abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

[Though Jaskier has seen glimpses of Geralt and his rather sneaky companions rarely, it had felt very... impermanent. The only thing, strangely enough, that made Jaskier feel more grounded was when the Witcher sneaked by with Mog in his arms, holding him up to the room's window so Jaskier could see him again. The gryphon wiggled, trying to get to him, but couldn't escape the Witcher's grasp.

Even when he is finally released, he cannot fully enjoy it. Scraps of his relief are carved out by the guards that accompany him from the hospital (and what a joy it is to discover what a hospital is from the inside), who, despite Jaskier's reasoning, will not leave his side. "Ordered by Marlo," one tells him stiffly. All the explanation he really gets.

So he returns home, and the guards stay outside the bakery downstairs, watching the stairwell as he goes up them. Now without bandages, or a limp, or even extra scars. Like it never happened at all.

It unnerves him a little.

As he unlocks the door, he sends a message to Geralt.] I've been released, finally. Is Mog still home? I miss the little bastard. [A beat.] And you, obviously.

[ Waiting for Jaskier to be released has been a test of his patience. He's visited when he can, stayed close by otherwise in a nearby inn, and only once Dean has assured him he will help look after Jaskier does Geralt finally return home.

He hates the fucking feeling that he didn't do enough. He knows blaming himself will help no one. They can only move forward. And yet.

It's near sundown now. He's sitting in a chair, quiet, fingers wrapped around a jug of vodka. What else is there to do? Hunting is out of the question. He's been sent home by one of the attending nurses. And half the roads in Cadens are cordoned off by soldiers.

Drinking passes the time.

Then a message, scrawled across the tabletop. Geralt blinks. Looks up in time to hear footsteps. He's on his feet in a flash, taking long strides to the door as it swings open. ]

Jaskier. [ He doesn't hesitate—just pulls his friend in against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. ]

Oof.

[Of course he didn't hear Geralt was already home, which means he must have been sitting here in silence. Still, Jaskier's heart beats double-time as heavy, thick arms go round him, bringing him in against Geralt's wonderfully warm chest. Contact. He's missed it, as simple as that. From anyone. All he's had is people poking and prodding at his wounds, forcing him to drink bitter potions, or helping him out of bed when his legs were still weak.

He lifts his arms and wraps them back around the Witcher. His chin rests on his shoulder.] Good to see you again, my friend. [For a moment, it is just the quiet of their creaking home, and Jaskier's breath, and the warmth of a body against his. He knows without asking that Geralt has been skulking around the hospital. It's how he found the right window to hold Mog up to.

The whole thing feels vaguely familiar. The same way he felt when Geralt opened that cell door, where he thought he would rot.

Well. He's much less angry this time. But he is still very tired.] Don't tell me you were waiting up all this time for me. You smell as if you haven't bathed in days.

[It's his usual teasing, but it comes weighted now, as if he's forcing it. (He is.) Instead, he hangs onto Geralt longer than normal societal manners dictate, simply because this feels... this feels more real than the last week has.]

[ Geralt grunts into Jaskier's shoulder. He missed him. Between Yennefer, Himeka, Jaskier, he's been...

It's a reminder. Of how many have come to mean more to him in this world than he ever meant. And yet here he is solely because he allowed it, because he does, deep down, want it, this circle of people who have become friends and family. But now it feels as though he has so much to lose. Much more than he's already lost over the decades. ]

Shut up. [ Like Jaskier, the banter carries a forced edge. Jaskier is fine. No reason to keep fretting over what didn't happen, over what-ifs that keep him awake at night. Outside, the guard shuffle, breathing, their heartbeats coming faintly through the door. Their own security brigade, is it?

He finally extricates himself from Jaskier's grasp—in time for a small feathery creature to dart between their legs, wings flapping as the gryphon hovers a few feet off the ground. Geralt picks up Mog, placing him into Jaskier's arms. The gryphon coos.

He doesn't know what happened in Nocwich, precisely, and he doesn't ask. Not yet. ] Hungry?

