Someone certainly is pissed, and he's pissed that he's pissed. It's one big, pissiness cycle, and Geralt's in the middle of it, like an asshole.
Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Jaskier's fingers slow down with each of Geralt's words, frowning as he tries to put together whatever bullshit his witcher logic has came up with this time. Yes, Jaskier wants to yell, Eskel is very good at being there. He's only known him for a couple of days but his new friend has proven not to shy from Jaskier's various emotional moods, even if he does tense up when his witcher instincts don't know how to react to certain things. He accepted the word friend without hesitation. Yes, he has plenty of fodder for songs indeed, because he isn't stingy with the details.
They're truths, but also petty thoughts, things he wants to say just to hurt his heart's garroter the same way he hurt him first. But then Geralt adds the bit about spring, and Jaskier's brain finally catches on.
"...bloody hell. You are jealous."
The music comes to a full stop then. Jaskier wants to be offended at the mere thought of what Geralt is implying, but deep inside, he knows he would've done something very stupid if they had been in a town. Husbands and wives he may've bedded, yet he's never cheated himself - would've it counted as cheating this time, after he handed the brooch back? What are they even anymore? If they're something at all.
So no, he can't indignantly yell how dare you, I'm not a slut, because he knows what path that would take them through, and he isn't in a mood to defend his sex life. He's never made excuses for it since he left Lettenhove, and he isn't going to start now. So his anger attaches to be next best thing to be indignant about instead.
"Unbelievable! For you not to trust my word-- I was a fool, I admit, I should've expected that. But Eskel? Your own brother? You truly believe he would do that to you?"
Geralt reaches into his pocket, pulling out the wolf brooch that Jaskier had returned to him. He had kept it with him for the past day, even though there's really no reason to carry it; he could have put it in this room, left it on his shelf. It isn't even his-- Jaskier had gotten it, and should have it again. Silver's valuable, he would be able to sell it for a decent price once he gets down the mountain. Be rid of it and have some coin for his trouble.
"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."
There goes the asshole again, being poetic and respecting him his freedom, all while holding the symbol of their relationship in his hands (because of course the bastard didn't get rid of it, of course). And then he has the nerve to ask what he could even offer! How could Jaskier not love him? No, he isn't what his songs say - he's so much more.
Trying to play the lute again is impossible - his hands are shaking again, he tries two notes (terrible, just terrible) and that's enough to make him close his eyes and bump his head back against the stone of the windowsill. He's emotional, and restless, and he needs to do something to distract himself, not to give in, not to run to Geralt like he so badly wants to do right now to take care of that witcher logic bullshit.
And by the gods, Jaskier hates witcher logic bullshit so fucking much.
Right after his rescue, he told he wanted to forgive Geralt, but there's only so much he could take. How could he know the mountain fiasco wouldn't happen again? Ominous words, he realizes now. He gave in back then, and this is where it's brought him: with the pieces of his heart stuck in his throat. Geralt had promised, had given him his word, and what would happen if he does the same this time? What would make it any different?
Jaskier doesn't know what to do. He wants to fix things, he truly does. But like Geralt himself had said in Oxenfurt: I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces.
One blue eye opens when he hears the cursing and-- nostrils flaring. Ah, right. That's what's bothering him. Jaskier is used to being a touchy person, he hasn't even thought about how that would influence his scent. Because of Nilfgaard, they haven't exactly been out and about being social since they got together.
"I hugged him. We spent the day doing chores together, and I hugged him, and asked him to be my friend. He accepted." A pause as he considers how to word things next - he isn't saying this to placate Geralt's stupid jealousy (although it wouldn't be a bad idea, if they're going to have this talk, they need it free of any stupid assumptions). He's saying it for the sake of his own boundaries. "I woke up here, so I can only assume he was the one to bring me when I fell asleep - because that's what friends do. I have many a friend, Geralt. And I like hugging them. I also like going to taverns or feasts and dance with strangers, enjoy guiding the delicate feet of sweet maidens through the rhythm of a waltz. Human contact is part of my life, Geralt, one that isn't up for negotiation."
A sigh. Hopefully that's clear enough. He shouldn't need to clarify that said human contact is completely platonic - if he should, well. Things may be worse than he thought. Then again, isn't that what has brought them in this situation in the first place? Geralt not trusting his word. That's the topic Jaskier needs to jump on, but he knows Geralt, understands how his mind works. He isn't in the mood to go through the old same reassurances of you aren't the monster they say you are, you deserve kindness when he is feeling like the witcher had been behaving like shit, but if he doesn't take care of this first, they'll never be able to advance the conversation.
"Nobody chooses who they fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants." He explains as restless fingers are tapped on the wood of the lute, a leg getting shaky as well. "What exactly have I asked of you that you think you cannot give me?"
"You always smell like other people," he says, jaw tight. That isn't usually a problem, most humans smell like other humans. It's inevitable, when everyone lives practically on top of each other. "You don't always smell like Eskel."
And he didn't always smell like Eskel after giving back his claim and avoiding him. Not even coming to dinner. Ciri had told him that the bard had been in the library and likely was there all night, based on how he had been slumped over his books. There were plenty of other bedrooms, the bard could have found one that wasn't even anywhere near Geralt, if he had wanted to avoid him so badly.
No one chooses who they love, Jaskier says, as though a heart is a thing that can make decisions on its own, without any input from his head. Not that Geralt would know, all he has for reference are the false feelings planted in himself and Yennefer both by a poorly-conceived djinn wish. It was a choice, even if it wasn't, perhaps, the best one he'd ever made. But it must chafe at Jaskier, a man who loves his freedom and his choices, to not be able to choose who is the object of his love, or to rescind it by his own will when he so desires.
"Then I am sorry," he says, "that I've given you a burden that isn't of your own choosing." Loving a witcher can be nothing else but a burden, and loving Geralt of all witchers, doubly so.
"And that I cannot ease it with reciprocation."
It's a cruel sort of irony that Jaskier, a man who feels love so deeply and truly, would fall in love with a witcher who has had all such emotions stripped from him.
"Ohohoho, nononono, don't you fucking dare, Geralt of Rivia! Don't you fucking dare to repeat all that horseshit he put in your head back to me!"
It's a miracle that he manages to put his lute down against the wall gently when the fury returns, an angry and hurt ball of fire that lights up the entire bedroom when he jumps off the windowsill to pace the room with open arms, calling attention to its heat, its colors, its passion.
(His grandmother called him my buttercup because of his sunny personality - and like the sun, he burns bright and hot, trying to melt every frozen heart around him.)
Geralt's doing it again - doubting his own emotions, Jaskier can understand. Geralt's training pushes him to ignore those, to pretend they don't exist. It's not ideal, and it can get irritating, but he understands. He could be patient to work through them with time. But doubting Jaskier's word? His feelings on the matter? After twenty years of care and songs and friendship? It's like Geralt is spiting on his very face.
"Why would I follow a burden around the Continent for two decades, you cockeyed imbecile? It's as if you didn't know me at all! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, yet no matter how many times I say it, you keep dismissing my feelings! I CHOSE to stay by your side, I CHOSE to befriend you, I CHOSE to give you my youth, and I CHOSE to embrace these feelings instead of trying to-- LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!"
Coming closer is torture, he can feel Geralt's natural warmth coming off him in waves, even in winter. Touching his face is even worse, fingers burning on every inch of skin that makes contact when he grabs the witcher's chin to make him look at him. Blue eyes look up, fearless as always, carrying the same fire that is keeping his heart beating faster than a shot arrow.
"No, I haven't fucked your brother." He almost spits the word, but it feels good to bring it out of the shadows, to stop dancing around it. "And I'll never fuck any witcher, because every time I see golden eyes, I think of YOU. How could you possibly doubt my love after everything we've been through? I don't ask for much, Geralt. I want your trust, which I thought I had, and I cannot believe I had to ask for it again! Is one word from Vesemir truly enough to overthrow what we have? Does it mean that little to you?" The need to emote and flap his hands around is a good one, that way he can let go of Geralt's face before the touch destroys him. "I thought I had been clear back in Oxenfurt - I don't need poetry from you, or an epic confession. I only need your honesty. I only need you to want this because that's what I mean to you. And you SWORE on the trials that made you! Were you lying to me to shut me up?"
He steps back, opening his arms, his voice gaining a mocking tone.
"But you still want to do this? Fine! Let's do this! If you cannot reciprocate, if you cannot feel, then what were you running away from that day in Vizima after the sight-reading contest?"
Stomping and with tears finally appearing his eyes, Jaskier reaches the shelf and grabs the book with the ribbon inside, which he drops on the desk with a blomp.
"THIS isn't lust, Geralt!" He grabs the gwent deck next, same treatment. "THIS isn't lust either! And neither is this!" The wood carving on Roach isn't dropped, but it's put down rather strongly too, noisy all the same, because everything must be dramatic with this bard. "Sir Practicality kept all these, not your cock! My best friend in the whole world went fishing before sunrise so I could have seafood stew, not the monster hunter!"
A pause to breathe, because all the yelling has left him panting. Usually he's excellent at controlling his breathing, thanks to being a performer, but he isn't exactly in control at the moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, letting sadness take over instead of anger to match the words he chooses next.
"It was a brother that lamented the loss of another one of your kind back in the hunting cabin. Because there are many kinds of love and care, and grief is a manifestation of them." He sighs. "So I ask you again, Geralt. What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?"
Jaskier yells for him to look at him and his fingers grab Geralt's chin, turning his head to meet those cornflower blue eyes. They're fearless and angry and bright, and Geralt can't look away. There's a twitch in the witcher's jaw when Jaskier mentions Eskel-- he hadn't thought that the bard had literally jumped into bed with his brother the second that he was out of his sight, but the admission that golden eyes only ever makes Jaskier think of him jolts something in his chest. The bard's fingers are tight against Geralt's face and he doesn't try to shake them off, lets him pull him around as he wishes.
Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."
If there's something Jaskier has been feeling since Geralt rescued him, it's this deep, feral, raw need to scream.
And so he finally does.
He throws his head back and just screams, probably making his old singing coaches cringe over at Oxenfurt for what he's doing to his throat, but Cirilla may appreciate it. It's a powerful sound by a powerful voice, no words needed to understand the frustration that fuels it. There's only so much he can take, not even a romantic like him (who sings about love conquering it all) can withstand so much bullshit thrown at him without taking a hit or two. Or three, or a hundred. He's only human after all.
"You're bloody impossible! You aren't hearing a word I'm saying! You don't trust me!"
Reaching the door is easy, opening it is not. His hand freezes on the knob, and Jaskier rests his forehead against the wood as he sighs. He said he owes Eskel one, and he meant it. Leaving right now would equal burdening him with this shit the whole season - Cirilla, too. They deserve better than that.
Fuck his fondness for witchers.
Jaskier drags his feet back to the desk and decides to sit on it, legs crossed and hands going to his hips in his usual scolding housewife position. Even if they don't end up together after this conversation, he decides, they should at least reach some peaceful agreement not to make life hell for the rest of the keep and themselves.
"One!" He suddenly exclaims very seriously. "Stop assuming how I feel about things. If something it's worth keeping or not, that's MY choice to make. You KNOW that, you KNOW how much I hate people deciding my feelings for me. And if something makes me happy, so happy that I can feel my heart bursting, then I'd say that's worth the world. Two!" A hand frees his hip to start counting with his fingers. "Either there's some conversation I must be missing here or you're high in potions, because I never asked for the word love - I never asked for any particular words from you. I asked you to swear that you wanted me to be with you as more than friends. I asked you to swear that's what I mean to you, and you did. On the Path. And it meant the world to me. Are you following me so far?"
