abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

[It is an act as thoughtless as it is enjoyable. Jaskier closes his eyes, focusing all his attention on sucking Geralt's cock like one sucks the color from a lollipop (or so he has been told. He has still not tried one himself.)

With his hand rolling up the shaft at a leisurely pace, slicked with oil (Jaskier has never left the house without it -- which brings to mind that perhaps he should come up with a spell that could summon it, as needed, for opportunities especially like this). Soon he has the full girth of his beloved Witcher in his hands, in his mouth.

He does not force the soft moan around him, nor the sharper intake of breath as Geralt tugs his hair. They both know. That's truly the ticket.]

[ Yeah. Fuck. His grip tightens, and his head falls back. The pillows are plush silk; with the roaring fire, there's a luxury, an indulgence, to this that he rarely affords himself. Not in the real world.

He lifts one hand to curl around the wooden bedpost. It creaks under his grip when Jaskier groans around him—no coincidence. Heat wraps around the inside of his stomach, his chest, and his skin begins to warm. It is a steady build, one that leaves him breathing heavier with each passing second, minute. ]

Touch me.

[ Greedy? Perhaps. But he wants Jaskier's hands on other parts of him, too, wants those fingers gliding between his legs. ]

[There is not a deeper, nor meaningful indulgence than fucking fondly in extravagance. Even the sounds of Mog doing rather Moggish things cannot stop Jaskier's mouth moving lower, filling more of his mouth --

Glancing up with a sound that would have been a laugh were it not for the cock between his lips.

Am I not already?

Tempted as he may be to tease Geralt to a frustrated growl, he is just as eager for distraction. He starts at the joint of thigh and hip, drawing his nails over velvet-soft skin (and the occasional scar, though they are rarer here). He follows them to naked hip, a swell of bone he cuts the tips into, before dragging them back down to the thighs.

Of course, he does not cease his quiet sucking, or the strokes of his tongue. Jaskier lets his eyes flutter closed, a gentle wrinkle between his brow as he focuses.]

[ Really, what he truly wants is more. More of those nails dragging over his skin, more of that mouth over him, making fucking obscene noises. He rolls his hips, curses, and spills with a sharp twist of Jaskier's dark locks.

Shit. He sinks back: warm, satisfied, loose. Reaching down, be presses his thumb to Jaskier's lips—wiping up a thick pearl droplet.

It's a good look. Won't ever tire of seeing it.

He lets himself bask for a moment, because he can, because he knows Jaskier will not mind. Eventually, though, he glides his hand up Jaskier's leg, between them, and then tugs on the silk lace at the back.

Encouragement. Of sorts. For Jaskier to take what he wants. Geralt is in a giving, yielding mood. (Or more specifically, he has no desire to think very hard tonight about anything.) ]

[Only barely enough time to clean the come from his lips.

It's all very messy fun, regardless. Jaskier is quite the gentleman and swallows (simply because he has no desire to clean this inn's floor), leaning up on top of the Witcher's body to look about as conceited as a cat fat on fresh fish.

Jaskier arches his back to stretch it, drawing his hands down from Geralt's thigh (the scar left by a lost princess, another from the edged teeth of the selkiemore, yet another from a near-fatal encounter with the dead Jaskier pretends to not recall) to his knees.

Oh. His smile curls, shifting to push into Geralt's hand.]

Not yet satisfied, are we?

[Or the night is still young, and they thirst for distraction. He's hardly satisfied himself, hard as he is trapped by the constraints of those silk lacings. Geralt pulls the ribbon tied above the dimples at his back, and they loosen so quickly it's as relieving as a fresh breath. Jaskier moves up onto his knees to begin pushing his trousers down.] Say it.

[Trivial to tell what it is he wants. Still. It's always better to communicate, is it not?]

[ Jaskier maps out the scars on his body—ones Jaskier has touched and sung about, ones Geralt has only ever spoken of when he was several bottles deep and in too fucking maudlin of a mood.

He still thinks of her sometimes. Renfri. Not his first regret. Not his last. Even if the brooch is lost to wherever the fuck his swords went when he was dragged into this realm. He doesn't miss it, exactly, but after all those decades—now and again, he expects to see it when he draws his sword before he realizes it isn't there. Jaskier's gifted wolf pendant sits on it instead.

An apt replacement.

He pulls those silk breeches down, off. Wraps his hand around Jaskier's length. The night is young. Geralt's appetite is rarely sated after one course. He wants to be fucked until his head buzzes and every muscle aches. Then perhaps he can fall asleep for once.

