[Bards are meant to perform, and for anyone who knows Jaskier, it is no surprise that he goes back to it as soon as he can. As soon as he feels well enough, as soon as getting out of bed in the morning is not a trial. As soon as he can take care of himself without Sam's unique sense of caring or Geralt giving him a stare for a bit too long.
He rather likes the idea of moving past the whole event and going on as if nothing has changed. Which, truly, is the way it feels. He does know quite a bit more about Ciri and her position on the Continent, but... all right, it's a lot to take in, but what he's to do about it? They're here, and he may as well continue living the life he has carved out on this sphere while he is here to live it.
There is only one problem. One thing that has changed.
He doesn't quite notice it much as he begins to perform again, selling himself to the local tavern for a handful of coin (and gods, does it feel good to go back to it. All that time sitting in bed gave him more than enough time to work on new songs.) Mostly because after the whole wraith invasion, he is not liken to spent too much time out during the dark. You know, in case such a fiasco happens again. A few mages have reassured that it was a fluke, which is a funny way to say they raised the dead on accident.
But today? Gods. He feels it today. After leaving early on in the morning to go shopping -- or, more accurately, to go spying on things he wanted to purchase and knew well he should not be -- and now having performed for hours, he feels it. At first it was only a slight tingling in his arm, but the longer he holds his lute, the longer he plays, the tighter this cord up his arm tightens until he's nearly biting his tongue with the effort of holding the instrument up.
It's when he's finishing up a set that he sees the Witcher arrive -- it is, after all, rather impossible to miss him -- and he glances away from him, focusing on belting out the last note as enthusiastically as he can... as if to compensate for the ache that is now growing excruciating. With a bit of raccous applause and a bow to his audience, he sets his lute back in its case and snaps it closed, taking a quiet moment to himself as he leans over it.
It's worse than he'd thought. Jaskier had been, for a time, quite sure the potion had healed everything, simply unable to cosmetically restore skin where there was skin no more. Surely he had lost quite a few inches in that blast of chaos. What he was not prepared for is this tension, a string through his muscle that wound so tightly it caused an ache to thrum through the entire appendage. Aching to the point he feared dropping his instrument at the wrong time. Breaking it somehow.
Wiping his face, he pulls the strap of the instrument case around his shoulder and goes to meet Geralt, who is either extremely fucking bored or has come to him for something. He greets him with a smile as he always does, though his arm feels as if a brand has been pressed onto it.]
Well, well. Sneaking in to enjoy your favorite music, I see. [He may not have brought it up, but it is more than once that Jaskier has thought about it -- especially fantasizing what may have happened had it not been interrupted and he had gone to find company elsewhere. It's not the only thing he misses. He imagines right now, Julie's medical herbs would be helping him quite well.
Without ceremony, Jaskier slides in against him, stealing his drink to take a swig to cool his heated throat.] Ale again? Gods, I miss the cocktails already. Free and endless. Now everything tastes a bit bitter in comparison.
[He chatters because it comes naturally, and also to distract: once he's set his lute down to the side, he can't stop himself from rubbing his arm, hoping the movement will soothe the ache.]
[ Jaskier, he considers, has some time yet left in his performance. There's a pattern to what the bard chooses to sing; Geralt has learned when he's nearing the end of a set or if he's arrived at the start, and he estimates right now Jaskier is somewhere just over halfway done. It's surprising, then, that as he's contemplating if he wants to drop a few extra coppers for a bite to eat, he finds that Jaskier is already moving off stage.
Geralt looks up. A furrow knits his brows together. Jaskier has not ended his performance early to come speak to him. Jaskier does not ever interrupt his performances unless Lady Death herself is knocking. Possibly not even then.
His gaze roams over Jaskier. The bard speaks, and Geralt gives no reply while he puzzles out what he's missing. Jaskier may be good at distracting others with chatter, but Geralt's mastered the art of ignoring chatter when he's onto something. Whether he's aware of it or not, there's an instinctive compulsion within him that, when it rears its head, means Geralt will not let a matter go until he's found the answer. Which he does. It clicks, a minute or so later, as Jaskier rubs his arm.
