1265 - 43th Birthday
Morning mountain light kissed across bare skin and brushed aside the languor licks of dreams. They lay together atop rumpled linens, Geralt's head resting on Jaskier's stomach, weighting the bard's lower body down with the bulk of his torso. Jaskier's fingers moved in slow, massaging circles on the witcher's scalp. Smoothed over the tendrils of his hair.
Geralt breathed like ocean tides.
"Are you awake?" Jaskier asked quietly.
A pleasant breeze moved through the room, the oppressive heat of a lowland summer but a memory.
"Mmhmm."
Barely a change in those deep, steady breaths. Not a muscle moved.
Jaskier glanced down at the top of Geralt's head. Stroked his hair and grazed a thumb along the stubble on his cheek. The bard's skin flared with prickling sensations twice over. And he luxuriated in the heat from Geralt's body passing through the thin fabric of the nightshirt, a concession to the arcane fire that flashed through human flesh in contact with a witcher's skin. An intoxicating stimulation ill-suited for sleeping.
They made do.
"What are today's plans?" he asked, voice soft, pitched for only the both of them, though who in Kaer Morhen might be listening he couldn't have said.
Geralt filled his lungs a little deeper.
"Sleeping," he muttered over a long exhale.
Jaskier's fingers kept their slow rhythm.
"Bad luck," he said around a grin. "You're already not sleeping."
The witcher grunted, and for a moment Jaskier thought that might be the end of his eloquence.
"'S your fault," he breathed.
"My fault?"
Another groan, and this time Geralt shifted ever so slightly, nuzzling Jaskier's belly. "...petting," he said with a groggy sigh.
Jaskier pressed his lips to hide a smile and added a few light scratches to his massage.
"Mmm, yes, I see your point. A fine argument. But… you got up to use the washroom and decided I was a pillow when you got back."
Geralt's breaths came so deep and even it might be mistaken for sleep if not for the way his fingers on either side of Jaskier's body twitched with the movement of Jaskier's hand.
"Sleepy…" he muttered at last and rolled the mountains of shoulders.
"Mmhmm." Jaskier's massaging circles became strokes once again, and he traced along Geralt's hairline and around his ear, smiling as he shifted into the touch. "Is that… sleepy, make deeply passionate love to me, Julian. Or, sleepy, disturb me and I'll punch you?"
Jaskier could make out the crags of a slight frown as it formed. "I don't punch you."
"You have."
There was no heat in the words, and yet the line of conversation drew Geralt from his imitation of a statue. He stretched his arms and lifted his head, golden eyes blinking open in concern.
"Sorry," he said, his voice sleep-rough and worried. "Didn't know you then."
Jaskier cupped a hand to his cheek, grinning over a stab of guilt at his joke gone awry. "It's all right," he whispered.
After a moment, Geralt's frown smoothed as he pressed his cheek into Jaskier's palm and let his eyes fall shut.
"Third option," he said, his words still slow and lazy.
"What's the third option?" Jaskier stroked with his thumb, and Geralt lowered himself back down, snuggling in.
"Stay here and enjoy it."
Jaskier snorted lightly. "The wolf thing was way off. You're clearly a cat. I'll need rewrites."
The witcher grunted and turned his face. Bit playfully at the soft flesh of Jaskier's belly through the shirt, earning a surprised jerk and startled laugh.
"You're ridiculous," Jaskier told him, and then there were lips pressing over the spot. A scrape of teeth. Soft lips again forming a smile.
The bard slid his fingers into Geralt's hair again, petting lazy loving motions. He brought both hands into it, and the plates and planes of the witcher's muscle shifted. He slid his hands under Jaskier's body, stretched them up, and buried them beneath the bard's shoulders. Curled and pressed, captured a leg between his thighs, and hugged with his whole being.
Jaskier sighed as Geralt's weight pressed him down. Tethered his thoughts to the pressure of Geralt's head on his stomach. The warmth of his arms, wrapping. The solid, undeniable presence of his strength. The feel of his chest expanding with each contented breath. Shins shimmering in sensation where bare skin touched.
He should be used to it, wrapped in this man one way or another. But as novelty faded familiarity offered fresh pleasures. To learn the lute was one thing. To speak your heart through its voice another, of infinite satisfaction.
He had told the world of Geralt's scars ages ago-a boy's fascination with danger and romance. He noted them, since, as they freshly formed and held them in his silence. More jealous of their stories than Geralt once had been. More acutely attuned to the private agonies of their making. Of the role his own hands had played in their jagged stitched lines.
