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

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.

[ Idiot. Geralt wrinkles his brow at the assault. He gives Jaskier a shove as the bard is rolling off. ] Fuck off.

[ He tucks an arm under his head. Cadens is still foreign even after all this time. It's home now, but a new home. This. The inn with its furs and warm hearth and chill outside the frosted windows—it takes him back to their days on the Continent. Just the two of them. In and out of cheap taverns, thick forests, shitty villages who can barely afford to pay him a coin.

He doesn't like to think himself nostalgic. Or sentimental. But he does miss it.

Absently, he shoos the gryphon off. Tries not to think about how the years for a human are so much shorter than his own. ]

Jaskier. I've had to listen to your nonsense for two decades. [ A new song, hm? ] Let's hear it, then.

[Ah, the final loving words of the dearest Witcher.

It might be the same for Jaskier. In fact, it. It is. Everything about Nocwich is nostalgic. Perhaps that's why he feels such deep affinity for the wolves (though Sten being one of the most attractive men he's ever laid eyes on did not her.) And was it not the last season they spent together? What little time Jaskier was still in Kaer Morhen was still brutal winter, with snow pouring over the mountains, and the long hallways frozen to absolute quiet.

At least this place has some good bloody heating in place. But the life that the werewolves embrace -- this eternal night, the spirit of the woods, the nature surrounding them -- it was the life he lived once, too, before he found himself settling. For the elves. For those who he could help.]

And there will be two decades more, you cad. Be nice to Mog! [At least Jaskier has the decency to pull the blankets up around him and help his gryphon onto the bed. Which, as said gryphon begins walking over his legs and only just misses his groin, Jaskier recognizes he may have made a mistake.

He will not correct it, as Mog begins winding between them to his favorite spot: the top of Geralt's pillow.]

Very well. But only listen. I'm not asking for feedback. Not yet.

[He drinks a bit of wine from the nightstand, petting down Mog's back as he moves past. Then, he sings. It's clearly a song about Nocwich, invoking the night, and glowing golden eyes in the dark, of bodies moving together between skin and fur.

Now, with his newfound chaos, he knows it. He can describe it. The power of being human, and then flowing into a form that is decidedly not.]

[ He's perfectly nice to the damn animal. He's built it a bed.

There's a grunt when the gryphon curls on his pillow, just above his head. Geralt quirks an eyebrow, though he makes no comment as Jaskier begins to sing. Hardly the first time he's been serenaded with one of Jaskier's drafted compositions. He's heard every iteration of a song, lyrics and melody evolving as the bard works.

Poetic. Of course Jaskier would make the werewolves the subject of his next song. A natural sort of romance to them. ]

Had a feeling you were working on something. [ He can always tell when Jaskier's been especially inspired. As promised, he offers no commentary on the song itself.

Geralt lifts onto an elbow, watching Jaskier for a moment. The notes fade into the air. He turns over what's been on his mind—something he's meant to tell Jaskier. ]

Do you remember the cellar you found beneath Kaer Morhen? From last winter?

After I met with werewolves? The sort that aren't trying to kill everyone they meet? Of course I must write about them!

[But regardless of the order he's given Geralt, he looks satisfied with his response. Of course, there is no criticism of Geralt's he would take to heart anyway -- the man does not have a mind for music, which perfectly suits him considering his career.

It feels good, though. To have sung it in full for the first time. When he turns to see Mog already curled up on top of Geralt's head, sitting on a bunch of his hair, Jaskier can sense he chose the correct first audience to test it on.

Mog falling asleep to his music has always been a good sign. (Ignoring he always falls asleep on top of Geralt if he can... which is what the Witcher gets for spoiling him with the bed.)

Jaskier turns to him. Well. Not exactly the image he wanted his song to invoke. Oh, does he remember the torture-cellar he stumbled into with a gigantic man who sort of went momentarily insane, then apologized to him for it? The one with the stains and smell of blood? That cellar?

It is a good thing Jaskier has been freed from his curse.]

Of course I remember. It's a bit difficult to forget.

[ Mm. Yeah. Fairly sure Mog would fall asleep to the dulcet tones of a Witcher's snore. What does that creature do except sleep and eat?

Despite himself, Geralt reaches up and gives Mog an absent scratch between the ears. The song lingers in the air. He will not admit that he has missed hearing Jaskier sing. There was a time some months back he worried Jaskier had lost whatever muse drove his music. A bard without song is like a Witcher without his swords.

He didn't bring up the cellar to dwell on shitty memories. No, it's— ]

I tore it down. With Dean. [ He looks over at Jaskier. ] I need something in its place. I thought...

[ You could help. ]

You what?

[His gaze snaps onto Geralt's face, turning so he can stare him down. He was not sure why Geralt brought it up in the first place, but that was far, far from the first thing he may have guessed the point would be.

It's true that he has not gone to Geralt's domain in some time. For one thing, they live together, and for another... Jaskier does not have any good memories of Kaer Morhen, unfortunately. He recognizes it is home to Ciri and Geralt, but it is rather frightful to him. A memory of the things he was there to witness. The slaughter.

And he took Dean there? Geralt trusted Dean enough to show him that cellar?

Huh.]