It shouldn't catch him off guard. He knows better than anyone wounds do not always heal in full. That scars are not only marks which sit upon the surface. But he'd been hoping that it was different with Jaskier. That the potion had healed him quickly, effectively. For a few weeks, that'd seemed to be true. Jaskier hadn't shown signs of recovery. At least not where his arm was concerned. Just the typical irritation that a scar leaves behind. So this—it must be a new development. Also not unusual. It happens. It's just...he doesn't want to say he feels guilty. He's aware no one's to blame for what happened. An accident, in the truest sense of the word.
No, it isn't a sense of fault. One of responsibility, perhaps. Because Jaskier is here, alongside him, mired in this horseshit they've been dragged into. From the start, he's meant to keep Jaskier safe. Jaskier and Ciri both. And in that, it feels as though he's beginning to slip. Or already has, more than he should've allowed.
When he finally reacts, it's to take his ale back. He doesn't ask after Jaskier's arm. He knows the reason now, why Jaskier has stopped playing early, why he looks faintly strained, and that's all that matters. Raising it is pointless. Jaskier will not want to talk about it because if Jaskier did, he'd not be trying to hide it in the first place.
Instead, Geralt says, ] Have you got places to be tonight?
[That Geralt doesn't immediately bitch or mumble fuck off or snatch the drink back -- he certainly has the advantage over Jaskier's level of speed -- means he's thinking. And Jaskier already knows quite well what he must be thinking about, because that small knit between his brows is there. He knows it well.
It's annoying. He wants to pinch it. For once in his life, he does not want to be analyzed. There's nothing anyone can do about it. And he does not regret trying to help Ciri. Every bloody Witcher around here already has far too much guilt weighing them down, whether they'll admit it or not.
Geralt doesn't say it, because of course he doesn't. He doesn't need to say it for both of them to know he's sourced out what is happening already.
Jaskier doesn't want to bring it up, either. His fingers rub together, first on the table but then tucked under, the tick so obvious even he notices he's doing it. The pain has only lessened by a degree. And Geralt, well. He knows injuries well. But Jaskier does not desire for this to ever be a source of contention between himself and Ciri. Or Geralt, really. As a witcher's bard, it was inevitable. That one day he would be injured.
But before he can bring it up, Geralt asks... a rather honest question. Point-blank, as always.
He glances up to meet his eyes.]
Ah. No. [The surprise only lasts a moment.] And where is it you want to drag me to tonight? I do so know how you can't stand being alone. [He teases with ease, considering pulling away to order a drink, but stopping. Well, if they're going somewhere -- and there's no question he'll come along, of course. Why not?] Probably not a hunt, or you wouldn't specifically invite me. Oh, wait! Did you find a place here? With cocktails?
[ Geralt waits, with his typical immovable patience, for Jaskier to finish speaking before he answers with precisely zero amount of detail. ] Come with me.
[ He gets up, leaving Jaskier to finish the ale if he wants or to simply follow. Either way, he pauses at the door to make sure Jaskier is keeping up before he steps back out into the night.
He'd not specifically planned to take Jaskier anywhere. He'd come to gauge the mood and maybe, if he has to admit, for company. He likes his solitude. He does. He will hold to that to his last breath. But the truth is, he occasionally wants...more. The strangeness of this world leaves him feeling out of sorts in a way he normally doesn't. On the Continent, he has familiar towns, familiar villages. Even familiar faces. He's lived a long time. It's impossible not to know a handful of folk, no matter how reluctant he is to make those connections. Out here, he hasn't got anyone. Not really. (He never made it home, for the winter. Sometimes he wonders if he ever will again.)
Since Jaskier is obviously having trouble with his newly healed injury, though, Geralt knows where to go. If the bard has at all grown familiar with the city, he might catch on. There's only one bathhouse in this area, within easy walking distance. He says little while they walk, answering with vague assent now and again. Only when they reach the doors of the bathhouse does he tip his head, indicating for Jaskier to go inside first.
It'll help. With the wound, that is, though he doesn't explain that that's the reason they're here. Either Jaskier will realize or he won't. Geralt has no desire to elaborate. It's not meant to be a gesture of any kind. He just thinks Jaskier needs a good soak. Fuck, he could use one, too. ]
[He tips his head. It's not so much that Geralt's silence is any more mysterious than it has been in the past, but... well, it's not as if he specifically comes to seek him out all that often.
So he does want company. Perhaps he'll refrain from poking fun at him about it any further tonight.]