His presence, stamped indelible.
His clumsy, desperate care, manifest.
There…
And in the weight pinning him to a shared bed. A body made pliant by gentle pleasures. Heavy and hard and soft in all the right places.
He closed his eyes and let his mind wander. His hands trace in hypnotic circles.
Geralt's body, bare, inviting a touch.
The taste of his mouth and that exquisite, eager slide of his tongue when he wanted more.
Memories. Fantasies.
Heat rushed through Jaskier's body in a rolling wave, and his cock twitched with interest. Hardened as new images spooled before him.
"Stop," Geralt grunted, his expression turning to a scowl.
"I can't," Jaskier replied. And there was no hiding himself either, the hard length of his arousal pressed between them against Geralt's chest. "I'm just… thinking about it." He opened his eyes and slid his hands over bare shoulders and back. Dropped his voice to a whisper, his cadence to a prayer. "Having you spread open before me like dessert… waiting... Caressing those perfect thighs…" He made a sound of delicious satisfaction. "Sinking in so deep you can't breathe…" He savored the words on his tongue.
Geralt let out a harsh breath and nuzzled at him. Tightened his embrace.
"Putting my hands just where you need them," he went on. "Do you know?"
A nod against his belly.
"Just like that…"
He eased one hand to the nape of Geralt's neck. Squeezed. And let out a small, ah, grunt… Laced his fingers through his lover's hair.
"It feels good," he breathed, "so good you moan out my name…"
"Julian…"
"Yeah…"
He swirled his fingertips to the crown of Geralt's head. Felt his breathing go light.
"In my dreams," Jaskier said, his voice finding depth again, "I can last long enough that we come together."
Geralt shifted his hips, grinding into Jaskier's leg with a sinuous motion that traveled his whole body. His fingers beneath Jaskier's shoulders gripping light and letting go.
"That's something you think about?"
Jaskier smoothed his hand over Geralt's hair, air-dried into tendrils. He pondered his reply and the value of simple truth. At his long silence, Geralt lifted his head and gazed at him with uncommon curiosity.
With a sigh, the bard let his hand fall, and he glanced to the open window and clear sky. "I wonder, sometimes, if you aren't a little disappointed," he admitted, and glanced back. "Worry I might be inadequate."
Geralt held his gaze a moment longer, some inscrutable calculation happening behind those amber eyes. And then he dipped his head and mouthed at Jaskier's belly, nipping a bit of skin between his teeth and then kissing it better.
He settled and rubbed with his cheek.
"Most adequate."
A surprised laugh erupted from Jaskier's throat. "Well, put that on my tombstone."
Geralt chuckled, and they fell into easy silence, both ignoring Jaskier's erection until it went away. But eventually, bodies had other needs, and the bard's turned insistent.
"All right," he said, with several taps against Geralt's shoulder. "My turn. You have to get up."
A groan answered him. Flat planes of shoulder blades shifted. And the witcher extracted himself, rolling over onto his side of the bed.
The room was an apartment unto itself, a suite of living spaces with its own quiet hearth. Jaskier padded around the paneling that demarcated the bedroom from the office library, his steps quiet on the cool stone, and slipped out the door into the hall. The washroom lay one story down, a quick trip on the closest winding stairs. As a betting man, he suspected Geralt had chosen his quarters on proximity alone.
He passed no other chambers. Heard no other inhabitants.
Relieved and washed, he returned to Geralt's room with pricked ears, watchful for signs of other living souls. The heavy door shut behind him with a loud clack of the latch, and he winced. Somehow Geralt managed it with a more silent finesse. Jaskier swept his gaze over the room. The open windows and bright sun illuminating the orange marble. The white shock of the bed sheets through the perforations in the paneling. The obscured shape atop them.
He strode into the bed space, a smile forming on his lips. Geralt had shifted over, taking up Jaskier's side. The far side, closest the windows. The bard narrowed his eyes at Geralt's mild, innocent expression. He had one arm tucked behind his head. Smallclothes hitched low across his hips. He blinked slowly, raking his gaze as though there were something more than a middle-aged man in light linens to see.
He was up to something. Jaskier narrowed his eyes further and crawled onto the bed, bringing himself within reach.
Geralt lifted an eyebrow at him. "Good morning."
Good morning…
Jaskier leaned in for a quick peck of a kiss, suspicion clawing at him.
