abraxaslogs | [ OPEN / CLOSED ] i think i found a way to kill the sun

[It is now that Geralt's fingers leave his hair he realizes that, damn. He was quite enjoying that, actually. More people, he wishes, would just give him a good tug or two. Certainly he has yet to drive anyone to a level of frustration where they're throwing him into walls, but there will be time yet for it.

Jaskier laughs at his sound, in good spirits still.] Oh, don't grumble. You'll be having a good time plenty soon.

[It's a promise, evergreen. And though his smile stays through their kiss, it sends a tripping through his heart. This time, when he parts, it is with some reluctance.

A good time, as he said.

Yet he wants to offer more than that. He's a good dick and a talented mouth, but he can be more. He can give more. And he wants to. Here, where he must do it without statement or offering. Where, in a way, he must take the opportunity to provide it.

He inhales, sharp, as Geralt turns over. Somehow, in the moment, he wasn't thinking how much it would be. How little they could fully heal. But that's all he does, all the sound he makes before reaching out. Palms spread across Geralt's back, tracing up his scars. He rolls the heel of his palm deeply into them, searching out knots. All these scars, and he knows each one that is new now.

He bends down and kisses the largest one, a horrid welt that runs nearly horizontal to his spine. As his hands move lower, he takes a long, squeezing appreciative touch of the Witcher's rump. Murmuring against his back, he says:] I know you have oil somewhere close.

[Alone or not, he could guess after Geralt's needs.]

[ If he hears the intake of breath, Geralt neither comments nor reacts. Jaskier helped stitch him up. Jaskier knows the depth of his wounds. And though only Julie and Nadine saw how especially fucked up he was when he'd been fresh out of Thorne, Jaskier, alongside Sam, still glimpsed more of that than any other.

Shit. He wasn't complaining about Jaskier's heated mouth on him—not even close—but he can't complain about those hands pressing firmly into his back, either, warm and. Gentle. He curls his hand around a pillow. Allows himself to uncoil a little, to give in to what he's being offered. Rarely does he do so, but it's coming from Jaskier, from someone who knows him better than anyone. He finds it easier, here and now, to accept the sort of care that he can't deny he wants, if not necessarily needs. (Or perhaps he does need it.)

His eyes crack open when the question comes. Oh. Mm. ]

Thought you'd arrive prepared. [ His tone is dry, teasing. There's a grunt, and then he's stretching to pull open a drawer. Somewhere in there is the answer. ]

[He laughs. The only reason he doesn't hit him on the back is because he's afraid the scars may still be sore.] Apparently unbeknownst to you, my dear friend, [He enunciates every word carefully so the ale in his blood does not slur them together, reaching across Geralt -- mostly laying against him as he grabs the small bottle from the drawer,] I do not travel around in constant preparation for fucking my company.

[He still insists this was not his intention when he walked Geralt back to Sam's, but if he thinks twice about it... perhaps it was. What an oversight not to bring his own. Then again, how embarrassing would it be if Geralt had turned down his company?

As if he would.

He returns to his position between Geralt's legs, his own tucked underneath him.] T'was a safe assumption you would have your own. I had no illusions you became celibate, injured or no.

[One hand returns to Geralt's back, as he rubs oil between his fingers with the other. It is perhaps a tad surprising that Geralt isn't turning him down. Not for... this, this unplanned, unpracticed thing, and yet it was unspoken as if they both knew what was... needed. Or wanted. The difference meant little in the moment.

He bends and kisses a different scar this time, gently scraping his teeth against it the same time he pushes two fingers in him. They can go slow, of course, and he feels the desire to, but there's no need to waste time, either.]

[ Intention or not, it's where they have found themselves. Geralt minds not at all. He has spent most of his days, weeks, holding himself together. And he can, he's fine. He's been here before; he knows how to push on. The world stops for no one. He's picked up his sword again, relearned it in his hands after too long not training with it. Next week, he'll take Roach out for a simple contract. Find his footing once more.