I do so love it when you lead me into dark, mysterious corners, where I have no idea what to expect.
[But he does enjoy walking with him. In this city, like so many towns and cities in the past, there are looks. Either it's the presence of the Witcher with him, the constrast of Geralt's blacks with his own bright colors (which, today, are royal blues and dandelion yellows.) It is only a mere echo of the paths they'd once walked together, but after so much excitement as of late, he can't help but search for those faded ghosts of nostalgia.
Their sphere feels farther away than ever.
Jaskier doesn't pay much attention to where they're going, but he has a suspicion the closer they go. And there it is.
A bathhouse, of all places. Seemingly a bizarre place to invite him to without prompting.
But he understands. He smiles, opening the door and holding it open for the Witcher.]
A distinct lack of cocktails, but a good choice nonetheless. [He turns to him, watches him coming in. The presences his body takes up. Was he thinking what Geralt was thinking? In this, it was hard to tell. Yet.] And the perfect chance to enjoy a bit of nudity between friends.
[ The remark garners a faint huff. Jaskier has come with him to dozens of dark corners, even when Geralt has made it clear he's liable to be eaten. If there's unwanted attention from people while they walk, Geralt ignores it as he often does.
He follows inside, the door swinging shut behind them. His eyes settle on Jaskier as he slides over the money for their entry. He can see the bard's thoughts forming—or thinks he can. That is not actually the reason they are here, but only because Geralt needn't first invite his friend someplace where they're required to strip in order to ask him if he wants to fuck. He'd have just asked him at the tavern. Which he was, actually, vaguely considering until it became obvious Jaskier's arm was bothering him.
Having said that, Geralt is not opposed to raising the topic here while they're at it. Bathhouse is as good a place as any. He slips past the curtains, glancing briefly over his shoulder. ] Only a bit?
[ They've kissed twice (thrice); they were steps away from fucking at that party. True, Geralt saw no need to discuss and he still doesn't. This isn't a discussion. It's a simple matter of a yes or no. Because Geralt does want, and he hasn't got reason to hide it or pretend otherwise. It feels rather pointless, even if he were to care to be coy. Which he doesn't. Coy is the last thing Geralt is capable of being.
And if Jaskier tells him no, that'll be that. He suspects he won't get a no, though. They're both wanting for company, aren't they? Not that they can't find it elsewhere. But there's something to be said for company that knows him. Really knows him. Someone he never has to explain himself to, rarely has to even say much at all to be understood. ]
Jaskier's lips immediately turn up into a smile. One may even call it a smirk. Public sex, even? His Witcher was getting quite spicy as of late. Jaskier ducks through the curtain, already moving through the buttons of the doublet he'd decorated up in. Already the steam of the water was leaving him feeling humid and severely overdressed.
He leaves Geralt hanging for a bit, because it is so rare for him to not jump at an answer immediately. He removes his doublet, pulling the cream chemise off underneath. The water pours from the wall, much like it did in Thorne. And though it's not as nice as the baths in Thorne, it's still better than the stifling air of the tavern when he was feeling... uncomfortable. In pain. (It's a bit better now, actually.)
And this place still has opportunity for privacy. He cannot help but note how different the space between them is now, compared to in Thorne. For obvious reasons. Geralt is free here.
Free to do as he wishes.
Or whom.
Jaskier can be coy enough for the two of them.]
More than a bit, I'd say. [He turns to Geralt, catching his pretty eyes that glow even here, in the low flickering light.] Why don't we see where the night leads us, my friend? But do not expect I'll be washing your ass for you. Again.
[ The pause in answer bothers him not at all, and Geralt simply steps out of his clothes in the meantime. He is watching Jaskier, for more reasons than one. His gaze traces the long scar up his arm.
He doesn't give much thought towards why he's seeking what he is. Maybe it's to do with everything that's happened, maybe it's a primal loneliness that even he is capable of feeling, one that as of late has unfurled more and more. He doesn't think about it because it feels too much as though he might crack open what he will not be able to put back together. He wants what he wants. Does the rest matter? He has Jaskier here, who leans easily towards him. Who knows every jagged piece that makes him what he is, in a way no one else does, and remains by him even so. That's enough.