He's trying not to speak in riddles, just like Geralt likes it, but it's hard not to when discussing feelings. They're an abstract concept, something that needs to be described by poetry because of their very nature. His points are clear, he wants to believe: if something shakes him to his core, then it's worth keeping. And Geralt has shaken him to his core. It's not hard to add two plus two.
"Three." Another finger raises, but this time his voice softens a little it. Almost-- ashamed? "Back when Vesemir was talking to you, I-- I froze. Right at the beginning. I wanted to jump in to defend you and I couldn't, because--" His hands fall to his lap, so do his eyes. "--the way he talked to you, it reminded me of my father. I'm not saying you and I are the same!" He hurries to clarify, that shame completely taking over. "What's happened to you is atrocious, and I'm just a spoiled brat. What I'm trying to say is-- I felt helpless. Because that's what that logic does to you, Geralt. 'You can't have something because of who you are' takes all power to make choices away from you - I imagine that's what the elder witchers were going for. Don't make choices of your own, just follow the Path."
His voice breaks when he says that last part. Fuck, sitting down like this and going through things methodically is helping him a lot to calm down and remember how fucked up things are for Geralt, to remember why he decided to be patient all the way back when he was eighteen and work on a friendship that felt one-sided for a long, long time.
He's broken, and you are the only one that can help him.
Overwhelmed by it all, Jaskier raises his hand again and this time he cups Geralt's cheek, blue eyes begging for gold to stay with him, to believe his words. He surprises himself by feeling relief over the touch being comforting instead of burning - hopefully that's how it feels for Geralt as well.
"Love... love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape, see, but can you define the shape of a pear? I know I can't, not even with all my poetry. I don't need you to understand it, Geralt, I don't need you to put a name on it. All I need is to know there's something here." His other hand moves to rest on Geralt's very slow heart. "Everything you just told me - you're repeating their teachings. You're repeating what humanity has taught you through stones and insults. But even if you were right, a leftover, botched echo is still a feeling."
A calloused thumb strokes Geralt's cheek and before Jaskier can curse his own heart for giving in again, he pulls to bring Geralt closer and make their foreheads touch. A deep breath - gods, how he's missed this.
"I don't want you to tell me you aren't capable of feeling things, because that's a big pile of horseshit if I've ever smelled one. All your problems were born from you caring too much. Forget about witcher logic and your teachings, forget about Vesemir, forget about the shape and size of love, forget about the Path and the trials and the differences between you and I - how would you feel if I said I'm not worthy of you because I'm not powerful and immortal?" His fingers grab Geralt's shirt, and something sad sneaks into his scent - those are doubts that haunt him all the time. "Forget all that. I'm going to ask again, and the only answer I want to hear has to come from your heart, mutated as it is, because I love it that way. Four."
Another deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"Why did you save a bloody ribbon when I have hundreds of those? Why did you wake up before sunrise to fish for me when we had free food in the kitchens? Why does it matter if I smell of Eskel? Why did you take a moment in the middle of the road, while we were in a hurry, to tell me you won't share me? Why did you run away in Vizima? If it's because of something warm in your chest, something you only feel for me... then that's all I need from you. Nothing else."
Jaskier screams, and the sound is pure frustration. His voice is a powerful thing, which makes sense considering that he's a professionally trained vocalist, and the raw edge to it grates on Geralt's sensitive ears. His first thought, however, is that Jaskier shouldn't be doing that to his voice, not when it's his entire livelihood. The next thing that he thinks is that he has irredeemably, completely fucked everything, because the bard is at the door with his hand on the knob, ready to leave. Eskel had put them both in this room to sort everything out, and, technically, deciding that none of this would work is accomplishing that goal. It just is also something that makes Geralt's heart rate tic up into a pace that he usually doesn't get to without the aid of potions.
He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.
The fact Geralt tips his head into his palm even after all the screaming and fighting, even after everything has become simply a mess, makes Jaskier melt. He's such a fool, and yet he doesn't do anything to stop it.
I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting
A cute little gasp escapes him when he feels that heartbeat under his fingers, followed by a choked sound, a mix of a chuckle and a sob. The sweetness returns to his scent - not overwhelming as other times, but it's there, mixing with the bitterness. Poets through the ages have put feelings into words, lovers have showed them through gifts, but there's nothing more honest and natural than a heartbeat. No gesture in the world can top this.
"That's it, darling. That's your pear." He says with a smile, fingers stroking Geralt's neck lovingly. The term of endearment isn't planned, but he's too touched by this not to use it. Hope is trying to peek back... "And it's the most romantic pear I've ever gotten. Anyone can toss a coin and buy flowers, but this? This is your body, calling for me. Fuck, I want to kiss you so badly right now."
Yet he doesn't, because while he's ready to let his heart explode with love, to throw himself back in Geralt's arms, he hasn't forgotten this keeps happening. He had been wary to forgive Geralt and that had just been their friendship - how would his heart survive after the final relationship jump?
"If you ask me, Geralt - I think we have something amazing here. And I know this is too new for you, too much. I don't mind reassuring you from time to time, guiding you through it - haven't I done that the last twenty years? With friendship, but the point stands nonetheless. It's my honor that you let me in like this. I want nothing more than having you on the bed between my legs and kissing every single one of your scars, telling you how they only make you more handsome. I can be patient through your witchering ways - I have been for two decades. But I need you to believe it, my dear. To believe in us, in my words, to trust me. Doubts are fine, I have them myself - but please don't put up your walls every time Vesemir tells you too." A sigh. "They go up in a moment but it takes me days to bring them down again. There's only so much I can take - I've said that already, haven't I? Back in Vizima."
He forgave Geralt because he promised to try. And he did - he's been Geralt still, throwing jabs at Jaskier, brooding when he felt like it, but less mean, more accepting of their friendship. Jaskier's hand grabs Geralt chin again, searching those golden eyes for any signs of doubt or honesty.
"I don't want coin or a bodyguard. I want your company - your stories and your pear. Be as a friend, or your significant other. I like you, Geralt. I love you. Do you believe me?"
Jaskier's fingers are at his throat, touching the skin there like he's something precious. Geralt could count the instances that he let someone touch his throat on one hand, with the exception of Jaskier-- the bard could probably get his hands around it and Geralt wouldn't stop him. He would trust the bard with a blade to his throat and, in the past, had, when Jaskier had shaved him after a bath. He'd lain in the water with his throat bared, and Jaskier could have slit his throat before even a witcher's reflexes could've stopped him.
If he can trust him with that, he can trust him with whatever the hell all of this is, can't he? With his heart, or what's left of it these days after the Trials burned through him and the world tried to crush him.
Geralt wants to kiss him. He wants to push him down onto the bed and strip off all of his clothes and make the bard smell like nothing but him. He wants Jaskier to do whatever he wants with him; he'd get on his knees again for him, if it would please him. Anything. Anything that Jaskier wanted from him, anything that would please him, would be his with just a word.
The bard grasps his chin again, tilts his face so that he can look into Geralt's eyes; the pupils are dilated, round instead of cat's-eyed. He can constrict them at will, usually, but some things make that harder-- adrenaline, for one thing. Looking at Jaskier, for another.
Do you believe me?
"I don't understand you," he says, and it's true-- he doesn't understand how Jaskier can give him second chance after second chance, "but I believe you. I trust you, Jask."
Perhaps he doesn't have to understand him. Perhaps he would come to understand him, in time. Trust is the important thing, and he has already trusted Jaskier with so many things. When has he ever truly been let down by him for anything that mattered? He'll be far gentler with this soft, weak part of Geralt than Geralt had ever been with him.
The wolf brooch is still in his hand; he'd been holding it this whole time, clutched in his palm until the edges dug in. He uncurls his fingers, offers it back to Jaskier. Both a symbol, and also because it was never Geralt's to begin with. Even if it represents Geralt's claim to him, it's a thing that Jaskier chooses to wear; he is only claimed because he wishes to be.
"I don't think anybody really understands me, Geralt." He says, laughing. It's not at the witcher, but simply a expression of mirth. "But if anyone could ever come close, that's probably you."
The mirth sends all the last of the bitterness away, and Jaskier's scent is back to being overwhelmingly sweet. The nickname is back, and he has Geralt's trust. His feelings, too, beating strongly in that broad chest. They have each other, they have trust, and they keep managing to work through their troubles - even if they needed a little push to do so.
They're going to be fine.
They have pears.
Geralt's offering the brooch himself, without Jaskier having to ask for it, that makes him smile from ear to ear. He doesn't grab it though - with his heart beating fast, he reaches for Geralt's face instead, to bring him in for a kiss. It starts sweet and tender but gods, he's missed this, missed him, so Jaskier ends up nibbling on Geralt's lower lip and letting his tongue make a quick peek before finally pulling back, cheeks flushed.
"I do. Go on, my wolf, make your claim. And then you shall start working on making my scent right again." A wink. "I hope you understand I may have to hug Eskel again tomorrow as a thank you for pushing us here, so you better be incredibly thorough."
He's being a little shit, and he knows it. But a possessive Geralt is such a fun Geralt, and going down to breakfast with a purple neck would be the perfect fuck you on Vesemir's face.
A kiss is just as good as him taking the brooch; it's soft and gentle at first, tender in that particular way that Jaskier has that makes his chest tighten up and pulls a low, broken sound out of his throat. Jaskier already wrecks him with just a kiss-- there's no telling how much he might ruin him with more. Then there's teeth on his lips and that noise goes from broken to growling, arousal jolting through his guts. He gets a hand on the bard's hip, gripping him through layers of fabric, aching for skin.
He pulls away far too quickly for Geralt's liking, and the witcher chases his lips, one last quick press before he starts talking. It's too long to be without, though, not when just that relatively tame kiss set a fire under his skin. The only cure for it is the bard's hands on him-- his body, calling for him. A poetic way of saying that he wants Jaskier under him and screaming his name.
A wink and a few coy words gives him all the permission that he needs.
"I'll pin this to you in the morning," he says, setting the brooch on the desk. He'd put it on him now, but there's a lot of fabric between him and Jaskier's skin and so many buttons, and Geralt has very little patience. He kisses him again, getting his arms around the bard and pulling him in, then ducks his head against his neck and breathes. He smells sweet again, honey and happiness, and Geralt bites the pulse point on Jaskier's throat where the smell is strongest.
"How fond are you of this doublet?"
Geralt thinks it might be the worst thing he's ever seen on Jaskier. Hardly flattering at all, it would be practically a favor to get it off of him.
Honey, happiness and arousal, because the fact he can get Geralt to make such erotic noises is a turn-on all by itself. The witcher chases after his lips, needing more, he grabs his and breathes him and Jaskier can just get drunk in this feeling. For such an amazing man -old and powerful, with senses that allow him to feel in ways he can't even start to imagine- to be so aroused by a mere human like him, well, it's simply... intoxicating.
Jaskier's body react easily to every touch: he throws his head back to offer his neck, groaning at the bite, and his legs close around Geralt as soon as he comes closer. How fond is he of this doublet? Honestly, Jaskier is fond of all his doublets. They're fine silks, not exactly cheap. But tonight is a special occasion, and there's no way they're getting interrupted again thanks to Eskel. He has a whole winter ahead of him to sew and well...
A fantasy to fulfill.
Twenty years of pining and awkward boners... time to fucking celebrate.
His arms are thrown around Geralt's shoulders and Jaskier licks his ear before whispering against it.
"Throw me on the bed and rip it."
If that doesn't show how much he loves him, honestly, nothing will.
How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.
