyone, nevertheless Jaskier, who has twenty years of fantasizing for Geralt to live up to. This was probably never a feature of his daydreams.
"It's not what you think," he says, and internally winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. When has that ever been a good way to start a conversation, especially about one that involves fucking? Gods, he's had to explain this at least a hundred times to a hundred different whores, why is it so much harder now that the audience is Jaskier?
"It's not a lack of... desire," he tries to clarify, and it's really still not going well. "Fuck."
He takes Jaskier's hand and brings it to his throat, pressing the bard's fingers into the soft spot under his jaw where his pulse can be felt. Still slow-- a little faster than normal, a third of a human heart rate instead of a quarter, but still inhumanly slow.
"The slowness of my heart," he tries again, "makes it more difficult for me to bleed out, and also more difficult for... this. I am slow to rise and slower to finish. It's physiology, not unwillingness."
Geralt is entirely willing, he's been willing since fucking Oxenfurt. His cock just gets the message so much slower than the rest of him.
"Most become bored with the effort and time involved. It's... fine, Jaskier, you don't need to worry about it. Let me take care of you, and I can finish on my own."
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(Thank goodness for that, because explaining periods had been weird enough.)
The one who has explaining to do at the moment is Geralt, who starts with it's not what you think and wow, yeah, Jaskier is wincing too. Yikes. Definitely not a good start. He does, however, recognize the expression on Geralt's face - he's struggling with something and talking about it is hard. So Jaskier waits patiently for his lover to find the words he needs, his hand rubbing one of the witcher's arms to remind him that I'm here, you can tell me anything.
Geralt is a man of action rather than words, but still takes Jaskier by surprise when his hand is suddenly grabbed and taken to the witcher's neck. There it is, the feeling of Geralt's pulse under his fingers - it freaked him out a little bit the first he heard it all those years ago, but he's used to it now. Especially after he's spent time cuddling against Geralt's chest, the slow beat of his heart has become a safety blanket, a sign of being in the arms of his dear wolf. In fact, he could swear he knows it well enough by now to tell that it may be going a little faster, perhaps? Could it mean...?
The explanation finally comes and Jaskier's eyes widen, a gasp escaping his lips. Of fucking course, how didn't he think about that? To think he's supposed to be the educated one here!
"...oh." Blink, blink. "Oooooh! So you are enjoying this. Me. Us."
Jaskier smiles, relief exuding from every muscle of his body as tension and nervousness instantly fade away. If Geralt is having a good time, then that's all that matters. The rest? Witcher bullshit. And Jaskier has had twenty years to learn how to deal with all of it.
Something else does offend him, though, so get ready for the now classic dramatic indignation and wagging finger in Geralt's face.
"Let you finish on your own? I would never! What kind of lover do you take me for!" A huff as his hands move to his own waist then, any similarities to a scolding housewife are a mere coincidence. Witcher bullshit indeed - not only the heartbeat, but the low self-esteem. And the bastard being his dumb noble self by telling Jaskier he doesn't need to keep up with him. How does Geralt manage to keep on giving him reasons to love him so much? "So you're a slow raiser - big deal! That only means I get to play with you for longer. Am I supposed to be sad at the prospect of long sessions of love making? Because then you don't know me at all, you big oaf. Foreplay, my dear witcher, is what transforms a nice orgasm into an explosion."
He grabs Geralt's face then to kiss him sweetly - not teeth, no tongue. Just a tender kiss filled with affection, not meant to arouse but to reassure.
"I love you, Geralt of Rivia." He says as he makes their foreheads touch. "If your body didn't turn me off when it was spilling its guts on my hands through a bruxa injury, then nothing will."
If anything, it makes Jaskier more sure of his plan to, some day, get Geralt lying down between his thighs on the bed and kiss every scar, massage every muscle, worship every inch of pale skin until he accepts the fact his body makes the fucking gods jealous. Better seal this promise with a kiss...
Which gets interrupted when the door is slammed open.
You got to be kidding him.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"
Jaskier suddenly finds hinds himself pushed to the floor because of course Geralt doesn't hesitate to stand up (pants buttons undone and everything) and grab his sword, ready to jump into action. Whatever is at the door, the bard can't possibly give a damn, he just has one thing to say about it.
"Feed them to the bloody basilisks, Geralt!"
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Jaskier kisses him tenderly, presses their foreheads together, and Geralt feels that vice-like thing twist up his chest again. It's been happening so much more frequently around the bard, and a part of him hates it-- this sign that he's been botched badly enough to have some feeling left, but not so badly that he can return Jaskier's love as purely and truly as it's given. An echo of his sentiment is a poor way to repay two decades of devotion, but Geralt is selfish.
"I'd have no one else's hands putting my guts back in me," he replies, half a joke and half honest truth, tilts his head to meet Jaskier's lips, and--
And the fucking door bursts open. Geralt is on his feet in an instant, ignoring the bard's indignant screech, his sword already in his hand.