His lips quirk. There's a hum in reply, but he says nothing else of it. The water steams, his back is in desperate need of relief, and he slips into one of the quieter corners of the bath. ]
Wouldn't dream of it. [ He waits for Jaskier to join him before he reaches out to catch his arm. It's the first time he's acknowledged he's noticed what's going on with that scar. He traces his thumb up alongside it, then presses gently down on the muscle where he knows the tension lies. ] The heat will loosen it.
[It is far from the first time Jaskier has ever admired Geralt’s body. There is so much to admire, and so much he knows well, even if he has done little more than bathe it — when Geralt is too hurt or sore to do it himself, or too covered in gore that Jaskier knew alone he would never cleanse it all. But these scars, he knows. These stories he’s pulled from Geralt over the years, or the chapters where Jaskier himself was there to witness their making. These permanent etchings into Geralt’s skin that he has sang of. The vampiress. The kikimore. One of the newest, from the bite on his leg. The striga, the princess —
Jaskier sheds his remaining clothes and steps into the water, a sigh of relief pulled easily from him.
He doesn’t mean to flinch at the pull; it’s more a bracing for something, a new ache or pain. Unlike in the Horizon, the persistent ache in it cannot be magicked away. But the way Geralt’s thumb slides along its ridges (much in the way he has often fantasized himself tracing Geralt’s) elicits a much sharper, heated breath.
He sinks deeper into the water.]
I didn’t imagine it would feel so tight. [He doesn’t move his arm out of Geralt’s grip. In fact, he stays quite close. He glances at Geralt’s face, blue eyes sharp through his hair where it has grown quite long in their time here.] Don’t tell her. I don’t want her to know it’s… it’s affected my playing.
[Of course Geralt knows. Almost as soon as he realized it himself. Or… at least, as soon as he’d accepted it.]
[ His eyes roll upwards: practiced exasperation. An annoyance, as always, even when Geralt has certain inclinations in mind. Even when he's letting his attention wander along the familiar angles and shapes of Jaskier's body as it sinks under the water.
He decides not to mention his dreams as of late have been especially restless. Dark hair and blood across the sand. Sometimes Cirilla is crying, but he cannot understand why. They're only dreams. Fuck knows that's nothing new. They linger, that's all. Ever since he walked out of that dungeon with Ciri and Jaskier in tow, a mounting pressure has grown in the air. And every small thing, every mishap, every indication that things aren't right (the disappearances, the summons, the wraiths, the attack on the hills with Sam) has added to it. Only short bursts have eased that weight. With Julie. The docks. That little moment with Ciri.
Perhaps now, in the quiet of the water.
He meets Jaskier's gaze. There's no reaction to the flinch other than a brief loosening of his grip before he presses down more firmly. He rolls his thumb in a manner that suggests he's done it many times. On himself, mostly. It'll ache more, at first, but given a minute or so, it'll start to soothe. ] I know.
[ No need to say it. Ciri will only feel worse, and it'll change nothing. He's at least glad to know Jaskier can still play. Part of him is already considering if an additional healer might help. Hard to tell. Some pains can't be healed.
He almost asks, What did she say? About the scar, the incident. He doesn't. He knows Jaskier went to see Yennefer, for Ciri's sake, two weeks ago. Beyond that, it matters none. He's slipped that damn token back where it belongs. He doesn't want reminders that she's circling the periphery of his life. It's necessary, for Ciri. But just because Ciri needs her doesn't mean he has to let her in. He's tired of the inches given between them that amount to only a hollow gap in the earth.
He pushes the thoughts aside. Considers the absence of tension between Jaskier and Ciri that was present during the first month. It's one bright spot. ] You're growing on the girl.
[He may not need to say it -- there's very little between them that has needed to be said for years, Geralt's apology not withstanding -- but he also wishes for his intentions to not be mishandled, misunderstood. There is so very little Jaskier plays close to the vest, but this? This is one. There is no need to have Ciri bear any more pain. He will deal with the consequences of his choice as Geralt often does his: in silence.
He can still play. That's what matters, at any rate.
And being alive. Obviously.