Jaskier laughs when Geralt picks him and throws him, a tent already forming in his pants, the scent of arousal taking over. They've slept on this bed already, and Jaskier hadn't thought much of it - twenty years of traveling together means they've fallen asleep in thousands of different places, one stops noticing after a while. It's downing on him now though, feeling the fur tickle the back of his head, this is Geralt's bed. Geralt, the White Wolf, mighty witcher, is going to fuck him. On his bed. Who nobody else has ever gotten to share, not like this at least.
His blood may be traveling south pretty quickly, but his ego is hitting the fucking roof. And Geralt wanted him to believed he was only capable of 'echos' while bringing him to his most intimate, private space? Hah.
As soon as Geralt's hands touch his legs, Jaskier is opening them himself in a silent invitation, lips being licked at the sight of Geralt climbing on top of him... which causes him to accidentally bite his tongue when he whimpers as his doublet is ripped as easily as it had been paper.
He'll spend the whole day tomorrow searching for those buttons.
Worth it.
"Fuck." It's deep, heartfelt, somehow managing to pronounce every letter naughtily. "I love how strong you are." Jaskier's fully hard now, and his hips thrust up when Geralt descends on him to mark his neck. "Do I look better on your bed as well, my wolf?" He asks as deft fingers start working on the buttons of Geralt's pants. "Do I--ah, yes, mmh, keep doing that-- do I smell of you yet? I want to, so badly-- mmh, fuck-- I want every single witcher in this keep to smell what you've done to me as soon as I leave this room."
Buttons undone, Jaskier slips a hand inside, starting to stroke Geralt's bulge through his small clothes. Usually he wouldn't jump so soon on it, but he remembers the little witcher biology lesson Geralt gave him in the cabin, so he wants to help. Besides, after having to wait for so long, he's simply dying to hold such a powerful cock in his hand and have his way with it all night long.
Jaskier is the first human who has been welcomed at Kaer Morhen since the sacking, other than Geralt's child surprise. The first person that Geralt has ever brought to this bed, the first to be pressed against the furs, the first to have spent an entire night there with him. The first, if Geralt doesn't do something else that's wildly wrong, to spend an entire winter there with him.
The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.
Geralt may think he hasn't done much at all, but for Jaskier, every little gesture of his speaks volumes. Will there be a future where the fact he's actually fucking Geralt of Rivia doesn't blow his mind? Probably, but that's not a thought for this moment. Right now, Jaskier wants to lose himself in the feelings of his beloved witcher caring for and wanting him back, in all those details that coming from his wolf mean a hundred times more because Jaskier knows how special they are, how not just anyone gets this privilege.
(How most people wouldn't even consider it a privilege.)
"Then do some--" His cheeky remark is interrupted when his chemise is tugged up but hey, he isn't complaining. The exact opposite in fact, it strokes his ego just right that Geralt is as eager for this as he is, desperate for more contact. Geralt bucks into his hand as Jaskier's body arches under the witcher's mouth, whimpering when teeth play with his nipples, smiling at the fact Geralt doesn't mind either his chest hair or his new scars.
Am I still pretty? he wants to ask, and he knows it's a very stupid question, because Geralt obviously still wants to fuck him, and he shouldn't feel self conscious about them when the witcher has carried his own for a century. So he keeps it to himself.
"Fuck." He says as well, his turn to thrust his hips against Geralt's hand, which is sadly gone too soon. It had barely been one second of touching his groin and he can already feel his whole body on fire, only made worse (or shall we say better) by Geralt tugging at his pants above his ass, so teasingly close yet not touching enough. (Mental note: the bow is a deliciously torture success.) "And you will smell of me, right? A constant reminder of whom snatched the White Wolf from their pack right under their sensitive noses..."
He mainly means Vesemir, obviously, but the idea in general is inherently erotic - carrying the brooch on his chest is one thing. But for Geralt to go out smelling of claim as well, the mighty wolf showing he belongs to a mere human bard... fuck. Jaskier may be lucky not to have a witcher's sense of smell after all, or he'd be hard all day long.
Speaking of hard, Geralt is getting there faster than he had in the cabin, but there's still some work to be done - he's the one needing the attention next. Jaskier lightly pushes and is surprised at the fact Geralt moves along, allowing them to flip their positions. Not something he would have trouble achieving with the ladies or fellow twinks, but his boyfriend is a fucking brick wall. It's this kind of trust that drives him crazy, how can he not be so strongly aroused already?
"You complain about my clothes." He comments as he moves to the edge of the bed. "But you're overdressed as well, love. What do you think is harder to take off, mmh? Some innocent buttons? Or the pants you wear like a bloody second skin?"
Grinning, he pulls at the black leather then throws it on the floor, making it land near his doublet to make a point. He's dying to take off Geralt's smallclothes as well, but he waits for that one, unsure if the witcher's self-esteem wants his dick exposed while not fully hard yet - not something to be embarrassed of, but he knows how Geralt's mind works.
Jaskier hops off the bed then, and since Geralt has already undone the bow, he only has to wiggle his hips to let his pants fall to the floor, which he does while looking directly at golden eyes and licking his lips - there's already a pre-come stain on his own smallclothes.
"Would you take your tunic off for me, my dear? Let me see you flex those marvelous muscles." His eyes are still on Geralt as he walks towards his grooming kit, only taking them off that god-like body to retrieve the one vial of oil that has nothing to do with baths. Said vial is thrown on the mattress on his way back, but before jumping back on the bed, Jaskier turns around and very slowly pulls down his smallclothes, bending over just right as he wiggles his ass and strokes his legs for Geralt.
(His fingers brush the whip marks on the back of his legs and he hopes Geralt's dumb brain aren't thinking too hard about them. Like he is.)
"Like what you see?" He asks with a flirty and fake-shy tone as he climbs on Geralt's lap to straddle him, his erection hard and proud for the witcher, making him hiss when it brushes Geralt's body as he sits down on his groin to roll his hips and press his ass against that slow raising boner. Jaskier bends over to undo Geralt's hair tie and it's then that the idea hits him - he's surprised yet again when he takes the medallion off that thick neck without protest from his lover and gods, isn't that another amazing fuck you at witcher 'tradition'? He puts it around his own neck before tilting his head and asking with the same bawdy voice from before. "How about now?"
The bard pushes at Geralt's shoulder and he moves with it, following his direction without complaint. The furs are warm and soft against his back and Jaskier is lovely above him, the firelight painting his skin in golden shades. He doesn't stay there for long, though, moving to the edge of the bed far sooner than Geralt would've liked, out of his reach. It's just to get his trousers off, and Geralt lifts his hips and helps him pull the fabric down. There's some difficulty getting the tight material over his ass and thick thighs.
"They're practical, unlike your silks," he says, because it's true. And then he adds, also because it's true, "You like them."
Jaskier hops off of the bed and Geralt props himself up on his elbows to watch him; he gets an excellent view of the bard's trousers dropping off of his hips. The garment had been barely clinging to him with the tie undone and needed only a little coaxing to fall, pooling at the bard's feet in a pile of colorful fabric. Geralt's gaze goes from the bard's feet and up those shapely legs of his-- all that walking did him a world of good, gave him firm calves and lean-muscled thighs and a tight ass. It lingers on his wet smalls, and Geralt can smell his arousal, a warm musk that makes his mouth water. The bard asks him to strip off his shirt and he obeys without hesitation, his eyes only leaving Jaskier's body because he has to drag the fabric over his head. It musses his hair in the process.
There's a soft thump as a vial lands on the bed next to him. It's filled with oil, but Geralt can tell without even popping the cork that it isn't one of the heavily fragranced ones that Jaskier uses for his baths. It's a neutral oil, slightly more viscous than standard seed oils, a pale amber in color. Its purpose is obvious, making what would otherwise be an innocuous bottle a lascivious connotation.
Jaskier doesn't just return to Geralt's arms immediately after fetching his supplies; he turns and drops his smallclothes coquettishly, bending over for a coy little strip-tease with his ass on display, and Geralt makes a low noise in his chest that couldn't be mistaken for anything but want. Even with the scars on his legs-- scars that shouldn't be there, scars that are his fault-- he's still a sight. A few marks would never be enough to dissuade Geralt from someone that he desires, and he desires Jaskier to an extent that may be unwise.
He returns to his witcher's lap and Geralt's hands are immediately back on his skin, running over his hips and thighs, making a pleased hum at the sounds that Jaskier makes when his cock brushes against his stomach. This isn't the first time that he'd seen the bard's cock-- they'd shared baths often enough that it would've been impossible not to have seen it-- but he usually doesn't see it in quite this state. Jaskier is impressively hard and, though Geralt isn't an expert on the aesthetics of penises, he has a cock that seems to be pleasing in both size and shape.
"I see why women are so fond of you," he says, his voice dropping into those low registers that he knows Jaskier is fond of. The slow grind of their hips produces a delicious friction, and Geralt hums at the growing heat and pleasure in his guts, at Jaskier's deft hands in his hair. The fact that Jaskier is taking such time with him and being so patient about the inconveniences of his witcher physiology isn't lost on him; with a normal man, Jaskier could have been on his back by now, getting pleasured in just the way he likes. Instead, he must endure Geralt's deficiencies before he can get what he wants.
He doesn't stop the bard when his hands go from Geralt's hair to the chain around his neck, pulling the medallion off and replacing it around his own. Geralt brings a hand up to touch the warm metal as it lays against his chest, running his thumb along the outer curve; he thinks of Coën and the two medallions that he wears on one chain, wolf and griffin together. No one has to say it out loud, what he and Clovis were. No one has asked Coën for the medallion back. If there is any rightful place for it to be, it's where it is now.
Geralt sits up, his hands reaching to frame Jaskier's face as he drags him into a kiss, one that is long and open-mouthed and filthy, speaks as much to his desire and how much he likes what he sees as anything could.
"Only while you're here," he says against Jaskier's soft lips, then leans back in to kiss him again and moves one hand from his face down to his chest-- pinches at one of his nipples, just to tease-- and down to where his hard cock is waiting. He thumbs over the tip, spreading some of the slick fluid that had collected there over the crown.
It's downright exhilarating to have Geralt's gaze follow his every move and observe every inch of skin he reveals, golden eyes filled with what can only be described as hunger. And when he makes that low noise on his chest? Fuck, Jaskier is two seconds away from just laying down on the bed and letting the wolf devour him.
He wants to be devoured.
Geralt's hands are back on him and every spot of skin he touches is on fire, making Jaskier hum with pleasure as well, his ass answering by pressing harder against Geralt's groin. His thighs are being touched, scars and all, and isn't that a wonderful-- wait. What?
"Oi! Ladies like me because of my charm, my generosity as a lover, my sweet words and my gentle touch." Humble bard right here, ladies and gentlemen. "Not only because of my--" And then what Geralt is saying really hits him. His pouting becomes bright smile. "...you like my dick." He can't help it, he freaking giggles. "Thanks."
It seems wearing the medallion is an excellent idea after all - Jaskier stays quiet for a second, letting Geralt admire the view, letting the meaning sink in. The brooch carries a message as well, of course, but wearing the medallion is a hundred times more powerful, and Jaskier can feel the heavy weight of that meaning on his chest, on the cold metal that touches his blushed skin. If this right here isn't love, trust, a pear, then he doesn't know what it is.
A yesssss is murmured when Geralt sits up, and Jaskier meets his kiss mid-way to crash their mouths together and let their tongues meet each other (eager, desperate to explore) as his hands are finally close enough to go all out. He strokes every muscle, from arms to shoulders to that amazing thick neck, claws at those defined abs and gropes those firm pecs, nails digging in a little bit when Geralt pinches his nipple. Jaskier doesn't stop being noisy even while being kissed, pleasantly humming and whimpering against Geralt's mouth, but he has to break their making out to throw his head back and groan when a big hand finally touches his dick.