"Seriously, what are we doing today?"
"This isn't enough?"
Geralt drew his hand out from under his head and reached out. Ran his fingers along Jaskier's jaw. It sent a thrill down the bard's spine, and he leaned just out of reach.
"Now I know you're lying," he said, mouth curving into a smirk.
He turned to slide off the bed.
"Jaskier…"
And as he stood, felt Geralt's hand on his elbow pulling him to a stop. Arms sliding around his body as Geralt knelt behind him and pulled him to his chest.
"Who says we have to go anywhere…" whispered into his ear. Body heat spread across his back and shoulders as Geralt held him tight. Waiting. All his unnatural strength bounded by a word. A yes, a no. Jaskier's to decide.
Summer in Kaer Morhen. The witchers' keep. Their secret home.
Stay for the summer.
Jaskier leaned back and tipped his head, exposing a column of throat. He let out a breath when soft lips touched just below his ear. Smiled at the feel of Geralt smiling. Felt his pulse quicken as a tongue brushed his skin.
A vulnerable sensation washed over him when one of Geralt's hands snuck up under his nightshirt to draw affection in sigils across his chest and ribs. The slide of that skilled tongue down neck and shoulder spoke portents into his body. Light pressure held him still, lest a drop of pleasure be displaced. Geralt's other hand swept across him in circles. Down over his groin without stopping to linger. Across his hip, fingers tracing the waist of his smallclothes. Tentative. Searching.
Sliding slowly beneath the drawstring.
Geralt's palm molded to the smooth skin of Jaskier's bottom. Caressing down, as his tongue lashed, to grip the meat of it in a light squeeze before he let go. Rubbed shushing circles. Squeezed again.
Jaskier made an indecorous sound.
Geralt pressed a thumb between the globes of his ass and stilled a kiss against his neck. Waited, the other palm pressed to his breastbone.
He arched, pressing back, and felt an answering smile against his skin. Geralt withdrew his hand, gliding fingers, and let it hover expectantly in the air. Hummed wet kisses. Scored with his teeth. Jaskier swallowed with the knowledge that he would have to move. He broke from the lavishment upon his neck and reached for the bottle on the nightstand. Poured just enough into Geralt's cupped palm while fingers teased at his stomach in slow encouragement, waiting to draw him back in.
Witchers' hands were rough and calloused from wielding swords.
Strong and dextrous from forming signs.
Geralt spread the oil over his fingers with one hand, a practiced, rolling, fascinating motion even as he drew Jaskier back against his chest. Resumed tasting the skin at the curve of his neck. The bard sank into it. The illicit lie of his shirt rucked up, its shield breached. His skin shimmering with arcane sensation like a poet's painting .
Careful fingers nudged aside the waist of his smallclothes, stripping his protections. Clothed but bared. Bewitching fingers slid into his cleft, gentle, toying, and patient. A harsh breath escaped him. A soft moan. Geralt teased his rim with one finger, and warm honey flowed through his thighs as his sleep-drunk body roused.
He twisted, searching for a kiss, and his lover did not disappoint, humming with eager pleasure as Jaskier's fingers sowed rows into ashen hair. Geralt's grip tightened. The pressure of his finger burned hotter. And they traded penetrations. Jaskier's tongue into Geralt's mouth. The witcher's finger deep inside. The sounds Jaskier made swallowed between them.
Geralt knew how to tease. To slide his finger and stroke just so. Pooling heat and a desire for more. Jaskier relaxed against him, given over to the sensation of the burn-spark-fire of witcher skin against his rim while they kissed. Warm lips. Gentle suction. Jaskier drew his teeth over Geralt's lower lip, earning a groan and a smile. A nuzzle along his jaw.
He pressed back hard against a teasing stroke, and Geralt hummed in reply. Withdrew his hand and worked the oil around a little more.
Returned with two.
Pleasure arced up through Jaskier's chest. Turned his nipples to hard, painful points. But Geralt's other hand had stopped roving. Only held him in place. So he did it himself, rubbed his palm over the fabric of his shirt. Hot friction against each nub. New sparks shot to his groin.
And he ached-
-Goddess-
-with each thrust and twist of fingers. Still not enough. Still wanting.
Geralt was torturing him. Dragging it out. The mouth on his neck worked lazy kisses. The smiles and groans of pleasure when Jaskier bucked back into him, tugged his hair, were contentment. He liked giving. Luxuriated in it. And the bard swallowed his impatience into a whine.