Jaskier moves as if he may pull away, but stops at the last moment. Geralt's thumb pressing into his skin raises goosebumps on his arm; at first in pleasure, and then, with a sharp inhale, in pain. An acute pain centered directly under the pressure of his grip, tightening and tightening until he's ready to jerk away -- and then, with an inaudible snap he can feel in his scalp, whatever has tangled so tightly in his arm (a tendon? An artery?) rights itself. It is not so different from the knotting his shoulders would receive after long days and nights of carrying his lute, but this relief is even more than the back massages he would receive in Toussaint on his richest days.
Of course he should have gone to his friend with this pain. Geralt has plenty of scars of his own. Yet this was the one thing he meant to keep to himself, even if he should have known the attempt would be foolhardy.
He meets Geralt's eyes. Like Yennefer, his fingers follow the new, curious scar on the bard. But where her touch was feather-light until she used it to control him (and how thoroughly she had controlled him, in the end), Geralt's is only meant to relieve.
Certainly it would raise certain questions in some circles, that Jaskier has now slept with his best friend's ex-lover. It is the sort of material used in some of the baudiest ballads. It isn't that he feels guilty over it, either. Yennefer was the one who seduced him (and he is very aware, especially in retrospect, that is exactly what happened), but he allowed it to happen. And far be it for any preestablished relationship to stop him from sleeping with who he wills, as long as it is fun and consensual and he is likely to escape a window with his cock still attached.
He wouldn't say it was fun.
Unfortunately, he would also do it again.
Jaskier sweeps those thoughts out impatiently, in order to leave a spot for what is currently going on now. For he does not wish to be elsewhere but here, with his friend. Yennefer, and the complications she brings with her, can wait. (He is very thankful that the smell of her does not translate to this world.)]
Like a weed, I imagine you want to say. Like I did with you.
[Except his grip on the Witcher was far more constricting; he had not given Geralt the time to abandon him. Not when he had seen such ripe opportunity in traveling with him.
Jaskier moves closer, until their legs press together. He doesn't pull his arm out of Geralt's grip, either.] I know, I know. You will never admit it. And yet I so enjoy the moments of fondness you show, especially when you least mean to.
[Like his exasperation. Exasperated or not, Geralt had sought him out specifically. For company, maybe for a fuck. It doesn't matter. What matters is he did seek Jaskier out, and they are both here, and seeking him out is enough to show that fondness.
Moreso that he suspects Geralt did not initially mean to bring him to a bathhouse, of all places, but so decided it when he sussed out the bard's pain so immediately. It is not a hard guess.
He reaches out, pulling a wet strand of hair from Geralt's cheek to replace it with his hand. Far sweeter than last time, when drink and drugs fueled his desires. Sober, however, they do not burn any quieter.] There it is. That look of fondness. Mixed with what I think is a desire to choke me so I cannot speak anymore.
[ Hm. There. He can see it on Jaskier's face, the moment the coiled tension loosens. Rare, that Jaskier hides his pain from him or from anyone. Normally, the bard will make it known from a fucking mile away that he's stubbed his toe. But Jaskier's never been wounded so seriously as this before. Incident with the djinn notwithstanding.
This damn world.
He means to let Jaskier go, but a flicker over Jaskier's face has him pausing. He searches, feeling like there's something he's not seeing as clearly as he should. After a second, he shakes it off, releasing his grip. ]
A mushroom, actually. [ At this point, it's only a matter of principle that he will not acknowledge his. Fondness. They both know the truth. As the years slip by, he's stopped bothering to deny it, even if he'll still not actually say any of it aloud. Stopped asking why Jaskier is here, why he kept following a Witcher through rough mountain slopes and sticky bogs despite having long ceased needing material for his music. Jaskier has more than made a name for himself for the past decade.
It's a thought he returns to often. The fact that Jaskier doesn't need stay. And yet he does.
Geralt sinks further into the water. Lets the heat seep into his shoulders. Company or a fuck—it doesn't matter where and how they wind up at the end of the night. He just wants to remember what it's like not to have all this bullshit pressing down around him. There are simpler times between him and Jaskier. A time before the Singularity, before Destiny and a princess and a sorceress who changed too much about him, stole pieces of himself he should've never given over. He doesn't often care to look towards the past. Prefers to forge ahead, leave the shadows and dust behind. But right now, maybe—
He looks over as a hand rests against his cheek. It's soft. A part of him instinctively wants to pull back, and it shows in the small furrow of his brows before they smooth out.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, his eyes drop from Jaskier's face to his lips. ] I doubt even death could shut you up, Jaskier.