His thumb rolls along the underside. ] Are you going to put your cock in me or not?

[Even the newest scars are ones he's mapped out, coming to know them as well as any old vampire or ghoul scar. It is merely unfortunate that all the new ones do not come from something as simple as monsters. (Or that they happened at all.

But as Geralt would say, gruffly: I didn't choose this life, it was forced upon me.

Or something similar.

Not only unsatisfied, apparently, but with little to no patience. He should really be used to this. Though he sits up to push into that grip, his legs are now. Fucking tangled.]

Not if you're going to be so rude, Geralt. [But, like most of Jaskier, it's all a tease.] You know, I bet you don't speak to your lovers like this. Or am I simply a special case? You assume I'll put up with it?

[All right, he has for decades. But still.]

[ The noise Geralt makes is impatient, to be fucking sure. He sighs, put-upon but not truly bothered. Is Jaskier going to tease him? Now? Of all times? ]

You'd hate it. If I were polite. [ His lips lift at a corner. They did not become friends because Jaskier found him pleasant and inoffensive. ] And accuse me of being possessed.

[ He strokes Jaskier a bit faster, grip firmer. His teeth drag along his lower lip—not sharpened, not right now. (He's beginning to take to the changes, a bit.) When he reaches up with his other hand, it's to cup Jaskier's cheek. Gentler than his earlier words might've suggested. ]

How would you like me, then? Bent to your will?

[ He's aware, of course, what had afflicted Jaskier before. With his words. But he wants Jaskier to know it's different here with him, now. ]

[Of course he is. He's recently come out of a(nother) traumatic event, he's experienced a full and violent death (even if it were only an illusion,) and now he's in a place surrounded by the friendliest monsters he's ever met in his life.

There's never been a better time to be a prick.

Especially when his own prick is getting so much damn attention for it. He hisses, but it's only with pleasure, nails digging deeply into Geralt's thigh as he becomes closer to holding on so he isn't moving to desperately fuck into his hand, because he can hold out, thank you, specifically to tease.

It is not Geralt's fault the question is phrased so specifically. He knows he does not mean it -- does not mean to invoke what just happened to him. The only reason he does not stop immediately, thinking of Nadine, is because in the end, no matter what, they both wanted it.

He wraps his fingers around Geralt's wrist, a wistfulness to his smile, if only for a second.] No. I don't want you polite or anything else. [His grip loosens.] Though it would do you some good, I think, to say please.

[ His smile softens, and he slows a little. He's not trying to get Jaskier off just yet; he has every intention of being fucked tonight. And he isn't trying to stir any shitty memories, either. Just. Remind Jaskier they've moved past it.

Perhaps it would do him some good. ]

Please.

[ He steals a kiss for good measure. Seems like that'll be sufficiently convincing. ]

[Jaskier laughs, but it's quiet. Perhaps too intimate for them, but all he can think of is, gods, it feels good to laugh. Among other things. All right, the laughter is the least good-feeling thing he's feeling right now.]

Oh, I can't wait to write a song about this. You'll never hear the end of it.

[His smile turns easy again, and it is not with force that Jaskier lets the morose thoughts go. Instead he is kissing Geralt, drawing him up with a fistful of his hair and a tug.] All right, you insatiable beast. I'll fuck you. Get comfortable. I'm going to make you bruise pretty little petals all over.

[Maybe there's a little of the man who Nadine drew out of him still leftover.]

Shut up.

[ Annoying as all hell—but Geralt is pleased with the result, with the fingers twisting in his hair. He releases Jaskier's cock and squeezes his backside instead.

A sizeable handful.

Geralt pulls his trousers off the rest of the way, impatiently kicking off his boots. Shoves the clothes off the bed into a scattered pile next to the sleepy gryphon. When he kisses Jaskier again, it's rough, wanting, and an invitation for Jaskier to be as rough as he likes in return. Maybe he's just in a mood, maybe he wants to end the night too worn out to harbour any thoughts. In the end, what does it matter?

Only that they're equally satisfied. And he knows they will be. ]

If I shut up, how will you know how much I'm enjoying you?

[He knows it's only a sweet nothing coming from Geralt, anyway. If only he'd had a single crown for every time Geralt had told him to be silent -- what a rich man he'd be, even beyond his actual holdings! Even the Redanian king would blush to see it.