"Geralt." Each letter of his lover's name is filthy with need, and his hips can't help thrusting against those fingers (calloused as his own, because of the sword and not the lute, but it's still such a lovely connection to have). He hasn't been touched in so long, and he's only had that one orgasm in Oxenfurt recently, he doesn't know how long he'll last if Geralt goes for a full hand job. Which would be embarrassing as hell, because he prides himself of being an excellent lover, and that doesn't include coming too soon.
"Easy, my wolf." He teases as he buries his face in Geralt's neck to do some biting and kissing of his own, deft fingers massaging Geralt's pecs still. "My body craves for your touch with the rawest of needs, years of pining and weeks without company have me more sensitive than usual. I wouldn't want to let you down by reaching ecstasy with the timing of a virgin."
Jaskier is a wonderfully noisy bedpartner-- Geralt had once desired blessed silence from the bard, but that was before he knew what he sounded like when he was being kissed senseless, the way he drawled the witcher's name with a voice dripping with lust. Geralt swallows the noises that he makes in their kiss, every sigh and moan, and even adds a few of his own; Jaskier's hands are never still, wandering their way over his body and touching everything in their reach, wringing pleasure from him. His nails dig into Geralt's skin and he sighs, enjoys the brief sting of it as they leave half-moon marks on his chest. They wouldn't last for very long, but that's fine, Jaskier could try to leave whatever marks he wanted on his skin. If he tries very hard, maybe something would see the light of morning.
"Jaskier," he replies, his voice teasing and carrying an undercurrent of lust.
The bard's hips jerk against his fingers and that's... appealing, in many ways. He's sensitive and reacts to every little thing that Geralt does, twitches when he switches from rubbing the crown to thumbing underneath the frenulum, tracing his fingers along the thick veins of his shaft. He'd rarely had the time to really acquaint himself with any individual's member, since his only dalliances with men were in brothels and his time with them was paid for by the hour. Jaskier's cock, despite being fully erect, is surprisingly soft skinned-- steel wrapped in silk. Geralt thinks that he might like to put it in his mouth, if that would be something that Jaskier would be inclined towards.
He hums at the feeling of Jaskier's teeth in his neck, his hands still enthralled with his chest. And that's... interesting, he can understand why Jaskier would be drawn towards a woman's soft breasts, but it's odd that he would have that kind of regard for the witcher's own firm pectorals. Jaskier digs his fingers into a sore spot-- he'd overworked his muscles a little when he was repairing the western wall-- and Geralt grunts. He almost wishes that the bard had grabbed the chamomile oil, he could've used a massage.
"I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire," he says, and his hand slides further down until he's cupping Jaskier's balls, gently rolling them in his palm. "Come whenever it pleases you. I can wait until you're ready again."
Geralt himself is at about half-mast by now. Even if Jaskier came before he was ready, there would be some time before he was fully hard anyway, and he could be patient. He could wait and tease the bard until he's back to full hardness again and then continue their play.
Jaskier is noisy in every aspect of life and sex isn't the exception - his lovers deserve to know how good they make him feel, his pleasure deserves to be expressed. He doesn't expect Geralt to return the favor, knowing the witcher too well... or maybe not, because Geralt adds quite a few noises of his own and Jaskier's ears fucking tingle, his whole body shivering when his name is said just right.
He swears to the gods he could come just from it - one day, he thinks. One day, when he's learned Geralt's likes and tells in bed like he knows his own, he'll ask the witcher to guide him through his orgasm with just his deep, sexy voice. And it shall be marvelous.
His hands are marvelous as well, something Jaskier has know for a while merely through observation but is pleased to relearn in practice. They're big, thick and strong, just like the rest of Geralt, yet they are kind when they stroke his dick, making Jaskier bite his neck a little harder than he intended. He licks the bite mark as apology as his hips continue to thrust into Geralt's fingers, moaning more for him and relishing the fact the White Wolf himself is touching him like this, gently, softly, controlling the strength that can decapitate enemies just for him.
Nobody makes him feel as seen as Geralt, which is an irony, because the man used to make him feels as ignored as well. Ah, Destiny, you crazy bitch.
The grunt calls his attention, recognizing it as not a very comfortable one - years of learning to speak Geraltese do that to you. Jaskier pauses he ministrations instantly: hands stop groping to rest tenderly on Geralt's chest instead, his head is pulled back (cheeks flushed, lips red and glistening with saliva, hair tousled and pupils wide with arousal) to look at his witcher with worry. Did he do something wrong? The question dies in his lips, however, when Geralt speaks up, once again being a romantic bastard without even meaning to.
I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire. Fuck if that doesn't deserve to be a line in a poem!
"I'm not in the habit of making my lover waaa-AAH, FUCK." The cupping of his balls makes Jaskier go his loudest so far, and the rolling of his hips becomes more frantic, his cock twitching at the loss of contact. He slows down a bit, however, at the question. His record is six, and he remembers that night fondly, however...
He isn't eighteen anymore.
It isn't just one, at least, that he knows well, and he hopes his dick won't fail him tonight- it simply can't, he thinks, not when they're finally fucking the person that has kept it up the most. If someone could help him have orgasms as if he was young again, that's definitely Geralt.
(One day he won't be able to do this anymore, and Geralt will need whores again. Jaskier won't stop him from leaving then.)
"A-a few. It depends." He starts kissing Geralt's shoulders as he speaks. "But I told you before, didn't I? I like foreplay. I like touching you. I don't mind waiting for you."
"Hm," Geralt says, and this is a particularly thoughtful sort of hm, a sound that indicates that he has just learned something interesting and intends to commit it to memory. Jaskier practically yelped when he started paying attention to his balls, and Geralt found the sudden jump in his voice and the desperate rutting of his hips to be quite appealing. The bard's cock twitches, and there's a clear bead of precome on the head of it that the witcher considers tasting. Perhaps he tastes as good as he smells.
He would like to taste all of Jaskier, really. As much as the bard will allow him. And if he has more than one orgasm in him for a night, well, there's no reason why Jaskier couldn't have one or two of them while Geralt's cock is still trying to catch up.
There's a quiver to the bard's voice when he speaks, and it's a more pleasing sound than all of his white wolf ballads, and one that Geralt selfishly wants to keep for himself. His lips press against Geralt's scarred shoulder and he knows that they're soft and warm despite not being able to directly feel it, as the scar that he presses them to has nothing but deadened nerves. Claw marks from a beast that had gotten a lucky strike in, back before he had a bard to take care of his injuries for him. While he lays kisses to unfeeling skin, Geralt slides his hand to the back of Jaskier's neck, running his thumb across the nape of it, right along his hairline.
Jaskier's skin is very fine there, at the nape of his neck. Delicate, and Geralt is acutely aware of how easy it would be to hurt him. He keeps his grip loose, forces his touch into unaccustomed gentleness.
"A few is fine," he says. "You can spill down my throat on the first, come on my fingers for the second, and I'll fuck you for the third."
It's a good plan. A solid plan. And Geralt always performs best when he has clear, well-defined goals to strive for, and he is, if nothing else, an efficient tool. He can be as efficient in giving pleasure as he is with killing monsters, and he's far more comfortable with giving pleasure than receiving it. It's possibly an ideal situation-- a set of tasks for Geralt to complete with all the single-minded focus of a witcher, and with the only death at the end of it a few very pleasant little deaths.
Jaskier hums when Geralt rubs the nape of his neck, melting under the kindness and sensitivity of the touch - he can already picture their future together, cuddling in bed or just sitting by the fire, Geralt offering gentle affection. Once an impossible dream, now a reality he can look forward to.
The humming becomes a groan, however, when Geralt speaks again. Jaskier's hips give an extra hard thrust as he drops his forehead on Geralt's shoulder, his mind overwhelming him with the mental images, his ego and his heart full of love for this man both growing ten times bigger at the idea of Geralt finding him coming foreplay enough.
"Fuck, Geralt. Destroying this poor bard with his own weapon, aren't you?" Words, he means.
Usually he wouldn't be hesitating this much - multiple orgasms isn't anything particularly kinky, in fact, he would call at least two his standard. Side-effects of fucking a witcher, he supposes, especially after the talk they just had. And especially because he knows how Geralt's mind works. He isn't second guessing the idea, he's just worried about the why behind it.
Speaking of their recent conversation... he should be trusting Geralt in return, shouldn't he? But he can't help it, it feels like witcher logic is a shadow that haunts them. Which isn't Geralt's fault. Once again, Jaskier pulls his head back to look at his lover eye to eye as both his hands cup the witcher's face. Blue eyes search gold (his favorite color, oh how lucky he is) for any kind of silly thoughts, he ends up licking his lips and whimpering a bit when he finds raw lust in them. For him.
"Fiiiiine. Fine! It's not something I would've ever thought I would have to think about twice - I mean, who would? Multiple orgasms! Being the center of your attention! An instant yes, really! I should be ashamed of myself right now!" He shakes his head, mostly at himself, but then he pecks Geralt's lips. "I just want you to be reassured that this is for our fun and pleasure, my dear, and not because I mind waiting for you. Understood?"
Remember to trust me, his tone says. He kisses Geralt again then, intending to start a good and proper make-out, but as his hands leave the witcher's face to make their way down, he realizes something. If he's going to come more than once tonight, well... he would like to keep his orgasms varied, then. Do all the things he's dreamed about doing for so long. Okay, not all of them, that will take all winter. But at least a few.
Would it be too soon to ask, he wonders as he breaks the kiss to worry his lower lip for a second. It's not like it's something super kinky but... oh, to hell with it. Obviously Geralt is talking dirty to him - may as well take the chance and do the dirty too.
"I spill in your mouth, you spill in my ass. I like the sound of that, love." Another term of endearment, said with a low tone full of promise and need. His calloused fingers find Geralt's nipples and start playing with them as he makes his request. "As for the third one-- would you allow me to spill on your gorgeous chest?"
He pinches both nipples then, showing exactly how much he likes them. Which is a lot.
Jaskier cups his face in both of his hands, looking into Geralt's eyes as though searching for something there. The witcher waits, despite his desire to start on the tasks that he'd been given-- like a dog whose master is holding a treat in front of him and telling him to stay. His obedience doesn't temper the want in his eyes or quell his desire to taste the bard's skin. Jaskier licks his lips and Geralt's eyes flicker to them, briefly, and for a lesser man, it may have been too much of a temptation to resist. Even a witcher's prodigious resolve could only take so much.
He speaks-- of course he speaks, Jaskier rarely does anything else-- and the brief, chaste press of his lips to Geralt's isn't even close to enough. This is for our fun and pleasure, he reminds his witcher, as though he could have forgotten that being in bed with Jaskier is a pleasure. It would be a pleasure even if Jaskier had made him sit on the other side of the room and watch him bring himself to orgasm and not allowed him to touch at all.
Geralt is kissed again before he can respond, which is just as well. He presses into it and would gladly make it as filthy and deep as Jaskier likes, except that the bard pulls back again and he makes an annoyed noise at the break. Are they to talk all night? Had Jaskier not gotten his fill of blue balls in the past few weeks? If they're prevented from fucking again by the bard's own inability to shut up, Geralt will have Vesemir check him for curses, awkwardness of explaining this to the old witcher be damned.