[A mushroom! As if he was anything like a fungus. Jaskier preferred a weed, actually, because at least weeds could have flowers. (Though he did love a good mushroom, fried in real butter... gods. All right, perhaps a mushroom wasn't the worst.)
It does show. So, so obviously. And like in the past, when he's found a quiet moment to appreciate something of Geralt's -- when it is them and they are alone, and he says something heartfelt or particularly meaningful (which is often, thank you), he can feel Geralt pull back from it. Nearly recoil.
You can have gentle things, you know, he wants to say, but it won't change anything. Instead he pulls himself into Geralt's lap with a coy little wiggle of his eyebrows. If Geralt will not accept gentle things, good things, then, like always, they must be thrust upon him.]
You are absolutely correct. And, like the wraiths of our yesterdays, I will come back and haunt everyone with both word and song. [He considers that for a second.] With less murderous intent, I assume.
[So close, he cannot miss where Geralt's eyes are focused. And since the large, rough-and-tumble Witcher means to simply stare, Jaskier will have to make the first move.
Simply to press him (and because it has always held attraction for him), he leans in and kisses the edge of the Witcher's jaw, his scarred arm slipping out of Geralt's grip to move onto Geralt's shoulder, fingers plucking at his hair. Gentle. Thrust upon him.] I think I miss the ears a bit.
[ He can practically read it on Jaskier's expression. That look. The one that says he's doing something Jaskier believes he needn't have to. It comes when the bard catches him suturing himself off somewhere alone, in moments like now where Jaskier is too gentle and Geralt does not know how to reply or accept it. And it isn't that he doesn't want it. He does. He just doesn't know how to take it. Because when he tries, the last time he let himself do so, it's—
It doesn't stay.
(Right now, he wants Jaskier to stay. Maybe that's why it was easier at that party, heated and rough, why it was easier earlier when he had sat at that tavern and thought of pressing him hard against the wall outside until they both shuddered apart. Then Jaskier had touched that scar and Geralt had brought him here instead and now he feels something achingly tender in the space between them. Something he'd not meant to spark. Something he isn't sure how to put back or if he even wants to.)
He's almost afraid Jaskier will speak it aloud. That feeling. But of course Jaskier knows him too fucking well and instead he ends up with a bard in his lap under the water and a reply that makes him huff quietly. ] I don't miss the damn hooves.
[ It is still too soft. But it's unrelenting enough, as well, that Geralt decides not to push it away. He turns his head, lets Jaskier trace his jawline with his lips. His hand trails up Jaskier's side, rests at the small of his back.
[There's certainly a reluctance in Geralt that simply did not exist at the party before. Which he does miss, a bit; Jaskier has always been a great fan of his lovers doing whatever they wish to him. Pinning him to walls, kissing him until he bruised. There was nothing so wonderful as being swept up in passion.
He knows it wasn't the herbs or the drink, considering Geralt had pointed out Jaskier was high with them, not himself. (Though, a shame. He wouldn't mind that feeling more. Like floating.)]
You loved those damn hooves. Especially wrapped around you.
[He's not sure he can replicate that moment. But fuck, he can try. Though they are missing the thumping music, replicating a heartbeat. The heated bodies grinding around them. He suspects this will be a much more quieter affair.
He laughs against his throat, where his lips have landed. Godsdammit. He's trying to set a mood here, and Geralt is making shitty jokes.]
My tail? I certainly do. It was very handy, having a third... er, arm. So to speak.
[Right now he only has two, which is unfortunate. They're still quite capable, though. Like how he grabs a fistful of Geralt's hair and pulls it backwards, to tip his head back and expose the raw length of his throat, his Adam's apple. Jaskier kisses there, and then he bites --- a nip, he hopes, that will spur a bit of energy into the Witcher.]
[ Maybe quiet is what he's after in the end. Though he can't say Jaskier's legs wrapped around him while they kissed was a poor memory. Not even close.
He hums, letting Jaskier tug on his hair. There is the feather-light brush of Jaskier's mouth, a sharp nip. Bit by bit, he sinks into it, carefully letting go of the tightly wound pieces of himself. Jaskier smells like sage and the oils he uses to polish his lute; it's a scent he can pick out of a crowd with ease, and one he breathes in as he leans forward to kiss him. It grows heated quickly, his arm slipping under Jaskier to hold him steady. The water sloshes around them.
