abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

[ His lips curve into the smallest smile. When he first brought Ciri to Kaer Morhe, he had not anticipated she would make it her home. Cold, broken, filled with rats and men and musty furs. She had, though. She made it her home. And then he remembers telling Vesemir, I can't stay. Too dangerous. Too many people chasing her.

Now they've landed here. The dangers have not passed. But Ciri at least has a home again. They all do. (He only wishes...but he needs to stop wishing when it comes to Yennefer, doesn't he? Where has it ever gotten him?) ]

We've a special butchering table now. [ He tips his head back and to the side to catch Jaskier's gaze. Amusement lines his expression. He'd bought them the table for a reason. So Jaskier would stop complaining about the kitchen being used for both butchering and eating bread.

He glances back towards the sea. ] When I used to visit the Isles, the shores would be full of sirens and salty seawater thrashing your skin. This is far less unpleasant.

[ Not that he wasn't greatly fond of Skellige. Good people. Good food. Excellent wine. ]

Only because I nattered about getting one, thank you. And told her to use it!

[He still doesn't understand how the Witchers can stand eating where they cut up beasts, and he says that after having met the rest of the wolves and seeing the inside of Kaer Morhen.

Here he'd thought some of the shittier brothels he'd ended up in were depressing.

Jaskier removes the bag from his hip, placing it gently on the beach. Mog's mostly curled up, mostly asleep until the moon rises again and he finds his energy reserves. It's enough time for Jaskier to appreciate a little dip. How could he come to the sea and not enjoy it?]

I don't know, I liked the sirens a bit. Lovely breasts. Big, big tails. [He holds his hands up as if to emphasize the.... tails.] The threat of being eaten alive, but possibly cock-first. The sort of things a man dreams of.

[When he's a bit drunk and depressed and finds appeal in dying mid-coitus, of course. Or Jaskier is simply being dramatic.]

[ Look, if there were a lab and autopsy slab available, he'd use it, but they make do with what they have.

He lays back. A quiet laugh escapes from his chest. ] You could only dream one would eat you cock first. They prefer to tear open the intestines.

[ Learned that the hard way. As he does many of his lessons. No sirens here, though. No monsters. Just the sun, setting. The moon rises, the stars shine. The waves turn dark, the breeze cooler in the evening. As the shores clear away of visitors, he finds himself drawn to the sea.

No reason not to. He doesn't hesitate to strip down, leaving his clothes atop a rock and stepping into the water. He tips back the bottle of wine in his hand. If Jaskier is taking in the view, he certainly won't complain. He's hardly oblivious to where his friend's eyes roam. ]

[Geralt's dark laugh elicits one from himself, as he watches the extremely tantalizing show in front of him. Geralt has never given a shit, and Jaskier accepts treats as they are given to him, like an enthusiastic puppy. (Or, at least, as the Countess de Stael once said of him. Frankly, he does not believe it was meant to be complimentary, but he's always decided to take it that way.)]

You really are determined to ruin a man's fantasies, aren't you?

[It does bring to mind that a good deal of him will miss Skellige as well. The Skelligans truly understood his music in the basest of ways. They had always wanted the baudy, fun jaunts.

Alas.

He kneels next to his bag.] Stay here, Mog. [As if the creature has moved at all. He's still curled up, round as a roll, and about as warm. Jaskier removes his shirt, folding it on top of his bag, and then pulls the strings of the bow at the small of his back. His trousers follow, and then he is in the water, letting it lap coldly at his legs, then his hips. Water brushes over the scars on his arm, across his chest.] Looking like a siren yourself. Long hair, large breasts. A sort of fatal attraction to all of you. [He reaches out for the wine with wiggling fingers, pulling it from Geralt's grip to gulp some down.] Luckily, I know you have no predilection towards intestines.

[ That's what he's here. To ruin fantasies of laying with monsters. Which does not dissuade as many men nor women as much as it should. He's learned that over the years, too.

Of course it takes no time at all for a Jaskier to join him. Geralt leans back against one of the rocky pillars in the water, jutting out from the gritty sandy floor. The water laps at his waist. In the night, it's cool—easing away the heat of the day.

He takes another drink before letting Jaskier steal it. His eyes roll. They roam over Jaskier's chest, then down where the rest of him is just barely hidden under the surface.

Hm. He tugs the jug of wine back out of the bard's grasp. The corner of his lips quirk upwards very faintly. ] And luckily, I do know you've a predilection towards cock.