Jaskier stays mostly out of the way while Geralt scrabbles at his clothes, mostly because he's vastly enjoying seeing the extensions of muscles, the stretching of scars, and maybe he's got to find the oil himself. (Never leave home without it when one has proclivities such as he does.) He digs about in one of his bags, finds it easily, snatching it up with a little wiggle of his ass as he returns to the bed, just in time for a nearly overwhelming, heated kiss.

A mood. Jaskier loves moods.

He moves a pillow against his knees, tucks it under the curve of Geralt's ass, and drags his nails up the back of his thighs, curved over him like a crescent moon, leaning into the kiss.] How do you feel about holding your legs up for a while?

[He's definitely still teasing. The shut up only has fueled him more.]

[ Geralt twists a lock of Jaskier's lengthened hair around his finger and tugs. The turn of his lips smug. He knows it is—allows it to be so. ]

I'll know.

[ Can't say he minds being ogled at. He lets Jaskier's eyes travel down the length of his body as he lays back—content to have Jaskier take on the task of searching for oil and other necessities.

He drags his nails down Jaskier's back. Brushes the old scar on his arm. (The very first scar he can remember his friend receiving.)

Then a snort. He hooks one leg over Jaskier's shoulder in answer, and the other he indeed slips his arm under, hitching it up.

There. Plenty of room granted. Plenty of view to observe. ]

[Oh. Very sexy of him. Perhaps there is some merit to Geralt's ability to use words in bed... brief as they are. Gives them a little more oomph.

But for all his teasing and taunting, Jaskier does take his duty quite seriously. And that is, right now, to fuck the Witcher senseless, so neither of them are thinking about much beyond the trapped heat, the tightness in their breath, the pleasure --

And he's already prepped, thanks to Geralt's rough and insistent hands.]

I suppose you will. [He smiles, dripping oil carefully onto his fingers, only huffing slightly as Geralt's leg weighs down his shoulder. Mm. Well. No one said the sweetest things were easy. (Have his calves always been so bloody thick?)

Speaking of thick. Jaskier's eyes roam, his fingers teasing lightly along the Witcher's cock, leaving a hint of oil, before he moves lower to prep him. His thumb rings around soft skin, gentle.] Don't break my shoulder, please. It will be so embarrassing to admit to Nadine.

That you're delicate? She already knows, I'm sure.

[ His hand to Jaskier's cheek is mock-gentle.

He is not quite hard again so soon, but give him a bit more time. In the meanwhile, there's pleasure elsewhere flooding him as Jaskier dances his way around. It's slick warmth, cooling on his skin when Jaskier's fingers move away.

Impatient, he wraps his hand around Jaskier's wrist, guiding those fingers closer, coaxing them actually in him already. He might tease Jaskier about delicacy, but neither of them are, and Geralt sure as fuck is not. He just wants, here and now. Feels like he's been teased to death. ]

Edited 2022-12-11 07:33 (UTC)

Excuse you. [Except he's laughing when he watches this impatient irritation cross Geralt's face, even in between his insults, to the point it loses any stern tone it may have had.] She has called me incredibly strong. And sexy. Multiple times.

[Jaskier leans in and kisses him, allowing the jerk of his hand, but he makes sure to bite Geralt's lower lip rather hard for being so fucking pushy about the whole thing.

Let a man fuck his friend at his own pace, all right?]

If only you were so complimentary. [He pushes his fingers inside, prepping his friend with an indelicacy contrary to the purr of his words.] It would truly be worth writing songs about.

[ He gives a scoffing laugh in return. Yes, yes. He's no doubt Nadine said those things. Must they wax poetic over it right now? ]

Jaskier. [ He arches his back, hips rising. ] Your finger isn't in me to fish for fucking compliments.

[ Fishing other things out of him, though. A soft groan that he bites back on instinct, because Geralt doesn't hold back, but he never quite lets go entirely, either.

He's not pushy anymore. Just grips Jaskier, sinking into the pillows as a rush of pleasure fills him from head to toe. It's familiar, the rhythm and pulse, because Jaskier knows how he likes it and he knows how Jaskier enjoys going about it. Words aside, there's plenty of compliment in the way he sucks in a breath, letting his eyes roam over Jaskier's body. It's a good view. ]

[While Geralt might still be the same bastard in bed that he is, well, anywhere else in the world, Jaskier can perhaps admit that, somehow, he's even fucking funnier. He gives a laugh in return, replacing his fingers, now properly prepped, with the oiled member he's so longing for.