When Jaskier speaks, it's confirming part of the course of action that Geralt intended to take, with the addition of an endearment that's... still hard to hear. It's still difficult, every time Jaskier calls him love or mentions loving him, from the sheer inequality of their feelings. He makes up for it with the pinches to Geralt's chest, and he'll soon discover that though the witcher's cock is slow to rise, his nipples require far less blood flow and perk up much quicker.
Geralt groans, both at the tug of bard's fingers and his words. Jaskier could come on whatever part of Geralt pleases him.
"Yes."
His objectives have been modified, but it's desirable, attainable. A monster that Geralt both knows how to slay and is eager to. There's no reason to waste more time with speaking-- anything that needs to be said, has been. Geralt shifts the both of them back a little, so that when he lays down again, his head is resting against the pillows. He could have chosen a different position, perhaps flipped the bard onto the bed and held his hips down, but this-- well, Jaskier had said to trust him. And there's little that he could do that would actually hurt Geralt, even if the bard is in control.
"Come," he says, with a little tap to the bard's ass. Scoot up, Jaskier, there's a witcher's mouth waiting to be full of your cock.
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Jealous. That's ridiculous, isn't it? He just hates that Jaskier smells like his brother, because the mix of Eskel with Jaskier's own scent is jarring and wrong when he's used to it being a mix of his and Jaskier's. It's like someone touching Roach, or his swords, or his potion bag. And, sure, he would let Eskel touch any of those if he needed to, because Eskel is a witcher and knows how to not kill himself with alchemical ingredients or get kicked by Roach. But Jaskier is--
Different.
Geralt is aware of the fact that he's standing near the doorway, glowering at the bard. He just also can't stop. He grunts in response to the accusations of jealousy, because that's the only response something so stupid merits.
"I'm sure he's very good at being there," he says, and the notes of Her sweet kiss feel like-- mockery. I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. Well, that wanting passed quick, didn't it? Moving on to another witcher. Eskel is a better match for him anyway, though, and what fucking right does Geralt have to dictate where he puts his affections? What right does he have to clutch at him? You have always given me freedom, Jaskier had said once. Having that freedom means that he also has the freedom to choose to discard one thing in favor of something better. Geralt for Eskel. It would be a trade-up-- Eskel would be far better equipped to protect both Jaskier's body and heart, because Geralt can't seem to stop breaking the fucking thing.
"I'm sure he'll provide you with plenty of fodder for your songs," Geralt says, tearing his eyes away from Jaskier at last. He moves to the worktable, putting his hands on its surface as though he might have something that he planned to do there. He doesn't-- he just needed to not look at Jaskier. "Come the spring."
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They're truths, but also petty thoughts, things he wants to say just to hurt his heart's garroter the same way he hurt him first. But then Geralt adds the bit about spring, and Jaskier's brain finally catches on.
"...bloody hell. You are jealous."
The music comes to a full stop then. Jaskier wants to be offended at the mere thought of what Geralt is implying, but deep inside, he knows he would've done something very stupid if they had been in a town. Husbands and wives he may've bedded, yet he's never cheated himself - would've it counted as cheating this time, after he handed the brooch back? What are they even anymore? If they're something at all.
So no, he can't indignantly yell how dare you, I'm not a slut, because he knows what path that would take them through, and he isn't in a mood to defend his sex life. He's never made excuses for it since he left Lettenhove, and he isn't going to start now. So his anger attaches to be next best thing to be indignant about instead.
"Unbelievable! For you not to trust my word-- I was a fool, I admit, I should've expected that. But Eskel? Your own brother? You truly believe he would do that to you?"
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"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."
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Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck.
There goes the asshole again, being poetic and respecting him his freedom, all while holding the symbol of their relationship in his hands (because of course the bastard didn't get rid of it, of course). And then he has the nerve to ask what he could even offer! How could Jaskier not love him? No, he isn't what his songs say - he's so much more.
Trying to play the lute again is impossible - his hands are shaking again, he tries two notes (terrible, just terrible) and that's enough to make him close his eyes and bump his head back against the stone of the windowsill. He's emotional, and restless, and he needs to do something to distract himself, not to give in, not to run to Geralt like he so badly wants to do right now to take care of that witcher logic bullshit.
And by the gods, Jaskier hates witcher logic bullshit so fucking much.
Right after his rescue, he told he wanted to forgive Geralt, but there's only so much he could take. How could he know the mountain fiasco wouldn't happen again? Ominous words, he realizes now. He gave in back then, and this is where it's brought him: with the pieces of his heart stuck in his throat. Geralt had promised, had given him his word, and what would happen if he does the same this time? What would make it any different?
Jaskier doesn't know what to do. He wants to fix things, he truly does. But like Geralt himself had said in Oxenfurt: I'm tired of always being in fucking pieces.
One blue eye opens when he hears the cursing and-- nostrils flaring. Ah, right. That's what's bothering him. Jaskier is used to being a touchy person, he hasn't even thought about how that would influence his scent. Because of Nilfgaard, they haven't exactly been out and about being social since they got together.
"I hugged him. We spent the day doing chores together, and I hugged him, and asked him to be my friend. He accepted." A pause as he considers how to word things next - he isn't saying this to placate Geralt's stupid jealousy (although it wouldn't be a bad idea, if they're going to have this talk, they need it free of any stupid assumptions). He's saying it for the sake of his own boundaries. "I woke up here, so I can only assume he was the one to bring me when I fell asleep - because that's what friends do. I have many a friend, Geralt. And I like hugging them. I also like going to taverns or feasts and dance with strangers, enjoy guiding the delicate feet of sweet maidens through the rhythm of a waltz. Human contact is part of my life, Geralt, one that isn't up for negotiation."
A sigh. Hopefully that's clear enough. He shouldn't need to clarify that said human contact is completely platonic - if he should, well. Things may be worse than he thought. Then again, isn't that what has brought them in this situation in the first place? Geralt not trusting his word. That's the topic Jaskier needs to jump on, but he knows Geralt, understands how his mind works. He isn't in the mood to go through the old same reassurances of you aren't the monster they say you are, you deserve kindness when he is feeling like the witcher had been behaving like shit, but if he doesn't take care of this first, they'll never be able to advance the conversation.
"Nobody chooses who they fall in love with. The heart wants what it wants." He explains as restless fingers are tapped on the wood of the lute, a leg getting shaky as well. "What exactly have I asked of you that you think you cannot give me?"
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And he didn't always smell like Eskel after giving back his claim and avoiding him. Not even coming to dinner. Ciri had told him that the bard had been in the library and likely was there all night, based on how he had been slumped over his books. There were plenty of other bedrooms, the bard could have found one that wasn't even anywhere near Geralt, if he had wanted to avoid him so badly.
No one chooses who they love, Jaskier says, as though a heart is a thing that can make decisions on its own, without any input from his head. Not that Geralt would know, all he has for reference are the false feelings planted in himself and Yennefer both by a poorly-conceived djinn wish. It was a choice, even if it wasn't, perhaps, the best one he'd ever made. But it must chafe at Jaskier, a man who loves his freedom and his choices, to not be able to choose who is the object of his love, or to rescind it by his own will when he so desires.
"Then I am sorry," he says, "that I've given you a burden that isn't of your own choosing." Loving a witcher can be nothing else but a burden, and loving Geralt of all witchers, doubly so.
"And that I cannot ease it with reciprocation."
It's a cruel sort of irony that Jaskier, a man who feels love so deeply and truly, would fall in love with a witcher who has had all such emotions stripped from him.
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It's a miracle that he manages to put his lute down against the wall gently when the fury returns, an angry and hurt ball of fire that lights up the entire bedroom when he jumps off the windowsill to pace the room with open arms, calling attention to its heat, its colors, its passion.
(His grandmother called him my buttercup because of his sunny personality - and like the sun, he burns bright and hot, trying to melt every frozen heart around him.)
Geralt's doing it again - doubting his own emotions, Jaskier can understand. Geralt's training pushes him to ignore those, to pretend they don't exist. It's not ideal, and it can get irritating, but he understands. He could be patient to work through them with time. But doubting Jaskier's word? His feelings on the matter? After twenty years of care and songs and friendship? It's like Geralt is spiting on his very face.
"Why would I follow a burden around the Continent for two decades, you cockeyed imbecile? It's as if you didn't know me at all! You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, yet no matter how many times I say it, you keep dismissing my feelings! I CHOSE to stay by your side, I CHOSE to befriend you, I CHOSE to give you my youth, and I CHOSE to embrace these feelings instead of trying to-- LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!"
Coming closer is torture, he can feel Geralt's natural warmth coming off him in waves, even in winter. Touching his face is even worse, fingers burning on every inch of skin that makes contact when he grabs the witcher's chin to make him look at him. Blue eyes look up, fearless as always, carrying the same fire that is keeping his heart beating faster than a shot arrow.
"No, I haven't fucked your brother." He almost spits the word, but it feels good to bring it out of the shadows, to stop dancing around it. "And I'll never fuck any witcher, because every time I see golden eyes, I think of YOU. How could you possibly doubt my love after everything we've been through? I don't ask for much, Geralt. I want your trust, which I thought I had, and I cannot believe I had to ask for it again! Is one word from Vesemir truly enough to overthrow what we have? Does it mean that little to you?" The need to emote and flap his hands around is a good one, that way he can let go of Geralt's face before the touch destroys him. "I thought I had been clear back in Oxenfurt - I don't need poetry from you, or an epic confession. I only need your honesty. I only need you to want this because that's what I mean to you. And you SWORE on the trials that made you! Were you lying to me to shut me up?"
He steps back, opening his arms, his voice gaining a mocking tone.
"But you still want to do this? Fine! Let's do this! If you cannot reciprocate, if you cannot feel, then what were you running away from that day in Vizima after the sight-reading contest?"
Stomping and with tears finally appearing his eyes, Jaskier reaches the shelf and grabs the book with the ribbon inside, which he drops on the desk with a blomp.
"THIS isn't lust, Geralt!" He grabs the gwent deck next, same treatment. "THIS isn't lust either! And neither is this!" The wood carving on Roach isn't dropped, but it's put down rather strongly too, noisy all the same, because everything must be dramatic with this bard. "Sir Practicality kept all these, not your cock! My best friend in the whole world went fishing before sunrise so I could have seafood stew, not the monster hunter!"
A pause to breathe, because all the yelling has left him panting. Usually he's excellent at controlling his breathing, thanks to being a performer, but he isn't exactly in control at the moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, letting sadness take over instead of anger to match the words he chooses next.
"It was a brother that lamented the loss of another one of your kind back in the hunting cabin. Because there are many kinds of love and care, and grief is a manifestation of them." He sighs. "So I ask you again, Geralt. What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?"
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Those fingers leave his face sooner rather than later, though, and he feels where they had been even after they're gone, like he had left marks. Geralt wants those hands back on him, even if it's just to pull him. He would want it even if it's just to strike him.
He opens his mouth to reply, but Jaskier barrels forward and his voice dies in his throat. He had fled Vizima because he had felt that terrible want all the way to his bones, but wanting isn't love, is it? He has little time to contemplate it before Jaskier turns, stomps off to the bookshelf and retrieves the potion book, the one with the silk ribbon in it. He slams it down onto the desk; then the gwent desk, the horse carving. The little gifts that he'd given Geralt over the years that had made their way to Kaer Morhen, because-- because they were things that Jaskier had given him, and he had wanted them to survive. Was that borne out of lust? Probably not, because the bard had given him that ribbon before he had ever started to notice long legs and blue eyes. It had been blue once, blue like Jaskier's eyes, but sunlight and time had dulled it to a steely gray.