He jerked his hips. Pressed that mouth against his neck harder, holding his lover in place. Jaskier's heart hammered as Geralt sucked a bruise onto his shoulder.
"Please…" he whispered.
A light bite on his flesh. Geralt's grip on him tightened.
A third finger-
"Fuck…"
-slid into him. Pried him open. He wheezed at the filling plunged them deeper with a bit of strength, and Jaskier's knees went weak, again.
The embrace caught him. Held him up and close while his legs quivered, and Geralt's cock pressed hard against his back. He gripped Geralt's hand through the shirt and shuddered as the fingers inside him curled. A moan spilled out of him, and he tightened his fist in Geralt's hair to keep from falling.
It wasn't fair. The way he moved his hand. Forming his palm to the swell of Jaskier's ass cheek as he drew out. Cupping and curving as he pressed inside. Fuck was too crude a word. Caress. Inside and out, a relentless caress over every potent nerve.
Jaskier shuddered a breath into a kiss. Stamped a foot as his joints went soft from sharp pleasure. He scored Geralt's lips with his teeth, panting, and rocked his hips.
"You can touch yourself, you know," the witcher rumbled in his ear. Hot ghosting breath. Grazing lips.
He could.
Jaskier loosened his grip on Geralt's hair and slid his own hand down the front of his smallclothes. They barely held to his hips, invaded on all sides. He could have dropped them to the floor, freed himself. But he wanted the trespass. The reaching in and under. The light touch of fabric against delicate skin.
He stroked himself with a sigh as Geralt reached. Bit his lip as his body jerked in hot full pleasure. He gasped, gasped, stroked himself again and found the rhythm. Their rhythm. Slick fingers taking. Thrusting his cock in his hand. Too slow for a chase. He groaned full throat at the throbbing. A bead of sweat ran from the back of his knee.
"Geralt…" A whisper, strained.
He complied.
Jaskier stroked his fingers over shaft and head. Squeezed his eyes shut as Geralt's fingers found the spot inside that made him arch and strain and stayed, rubbing quick encouragement. Jaskier's breathing went ragged as he twisted around cresting energy.
Reached and stroked. And finally bucked with a cry. Geralt pressed his fingers in hard and held him close, while Jaskier spilled his seed and his muscles clenched. The panting eased with the spasms, and Jaskier patted Geralt's hand locked around his ribs. Slowly, the witcher let him go, withdrawing himself with a kiss to Jaskier's temple and then sliding off the bed out of the way.
Jaskier fell back boneless into the vacated space. Let his feet dangle to the floor. His arms flop wide. He lifted his head just enough to watch Geralt move to the wash basin and clean his hands. He returned quickly, gaze locked on Jaskier's as he stripped off the bard's smallclothes and wiped him down. Asked silently for his hand and cleaned that, too. The seconds he was gone to deposit them in the hamper in the hall stretched to an ice age of singular loneliness. Jaskier's heated skin cooled.
And then Geralt appeared around the partition and drew closer with a lazy tread. Jaskier's gaze locked on the tented fabric over his groin. The shape of his cock jostling and swaying as he moved. Hard, ready, and untouched. From where he lay, Jaskier reached a beckoning hand, and Geralt moved closer. Close enough to touch as he stood beside the bed. Close enough for the bard's fingers to trace lightly up his shaft, barely stroking him through the linen.
Jaskier glanced up as his fingertips danced.
"What about you?" he asked.
Geralt's amber gaze touched him briefly, and at another tracing finger, the witcher's eyes fluttered shut. He stood motionless as Jaskier's finger swirled toward the head. Parted his lips as his cock twitched, and he exhaled hard.
"What would you like?" Jaskier asked him, content to tease.
In answer, the witcher stepped from his reach and gazed down at himself a moment before pulling the drawstrings at his waist free. He dropped the clothes and met Jaskier's interested expression with a small, almost shy smile before climbing onto the bed beside him on all fours. He turned with a meaningful look, and Jaskier spluttered out a laugh.
"My refractory time isn't that good," he said, grinning as he pushed himself up on his elbows. "Not even young."
Humor pulled at the corners of Geralt's mouth. "I was thinking…" he said and dropped his gaze. "The glass one."
Jaskier's eyebrows lifted as a smile of dawning sun spread across his features. "Don't. You. Move," he said, poking a finger at Geralt's ribs as he got up, lassitude forgotten.