[ No taverns are open right now past sundown. So. What they have in the the house is what they have. ]

Edited 2022-09-08 07:18 (UTC)

Ah, too spot-on to the truth? [It's good to be home. Good to be not in pain. But after seeing Yennefer, he hardly feels relieved. There's something terrible afoot; tensions coming to a head that... well, he thought he'd been doing a good job of easing them, in some way.

And now Libertas is gone. And he has been afraid to reach out to Quilleth. What if she was a victim of the queen's ire?

A sour thought that lingers. Except --]

Mog! My sweet! [He takes Mog with a grin, hugging him close and kissing his feathered head.] How have you been? Has Geralt been very mean to you? Don't worry, he always takes it out on us. My sweet boy. [He coos in the most annoying manner that comes absolutely naturally to Jaskier, snugging his nose into the gryphon, who murps and meeps, tail swinging.

It's nice to be missed, despite all things.]

Yes. I'm starving. You would think healers offered some rather nice food -- Nadine may have spoiled me -- but the hospital food was terrible! [Jaskier cradles a purring Mog in his arms as he follows Geralt to the kitchen, his stomach feeling stretched taut.] But at least they healed me. I was offered compensation, too. For the attack. For my very expensive coat, which was absolutely ruined. A shame. I only got to wear it the once.

[ He lets Jaskier chatter on as he slices a loaf of bread in half, putting the chunk on a plate and spooning some stew into a bowl—still warm from the pot. They're fortunate they have food at all. He's seen the state of the markets: empty shelves, tripled prices, shipments stalled at the borders. What always happens after a city falls.

At least they aren't short on funds. And game isn't hard to find.

He sets both dinner and a jug of wine out for Jaskier. Or rather, he pours the wine and keeps the jug for himself. He's not slept in days. The flames and ash, they ring too close to home.

He tries to remind himself Jaskier is safe. That's all that matters. ]

I asked Dean to look in on you. [ No reason to pretend otherwise. Jaskier likely suspects. ] Though I see the guards are a permanent fixture now.

[Jaskier gently coos softly, gives Mog another kiss, and sets him on top of his perch where he curls up to lick himself. Even a simple stew and bread is luxury compared to the gruel the hospital gave him. As if he didn't have teeth.

He takes a seat, crossing his legs. Polite. Comfortable. Until his legs slides off his knee and he simply holds his heads in both hands, rubbing his temples.

Not slept in days. Yes. Only a few winks, here and there.

Funny to think he had begun to believe the nightmares were over.]

I guessed as much. He's never been so insistent on being generous to me before. [To the point of attempting to sneak him alcohol. Apparently there's a law about this or something. Utter balderdash.] Unfortunately. I insisted I didn't need them, and yet... as you can see, only certain of my words are respected.

[He lifts his head from his hands finally, the exhaustion settling around him. At least, tonight, he will have his own bed. And there will be a body beside him.

Jaskier takes a deep breath.] I have some good news for you. Grigory Jannus is dead.

[ Mm. Expected. He isn't fond of the presence of bodyguards outside their home, but they've proven to not be a danger to Jaskier while he was healing. He can begrudgingly accept they'll be here for at least the next week or two. Perhaps longer. Who the fuck knows?

He sits next to Jaskier, their shoulders brushing. Glances over as Jaskier's head drops into his hands. Mog plucks at his feathers.

A scoff. He takes another drink. Thancred had informed him, though not of the details. Funny, that he's nearly forgotten in all the mayhem. Only now has Jaskier reminded him. Good fucking news indeed. Shame he'd not been there. ] Hope the little fucker died shitting himself.

[ He leans his head back. Sinks into the cushions. Cities burning, armies marching—he's no stranger to any of this. But he's never had so many people he cares about in the direct path of war. It's different. Heavier. A weight he cannot shake. There's news to share—he's spoken to Thancred, knows Himeka is all right, is aware the Queen has spiralled into a rage—but he can't bring himself to talk of it. What would be the point?

There are those among them who believe they have a role to play in stopping or starting wars. Perhaps they're right. But Geralt has always understood his path to be otherwise. War comes and goes like the tide. He only wants his people to be safe. More and more, though, it feels as if these roads he never wanted to travel are converging. And he doesn't know what he's meant to do.