Bringing up the death of Clovis is a low blow, though, and one that Geralt feels acutely-- Clovis had been in his cohort, and, aside from Eskel, the only other one that had been left alive.
What have I asked of you that you cannot give me?
"Love," he replies, and his voice comes out hoarse, throaty in a way that doesn't make Jaskier weak at the knees. "I can't love you, not in the way that you love me. Whatever capacity I had for it was burned out of me in the Trials. Even if I said the words to you, they would be nothing but words."
The word without the sentiment behind it is worse than a lie.
"And what is left over-- they botched me, Jaskier, when they made me."
It's the only reasonable conclusion that he can come to; they made him wrong, when they gave him the extra mutagens. Something went wrong, left him with scraps of emotions instead of scouring him clean. Flaws on the inside instead of the outside, that couldn't be seen so easily. Had the mages known at the time...
"They left me with echoes of what any other man would feel, but nothing more than that. I won't deceive you into thinking that there's something more in me when what I have is too paltry to be worth anything to you."
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And so he finally does.
He throws his head back and just screams, probably making his old singing coaches cringe over at Oxenfurt for what he's doing to his throat, but Cirilla may appreciate it. It's a powerful sound by a powerful voice, no words needed to understand the frustration that fuels it. There's only so much he can take, not even a romantic like him (who sings about love conquering it all) can withstand so much bullshit thrown at him without taking a hit or two. Or three, or a hundred. He's only human after all.
"You're bloody impossible! You aren't hearing a word I'm saying! You don't trust me!"
Reaching the door is easy, opening it is not. His hand freezes on the knob, and Jaskier rests his forehead against the wood as he sighs. He said he owes Eskel one, and he meant it. Leaving right now would equal burdening him with this shit the whole season - Cirilla, too. They deserve better than that.
Fuck his fondness for witchers.
Jaskier drags his feet back to the desk and decides to sit on it, legs crossed and hands going to his hips in his usual scolding housewife position. Even if they don't end up together after this conversation, he decides, they should at least reach some peaceful agreement not to make life hell for the rest of the keep and themselves.
"One!" He suddenly exclaims very seriously. "Stop assuming how I feel about things. If something it's worth keeping or not, that's MY choice to make. You KNOW that, you KNOW how much I hate people deciding my feelings for me. And if something makes me happy, so happy that I can feel my heart bursting, then I'd say that's worth the world. Two!" A hand frees his hip to start counting with his fingers. "Either there's some conversation I must be missing here or you're high in potions, because I never asked for the word love - I never asked for any particular words from you. I asked you to swear that you wanted me to be with you as more than friends. I asked you to swear that's what I mean to you, and you did. On the Path. And it meant the world to me. Are you following me so far?"
He's trying not to speak in riddles, just like Geralt likes it, but it's hard not to when discussing feelings. They're an abstract concept, something that needs to be described by poetry because of their very nature. His points are clear, he wants to believe: if something shakes him to his core, then it's worth keeping. And Geralt has shaken him to his core. It's not hard to add two plus two.
"Three." Another finger raises, but this time his voice softens a little it. Almost-- ashamed? "Back when Vesemir was talking to you, I-- I froze. Right at the beginning. I wanted to jump in to defend you and I couldn't, because--" His hands fall to his lap, so do his eyes. "--the way he talked to you, it reminded me of my father. I'm not saying you and I are the same!" He hurries to clarify, that shame completely taking over. "What's happened to you is atrocious, and I'm just a spoiled brat. What I'm trying to say is-- I felt helpless. Because that's what that logic does to you, Geralt. 'You can't have something because of who you are' takes all power to make choices away from you - I imagine that's what the elder witchers were going for. Don't make choices of your own, just follow the Path."
His voice breaks when he says that last part. Fuck, sitting down like this and going through things methodically is helping him a lot to calm down and remember how fucked up things are for Geralt, to remember why he decided to be patient all the way back when he was eighteen and work on a friendship that felt one-sided for a long, long time.
He's broken, and you are the only one that can help him.
Overwhelmed by it all, Jaskier raises his hand again and this time he cups Geralt's cheek, blue eyes begging for gold to stay with him, to believe his words. He surprises himself by feeling relief over the touch being comforting instead of burning - hopefully that's how it feels for Geralt as well.
"Love... love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape, see, but can you define the shape of a pear? I know I can't, not even with all my poetry. I don't need you to understand it, Geralt, I don't need you to put a name on it. All I need is to know there's something here." His other hand moves to rest on Geralt's very slow heart. "Everything you just told me - you're repeating their teachings. You're repeating what humanity has taught you through stones and insults. But even if you were right, a leftover, botched echo is still a feeling."
A calloused thumb strokes Geralt's cheek and before Jaskier can curse his own heart for giving in again, he pulls to bring Geralt closer and make their foreheads touch. A deep breath - gods, how he's missed this.
"I don't want you to tell me you aren't capable of feeling things, because that's a big pile of horseshit if I've ever smelled one. All your problems were born from you caring too much. Forget about witcher logic and your teachings, forget about Vesemir, forget about the shape and size of love, forget about the Path and the trials and the differences between you and I - how would you feel if I said I'm not worthy of you because I'm not powerful and immortal?" His fingers grab Geralt's shirt, and something sad sneaks into his scent - those are doubts that haunt him all the time. "Forget all that. I'm going to ask again, and the only answer I want to hear has to come from your heart, mutated as it is, because I love it that way. Four."
Another deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"Why did you save a bloody ribbon when I have hundreds of those? Why did you wake up before sunrise to fish for me when we had free food in the kitchens? Why does it matter if I smell of Eskel? Why did you take a moment in the middle of the road, while we were in a hurry, to tell me you won't share me? Why did you run away in Vizima? If it's because of something warm in your chest, something you only feel for me... then that's all I need from you. Nothing else."
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He turns from the door without opening it, though, and sits on the desk. Geralt watches him like he's a kikimore or some other terribly dangerous thing, rather than a bard who probably couldn't do a thing against him. Jaskier starts ticking things off on his fingers, all the ways, apparently, that Geralt is wrong. The witcher thinks he keeps up with the bard's effusive monologue well enough: things that make him happy-- though Geralt's really not sure if he falls into that category at this point-- are worth keeping; he is not asking Geralt for more than he can give, or for words that he cannot say. Jaskier asks if he's following, and the witcher nods.
The bard's hand touches his cheek, and the texture of his skin is familiar-- smooth palm, calloused fingertips. Geralt tips his head into his palm, just a little, almost without thinking about it. No one touched him as kindly as Jaskier, not even Yen.
Love is pear-shaped, apparently, and that only makes sense to Geralt in the sense that their relationship in the past few days has also gone completely fucking pear-shaped. It's not even an emotion that Geralt's sure he can experience, but it sure has gone and made a fucking mess of things. All he knows is that over the past twenty years, Jaskier has inspired enough inexplicable emotion in him to make him certain that he's a botched witcher, that even mutagens and alchemy and everything else they did to him couldn't prepare him for one teenaged bard in Posada. Sure, some of those emotions that he'd felt over the years were new variations on frustration and deep aggravation, but still.
Their foreheads touch. Jaskier's thumb rasps across the day's worth of stubble on his cheek. If he could, Geralt would live in this moment; nevertheless, he'll remember, those times when the world is shit, that there was someone who would put their hands on him gently and kindly as though he was worth more than just his competency at monster-slaying.
The bard throws a lot of questions at him, all of which have slightly different answers, variations on a common theme-- the ribbon and the gwent deck and the horse figure only have value because they are things that Jaskier gave him. The hours digging for clams and fishing in the frigid waters of the Pontar were worth the trouble because Jaskier deserves to have the things he likes, and Geralt wants to provide them for him. Eskel's scent, because he doesn't want to lose this, his warm touches and fond regard and everything that comes with it. Vizima, because the depth of his wanting was a frightening thing.
Defining the shape of a pear.
"You make me feel things that I don't have names for." Maybe it's love. Maybe it's something else. It's only ever been for Jaskier. "Things that I have nothing to compare to."
He blindly gropes for Jaskier's other hand, then brings it up to his throat, to that soft spot under his jaw where his pulse is easily felt; pushes his fingers into it, to his heartbeat that's at twice what a witcher's should be, in the hope that his words and his racing heart will tell him everything that he wants to know.
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I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting
A cute little gasp escapes him when he feels that heartbeat under his fingers, followed by a choked sound, a mix of a chuckle and a sob. The sweetness returns to his scent - not overwhelming as other times, but it's there, mixing with the bitterness. Poets through the ages have put feelings into words, lovers have showed them through gifts, but there's nothing more honest and natural than a heartbeat. No gesture in the world can top this.
"That's it, darling. That's your pear." He says with a smile, fingers stroking Geralt's neck lovingly. The term of endearment isn't planned, but he's too touched by this not to use it. Hope is trying to peek back... "And it's the most romantic pear I've ever gotten. Anyone can toss a coin and buy flowers, but this? This is your body, calling for me. Fuck, I want to kiss you so badly right now."
Yet he doesn't, because while he's ready to let his heart explode with love, to throw himself back in Geralt's arms, he hasn't forgotten this keeps happening. He had been wary to forgive Geralt and that had just been their friendship - how would his heart survive after the final relationship jump?
"If you ask me, Geralt - I think we have something amazing here. And I know this is too new for you, too much. I don't mind reassuring you from time to time, guiding you through it - haven't I done that the last twenty years? With friendship, but the point stands nonetheless. It's my honor that you let me in like this. I want nothing more than having you on the bed between my legs and kissing every single one of your scars, telling you how they only make you more handsome. I can be patient through your witchering ways - I have been for two decades. But I need you to believe it, my dear. To believe in us, in my words, to trust me. Doubts are fine, I have them myself - but please don't put up your walls every time Vesemir tells you too." A sigh. "They go up in a moment but it takes me days to bring them down again. There's only so much I can take - I've said that already, haven't I? Back in Vizima."
He forgave Geralt because he promised to try. And he did - he's been Geralt still, throwing jabs at Jaskier, brooding when he felt like it, but less mean, more accepting of their friendship. Jaskier's hand grabs Geralt chin again, searching those golden eyes for any signs of doubt or honesty.
"I don't want coin or a bodyguard. I want your company - your stories and your pear. Be as a friend, or your significant other. I like you, Geralt. I love you. Do you believe me?"
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If he can trust him with that, he can trust him with whatever the hell all of this is, can't he? With his heart, or what's left of it these days after the Trials burned through him and the world tried to crush him.
Geralt wants to kiss him. He wants to push him down onto the bed and strip off all of his clothes and make the bard smell like nothing but him. He wants Jaskier to do whatever he wants with him; he'd get on his knees again for him, if it would please him. Anything. Anything that Jaskier wanted from him, anything that would please him, would be his with just a word.
The bard grasps his chin again, tilts his face so that he can look into Geralt's eyes; the pupils are dilated, round instead of cat's-eyed. He can constrict them at will, usually, but some things make that harder-- adrenaline, for one thing. Looking at Jaskier, for another.
Do you believe me?
"I don't understand you," he says, and it's true-- he doesn't understand how Jaskier can give him second chance after second chance, "but I believe you. I trust you, Jask."
Perhaps he doesn't have to understand him. Perhaps he would come to understand him, in time. Trust is the important thing, and he has already trusted Jaskier with so many things. When has he ever truly been let down by him for anything that mattered? He'll be far gentler with this soft, weak part of Geralt than Geralt had ever been with him.
