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

[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.]

[ It's more than an invitation to stay; his grip is insistent, almost demanding. He doesn't care if Jaskier talks or makes his wordless noises. He always knows what Jaskier is feeling, thinking, from the beat of his heart, the stutter in his breaths, the twist of his body.

He presses his hand against Jaskier's thigh; his eyes flick upward, and he dips his head down. Flattens his tongue, dragging it along the thick length. Another hum escapes him, deep in his chest.

He wants Jaskier's fingers in his hair, pulling. That's what he wants. He needn't say it; Jaskier knows full well what he likes. ]

[It is terribly trite to say that Geralt's mouth on him feels like home, but in some ways -- how fitting, when home is there for you without word or request or question; it waits for you, giving you what you need most. Shelter, in the case of a house. And Geralt's mouth...

Pure distraction.

Jaskier does not recall his pains from the last week. He doesn't think of the explosion flashing before his eyes. The fear in the guard's face as he moved in front of him. The fear that kept him awake several nights already.

The bard takes Geralt's hair in his hands and fists it tightly, pulling it rougher than he usually allows himself. He lifts his hips with a groan, clenching his eyes shut.] Leave me some bruises this time. Flattering ones.

[ If there's one thing Geralt has learned how to do well, it is distraction. Himself and Jaskier alike; this is as much for him as it is for the bard. He doesn't want to think about Jaskier's close call or whether it'll happen again. What the future holds.

Here is good. With Jaskier's fingers buried in his hair, dragging him forward. He takes him in, inch by inch. His hand presses down on Jaskier's leg—squeezing hard. His nails drag along the soft skin.

He can leave plenty of bruises later. For now, he isn't gentle, but he isn't rough yet. Just sucks him hard, unrelenting. His nose brushes Jaskier's stomach for a moment. Jaskier smells of smoke and ash, soap and rose oil. Too much wine. (Don't they both?) ]

[Whether Geralt really obeys or not doesn't matter. Not for the moment. There's the weight of him, the hot strokes of his tongue, and fuck. It's enough. For now.

Though he really thinks the Witcher would've been especially attractive right now with claws. Mm. Long, red streaks of claw marks down his thighs.

All right, so perhaps he's been thinking of Sten lately. And werewolves. And the mechanics.

Except it's Geralt's name on his lips when he comes with a jerk, ripping at his hair (why be gentle?), tangling between his fingers tightly.]

Fuck's sake. [He sighs the words, relaxing, sliding his legs back up.] That wasn't all you've got in you, is it? Besides me?

[He laughs, and maybe it's a little wet. He shoves anything threatening to come up back down.]

[ That is such an annoyingly Jaskier remark that Geralt lifts his head with only a stare, then shoves Jaskier back down on the bed. His hair's a tangled mess; he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ]

You can just tell me to fuck you.

[ Which he will. There is much more he wants tonight, and he doesn't hesitate to flip Jaskier over, pinning him down. Once his fingers are plenty slick, he glides down Jaskier's spine, tracing the bumps, lower and lower.

He kisses a bare shoulder, presses a finger inside as he grinds down against him. Jaskier's skin is warm against him, and he can smell him, taste him heavy on his tongue still. ]

[Jaskier only laughs again. Being pushed around by the Witcher has never left an ounce of fear in him, and now it only serves to light a pleasant heat through him. He throws his arms up by his head, lifting a hand only high enough to push sweaty strands of hair out of his face.]

I'm absolutely telling you.

[Because he can. He knows he can get away with it, as the Witcher has always let him get away with everything.

He moves with the pull of Geralt's hands, angling his ass up in the most appetizing way, throwing a look over his shoulder. It only lasts a second as the first fingers have his head hanging down, teeth grazing his lip.] Is this where you're to bruise up my ass? I'm sure it's a far better angle for you. Though I was thinking some attractive marks up the throat, perhaps a bite on the shoulder... a few marks between the thighs.

Edited 2022-10-03 06:55 (UTC)

[ He could. He could leave a lot of bruises, has in the past, and there's a moment where he slides his palm over Jaskier's backside as though he'll do exactly that. Turn the skin bright red under his hand.

He doesn't. He wants something else tonight. Not softer. Just different. ]

Maybe. [ It's a word that holds a hundred promises.

He works him gently, steadily; there's an impatience to it all, a desire to bury himself in the warmth of another until he's thinking of nothing else. He wastes little time as soon as Jaskier is ready—grips those hips he knows so well and sinks inside. A breath falls from his lips.

And as he settles into a rhythm, he buries his face in Jaskier's neck. It happens rarely, but he recognizes it now, that prick of heat behind his eyes. Even if he can't make it happen on command, he has started to learn to allow it, giving in without resistance, coaxing it forward instead of instinctively pushing it down.

It has its uses. Like now: his teeth sharper where they drag against Jaskier's skin. ]

Maybe?

[Jaskier questions with only a spare look over his shoulder. He shivers under the curve of Geralt's hand, still sensitive from the attention he's already received. Attractive little goosebumps raise on his arms as he anticipates that sharp bite of pain... but nothing comes.

Maybe.

Geralt is in a mood.

Even after what has happened to him, Jaskier is flexible, easily shaped. And he enjoys everything, as long as he has the company to take in. So it is with quiet noises he take Geralt's attentive, long fingers, until they're replaced with his cock and the hot breath of a Witcher on his neck.

There, maybe, he will finally be bruised -- but what he feels is so sharp and sudden that Jaskier jerks with a gasp, tightening. But not an unpleasant one. Though Jaskier's mind reels, he cares little what caused it. Only that he wants more.] Harder.

[ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

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nsfw.

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