He stares into the jug, debating if he wants to drain it now and retrieve another or sip what's left slower.

Fuck it. He tips the whole thing back and gets up. Grabs a bottle of something stronger than wine. ]

Does Nadine know you're returned?

[The casual cruelty in Geralt's tone makes him laugh -- it's more than justified, and yet somehow it feels comical.] The man's end was very terrible. There may not have been enough of him to shit.

[It feels it's been a very long time since he's ever had such feelings. Delighting in someone's death. It's very little relief in the long run, considering the pit of worms that has only just been unearthed, but it is something.

And it may be a piece of the larger puzzle.

On the other end: whoever attacked him, couldn't they have done something similar? Was he, too, nearly removed from this world so easily? He's had several days to come to term with the idea that those strange insects might be the only thing that allowed him to keep all his limbs.

Jaskier reaches for the bottle Geralt returns with, taking it from him to draw from. Mm. Still better than what Dean brought, but Jaskier is hardly the type to turn his nose up from any liquor when he's trapped in a room like that.]

She visited enough to follow my healing. I was only after a quiet night at home for now. I saw how easily swarmed Sam was in his own moment; I'd rather not have the same for myself, for once.

[ If only the Queen followed suit. Except—from an objective standpoint, he knows that'll fuck the situation worse. The reality is, as much as he holds a personal distaste for the crown in Thorne, he understands they keep the Free Cities in check.

He is not certain he wants to know what it will look like should Marlo overtake Thorne. And what that may mean for the Summoned who reside there. (Particularly the ones known to be close to the queen. To the High Mage.)

He relinquishes the bottle to Jaskier. Mmh. Yes. He can sympathize. He'd stayed with Sam after his own ordeal for similar reasons. A need to be alone. To not...need to pretend he was fine or keep himself together. He turns his head. Studies Jaskier for a moment. It was foolish, but he'd—

Gone to see the moogle. That absurd winged bat-bear that isn't even real. Somehow, it'd made him feel better. ]

No one's going through your guards. [ Jaskier can keep to himself here as he wishes. He pushes his empty bowl onto the table. He grows quieter. ] I'm glad you're home.

[For once.

He might've savored the attention. Now even Geralt's eyes feel rather piercing on him, despite Jaskier's vast experience in ignoring him. Years and years of it. He drinks again, letting it burn his throat in a way that is nearly uncomfortable.

Handing the bottle back, he licks his lips. Gives a snort.] True enough. Though I wish no one to attempt to do so only for little old me.

[Maybe there's a hint of amusement at the idea... before he looks over, meeting Geralt's gaze, genuine surprise on his face.

It's not as if he doesn't know. It's that... Geralt should say it aloud.] As am I. [He can put a lot of things behind him. A lot of dangerous situations he has been in. That he's placed himself in, whether purposeful or not.

But this is the first time someone has come for him because of who he is. Not because of what he knows of others.] As much as I was hoping for new experiences in my older age, I can admit that attempted assassination was not one I imagined happening.

[ He's begun saying a lot of things out loud he'd have not in the past. Has he changed? Even beyond what Ciri has brought out of him? Possibly. He doesn't know. The world is different here. That much is undeniable. The people. It's—

He pushes his thoughts aside. ]

Wasn't on my list, either. [ An edge sharpens along the dry remark. He breathes out. ] It won't happen again.

[ He doesn't give a shit if it's an absurd or impossible thing to declare. He cannot contemplate a situation in which Jaskier would have died. Alone. While shaking hands with some fucking member of court or whatever it is they have in Nocwich.

He can't talk about it. Doesn't want to think of it. He falls silent—lets the minutes go by until Jaskier finishes eating. Until most of the bottle is gone.

When he follows Jaskier to bed, it's automatic. They've shared it on and off; there are occasions where he prefers to sleep alone, apart, or not sleep at all. But tonight, he knows he wants to be close by. ]

[Perhaps it is the romantic notion of the impossible that brings a smile back to Jaskier's lips. He leans in and kisses the Witcher's cheek, marveling that this moment, right here, may be the most romantic the Witcher has ever been in his life.] And all it took was my near-death to hear such sweet words from you.