But in the spaces where the night is quietest, he can admit he wants to find a reason to pause. To let himself feel the weight of everything and sit with it and be all right with how much what happened still burrows under his skin. That's what Jaskier is offering him. So he's taking it. A small moment where he need not continually move forward. He can lay here and indulge in the light brush of lips over his skin, and want nothing else but this.

A sharp inhale comes when he feels Jaskier ease inside. It burns; then a warmth. Jagged edges of pleasure prick their way up his spine. His fingers dig into the pillows. He sinks into the teasing, steady strokes. Eventually, though: ]

Jaskier. [ Demanding and wanting all at once—for what becomes clear when he reaches back, twists a bit so he can drag Jaskier down to kiss him. ]

Edited 2022-01-06 04:34 (UTC)

[Geralt doesn't even laugh. Well. He thinks he's quite funny, even in the throes of passion.

However, Jaskier goes quiet soon enough. The quiet of the room is instead filled with the breaths of the Witcher, the sound of a poet's lips against his ragged skin. Kikimore. The vampiress. Drowner, drowner. Basilisk? This one. Chernobog. He's fairly sure.

Jaskier recounts the scars to remind himself of the ones he's been there for. Of the things Geralt has survived. What do human mages hold against something like a basilisk? A ghoul? And yet a man can kill as easily as a monster. In some ways, they have evolved best in finding ways to do it.

Jaskier. The snap of his name reawakens him. He looks up, making his way back up Geralt's back for that kiss. There are plenty of jests to make at Geralt's mistake -- ah, the silent, needy Witcher -- but he doesn't say anything. Only kisses him, his fingers pressing in deeper. By the time they break, his lips are sore with Geralt's demands.

He's weak. Terribly weak to this. Every flaunting flirtation or sarcastic tease fails to manifest. There's just Jaskier, stealing another kiss while he barely has breath in his lungs.

It doesn't matter Geralt is a fucking mess. Doesn't matter Jaskier's magic is shit. The Dimming, or Christmas, the end of a year and still being trapped here, their world ages away. None of it matters.]

Patience. [Is what he finally manages, a cracked muttering, as he forces the Witcher to take more of his touches instead of the fucking he wants.

Once he's satisfied he's made a point (what was it, again?) he slides his fingers out. The oil comes back, and after Jaskier's shoved his trousers down (really should have removed them before all of this, honestly) and he's oiled himself, he pushes in. Slow, and steady, curved over the mountain of a Witcher with nowhere to brace a hand except across his scars. The weight won't hurt him. Never has. And with the scar on Jaskier's arm naked in the candlelight, they almost match.

He groans, saying Geralt's name like a curse, and gives him what he wanted.]

[ Always something, when he can get quiet out of Jaskier. When he has enough of the bard's attention that he becomes contemplative, only listening. Perhaps that's the real reason Jaskier's been able to pull those stories out of him piece by piece, over the years. Because in the rare moments he tells them, really tells them, Jaskier goes silent. Watches him. He knows Jaskier remembers every one of them, and not only for his songs.

He curls his fingers around Jaskier's arm. Steals too much out of that kiss, possibly. His teeth catch on Jaskier's lower lip, biting, tugging. (It matters. It does, all of this shit, but despite that they're together, the four of them. He isn't alone. He doesn't have to be alone, and neither do they. That's worth more than he can put in words.)

Patience. The fucking irony of Jaskier telling him this. He makes a soft sound, arches his spine. The scar that runs along it is fresh, sensitive, and it stretches with each movement. He is patient, though. Patient and more than willing to have Jaskier offer what he will. It's easy to let go, when he finally allows himself to, and he has. He lets go and sinks and feels the crest of pleasure rise.

And fuck if it doesn't rise hotter as Jaskier slips inside, eases in, sends a curse spilling from his lips. His hips lift, rolling into a steady pace. Jaskier is bent over him, skin slick where they press together. He draws in a jagged breath, breathes it out just as sharply. ]

[Of course it's irony, that's what makes it so fucking good.