The glass-
What a brilliant-
He padded across the room to a low dresser bearing a few trinkets from past travels and, notably, a long wooden box. The polished surface alone stood out against the crude, weathered wood of its surroundings. It looked foreign. Expensive. Warm red wood inlaid in silver with the profile of a lady. A single silver hook held it closed.
Jaskier smoothed open the latch and lifted the top open on silent, oiled hinges. Inside, on a bed of gray rabbit's fur lay a glass phallus. A titter rose in his throat that Geralt kept this on the dresser, out in the open. But who would suspect the contents of such a richly made box? A ceremonial knife seemed more likely. The bard lifted it out, careful of its surprising weight.
The artisan had fashioned it from two rods of glass twisted together, one smokey, one clear. They fused together in a flared head, and the length of it curved in imitation of the real thing. For safety and ease of use, the maker had formed the other end into a clear guard and sword hilt.
Jaskier had laughed when he saw it in the armoire drawer, arrayed amongst the others. A sword handle! But Geralt studied it with silent intensity and curious fingers, and Jaskier's humor turned to intrigue. The swirl gave it a unique texture despite the smoothness and a greater girth than Jaskier himself could provide; the rigidity so inhuman it was beyond compare.
He turned to find Geralt watching him over his shoulder, eyes blown black like a sun's eclipse. The morning light casting his pale skin gold and gleaming. His whole body moved with his breathing, and in the moment their gazes met, he looked away. Hung his head, waiting.
If there lived a more gorgeous man, Jaskier had not met him. Could not imagine him and did not want to. Unrivaled. Unparalleled. He licked his lips and knew Geralt could hear his heart as it thundered at the sight of him. Tightly muscled bottom. Balls and cock hanging low and heavy.
Happy birthday to me, he thought idly, grinning as he moved to pick up the bottle of oil in his free hand. Glass slick enough to slide into a man was slick enough to slide from one's grip, so he needed to be ready. He set the toy in the dip in the bed from Geralt's weight and let it rest against his shin where it would warm. Fetched a small towel and dropped it within easy reach. Then applied some of the light green oil to his hand, working it around with a sloppy, thick sound. He'd need more.
At the first touch, Geralt sighed, and his shoulders worked, stretching the ropes of his scars. Jaskier painted his tight ring of muscle with gentle, coaxing strokes. Waited, one finger poised. Geralt shifted his weight, a subtle change in angle, and Jaskeir bit his lip as he pressed into him in one long, easy motion.
An exhale.
A rumble of a hum.
Jaskier's belly fluttered at the sound. And though this was not the main event, neither was he in a rush. He worked his lover open like a flourishing of petrichor under light and steady rain. A slow releasing of breath and tension.
One finger.
Two.
He added more oil, letting it drip to where their skin connected. Stroked it in. Then removed his hand to a groan of displeasure, and Geralt twisted to look at him again with dark eyes and parted lips. Jaskier cupped his hand and broke the gaze long enough to measure another pour of oil before setting the bottle on the nightstand. He felt his lover's eyes on him, burning, demanding but silent.
Jaskier picked up the glass. And flicked his gaze to Geralt's face. Watched him watch as he stroked the implement with an oiled palm. Squeezing his fingers. Tracing around the shape of its head. Practical, yes. But Geralt's eyes remained glued so he did it again, this time drawing it back through the grip of his hand and thrusting it forward. A demonstration.
It might have been silly, except Geralt's tongue darted to lick his lower lip and his whole body animated with a shudder as he bowed his head again. There was no pleasure in keeping him waiting. Jaskier set the hard, unforgiving tip against Geralt's ass and let him feel it. The thickness. The weight. Cooler than flesh. He gripped one cheek with an oily hand, easing him open, wider still.
And then pressed. Cautious.
Geralt's thighs quivered, twitching like a horse as it stretched his rim. He made a sound and lurched, shying from the size, and Jaskier paused to let him adjust. Rubbed gentling circles around his bottom and back until Geralt pressed back on his own and released a held breath.
The shape of the twining rods pulled the toy into a spiral as it went in, the curved shape touching on nerves. And so if he held it just right, let it twist just right…
The hilt went no further, and for just a moment, Jaskier let go. The glass phallus fully seated. Geralt's chest heaving. He snatched up the towel and cleaned oil from his hand best he could so his grip on the glass would be solid.