[He'd rather tease than think about it harder. How close he was. How it may happen again -- is that not the way of assassinations? It's not as if Jaskier defeated the villain who attempted to. Or has any idea of who, exactly, it was.

They drink, and Jaskier eats, small bite by bite as if the pain from the wounds still bother him. They don't, but this unnatural healing -- it leaves ghosts, he finds. They heal far faster than one's memory can acknowledge.

At least they even managed to heal what remained of the wound in his side. Left by the Hunt.

Jaskier waits for him, pausing once he stands up, and Geralt seems to know. This is beyond the shadow of a mage that lingers in dark corners, the memories of flames. How funny, he thinks, that he managed a whole life without pain, really, and now it hounds him down as if he escaped it all this time. His arm, terribly scarred, and his side. The headaches. This magic blast. All in one full turn of the seasons.

Jaskier tosses his tunic off, fingers finding the scar left from the Hunt's knife. Only very small scars now pepper his chest, where they had to pull pieces out of his skin between healings. Only the size of pebbles.]

I never did thank you for bringing Mog by. It was a great spot of joy for me. [He sits on the edge of the bed, falls down onto it. It's so much softer than the hospital one; he made sure to buy the softest down pillows.] I'll tell you what happened, only... later. But it wasn't the werewolf. I'm sure of it. [Jaskier smiles to himself, turning on his side to look at Geralt. He tugs some of his hair.] You'll laugh, but he looked quite a bit like you.

[ He kicks off his boots—something he's only started doing now that they have a home, now that he sleeps in Jaskier's bed and Julie's bed. His instinct is to keep his boots on. Just in case. But nothing will be coming through that door tonight. Not that this is over. He just understands the ebb and flow of battle. Things will be quiet for the next few days or so, as courts and governments maneuver their pieces.

The bed sinks under his weight. He lays on his side, the smallest tilt to his lips. Yes. He'd brought the damn gryphon. Tucked it into the bag Jaskier carries the thing inside constantly and took it to the window. He can see it now, curled up in the bed he built. It's painted now—lined with soft pillows and blankets. A fucking spoiled creature.

Jaskier needn't thank him. And he needn't talk of what happened. Not now. It won't change anything. ]

Wish I could be surprised. [ He scoffs a little. He isn't blind. The werewolves—they share similarities. His hand rests idly on Jaskier's hip. ] I used to be the only white wolf on the continent.

[ Now there's three or four. If he were the territorial sort, this would bother him to no end. ]

[So much like him, in fact, Jaskier had mistaken Sten for Geralt for a moment -- and he had worried something had gone wrong somehow. Funny how, in a way, he was prophetic in thinking so.

Jaskier does not move from his touch. In fact, he invites it; it grounds him further, and he moves in closer, similar to how he did when he returned from the memories of the fire mage. The mage, this assassination, the Wild Hunt -- he was rather becoming a popular target, was he not?

The bard moves some of Geralt's hair behind his ear, lips curling up into a smile. If there is anything he can trust, it is that Geralt will treat him no differently than before. He won't speak differently. He will simply find reasons why he need not return to his desert hunts.]

Still my favorite white wolf, somehow. After all, you've made me a shitload of coin.

[He grins, moving in to kiss him. It's as familiar as the small touches that make this world home: the heat of the desert, the dry air crisping his hair, the smell of blood and baked bread.] And you had better never repeat that. We must keep you humble, Geralt.

[ He laughs—an escape of breath. His favourite, is he? Somehow indeed. They've been friends for such a length he no longer asks himself why Jaskier's still fucking here. He did, once. At nights, in particular, watching Jaskier sleep on the cold, wet ground, aware that Jaskier could more than afford a pleasant inn, a warm and comfortable home. And yet. The bard never did. He stayed.

When Jaskier leans in to kiss him, Geralt reaches up absently. A familiar thing; they've been here dozens of times now. ] And overtake your reputation? I'd never.

[ Does Jaskier realize how many in Cadens fretted over him that night? Even the locals had worried, asking after the poet, the musician, the man who sold them brightly coloured flowers just the other week or paid for their drink. (Geralt had brushed them aside; he'd had no patience for nosy strangers.) Part of him thinks if there were to be any Summoned whose loss might have caused an uprising, it's Jaskier.