Though, honestly, he couldn't say what wasn't good about this. He plants his scarred arm into the bed, fingers like claws, And Geralt holds it. Now it isn't weak, not as before. It holds his weight up with only the slightest tightness. Wounds heal. Grow stronger. Shouldn't he know that better than most, after all this time with a Witcher?

A Witcher, he thinks, that might've not gotten a proper fuck for a time. Jaskier groans, moving his hands again to the man's hips, his nails biting in. Right. He'd liked that, hadn't he? That little noise he'd made. Sinful, really.

He's a bit chuffed he was right about Geralt all along. How he fucks. But, if anything, perhaps he -- he underestimated him.]

Fuck. [It's barely a whisper, a soft exhalation as he pulls back, pushes back in with a shiver that wracks his back. A twinge in his arm lances into his head, but he ignores it. Jaskier grips his hips like a lifeline as he pushes Geralt down, and. The Witcher lets him. Lets him do it.

Fucking ridiculous to feel so trusted now.] Good? Are you -- [He breathes, but still chokes on the words. There's too many things rocketing through his head right now, and yet nothing at all.]

[ Not a proper fuck out here, that's certain. And it was not on his mind, frankly, given all that happened, but tonight it is. Tonight he wants that weight bearing down on him, the shudder that he can feel running through Jaskier until it reverberates against him. Nails dig into his hips.

Wouldn't you like to know how I fuck, he'd said once. Teasing and yet not, then. It strikes him he'd not asked the same question of Jaskier in return. He's discovering it now, and he finds it's exactly as he'd have thought: gentle but not delicate, and with a bottomless sort of attentiveness that curls inside every touch, every kiss. He hears Jaskier's running pulse, the quickened beat of his heart. ]

Mmh. [ Good. Yeah. The affirmative comes from in between hitched breaths.

(Of course he trusts him.)

One knee draws under him a little to shift the angle, pushing his hips up further. And perhaps because he wants Jaskier to notice, to look as he reaches between his legs and wraps his hand around his cock. He finds that rhythm between them—or maybe it's Jaskier who finds it and for once, Geralt is the one who's simply following along, letting the path lead him where it will. ]

[It may as well be a full conversation between them. He rises with Geralt's movement, but still clings to his hips, even if one hand slips over to squeeze the sizable chunk of his ass. Gods. It's a nice ass.

Not that he didn't know that already. It'd been many a night he spent rubbing chamomile oil on it.]

Tell me if -- [He shudders through a breath.] you need more.

[That's all he gives him. He raises Geralt's hips up just a hint more to strike the deepest angle, fucking him with rough, tight gasps as he bends over him. Curling enough to run his hands down his back, to lean over and kiss a scar. His tongue creeps out and licks it, just a bit. He has to, all right? It's been a fantasy.

It's there he sees exactly what Geralt's hand. Pumping himself, sliding along his cock in the most delectable fucking way. Jaskier curses, his forehead hitting Geralt's back as he curses, sharp, under his breath. If only he could fuck him and watch at the same time.]

[ More. He does need more, wants it. Funny. He normally needs little, wants little, and yet right here, he finds himself reaching for everything. ]

Kiss them. [ The words fall rough from his lips—demanding. He knows exactly what Jaskier's mouth is tracing along his body and he wants more of that. Only one person knows his scars so intimately without having bedded him first. And now that Jaskier is fucking him, he wants that intimacy to unfold once more. He isn't even certain why. Does it matter? He thinks not. Some things need not have reason.

If only. Jaskier will simply have to make do with the shudder that snakes from the base of his spine to his skull. It leaves his nerves tingling. His other hand grips the wooden frame of the bed. He takes just enough care not to snap. Anything. He can't owe Sam a couch and a damn bed.

(It is at this point his sensitive hearing picks it up—over their heavy breaths, over Jaskier's cursing—an unlocking door, and then a near-immediate retreat. Later, he will feel a bit bad for effectively driving Sam out of his own home, even if this place has become something of Geralt's home, too. But in the moment, his only thought is fuck it before his attention returns to Jaskier. )

Edited 2022-01-09 08:58 (UTC)

[Ah. Fuck. He didn't actually expect any requests.

