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

[ 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.

[ A mood is correct. The sort of mood that makes him quietly demanding in that way Jaskier's likely come to know, the sort that has him sinking his teeth into Jaskier's shoulder without asking. He's fairly certain he knows what Jaskier wants; it's what he wants, too. That's all he needs to press forward unless Jaskier stops him.

Which Jaskier won't hesitate to do. He knows that, too.

When he hears harder, that's what he grants. There's a trust here he isn't thinking too deeply about, one that lets him do this. Because he understands intrinsically, without question, that whatever's Jaskier reaction will be to discovering his Witcher suddenly has sharpened teeth and blackened eyes, he needn't worry about it. Hasn't any need to wonder if it'll change something between them. It won't.

For now, those eyes are hidden, his face buried in the crook of Jaskier's neck. He rocks against him, into him, one hand wrapped around Jaskier's wrist and pinning it to the bed. His grip is tight, hard enough to bruise. ]

[This is certainly fulfilling certain vampire-related fantasies Jaskier has held for years. And while he is quite sure Geralt's teeth should not be this sharp (of course he's heard the rumors for years upon years, but eaten beside him for just as many), between the heavy breaths and the hot air between them, it hardly matters.

Ask later. Take it now.

Blood dribbles around his neck. He gasps, nails digging into their bed. Impossible to ignore it, like a wayward rain drop, and then it falls and splatters onto the hand holding him up. Which is holding up a lot, by the way, as Geralt fucks him. Geralt's grip on his wrist isn't helping, but fuck if it doesn't feel fantastic.

He did ask for bruises. He was simply not expecting Geralt to so eagerly agree.]

Fuck. You've -- [Ah, shit. He may not be walking straight for a day, as heat spikes up his spine straight from his ass.] Become quite eager.

[ Jaskier's heart pounds in his ears. He can feel the strain on Jaskier's arms; his own wraps around Jaskier's waist to hold him up, and the rest of him keeps going.

His eyes fall shut. He turns his head down, kisses along the bard's jawline. There's a gasp, a jerk in his hips. Pleasure floods his veins, spills right through him. He takes a moment—eventually rolls onto his side next to Jaskier. His head buzzes pleasantly.

A small drop of blood dots the sheets. He wipes his thumb over Jaskier's throat, where the smallest mark has pierced the skin. It's not hesitation, exactly, that falls over him—but there's a consideration, a pause, as he turns his inky eyes on Jaskier. ]

Good?

[And quiet. But he's always been that.

Jaskier is not. He grunts, groans, even yelps at one point. It's overwhelming in the most wonderful way, all down to Geralt's quiet release, the wet trickle, and the eventual collapse of two bodies.

The bard simply flops down on his belly, giving his ass a rest.]

Whew! Fuck me, Geralt. I mean -- you know, I'd go again, if I think I'd be able to stand. I mean -- good? I'm fantastic. [He moves to his side with a smile, his head a whirl, his body feeling oddly like that moment where the ship in Nadine's carnival swung down with its fully might --

Jaskier gasps, reaching a hand for Geralt's cheek.] Are you all right? [His eyes search Geralt's, fully black, the veins tinted dark. Jaskier's brow knits. Was he hunting earlier today? Jaskier had only assumed he'd been putting it off for a bit, but --] You didn't tell me you were on one of those potions --

[He pauses as his eyes drop to Geralt's mouth. Those. Those were not there before.] Or that you've been picking up things from Alucard.

[Geralt's finger rests on the wound on his neck, and now that he is thinking of it, with a resounding hot pound, it reminds him fervently that it is now here.] Not that I'm against it at all, I simply... was not expecting this.

[ There it is: the furrow and concern he expected to see. His expression is gentle—though perhaps that's difficult to tell with how his eyes are at the moment.

But then, Jaskier's never had trouble seeing him, has he? ]

I'm fine. You asked me the other day. What the Singularity granted me.

[ It's this. Not a new power and yet it is. Visually, a return of what is close to what he gets from his elixirs—with more to it. The teeth, pointed rows in his mouth. He doesn't feel the toxicity the same. There's heat, a light rush in his veins, but the effect fades in minutes. Doesn't leave him feeling like shit. Doesn't heighten his senses.

He lays his hand on Jaskier's waist. He had not brought it forth on purpose. He'd simply chosen not to stop it from happening. ] It comes and goes.

Oh. [He sits up on one elbow to get a proper look. To be fair, he's not really had many opportunities to be close, when it only happens once Geralt hunts. And certainly not like now: the two of them in bed together.

His smile returns.]

This? [He doesn't look sick. Well. No worse for wear than a man with shark-black eyes looks. At least he's not quite so pale. Jaskier even pushes a finger against his lip, pushing it down to get another look at his teeth.

That does explain the blood.]