Not that he ever intends to find out.

His palm rests on Jaskier's chest. He can feel the faint bumps of scar tissue beneath. He adds nothing else. Leans in for another kiss, pushing Jaskier onto his back as he does. ]

[Jaskier offers a laugh to that as his first response.] Overtake my reputation? Oh, never. Never.

[No. He's worked too hard and too long -- on two different fucking worlds, which he knows no bloody other bard can ever claim. Not even an elven one. (Well. Maybe an elven one. Who knows? But he's only going to consider himself capable of such feats.)

Perhaps, before he was the Sandpiper, this would have scared him. (It did scare him. He was terrified, that first night alone, trapped in a room they would not allow him to escape.) Not only scared him -- it would have scared him off. Perhaps back into the shadows, like a mouse.

No. Mice could be brave, too. When they found the right companions.

Jaskier's hand slides over Geralt's. Of course he doesn't comment. He can figure it out, Jaskier imagines. At least partly what happened. He tilts his chin up, leans in the kiss. Fists a lot of Geralt's hair and lets it thread between his fingers. Familiar. Decades of familiarity.] Don't tell me. A spot of I'm glad you're alive sex?

[And here I thought you saved that for Yennefer. He's not so fol to say it. Not this time. He has to remind himself she is all right. All right as he is. And so much closer to her end than he'd been.] I could use it. That room was very fucking boring. And far too busy. A man could barely give himself a spot of attention.

[ He lifts his head. A gentle roll of his eyes follows. ]

Need it be for a reason? [ Hm? Can it not merely be because he wants to fuck a good friend tonight? (He missed him.)

And he has not been saving anything for Yennefer. They've...made strides. A few. They're speaking, for one. He isn't angry with her anymore, doesn't feel the painful curl in his chest every time he thinks of her. But a distance remains, a gap, that he isn't yet ready to reach across. Not when a part of him still expects her to sever that bridge at any moment.

This isn't about Yennefer. He wants to just. Be here. Remind himself Jaskier is whole and home. Alive.

Annoying as ever.

He hitches Jaskier's leg over his hip. Lets Jaskier tug on his hair as he leans back down to kiss him again. ]

Attention where? [ He trails his fingers downward, a light tease. ] Show me.

Edited 2022-09-17 06:42 (UTC)

[Jaskier laughs into the kiss, which he supposes is answer enough. It is true there is no need for reason, as plenty of their happenings have had no reason at all.

There is reason here, if they were to acknowledge it. But it does not need to be said, either.]

You're distracting me from answering on purpose, aren't you? [It's a rather good distraction, actually. And now he's very thrilled he already removed half of his clothes. He really should have gone for the trousers first, hmm?]

Lower. [He grabs Geralt's hand with a huff.] You've got eyes, don't you?

[But it is not lower that he leads Geralt's hand. Instead he holds it, and pulls him down, and kisses him.

A statement.

And then pulls his hand down, to the bow tied to hold his trousers up.] Perhaps in this general vicinity. A good place to start.

[ His eyebrow quirks upward. Working, isn't it? He doesn't want it said. Not right now. There's something overwhelming about the thought, in remembering the fear that gripped him in the brief moments he'd believed—

He allows himself to be pulled down, lets his hand be guided. His fingers twist and tug on the delicate lace. Loosens it. He has got eyes. Can see exactly where Jaskier is keen to have attention.

That's not where his hand wanders. He pins Jaskier down instead, straddling him with his knees on either side. With a tug, he pulls off Jaskier's silk breeches—fingers gliding over Jaskier's thighs. Unlike him, Jaskier has bronzed some under the desert sun.

A good look. ]

Your damn pet slept on your pillows. [ He trails his lips over Jaskier's collarbone, a huff escaping. ] Had to share the bed even when you weren't here to take up room.

[He knows it’s a good start when he’s been reduced to rhetorical questions. It’s… no, it’s good. It’s easy, like this. Thoughtless. And even though he longs for Nadine’s bed as well, for right now, for a day, he cannot take it. The worry he knows he’ll see there. The questions she will ask —- not the he blames her. It is quite the pickle he’s somehow fallen into.