Something much more fun, I imagine. [In the basement of Kaer Morhen. Far be it from Jaskier to make judgements on what is in another man's domain. When he received those... memories.. even his own was a terrible place.

But this is big. He recognizes that. That something has shifted in Geralt.] I think you need a place you feel safe. [Jaskier releases him from his gaze, laying down beside Geralt on his side.] I know you're a big strong Witcher, and Kaer Morhen is your home, but wasn't there any other place you felt that? True safety?

[ It's been there for a long while, hasn't it? That room. He turns on his side, fingers curling into his palm. It isn't like him, to ignore something of that nature for all this time. He just kept pushing it aside. Telling himself he'll take care of it later. ]

Mm. Happenstance. The Horizon—you know.

[ Portalled people into places they shouldn't be. That cellar amongst them. A dungeon, really. Dark and cold and windowless, bolted shut. But it's true he trusted Dean enough to let him help break it apart. It isn't gone, only in pieces. Geralt knows he wants to keep something of it, that—as he admitted at the time—it doesn't feel right to erase its existence entirely. He just isn't sure what. Maybe it'll come to him.

In the meantime. Where else if not the walls of Kaer Morhen? He considers. The woods? His swords by his side? He wants to argue that it isn't as though he felt unsafe in his Horizon. The memories haunting him are...ghosts. Nothing more. But that isn't true, and Jaskier knows it.

His answer comes after a stretch of silence. ] The temple in Ellander. I was sent to it as a boy. There was a priestess, Nenneke. She looked after us.

[ Jaskier must know her. That temple is one of the most prominent. Nenneke has tended to it and its students for decades. Though the last time he set foot in the temple, he left it bloodstained. Seems to be the case lately, where he goes. Still. Of his childhood memories, his time at the temple ranks some of the calmest. ]

Edited 2022-12-21 08:01 (UTC)

Happenstance.

[No, no, he understands. But it is quite a rare thing he would ever describe Geralt as finding himself into happenstances.

However, Jaskier feels the question he offers is important, and Geralt will take the answer seriously, so he is quiet while he waits. Mog is already purring in his favorite spot, ears flicking where Geralt's hair tickles the tips. He's trained Mog well. He knows not to interrupt very important things.

All he does is sleep and eat. He is a perfect companion.]

Oh, yes! I've heard of it. I've even had a rare chance to visit. Quite some time ago. [But not so long ago he cannot recall the long halls, the dim stone. A stone that somehow managed to be warm -- a bit more than Kaer Morhen, if you ask him.]

Then we make that. [Jaskier smiles, flicking a bit of Geralt's hair out of the Witcher's face.] And yes, I will be honored to help you, my friend. You needn't even ask.

[Technically, he hadn't yet.]

[ Make it. Build a temple, beneath Kaer Morhen? Geralt hums. Is it foolish the idea never crossed his mind? To simply create a different structure altogether within another? He's seen what other people have made: creations that defy logic and rules. He's just...always stuck to what he knows. What he remembers.

He rolls his eyes, but there's no exasperation behind the gesture. His fingers curl around Jaskier's wrist. He rests his thumb over the pulse for a second. ]

It'd be warmer. [ That isn't the reason Jaskier has avoided stepping into Kaer Morhen. They aren't talking about the real reasons. They don't need to. ] You could visit without the winter.

[ Is he inviting? Asking? He isn't sure. He blames Jaskier not at all for feeling unsure around his domain. For not wanting to be in it. But...he has not forgotten their time at the beginning, when they didn't remember each other and yet had been friends for a lifetime, anyhow. When Jaskier would come riding along up the snowy path to his cabin, and the ice would melt, flowers peeking through.

Funny, to hold nostalgia for a time that wasn't quite real. That lasted hardly three fucking weeks. And yet—even now, he looks back on those days. ]

[If it were any other topic, Jaskier knows he would absolutely hassle Geralt about this. About this... what is it but nothing less than an offering? Laid out for him like an unrolled carpet? Geralt may be undefinable to others, but Jaskier can see what, exactly, the Witcher is attempting to say between all these vague observations.

He smiles.]

I don't know. A part of me misses it sometimes.

[The reference does bring it to mind, too. He had not recognized it in those moments, so full of... of youthful vigor, and that desire for adventure. He feels like he's bloody aged a decade since then, since his first foray into the Horizon, where everything felt so bright and wonderful, even the sad bits.

He did not recognize that when he would visit the man he knew but didn't, that winter would melt into spring. The snow would melt as he made his way towards the cabin, and the caravan never stuck in mud nor did the horses slow.]

Though I do believe spring suits me much better now. [He flutters his fingers, and a small puff of camomile petals float onto Geralt's face.] We'll start it as soon as you're ready.

[ It is the sort of remark Geralt only makes when the afterglow of sex is heavy. Leaves him saying shit he might usually think twice about.

His nose wrinkles as the petals shower him. He blows them off. A few land in his hair. ]

Spring's always suited you, Jaskier.

[ Hence the flowers. The magic that chose the bard. It need not be said how different it is to the magic that's chosen Geralt. Or manifested within him, as it were. He closes his eyes, releasing a contented breath. ]

Go to sleep before you suffocate me in your flowers.

[ CLOSED ] on the ice i'm afraid

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