Fortunately, Geralt's request is a very good one. (A demand, more like. A growl, a snarl. Truly he fucks with that line between monster and man so frightfully well, Jaskier cannot help but fantasize about what he could have next. Geralt's hands around his wrists, holding him down. Forcing him to kiss whatever scar he can reach.)

Next time. There may never be one, and as much as he shall mourn it, he can take what he wants now. Savor the tremble in his own voice and the darkness in Geralt's. The heat of it all. The sweat.

Jaskier is all too human, all too distracted, he doesn't notice a thing. Not much could drag him out of this, not even an interruption. (Why not put on a show at that point?)] Fine. [As if he's put upon by the request, his mouth traveling over Geralt's back. The scars are horrid, and he can so easily recall the tackiness of the Witcher's blood as he tried to heal him. As he watched Sam sew them up. The threads have long been removed, the skin knitted together. He finds a particularly rough mound of pale skin and bites it as his hips jerk sharply. Moving across the canvas, he gives them each a nip followed by a kiss, or only a kiss and a stroke of his tongue, until the twist inside him is painfully tight. Jaskier moans against his skin, fucks him harder, until the twist is snapped as easily as muscle under a blade.

He spills in him, his hand slipping on the wet of his back until he's collapsed against the Witcher.

And he sort of. Lingers there.] I have two hands to spare. If you still need them.

[One to grip each of the devil's horns.]

[ The disruption is pushed aside quickly, forgotten even quicker. He's only glimpsed the marks left behind once or twice in the mirror—after the stitches were removed, just to see how it was healing. A thick scar up his back, a few lashes too deep to have healed in full. Not pretty, but it matters little. The only thing about them that bothers him is the deep itch that lingers beneath. It will ease in time.

For the moment, he can ignore all that with how Jaskier nips and kisses at the raised jagged lines. He grunts as Jaskier shifts on top of him, fucks into him hard enough to rattle the bed. His grip tightens around the wood frame, around the pillow—he stopped paying attention to what he grabbed onto. He's just holding on, heavy breaths filling the air. The brush of rough stubble against his skin sends lightning right through his body.

He hears it soon: that start and stutter in Jaskier heart that tells him he's close. Geralt lets him have what he wants, takes his share in turn. It is not long before he feels Jaskier shudder and drape over him, spent—and there's a slickness inside him, between his thighs.

One will do. Geralt can't care to answer in words, but he doesn't hesitate to grab Jaskier's hand and put it on his cock. He likes his own fine, but he wants Jaskier's more. Wants those long fingers wrapped around him, stroking with him, and it might be that he's waiting for that. Holding back just to feel that. ]

Edited 2022-01-11 09:15 (UTC)

[One it is. Far be it from Jaskier to forget his partner when there's still so much to enjoy. Besides, the one time he held this cock, it was under water. Far different than now, when he can curl his fingers around it and appreciate the feel, the weight of it.

Exquisite. He'd always said a man who could swing a sword like that had to learn it from somewhere.

He'll tease him later. Jaskier doesn't want to bother now. He wants to keep kissing those scars, which he does, his lips wetter and hotter than before. The hand around Geralt jerks him, teases a thumb down its length, and its when he feels Geralt tighten across his back that he bites one of those scars, the ugliest of them, with a sharpness that the nips lacked before.

Hard enough that as Geralt comes underneath them, Jaskier can lift up high enough to see he's left a faint imprint of teeth.

Carefully, he draws himself out, letting his unscarred arm take his weight as he sinks to the bed beside the Witcher. If there is a softness to the wrinkles around his eyes, or an ease in his body he has not remembered for months, it's -- it's only the effect of sex, of course.] I'm starting to think I could make a habit of seeing you under me.

[There it is. A tease. He goes straight to it, to the joking and the jests, to ignore how bitterly soft his heart has grown in the moment. Despite himself, he reaches over to push Geralt's shorter hairs back out of his face.]