Believe me, I'm not opposed. Only surprised. [How long has he been hiding this little secret, the bastard? And here Jaskier tells him everything! He traces a vein, letting his head fall back to the pillow.] Mm. So you got so hot and bothered that, as you say, came? [He wiggles his brows.] It is so lovely to know that I can have such an effect on the rough, stoic Witcher.

[ He rolls his eyes despite how it can't be seen at the moment. Habit. His hand pushes at Jaskier's as they reach for his teeth—though they're not difficult to examine. The canines are elongated, the rest jagged.

Wolf's teeth. How fitting.

He's a little more used to them now. Tries not to dig deep in how it makes him feel to change like this. It helps, maybe, that it isn't permanent. But it still feels a bit close to a new mutation of sorts. One that should be impossible.

He doesn't mention the claws. Seems he can't choose which unsheathes itself. ]

I know it's hard to believe, Jaskier, but I do enjoy fucking you.

[ He's only teasing. Of course Jaskier knows. In this, he will not pretend he isn't affected. Never has. ]

[Funny how seasons ago he would have been far more concerned. Not because it was Geralt, but what this could mean -- could Witchers mutate further in time? Gods know he's never asked because it'd never been a concern.

But now he can turn into a fucking bird, so what isn't possible?

He laughs. Hard to believe! No, it isn't. Fucking him is a joy to anyone who participates, thank you.] And may it be so hard to believe one of life's greatest joys is aggravating you?

[He leans up and kisses him, teeth and all. ] Never once has it lost its luster.

That, [ Geralt props himself up on one elbow, ] is as believable as a blue sky.

[ Perhaps it's so that he allows himself to be aggravated. He takes Jaskier's hand in his. Rolls his thumb over the reddened marks that are beginning to bruise. Is it not too much?

No. Jaskier seems content. In return, Geralt is satisfied. With the marks, the night, that Jaskier is home again at last. Definitely with the fact that he can hear the guards just outside grumbling about the...

Disturbance. Within.

The black of his eyes are already starting to recede. A hell of a fucking time they've found themselves in these days.

He grows quiet, then lays down beside Jaskier. He slept next to him often in the days following those memories, those nightmares. Only feels right to do so again given what's happened. ]

I'll be staying in the city.

[ For the month. Maybe longer. He doesn't want to leave them. Jaskier, Ciri, Julie. His people. He wants to be near where he can protect them. ]

[A little bit of a shame, he thinks, that it goes away so fast. It's as much a part of Geralt as his white hair or cheerful disposition. Fascinating, he thinks, that if this is one of those "gifts" from the Singularity, that it reflects something that was already part of Geralt.

Nothing like becoming a bird. Growing a plant.

Again, somehow. It suits.]

I thought as much. [Geralt need not say why. He can guess. They have been friends for a very long time, and Geralt's heart may as well be bleeding, in some ways.] You know I'm not asking you to. [It needn't be said.] You know, I've been thinking, if I leave Cadens in the future, I might hire Gideon. What do you think? Have you seen her skills yet?

[ Yeah. He knows. That's not why he's staying. If he's being frank, it's as much for himself. If something were to happen while he was a week's ride away or more—

Things are precarious at the moment. He won't risk it. He has them now. People. (Family.) After everything he's lost, despite knowing what he's yet to lose—because what is waiting for those like him if not more loss?—he can't bear the thought of it. Not right now.

He swallows.

Right. Wait—Gideon? Hm. ] Handy with a sword. I don't know how well she cuts down men.

[ Men, specifically. There's a difference. Some hesitate when faced with another human when they otherwise wouldn't with a monster. And Jaskier is not in danger from monsters. Still. If she's willing—he'd trust her more than the guards. ]

She certainly seems eager for it.

[Not in any way that strikes Jaskier as strange. Plenty of mercenaries on the Continent just as intent. Even the queens have their guards. And Gideon shall surely be better than anyone under Marlo's control.

Jaskier releases a little breath, laying onto his back. The scars no longer hurt, but sometimes he recalls the ache when he goes a little too still, or catches the sight of them at the corner of his eye.

And still merely papercuts compared to Geralt's.]

I'm glad you are. [He doesn't look at the Witcher as he says it, closing his eyes.] So I can have a bit more of your cock up my ass, of course.

[And then he smiles into the dark -- the relative dark, except the glow of the lantern Geralt gifted him by the bedside.]

[ He hums. He's met Gideon. If nothing else, she's sincere. No ulterior motives. On that alone, he can approve. A straightforward mercenary there to earn coin is as simple as it gets.

With Jaskier's eyes closed, a small smile touches his lips. ]

Go the fuck to sleep, Jaskier.

[ He'll keep watch in the meantime. As always, sleep does not come easy to him and it's one of those nights he won't be getting any rest. It's all right. He wants to ride out at sunrise with Roach, anyhow. Stretch her legs before the day's scorching heat comes. ]

[ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

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