And then he wrapped his fingers around the sword hilt and started drawing it out like unsheathing a blade. Geralt… collapsed. His upper body sank to the bed on the crest of a moan and he buried his head beneath his arms, hands folded over the back of his neck. A sculpture of shameless beauty.
The first thrust was slow. A slight turn of the wrist to enhance the twist. Geralt's fingers twitched against each other. His exhale sharp.
The second thrust, faster.
The third.
Jaskier stopped counting, intent instead on the sound. A silence gradually broken as each breath came out a moan, and his lover, so quiet, slipped quickly into muttered babbles. His fingers flexed wide. Gripped. He groaned and cursed.
"Jask…" like begging.
His voice cracked on fractaled pleasures that doubled themselves in Jaskier's body, warming his thighs and spine. Their skin touched only where the bard's hand lay Geralt's bottom as a guide, a tether, but he could feel each breathy moan like feathers and lightning across his arms and back. And he tried to be quick, as Geralt liked. Steady as he needed.
The pace burned through Jaskier's muscles, and he switched hands. Switched grips. Reached forward to take Geralt's cock in his hand and stroke him in rhythm. But Geralt nudged him away. Wouldn't let him touch. Seemingly intent to pin himself in place, shuddering on the edge. Not of stamina but stimulation.
He could tumble over without touch. Not everyone could. But not until Jaskier's arms burned and his body throbbed from the sound of a lover's pleasure. And he found just… the right… spot.
The litany broke.
Geralt's rumbled moans seized. Body clenched. He came in waves as he shivered and reached back with both hands, fingers splayed. No more... No more…
He panted hard as aftershocks rippled through him, and Jaskier left the toy where it was, buried deep, as he rubbed his hands lightly over back and bottom, a sheen of sweat silencing the brush of skin. He waited until Geralt's hands relaxed and dropped to the bed.
Jaskier withdrew the toy slowly and watched with a grin as Geralt tipped himself over onto his side, collapsing onto the bed with a slight bounce and a sigh. He brushed his hair lazily out of his face and cracked open his eyes as Jaskier wrapped the glass in a cloth and set it down. He hurried into a fresh pair of smallclothes.
"I'm gonna go take care of this," he said, and picked up the bundle. It couldn't very well go back in the case without being washed.
Geralt grunted and rolled onto his back, pressing up onto his elbows. "Jask," he said, sounding drowsy.
Jaskier lifted an eyebrow at him.
"Hurry back."
A second time Jaskier padded barefoot over the castle's ancient stones, a swift shadow in lonely corridors. The washroom let him draw fresh water directly from the well, and he kept glancing over his shoulder as he set about his task, cautious of prying eyes. None appeared. And when he had sudsed and washed and was satisfied, he stole back up to Geralt's chamber.
Much to Jaskier's surprise, Geralt had taken the time of his absence to dress. He wore a green shirt the color of fresh pine rolled to his elbows and cotton pants fit for the season. He stood in front of a mirror trying his hair back as Jaskier moved to the dresser and returned the glass toy to its box.
He wasn't dressed up, per se. Nothing fancy. Except the color of the shirt intensified the gold of his eyes. The pants hugged his thighs like paint. Jaskier's eyes narrowed, and Geralt turned to him with a small smile as he finished with the tie.
"You look nice," the bard offered, and the smile intensified.
Geralt closed the space between them in a blink. Nosed at his cheek. And placed a kiss along his jaw.
"Are we going somewhere?" Jaskier tried again.
The witcher looked away and moved to the nearest open window. He peered up at the sky, then down to the castle courtyard where, among other things, lay a sundial. He always checked the sky first, though, and Jaskier had yet to work out why.
"Main hall," he said, still gazing outward.
Jaskier joined him at the window and leaned out to have a look at the sundial for himself.
"And… what time are we supposed to be at the main hall?"
Silence answered him, and after a moment Geralt turned away with a "Hmm."
The bard watched him heading for the door and several realizations cascaded at once. The castle had been unnaturally quiet. And Geralt was acting suspicious. He hadn't let him get out of bed. Hadn't wanted to be touched during sex, which made him last longer. Which made him-
"You were keeping me here!" Jaskier shoved himself away from the window. "Distracted!"
Geralt turned and lifted an eyebrow at him.
"What's in the main hall?" Jaskier demanded, whisking into the witcher's path. "It's a party, isn't it. You're throwing me"-he jabbed Geralt's chest-"a party!"
"I'm not."