[ The flush of heat that runs through him drags a groan out of him. All at once, he feels too much, curved over the bed. He takes a moment to breath, to steady himself, before he rolls over. Turns to face Jaskier in time to catch the softness in those eyes.

Hm. He says nothing of it. He does notice, though. ]

Is it as you imagined? [ His lips curl to match the tease. He knows. Of course he knows Jaskier has thought of it; the bard has made that clear. And yet the way Jaskier reaches for him is not teasing at all. It's startlingly gentle. Leaves him thinking, a bit, before he simply accepts the gesture for what it is and settles down on the pillows. Jaskier's always had too soft a fucking soul. One might wonder how he made it this far in the world, but Geralt understands that that is exactly the reason how. There is no one bolder than a man who wears his heart so glaringly on his sleeve.

He pushes a tangled, sticky sheet off the bed. A quiet sits between them for some time. There are things he considers saying. He keeps them to himself for the moment. Instead, he snuffs out one of the candles to dim the lights. The moon shines through the half-drawn curtains.

Probably, he still will not sleep much tonight. But it weighs on him less with company. ]

Edited 2022-01-12 09:16 (UTC)

[He blinks, looking at him, then splits into a smile, a laugh.] That's what you ask? Seriously?

[He should expect nothing else, and truthfully, he didn't. He gives a sigh; one of content. He did not want to be alone tonight, either, and perhaps this is the one time they both will not admit it. When he withdraws his hand, he rolls onto his back. Gods forbid anything show on his face, or he stares at the Witcher. Things he would have done with a lover without hesitation.]

Honestly, I imagined you throwing me into walls a bit more. A dirty tavern somewhere. The stink of ale and sweat, and my fingers still numb from playing the strings. [His heart still feels so light. Jaskier lays a hand delicately over his chest, willing it to normal, knowing Geralt can hear every beat. (He's always wondered if that gets annoying. Hearing hearts. Or does one get used to it? Is it easy to ignore?] I mean, if I saw fit to imagine anything.

[Though they show that, yes, perhaps he put thought into his, his words are light. Besides, that fantasy is Geralt's fault. He's the one who brought up fucking him behind a tavern.] It is very fulfilling to know I had you pinned down so perfectly.

[The way he fucked. Hard, with a threat of violence -- Geralt pushing his nails into him, demanding more, the squeal of wood as he held onto the bed -- but edged with something gentle.]

[ Where Jaskier rolls onto his back, Geralt turns on his side. In part, it's because laying on his back still isn't entirely comfortable, but—

He is watching, too. His friend. Who he's now fucked twice and likely will again, but it changes little in the end. He beds a lot of people. He is friends with very few. It's the second which makes Jaskier important to him, not the first. (He is important.) Although that doesn't mean he won't enjoy listening to Jaskier describe his thoughts. The things he's imagined, now or in the past.

Right. The tavern. He had been the one to plant that image, hadn't he? He means to act on it, at some point. When the mood strikes. At the moment, he's more than sated. For once, he's thinking not of blood soaked floors but of Jaskier bent over a table, groaning his name, that shaggy fucking hair in his eyes. It's not a bad picture. Not at all. ]

Mmh. [ He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His reply is wry, a bit of a twist to his lips. ] You certainly had me pinned down.

[Jaskier all but guffaws, switching immediately onto his side so he can shove Geralt over (though, unsurprisingly, he hardly fucking moves.)] That's the best you can do? Shit jokes, as per usual. It is an absolute wonder that your ass somehow makes up for them.

[But perhaps it's done what a joke is meant to do; Jaskier is looking at him with a smile, with humor lining his eyes. It's maybe the first time in almost a season that he has not felt wound tighter than a bowstring. His hand crosses the space between them, trailing down Geralt's chest for nothing more than the lovely touch of it, still warm, still moist with sweat. He traces scars that he could rattle off the stories of without a second thought.

