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

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: December
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Some catching up now that he's home
Warnings: Discussion of trauma; nsfw marked



(( placing starters in the comments below. find me at discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))

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[cointosser]

[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.]

[gynvael]

[ 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. )

[cointosser]

[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.]

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[cointosser]

[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.]

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[cointosser]

[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.]

[gynvael]

[ 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.

[cointosser]

[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?

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[cointosser]

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.

[gynvael]

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. ]

[cointosser]

[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.]