"Yes you are!" He poked him again. "Admit it!"
"I'm not."
"Oh?" Jaskier lifted his chin. "Then why do we have to be there at noon? Hmm? Scheduled barb trading with Lambert? Sword polishing class?"
Geralt leveled a dry look at him and blinked slowly, licking his lower lip as he avoided answering. Triumph whistled through the bard's veins.
"You are a terrible liar," he declared, and captured Geralt's face in both hands. Kissed him soundly. "And an excellent distraction."
Geralt grinned at him in bashful silence, watching in interest as Jaskier pulled proper clothes from the dresser and made himself presentable in an embroidered chemise with a splash of color around the collar and pants with a matching bright stripe. He gave himself a look in the mirror and brushed his hair into something a bit less sex-mussed and wanton. He turned with a flourish, an invitation to comment on whether it was too much or just enough.
He got an amused smile, which would have to do, and started for the door.
"What kind of party do witchers throw I wonder…" Jaskier whipped around suddenly and jabbed a finger in Geralt's direction. "If we are group gutting a deer, I will kill you."
Geralt chuckled, did not deny it, and shoved him gently onward.
Jaskier strode into the main hall and froze.
It looked like… a flower shop.
No, it looked like a flower shop exploded. Like a cart overturned. The long tables were strewn with loosely tied bouquets. Buckets of flowers lay festooned across the empty expanse of the floor. Bundles of blooms replaced sconces. A riot of color assaulted the eyes, from deep reds and oranges to purples and blues.
Lambert snatched his hand away from straightening a lily in a vase on the table, his eyes wide as a child caught stealing. Eskel cursed, and Jaskier turned to the sound. Found him perched on a footstool in front of the fireplace slotting Glory of the Snow into an arrangement on the mantel. He hurriedly placed a few more.
Jaskier stared, struck speechless, and then leaned toward Geralt at his side.
"You do know I'm a 43 year old man, yes?"
Geralt had crossed his arms over his chest and hid his mouth behind one hand. His gaze swept slowly, taking it all in.
"I told you," he said eventually, dropping his hand as he glanced over. "It wasn't me."
"No!" A voice piercing as a hawk cracked the silence, and a small witcher darted into the room. "You're early!" Cirilla, in linens and leathers, charged Geralt and thwapped him on the chest with a bundle of flowers. "I told you!"
"I tried!" Geralt shrugged at her, helpless, and she whirled from him in a huff.
Jaskier peered at her. "This… was your idea?" he ventured.
Ciri straightened and looked him in the eye, her gaze as piercing as her voice. She nodded once and lifted her chin with a look of regal pride.
Jaskier's gaze flicked around the room again, at Lambert looking put upon with his arms across his chest. Eskel grinning over at him still trying to work. His astonishment melted as he landed on Ciri again.
"Geralt says you like nice things," she told him.
He cast a look in Geralt's direction, heat and fondness aching in his chest. "Does he now," he said.
Geralt opened his mouth as if to reply, then simply shrugged one shoulder, embarrassment written into every line of his features even if he could not blush. Nice probably meant expensive, but Ciri was still a child in some ways and had understood it differently.
He turned back to her, throat a little tight. "Well, it's lovely. But… where did you get it all?"
Ciri's proud look burst into a sunbeam. "Eskel took me foraging!"
"For all this?"
She shrugged. "Lambert helped."
Jaskier cut a glance at the witcher in question, who hunched and hid his face behind that mop of ginger hair.
"I learned all their names," Ciri announced. "And… we got berries!" She showed her scholar-stained hands and wiggled her fingers, purples and reds from the berries coloring her skin like bruises. "Enough for two pies!"
"Pies?" Jaskier arched an incredulous eyebrow at Geralt as Ciri grabbed his wrist and started dragging him toward the table. "Witchers bake?"
Geralt smirked, pacing after them. "Vesemir bakes. Lambert makes charcoal."
"Fuck off."
"Enough!" Vesemir's long-suffering voice preceded him into the hall, and he marched into view carrying a tray with two pies still curling steam. "How the three of you can brew potions and burn pastry I'll never know."
Ciri made space among the flowers, and the old witcher set the tray down. Lambert reached, and Vesemir slapped his hand away with a scowl. He motioned for Jaskier to sit, and crowded on all sides, the bard sat.
"Happy birthday, lad," the old man said, grinning slightly as Geralt's hand slid onto Jaskier's shoulder. "Hope we've done it right."