As he does.

Jaskier lifts his hips only just enough to be somewhat helpful, shoving under the scrape of nails on his bare skin. Easy. Thoughtless. A dance they have now danced many, many times.

The bard tosses his head back and laughs, hands finding Geralt’s arms, trailing up them.] Is that so? My pet who weighs about ten pounds soaking wet? The one I’m sure you could launch all the way to Thorne? And you were bullied by such a creature? My, Geralt. Who knew it was that easy?

[Jaskier did.]

[ He gives a grunt of displeasure at that remark, even as he reaches into the drawer for the bottle of oil. (Jaskier has accumulated several types, but Geralt only ever grabs the one his fingers close around first.) He uncorks it with his thumb. The light scent of sage fills the air. ]

Fuck off. [ Emphasized by his hand wrapping around Jaskier's cock as the bard is mid-laugh. His lips curl in satisfaction at the response he gets in return.

It is thoughtless. Familiar. Bedding Jaskier is newer but being with him is not, and even their first time together had not really felt new or like any kind of first. He's laid eyes on Jaskier's body more often than he can count long before he fucked him, walked in on him with some lord or lady (both sometimes) a dozen times, certainly knows what he smells like.

He can smell the same now. The layers of scents that tells him precisely what Jaskier wants and needs. He works him with that edge of roughness he knows Jaskier likes, watching his face as he does. ]

Edited 2022-09-20 09:51 (UTC)

[Jaskier laughs, as he always does when Geralt mutters that particular line. If one ever needed to impersonate Geralt, a well-timed "fuck off" was all that was needed.

Luckily, Jaskier has plenty of experience with this sort of thing. The hand on him only shifts the laugh to a soft groan.

Oh, yes. Lovely. Especially after being stuck in that fucking room. Even going into the Horizon for a bit of fun brought little satisfaction, knowing the body he would return to. The amount of pain.

Now he's only, what? Three new scars? Five? Tiny things.

Jaskier wraps an arm around Geralt's neck and brings him down to kiss, hip only slightly raised to give him the proper room to work with. A hitch in his breath grows at several strokes in, when it's easier to sink into. This. His lips slide across Geralt's jaw, burning over the stubble there.] If I fuck off, both of us end this night unsatisfied.

[ He hums. Fair enough. They can wait until they're finished before Jaskier fucks off. For right now, he wants him near. And it's funny, isn't it, because has it not been a mere week? They've parted for much longer. But he's used to having Jaskier around when he's home these days—and this is different besides. The attack.

He's rarely afraid for Jaskier. The bard can take care of himself. Except when it's this. Something far out of his hands. The idea that he wasn't just too late. He was never there in the first place. It isn't a matter of responsibility, of feeling as though he needs to protect Jaskier. No guilt.

This is more primal. A basic fear of losing his closest friend.

He breathes out. Sinks into the kiss, listening to Jaskier's soft noises as he keeps going. He doesn't stop until that cock is well stiff between his fingers, and then he's pushing Jaskier's legs apart, sliding between them. Wraps his mouth around him. Maybe after, he'll fuck him, too—but he wants this first. ]

Edited 2022-09-24 09:44 (UTC)

[Of course that's Geralt oh-so-delicate invitation to stay. A hum. Barely even a smile. But it is, of course, what Jaskier is used to. Geralt has never been exactly verbose, but after so many long years together, there is hardly much need for them.

Besides, Jaskier has no problem inputting his own interpretations of Geralt's grunts and hums and frowns. He is almost always right.

Right now, he is fine with being right. Settling. And being quiet. He does not try to fill the silence other than with the small gasps he makes with the working of Geralt's hand, or the breath between his teeth when they part from a kiss. Only when Geralt begins moving down does Jaskier lift his head and question,] Geralt?

[Whatever question he was going to ask is lost. His head falls again with a sharp intake of breath.] You really... know how to welcome a man home.

[His thighs tighten, pressing in against Geralt on both sides. Sten may have been very attractive, but he can't help but wonder if a werewolf can suck cock better than a Witcher. One of life's little mysteries.]

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nsfw.

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