Luckily, Jaskier needs nothing for encouragement... though Geralt's noises, though sometimes subtle, are plenty.

His movements, the bruising tightness of his grip, and the expression on his face is enough. Jaskier leans over him, striking deep, stealing a kiss with what little breath he has himself. Geralt's leg is heavy on his shoulder, weighing him down as much as Geralt himself is pinned.

It is familiar and yet, he has never tired of it. As heat grows deep in his belly, curling tighter and tighter, as Jaskier's breaths come shorter, he plants his hands deeper into the bed, clawing into them.]

[ He wraps his spare hand around the bedpost, Jaskier fucking him hard enough to creak and rattle. A curse falls from his lips.

He knows it so well now. There is nothing new here, between he and Jaskier; he does not want anything new or different. He just wants this, Jaskier inside him, the thick swell of him, the smell of rosemary and sage. Heat turns his skin warm, coils in his stomach. His toes curl.

When he gasps, his breath stutters. Jaskier's weight is a familiar one atop him. He leans up to kiss him. Their foreheads brush, and he allows them to touch—a soft gesture that, in this moment, he does not mind giving into. ]

[It's a beautiful dance they've gone through so many times. Jaskier kisses him back, pushing into every angle of his body, tangled up with him. It is so much heavier in here, he thinks; the past weeks weighing them down, fluttering at the edges of their mind. Waiting to press in at just the right moment.

So they kiss with an intensity that Jaskier knows will leave his lips buzzing with a gentle numbness. He coaxes Geralt's legs to curl tighter. He thrusts deeper, bites at his neck until their mouths are dragged back together.

Until their foreheads press together.

Jaskier gives a breathless, soft laugh.] I still -- [He breathes between thrusts, biting Geralt's lip.] -- wouldn't mind -- a compliment.

[ His eyes fall shut at some point. His thighs ache, he's bumped his head against the headboard twice; none it matters a damn. He stops paying attention to how they're tangled up, not even to what Jaskier is doing. There's just pleasure winding through him, a jolting spark up his spine.

Oh, for fuck's—really? ]

Wouldn't you. [ He curls his fingers in Jaskier's hair. Pulls hard. His lips brush the shell of Jaskier's ear. ] Come first.

[ Then maybe he'll say something nice. ]

[Not even now, when Jaskier is giving him the greatest pleasure imaginable, can Geralt throw him a fucking bone.

He's somehow still delighted by it. It's so very Geralt. Jaskier cannot possibly understand what Yennefer sees in him, beyond his beautiful, thick body and heady fucking abilities. And hair a man could get tangled up in.

Jaskier shivers. He simply nods, catching Geralt's lips in a kiss as he strikes deeper, true every stroke. His nails pull at the sheets when he does, in fact, reach his peak, but he is only human. They don't tear under the force.

Once he's spent, he looks down at Geralt expectantly, hot and wet the only things with the space to be caught between them.] Well?

[ For a few seconds, Geralt lays back, limbs loose and veins buzzing. His hair spills tangled around him. Jaskier's weight drapes atop, familiar. Comfortable.

He opens his eyes. Jaskier looks down at him with sincere expectation. He sighs, but the curve of his lips is amused. Hm. With what will he stroke bard's ego? ]

Your cock is as talented as your singing.

[ That answer, maybe, is also very him. Because he's poked at Jaskier's singing before, and yet he is also here, clearly satisfied with Jaskier in his bed. More than. So Jaskier can interpret that how he wants—but Geralt knows the truth of what he means by it. And he thinks Jaskier will, too. ]

[Jaskier barks a laugh.]

I knew it! I knew it, you stodgy bastard! You lying rat! [Of course, he already knew it. It doesn't matter. Jaskier is truly giddy in the aftermath of orgasm, no matter where he is, and his grin is at least half-drunk when he kisses Geralt, bites his lips, then falls to his side once they've deftly untangled.

Mog gives a curious meow, and Jaskier waves a hand at him.]

Well, do not worry, my friend. [He lays back, catching his breath, gone soft and glowing all to himself.] I will be here to fuck and sing at you for many, many years to come, as much as you may harden to hear it.

[The bed dips at their feet as something begins pawing at the side of the sheets, as if the gryphon knows the show has all ended. Jaskier ignores him.] Now I say we recover, we drink, and -- well, I may sing at you a bit tonight. I've been writing something new. Now you have to listen.

[ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

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