The wolf brooch is still in his hand; he'd been holding it this whole time, clutched in his palm until the edges dug in. He uncurls his fingers, offers it back to Jaskier. Both a symbol, and also because it was never Geralt's to begin with. Even if it represents Geralt's claim to him, it's a thing that Jaskier chooses to wear; he is only claimed because he wishes to be.
"This is yours," he says, "if you still want it."
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The mirth sends all the last of the bitterness away, and Jaskier's scent is back to being overwhelmingly sweet. The nickname is back, and he has Geralt's trust. His feelings, too, beating strongly in that broad chest. They have each other, they have trust, and they keep managing to work through their troubles - even if they needed a little push to do so.
They're going to be fine.
They have pears.
Geralt's offering the brooch himself, without Jaskier having to ask for it, that makes him smile from ear to ear. He doesn't grab it though - with his heart beating fast, he reaches for Geralt's face instead, to bring him in for a kiss. It starts sweet and tender but gods, he's missed this, missed him, so Jaskier ends up nibbling on Geralt's lower lip and letting his tongue make a quick peek before finally pulling back, cheeks flushed.
"I do. Go on, my wolf, make your claim. And then you shall start working on making my scent right again." A wink. "I hope you understand I may have to hug Eskel again tomorrow as a thank you for pushing us here, so you better be incredibly thorough."
He's being a little shit, and he knows it. But a possessive Geralt is such a fun Geralt, and going down to breakfast with a purple neck would be the perfect fuck you on Vesemir's face.
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He pulls away far too quickly for Geralt's liking, and the witcher chases his lips, one last quick press before he starts talking. It's too long to be without, though, not when just that relatively tame kiss set a fire under his skin. The only cure for it is the bard's hands on him-- his body, calling for him. A poetic way of saying that he wants Jaskier under him and screaming his name.
A wink and a few coy words gives him all the permission that he needs.
"I'll pin this to you in the morning," he says, setting the brooch on the desk. He'd put it on him now, but there's a lot of fabric between him and Jaskier's skin and so many buttons, and Geralt has very little patience. He kisses him again, getting his arms around the bard and pulling him in, then ducks his head against his neck and breathes. He smells sweet again, honey and happiness, and Geralt bites the pulse point on Jaskier's throat where the smell is strongest.
"How fond are you of this doublet?"
Geralt thinks it might be the worst thing he's ever seen on Jaskier. Hardly flattering at all, it would be practically a favor to get it off of him.
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Jaskier's body react easily to every touch: he throws his head back to offer his neck, groaning at the bite, and his legs close around Geralt as soon as he comes closer. How fond is he of this doublet? Honestly, Jaskier is fond of all his doublets. They're fine silks, not exactly cheap. But tonight is a special occasion, and there's no way they're getting interrupted again thanks to Eskel. He has a whole winter ahead of him to sew and well...
A fantasy to fulfill.
Twenty years of pining and awkward boners... time to fucking celebrate.
His arms are thrown around Geralt's shoulders and Jaskier licks his ear before whispering against it.
"Throw me on the bed and rip it."
If that doesn't show how much he loves him, honestly, nothing will.
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How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.
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His blood may be traveling south pretty quickly, but his ego is hitting the fucking roof. And Geralt wanted him to believed he was only capable of 'echos' while bringing him to his most intimate, private space? Hah.
As soon as Geralt's hands touch his legs, Jaskier is opening them himself in a silent invitation, lips being licked at the sight of Geralt climbing on top of him... which causes him to accidentally bite his tongue when he whimpers as his doublet is ripped as easily as it had been paper.
He'll spend the whole day tomorrow searching for those buttons.
Worth it.
"Fuck." It's deep, heartfelt, somehow managing to pronounce every letter naughtily. "I love how strong you are." Jaskier's fully hard now, and his hips thrust up when Geralt descends on him to mark his neck. "Do I look better on your bed as well, my wolf?" He asks as deft fingers start working on the buttons of Geralt's pants. "Do I--ah, yes, mmh, keep doing that-- do I smell of you yet? I want to, so badly-- mmh, fuck-- I want every single witcher in this keep to smell what you've done to me as soon as I leave this room."
Buttons undone, Jaskier slips a hand inside, starting to stroke Geralt's bulge through his small clothes. Usually he wouldn't jump so soon on it, but he remembers the little witcher biology lesson Geralt gave him in the cabin, so he wants to help. Besides, after having to wait for so long, he's simply dying to hold such a powerful cock in his hand and have his way with it all night long.
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The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.
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(How most people wouldn't even consider it a privilege.)
"Then do some--" His cheeky remark is interrupted when his chemise is tugged up but hey, he isn't complaining. The exact opposite in fact, it strokes his ego just right that Geralt is as eager for this as he is, desperate for more contact. Geralt bucks into his hand as Jaskier's body arches under the witcher's mouth, whimpering when teeth play with his nipples, smiling at the fact Geralt doesn't mind either his chest hair or his new scars.
Am I still pretty? he wants to ask, and he knows it's a very stupid question, because Geralt obviously still wants to fuck him, and he shouldn't feel self conscious about them when the witcher has carried his own for a century. So he keeps it to himself.
"Fuck." He says as well, his turn to thrust his hips against Geralt's hand, which is sadly gone too soon. It had barely been one second of touching his groin and he can already feel his whole body on fire, only made worse (or shall we say better) by Geralt tugging at his pants above his ass, so teasingly close yet not touching enough. (Mental note: the bow is a deliciously torture success.) "And you will smell of me, right? A constant reminder of whom snatched the White Wolf from their pack right under their sensitive noses..."
He mainly means Vesemir, obviously, but the idea in general is inherently erotic - carrying the brooch on his chest is one thing. But for Geralt to go out smelling of claim as well, the mighty wolf showing he belongs to a mere human bard... fuck. Jaskier may be lucky not to have a witcher's sense of smell after all, or he'd be hard all day long.
Speaking of hard, Geralt is getting there faster than he had in the cabin, but there's still some work to be done - he's the one needing the attention next. Jaskier lightly pushes and is surprised at the fact Geralt moves along, allowing them to flip their positions. Not something he would have trouble achieving with the ladies or fellow twinks, but his boyfriend is a fucking brick wall. It's this kind of trust that drives him crazy, how can he not be so strongly aroused already?
"You complain about my clothes." He comments as he moves to the edge of the bed. "But you're overdressed as well, love. What do you think is harder to take off, mmh? Some innocent buttons? Or the pants you wear like a bloody second skin?"
Grinning, he pulls at the black leather then throws it on the floor, making it land near his doublet to make a point. He's dying to take off Geralt's smallclothes as well, but he waits for that one, unsure if the witcher's self-esteem wants his dick exposed while not fully hard yet - not something to be embarrassed of, but he knows how Geralt's mind works.
Jaskier hops off the bed then, and since Geralt has already undone the bow, he only has to wiggle his hips to let his pants fall to the floor, which he does while looking directly at golden eyes and licking his lips - there's already a pre-come stain on his own smallclothes.
"Would you take your tunic off for me, my dear? Let me see you flex those marvelous muscles." His eyes are still on Geralt as he walks towards his grooming kit, only taking them off that god-like body to retrieve the one vial of oil that has nothing to do with baths. Said vial is thrown on the mattress on his way back, but before jumping back on the bed, Jaskier turns around and very slowly pulls down his smallclothes, bending over just right as he wiggles his ass and strokes his legs for Geralt.
(His fingers brush the whip marks on the back of his legs and he hopes Geralt's dumb brain aren't thinking too hard about them. Like he is.)
"Like what you see?" He asks with a flirty and fake-shy tone as he climbs on Geralt's lap to straddle him, his erection hard and proud for the witcher, making him hiss when it brushes Geralt's body as he sits down on his groin to roll his hips and press his ass against that slow raising boner. Jaskier bends over to undo Geralt's hair tie and it's then that the idea hits him - he's surprised yet again when he takes the medallion off that thick neck without protest from his lover and gods, isn't that another amazing fuck you at witcher 'tradition'? He puts it around his own neck before tilting his head and asking with the same bawdy voice from before. "How about now?"
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"They're practical, unlike your silks," he says, because it's true. And then he adds, also because it's true, "You like them."
Jaskier hops off of the bed and Geralt props himself up on his elbows to watch him; he gets an excellent view of the bard's trousers dropping off of his hips. The garment had been barely clinging to him with the tie undone and needed only a little coaxing to fall, pooling at the bard's feet in a pile of colorful fabric. Geralt's gaze goes from the bard's feet and up those shapely legs of his-- all that walking did him a world of good, gave him firm calves and lean-muscled thighs and a tight ass. It lingers on his wet smalls, and Geralt can smell his arousal, a warm musk that makes his mouth water. The bard asks him to strip off his shirt and he obeys without hesitation, his eyes only leaving Jaskier's body because he has to drag the fabric over his head. It musses his hair in the process.
There's a soft thump as a vial lands on the bed next to him. It's filled with oil, but Geralt can tell without even popping the cork that it isn't one of the heavily fragranced ones that Jaskier uses for his baths. It's a neutral oil, slightly more viscous than standard seed oils, a pale amber in color. Its purpose is obvious, making what would otherwise be an innocuous bottle a lascivious connotation.
Jaskier doesn't just return to Geralt's arms immediately after fetching his supplies; he turns and drops his smallclothes coquettishly, bending over for a coy little strip-tease with his ass on display, and Geralt makes a low noise in his chest that couldn't be mistaken for anything but want. Even with the scars on his legs-- scars that shouldn't be there, scars that are his fault-- he's still a sight. A few marks would never be enough to dissuade Geralt from someone that he desires, and he desires Jaskier to an extent that may be unwise.
He returns to his witcher's lap and Geralt's hands are immediately back on his skin, running over his hips and thighs, making a pleased hum at the sounds that Jaskier makes when his cock brushes against his stomach. This isn't the first time that he'd seen the bard's cock-- they'd shared baths often enough that it would've been impossible not to have seen it-- but he usually doesn't see it in quite this state. Jaskier is impressively hard and, though Geralt isn't an expert on the aesthetics of penises, he has a cock that seems to be pleasing in both size and shape.
"I see why women are so fond of you," he says, his voice dropping into those low registers that he knows Jaskier is fond of. The slow grind of their hips produces a delicious friction, and Geralt hums at the growing heat and pleasure in his guts, at Jaskier's deft hands in his hair. The fact that Jaskier is taking such time with him and being so patient about the inconveniences of his witcher physiology isn't lost on him; with a normal man, Jaskier could have been on his back by now, getting pleasured in just the way he likes. Instead, he must endure Geralt's deficiencies before he can get what he wants.
He doesn't stop the bard when his hands go from Geralt's hair to the chain around his neck, pulling the medallion off and replacing it around his own. Geralt brings a hand up to touch the warm metal as it lays against his chest, running his thumb along the outer curve; he thinks of Coën and the two medallions that he wears on one chain, wolf and griffin together. No one has to say it out loud, what he and Clovis were. No one has asked Coën for the medallion back. If there is any rightful place for it to be, it's where it is now.
Geralt sits up, his hands reaching to frame Jaskier's face as he drags him into a kiss, one that is long and open-mouthed and filthy, speaks as much to his desire and how much he likes what he sees as anything could.
"Only while you're here," he says against Jaskier's soft lips, then leans back in to kiss him again and moves one hand from his face down to his chest-- pinches at one of his nipples, just to tease-- and down to where his hard cock is waiting. He thumbs over the tip, spreading some of the slick fluid that had collected there over the crown.
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He wants to be devoured.
Geralt's hands are back on him and every spot of skin he touches is on fire, making Jaskier hum with pleasure as well, his ass answering by pressing harder against Geralt's groin. His thighs are being touched, scars and all, and isn't that a wonderful-- wait. What?