[ In a manner of speaking. A predilection towards many indulgences. ]

[Jaskier takes it because he's known for years that Geralt will always relinquish. He always has. The wine is crisp and delectable, especially out in the cold ocean water. It makes it all the better when the alcohol warms him against the sea.

Besides, it's not like he's going to get drunk and drown out here. One bottle of wine hardly does much anymore.]

Cocks, a lady's lovely contrapunctum, breasts, bollocks. I have predilections towards all, thank you, and you well know that.

[Though he happens to be with Geralt's cock right now, attached to the rest of him, and that seems quite important now. While he's let go of the wine back to him, Jaskier takes his other hand and pulls him a bit closer.] Geralt, if I didn't know you so well, I'd say you were being flirtatious with me. An absolutely shocking turn of events, if you ask me.

[ The raise of his eyebrow is wry. ] Too well. Unfortunately.

[ It isn't often he lets himself relax. Here with Jaskier and an ocean breeze, he does so, allowing his mind to think of very little except the simplest, basest of things: the lock of hair in Jaskier's eyes that makes him want to flick it, the spark of heat in his friend's gaze.

Those long fingers. They wrap around his hand. He allows that, too.

A low sound greets that remark. He lifts the bottle back to his lips, a casual gesture. Jaskier is close enough he can feel the heat from his skin. ] Don't know what the fuck you mean.

[ Not at all. Except he obviously does, a fact he makes known when he tugs Jaskier in the rest of the way to kiss him. It is not teasing, and it is not coy. He just kisses him, much the same as he does everything else—because he wants to, because he can, because Jaskier will not deny him. He can smell it in the air, that human curl of desire. Radiates off of Jaskier in waves. ]

Unfortunately, he says. I think you've been very fortunate indeed to learn what you have about me.

[Unless Geralt is speaking of the times they shared an inn room and returned from a bath or from a romp about chasing monsters to Jaskier with a new body in their bed. Or he's speaking of the Cintran banquet, where he had to chase off angry cuckolds before they cut off very delicate parts of Jaskier off. Or he's talking about that time Jaskier woke Geralt from the dead of sleep when he was having that very sexy dream a bit after Rinde --

Yes, some dreams do linger for years, thank you.]

Of course not.

[Jaskier already knows he's made his point. He's won. Not that Geralt is much of an opponent. He's easy. He's always been that way, despite all his grumbling and defensive walls.

Jaskier wraps his arms about his neck, pulling him down, close, to deepen it. Simply because they want to.] Let me show you what I mean, then. Since your memory is so frighteningly short.

[His hands unwrap, sinking beneath the water, now that he's thought of something much better to do with them.]

[ Fortunate and unfortunate. Every sword has two edges. (Deep down, Geralt knows full well every time, he chose to be there for Jaskier. Because Jaskier asked.)

Hadn't realized there was anything to be won or lost, though. If Jaskier were to say it, Geralt would tell him they both seem to be winning here. He leans into the kiss, one hand resting on the small of Jaskier's back. His eyes fall shut for a moment. The smell of saltwater stirs in the breeze, and he can smell the sage and sandalwood on Jaskier, too.

It isn't quite right to say he missed this. He's always had it. Maybe more...that he especially fucking needs it now. ]

I could use a... [ Hm. Jaskier's hand wraps around him, warm and heavy. A curl of heat winds through him. ] Firm reminder.

[ A good use for those hands. ]

[Jaskier laughs after they part, his cheeks already painted a pale pink now he's stroking the Witcher. Even sea water cannot cool a man's temper completely.]

Thank the gods you didn't say hand.

[A terrible cliché that would ruin the mood, of course. And the mood as it is is very pleasant: the bobbing waves, the sound of water cracking on rock, and the expansive sky overhead, wide and deep enough to suck them away to another world, as they already have been.

He kisses Geralt, running his thumb up the length of him. As easy, as natural, as breathing.] At least I needn't worry about sirens here.

[ His lips curl upwards at the edges. The waves crash against the rocks. Under the moonlight, it's practically what Jaskier would call romantic.

Not that Geralt gives much thought to these matters.

He inhales deeply, breathes out against Jaskier's throat. The rhythm is one he is long familiar with. Jaskier knows what he likes and in return, he knows how Jaskier likes to do it, too. How he rolls his thumb and curls his palm and strokes. ]

As far as we know. [ He's only teasing. Doesn't appear to be sirens in these waters. Just the glowing blue crabs and the occasional fish. ]

[ CLOSED ] head down, hands up

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nsfw.

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