It is not strange for Jaskier to know someone's body. It is only that he has long memorized Geralt's before he has ever bedded it. Years of bathing the bastard when he's broken a bone, cleaning wounds he can't reach. Stitching him up when he could do it without passing out. Watching firelight glow upon his face as he cleans his swords, with Jaskier alongside him oiling his lute or restringing catgut.

I missed you, he thinks. I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't come back. That his oldest, boldest, and strongest friend could be so easily taken away... and that he should go through so much without barely a complaint after it.] Will you manage any sleep at all, you think?

[ His smile widens a touch. There it is. Genuine mirth from Jaskier. Rarer, as of late. Jaskier brushes his chest, trails fingers over his skin, and Geralt releases an exhale. ]

Doubtful. [ Blunt, casual. Like he's answering whether or not he thinks the rain will let up in the morning. ] Sunrise is worthwhile, though.

[ He can sit out on the roof later. He isn't fond of the desert and its dusty, filthy city, but he can admit the distant mountains and hills make for a pretty view at dawn. Jaskier is likely hoping for a better answer; Geralt hasn't got one to give and he thinks Jaskier will not expect much to have changed out of a single pleasant evening. Not that it didn't do what it was meant to. He's noticeably more relaxed, hasn't felt the need to move out of bed and keep busy. His head feels clearer.

He can see something on Jaskier's face, though. That weight to him when his thoughts are occupied. Geralt's expression softens. And Jaskier accuses him of brooding. ]

I'll find us breakfast. [ I'm not going anywhere. ]

And here I thought you were going to say seeing me first thing in the morning. Ugh, Geralt. You have absolutely no tact.

[It was the answer he expects, and yet it's no less disappointing to hear it. Having sleep taken from man is the surest thing to make him go mad. Geralt has never exactly been a deep sleeper, or a long one, yet.

His whole life he's mostly gone through without worrying for Geralt. Now it feels like it spills over at every turn. He's sure, in time, the feeling will lessen. When they... well, fuck, when will it? Are they ever likely to find more surer footing in this world? Shall they let go of the idea they should ever return?

He finds, to his surprise, accepting that does not hurt his heart as much as he'd thought it would.

Jaskier gives him a grandiose smile, moving in to kiss him simply because he feels like it.] Very admirable of you. At least this time you needn't muck about in the bushes for a rabbit. [Raiding Sam's cabinets, he suspects. Oh. His biscuits might still be tucked into a corner where he hid them weeks ago. He'll have to check.] Hopefully Sam will not mind a bit of extra company.

I see you all times of the day, Jaskier. And you never change.

[ It is not, to Geralt, a bad thing. They have parted, they have come together; the seasons have changed again and again around them. But Jaskier has always been who he is. If things have shifted between them, it's largely on Geralt's part: a quiet cracking open of the doors in his life, until Jaskier found a place in it he'd not meant to grant but which he does not regret. Despite what he once said.

The kiss draws a faint hum out of him. He lets his eyes close again. Jaskier smells like wine and the dirty streets, and he can't say he cares. ] The day that man minds a bit of company will be the day you cease your singing.

[ Geralt thinks he doesn't mind a bit of extra company right now, either. And while he does not exactly roll into Jaskier, nor does he move away if Jaskier winds up closer to him eventually—lets Jaskier push him over or wrap around him or generally make himself as much of a damn nuisance as he wants. ]

[Jaskier is already making himself at home, which is to say he's pushed Geralt over for enough room, then curved into him. Never shall a bard feel safer than having a Witcher at his back, but never is he more satisfied knowing he's left his mark.]

You're such a bastard.

[Perhaps the most affectionate he's ever spoken to him. Jaskier does eventually throw an arm around him, because he is a nuisance, and he gets cold fingertips and feet, and Geralt's hair is quite warm when he tangles his fingers up in it. There is not a body in the world the bard will not snuggle up to, given the chance, as long as it's warm and willing.

Geralt may not sleep, but at least he'll have company. And a pretty sight to watch.]

[ OPEN / CLOSED ] i think i found a way to kill the sun

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