"Oi! Ladies like me because of my charm, my generosity as a lover, my sweet words and my gentle touch." Humble bard right here, ladies and gentlemen. "Not only because of my--" And then what Geralt is saying really hits him. His pouting becomes bright smile. "...you like my dick." He can't help it, he freaking giggles. "Thanks."
It seems wearing the medallion is an excellent idea after all - Jaskier stays quiet for a second, letting Geralt admire the view, letting the meaning sink in. The brooch carries a message as well, of course, but wearing the medallion is a hundred times more powerful, and Jaskier can feel the heavy weight of that meaning on his chest, on the cold metal that touches his blushed skin. If this right here isn't love, trust, a pear, then he doesn't know what it is.
A yesssss is murmured when Geralt sits up, and Jaskier meets his kiss mid-way to crash their mouths together and let their tongues meet each other (eager, desperate to explore) as his hands are finally close enough to go all out. He strokes every muscle, from arms to shoulders to that amazing thick neck, claws at those defined abs and gropes those firm pecs, nails digging in a little bit when Geralt pinches his nipple. Jaskier doesn't stop being noisy even while being kissed, pleasantly humming and whimpering against Geralt's mouth, but he has to break their making out to throw his head back and groan when a big hand finally touches his dick.
"Geralt." Each letter of his lover's name is filthy with need, and his hips can't help thrusting against those fingers (calloused as his own, because of the sword and not the lute, but it's still such a lovely connection to have). He hasn't been touched in so long, and he's only had that one orgasm in Oxenfurt recently, he doesn't know how long he'll last if Geralt goes for a full hand job. Which would be embarrassing as hell, because he prides himself of being an excellent lover, and that doesn't include coming too soon.
"Easy, my wolf." He teases as he buries his face in Geralt's neck to do some biting and kissing of his own, deft fingers massaging Geralt's pecs still. "My body craves for your touch with the rawest of needs, years of pining and weeks without company have me more sensitive than usual. I wouldn't want to let you down by reaching ecstasy with the timing of a virgin."
Something he definitely is not!
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"Jaskier," he replies, his voice teasing and carrying an undercurrent of lust.
The bard's hips jerk against his fingers and that's... appealing, in many ways. He's sensitive and reacts to every little thing that Geralt does, twitches when he switches from rubbing the crown to thumbing underneath the frenulum, tracing his fingers along the thick veins of his shaft. He'd rarely had the time to really acquaint himself with any individual's member, since his only dalliances with men were in brothels and his time with them was paid for by the hour. Jaskier's cock, despite being fully erect, is surprisingly soft skinned-- steel wrapped in silk. Geralt thinks that he might like to put it in his mouth, if that would be something that Jaskier would be inclined towards.
He hums at the feeling of Jaskier's teeth in his neck, his hands still enthralled with his chest. And that's... interesting, he can understand why Jaskier would be drawn towards a woman's soft breasts, but it's odd that he would have that kind of regard for the witcher's own firm pectorals. Jaskier digs his fingers into a sore spot-- he'd overworked his muscles a little when he was repairing the western wall-- and Geralt grunts. He almost wishes that the bard had grabbed the chamomile oil, he could've used a massage.
"I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire," he says, and his hand slides further down until he's cupping Jaskier's balls, gently rolling them in his palm. "Come whenever it pleases you. I can wait until you're ready again."
Geralt himself is at about half-mast by now. Even if Jaskier came before he was ready, there would be some time before he was fully hard anyway, and he could be patient. He could wait and tease the bard until he's back to full hardness again and then continue their play.
"How many times are you able to come in a night?"
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He swears to the gods he could come just from it - one day, he thinks. One day, when he's learned Geralt's likes and tells in bed like he knows his own, he'll ask the witcher to guide him through his orgasm with just his deep, sexy voice. And it shall be marvelous.
His hands are marvelous as well, something Jaskier has know for a while merely through observation but is pleased to relearn in practice. They're big, thick and strong, just like the rest of Geralt, yet they are kind when they stroke his dick, making Jaskier bite his neck a little harder than he intended. He licks the bite mark as apology as his hips continue to thrust into Geralt's fingers, moaning more for him and relishing the fact the White Wolf himself is touching him like this, gently, softly, controlling the strength that can decapitate enemies just for him.
Nobody makes him feel as seen as Geralt, which is an irony, because the man used to make him feels as ignored as well. Ah, Destiny, you crazy bitch.
The grunt calls his attention, recognizing it as not a very comfortable one - years of learning to speak Geraltese do that to you. Jaskier pauses he ministrations instantly: hands stop groping to rest tenderly on Geralt's chest instead, his head is pulled back (cheeks flushed, lips red and glistening with saliva, hair tousled and pupils wide with arousal) to look at his witcher with worry. Did he do something wrong? The question dies in his lips, however, when Geralt speaks up, once again being a romantic bastard without even meaning to.
I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire. Fuck if that doesn't deserve to be a line in a poem!
"I'm not in the habit of making my lover waaa-AAH, FUCK." The cupping of his balls makes Jaskier go his loudest so far, and the rolling of his hips becomes more frantic, his cock twitching at the loss of contact. He slows down a bit, however, at the question. His record is six, and he remembers that night fondly, however...
He isn't eighteen anymore.
It isn't just one, at least, that he knows well, and he hopes his dick won't fail him tonight- it simply can't, he thinks, not when they're finally fucking the person that has kept it up the most. If someone could help him have orgasms as if he was young again, that's definitely Geralt.
(One day he won't be able to do this anymore, and Geralt will need whores again. Jaskier won't stop him from leaving then.)
"A-a few. It depends." He starts kissing Geralt's shoulders as he speaks. "But I told you before, didn't I? I like foreplay. I like touching you. I don't mind waiting for you."
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He would like to taste all of Jaskier, really. As much as the bard will allow him. And if he has more than one orgasm in him for a night, well, there's no reason why Jaskier couldn't have one or two of them while Geralt's cock is still trying to catch up.
There's a quiver to the bard's voice when he speaks, and it's a more pleasing sound than all of his white wolf ballads, and one that Geralt selfishly wants to keep for himself. His lips press against Geralt's scarred shoulder and he knows that they're soft and warm despite not being able to directly feel it, as the scar that he presses them to has nothing but deadened nerves. Claw marks from a beast that had gotten a lucky strike in, back before he had a bard to take care of his injuries for him. While he lays kisses to unfeeling skin, Geralt slides his hand to the back of Jaskier's neck, running his thumb across the nape of it, right along his hairline.
Jaskier's skin is very fine there, at the nape of his neck. Delicate, and Geralt is acutely aware of how easy it would be to hurt him. He keeps his grip loose, forces his touch into unaccustomed gentleness.
"A few is fine," he says. "You can spill down my throat on the first, come on my fingers for the second, and I'll fuck you for the third."
It's a good plan. A solid plan. And Geralt always performs best when he has clear, well-defined goals to strive for, and he is, if nothing else, an efficient tool. He can be as efficient in giving pleasure as he is with killing monsters, and he's far more comfortable with giving pleasure than receiving it. It's possibly an ideal situation-- a set of tasks for Geralt to complete with all the single-minded focus of a witcher, and with the only death at the end of it a few very pleasant little deaths.
"Watching you come will be foreplay enough."
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The humming becomes a groan, however, when Geralt speaks again. Jaskier's hips give an extra hard thrust as he drops his forehead on Geralt's shoulder, his mind overwhelming him with the mental images, his ego and his heart full of love for this man both growing ten times bigger at the idea of Geralt finding him coming foreplay enough.
"Fuck, Geralt. Destroying this poor bard with his own weapon, aren't you?" Words, he means.
Usually he wouldn't be hesitating this much - multiple orgasms isn't anything particularly kinky, in fact, he would call at least two his standard. Side-effects of fucking a witcher, he supposes, especially after the talk they just had. And especially because he knows how Geralt's mind works. He isn't second guessing the idea, he's just worried about the why behind it.
Speaking of their recent conversation... he should be trusting Geralt in return, shouldn't he? But he can't help it, it feels like witcher logic is a shadow that haunts them. Which isn't Geralt's fault. Once again, Jaskier pulls his head back to look at his lover eye to eye as both his hands cup the witcher's face. Blue eyes search gold (his favorite color, oh how lucky he is) for any kind of silly thoughts, he ends up licking his lips and whimpering a bit when he finds raw lust in them. For him.
"Fiiiiine. Fine! It's not something I would've ever thought I would have to think about twice - I mean, who would? Multiple orgasms! Being the center of your attention! An instant yes, really! I should be ashamed of myself right now!" He shakes his head, mostly at himself, but then he pecks Geralt's lips. "I just want you to be reassured that this is for our fun and pleasure, my dear, and not because I mind waiting for you. Understood?"
Remember to trust me, his tone says. He kisses Geralt again then, intending to start a good and proper make-out, but as his hands leave the witcher's face to make their way down, he realizes something. If he's going to come more than once tonight, well... he would like to keep his orgasms varied, then. Do all the things he's dreamed about doing for so long. Okay, not all of them, that will take all winter. But at least a few.
Would it be too soon to ask, he wonders as he breaks the kiss to worry his lower lip for a second. It's not like it's something super kinky but... oh, to hell with it. Obviously Geralt is talking dirty to him - may as well take the chance and do the dirty too.
"I spill in your mouth, you spill in my ass. I like the sound of that, love." Another term of endearment, said with a low tone full of promise and need. His calloused fingers find Geralt's nipples and start playing with them as he makes his request. "As for the third one-- would you allow me to spill on your gorgeous chest?"
He pinches both nipples then, showing exactly how much he likes them. Which is a lot.
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He speaks-- of course he speaks, Jaskier rarely does anything else-- and the brief, chaste press of his lips to Geralt's isn't even close to enough. This is for our fun and pleasure, he reminds his witcher, as though he could have forgotten that being in bed with Jaskier is a pleasure. It would be a pleasure even if Jaskier had made him sit on the other side of the room and watch him bring himself to orgasm and not allowed him to touch at all.
Geralt is kissed again before he can respond, which is just as well. He presses into it and would gladly make it as filthy and deep as Jaskier likes, except that the bard pulls back again and he makes an annoyed noise at the break. Are they to talk all night? Had Jaskier not gotten his fill of blue balls in the past few weeks? If they're prevented from fucking again by the bard's own inability to shut up, Geralt will have Vesemir check him for curses, awkwardness of explaining this to the old witcher be damned.
When Jaskier speaks, it's confirming part of the course of action that Geralt intended to take, with the addition of an endearment that's... still hard to hear. It's still difficult, every time Jaskier calls him love or mentions loving him, from the sheer inequality of their feelings. He makes up for it with the pinches to Geralt's chest, and he'll soon discover that though the witcher's cock is slow to rise, his nipples require far less blood flow and perk up much quicker.
Geralt groans, both at the tug of bard's fingers and his words. Jaskier could come on whatever part of Geralt pleases him.
"Yes."
His objectives have been modified, but it's desirable, attainable. A monster that Geralt both knows how to slay and is eager to. There's no reason to waste more time with speaking-- anything that needs to be said, has been. Geralt shifts the both of them back a little, so that when he lays down again, his head is resting against the pillows. He could have chosen a different position, perhaps flipped the bard onto the bed and held his hips down, but this-- well, Jaskier had said to trust him. And there's little that he could do that would actually hurt Geralt, even if the bard is in control.
"Come," he says, with a little tap to the bard's ass. Scoot up, Jaskier, there's a witcher's mouth waiting to be full of your cock.
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