"Hey, Geralt, when we told you to make friends, we didn't mean another--"
The figure in the doorway steps inside, nearly as tall and broad as Geralt, but with brown hair instead of white and the same gold witchers' eyes. A grin breaks across his scarred face, pulling up to reveal teeth on the side that's been damaged.
"Oh, you have been making friends, huh? Put that sword down, brother, and," he makes a lazy gesture at Geralt's unbuttoned pants, "put that one away too, yeah?"
"What the fuck are you doing here, Eskel," Geralt growls, sheathing the sword and hastily buttoning up his pants. Fuck, there shouldn't be anyone this far down the mountain this late in the year. And the timing couldn't be more rotten. Is he cursed? Geralt is seriously considering getting himself checked for curses.
"The wyvern have been acting up, so I came down to deal with it. You're welcome, by the way." Eskel made his way over to the cabinets, pulling out another bag of jerky and tearing into a piece. "I saw Roach and decided I'd say hello. Didn't realize you'd be, y'know, getting friendly. You usually show up alone. And now you've brought a kid and a bard, all in one year!"
Eskel nods towards Jaskier, acknowledging the bard. "Hi, by the way. Let's not feed me to the bloody basilisks, if it's all the same to you."
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Except it's not any man.
Yellow eyes. Two very scary looking swords. Wolf medallion.
Another witcher.
Finally, after so many years! And it's not any witcher, oh no, it's one of Geralt's brothers. Eskel, he can guess by the scars and the lack of being a dick before Geralt says his name. Suddenly his sexual frustration is easily forgotten, Jaskier is fascinated by the scene in front of him, and he watches them interact closely, with all the curiosity and attention of the artist he is.
Eskel is nearly as big and fit as Geralt (to be expected) and quite handsome as well (fuck these hot witchers, does that come with the mutagens as well?). His attitude is more carefree it seems, but the body language, while not as closed up as Geralt's, Jaskier recognizes as the same. It's a witcher thing, he supposes, the way they move around a room and make sure their surroundings know they are not to be fucked with.
He's also chatty, and quite funny - he makes Jaskier chuckle a couple of times. So not all witchers are part-time mutes, huh? The best part is seeing him tease Geralt, just like brothers would do. There's a sense of family here, and it warms Jaskier's heart to see Geralt does have someone beside his freaking horse.
It's the sudden acknowledgment thrown his way that makes him snap out of his thoughts. Jaskier hurries to stand up, brushing off and fixing his clothes to look presentable. Eskel probably won't care, but he has an image to keep, especially if this is going to be his first official 'meeting the in-laws'. There's still a bit of a tent on his pants showing, and Eskel has probably already smelled it anyway, but better not to make things worse. So he closes Geralt's cloak around him, the wolf brooch a clear symbol on his chest.
As he comes closer, he goes through a thousand different things to say, charming words, maybe an apology. But one look at Geralt reminds him these are witchers, and they don't care for his courtly manners. They like people being direct, honest and, judging by the previous short exchange, maybe with a sense of humor too?
"I would apologize for thinking you were Nilfgardiaan soldiers and wishing you a very slow and agonizing death, but to be fair, that's what you get for interrupting." Okay, so maybe he is still a bit sexually frustrated. He has no shame, may as well use it - it's clear that he's joking anyway. With a friendly smile and his chin high, he extends his hand for Eskel to shake if it pleases him. His eyes never glance away, they meet this new pair of golds with the same determination he's always met Geralt's, silently telling him I'm not afraid. "Hi. I'm Jaskier, but you already knew that, did you not?" A kid and a bard, he said after all. "It's nice to meet a witcher that knows words that aren't just 'fuck'."
Sorry Geralt, but this is too good not to make fun of his beloved white wolf as well.
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"Trust me, if I'd known, I-- well, I'd have come in anyway, it's fucking cold out there. But look at the bright side, bard, now Geralt and I can keep you warm from both sides."
"Eskel--"
Geralt's voice is a low growl, the verbal equivalent of a warning. It's a noise that would've made lesser men run in fear, but Eskel only laughs at it, putting up both his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"I'm joking! It's a joke, Geralt," he says, then turns back to Jaskier and mouths 'grouchy' at him. "We've heard all about you, though, and not just because of that song I couldn't get out of my head for three weeks. But apparently there are a few things we haven't heard about--"
Eskel's eyes stray down to the bard's chest, where that wolf brooch is pinned. Geralt doesn't seem any more pleased that the topic of conversation has strayed into these waters, and tries to bring things around to neutral ground. Something that won't inevitably end with his asshole of a brother digging into things that he doesn't want to talk about or divulging things that he'd said to him when drunk off his ass on white gull, for instance.
"Are the paths ahead still clear?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, they're good enough, even for the horses. We're expecting the first big storm of the season by the end of the week, though, so a few more days and you would've been out of luck." Eskel spies the vodka bottle, then meanders over and swipes it up from the floor. "Your child surprise'll be happy to see you. Vesemir's been making her read bestiaries, I think she's about ready to crawl out of her own skin."
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