And here it is: what's been building up over the past few weeks. He walked out of that dungeon two months ago and his time there lingers more than he's been willing to admit. Or perhaps it's risen belatedly, after having been forced under the surface all this time: his inability to have any real rest, his constant concern for Jaskier, and then Ciri and Yen afterwards, the simple fact that he'd never gone so long without the strength and senses he's come to rely on. Escaping should've brought relief, but the truth is, he's not been able to feel it. Any notion of safety is far off. They're a long fucking way from home, if that door is even still open.
But here, with one of the very few people he can trust without question, he's allowing himself to feel it at last: a sense of respite, one that's different than the forgetting he has found in the beds of others, different than merely shoving his thoughts aside for a few brief moments. One that lets him lower his guard. He doesn't think about who might be watching around them or what might interrupt. He doesn't concern himself with what trouble the next day, the next hour, will hold. The only thing on his mind is that Jaskier tastes good, feels warm, and he wants more of it. If spurring is the poet's goal, then he's done it. Geralt's hand burrows in the lengthening locks of Jaskier's hair, twisting them around his fingers. ]
[It's all very lovely they have both forgone the idea they would actually bathe properly. A bit sinful of them, really. Simply waiting to be caught in here, canoodling.
Not a single complaint. (And it would be far from either of their first times, he suspects.)
Much like his arm, he thinks, he can feel Geralt tightening, tightening, tightening -- and at the scrape of his teeth, as Jaskier's hands drop down and move up Geralt's sides, bumping over muscles and scars, the snap. The snap of a muscle, of tension, finally letting itself loose. Untangling. Like this, Geralt releases something he's been holding back.
It doesn't sweep over them and threaten to drown Jaskier in it, not like the dance floor. This is much more manageable, and somehow all the sweeter for it. (He's smart enough to not mention that sentiment. Nothing is quicker to get rid of the Witcher than the expression of some sort of affectionate emotion.)
Jaskier hums his approval, kissing him with a bruising pressure. His hands move down Geralt's ribs, to the front of his belly, down to his thigh where he begins to circle the scar left by the stabbing of a knife. A princess, Geralt told him once.]
It's a good thing I've practiced holding my breath. How long do you think I'll make it?
[He is absolutely not doing that, because he has no interest in choking or drowning. But it's Jaskier. He has to make the joke.
Gods, these are. Thighs. A lot of thigh. He squeezes them, eager as he presses closer. If his arm is set off by certain hand movements, he will be very upset.] Suppose we could bet on it.
[ Extremely far from the first. Gods know no one enters to a bathhouse merely to bathe. Some things don't change across spheres, apparently, which works out just fine.
Mm. Quite fine.
Sentiments of sweeter or gentler or any kind of real emotion are carefully kept out of his thoughts. He grasps the physical presence instead: calloused fingers on his skin, a warm breath against ear, a weight pressing down on him. There are plenty of scars to trace on his body and Jaskier knows almost all of them. Stories, pulled out of him a hair's width at a time, over drinks, over rare quiet nights where the bard has managed to catch him in a sharing mood. Over years and years.
His eyes close. Fuck, Jaskier's got to make his shit jokes even now, hasn't he? It draws a noise out of him—annoyed but not without the lightest note humour—that occurs when he doesn't want to grant Jaskier the satisfaction of a laugh.
Normally, he'd be willing to bat some banter back and forth. Right now, his attentions are elsewhere. ] Shut up.
[ Idiot. Geralt wraps his fingers around Jaskier's wrist and brings that hand gripping his thigh to between his legs. He isn't subtle and he isn't asking. He wants. He wants a lot, and he plans on having it. ]
[There he is. The Witcher he knows can't wait. What had he said back then? A hurried eagerness. An unexpected gentleness. Though Geralt is demanding and rude, they're the same traits he is long used to. (Had long found a stupid fondness for. Melitele herself knows no one could put up with this for long without being fond of it.)]
Demanding, are we? [His smile is devilish, curled deliciously at the edges. He didn't fight the hold. To be fair, he'd never much fought any of Geralt's holds, rare as they were. (Djinn bottle notwithstanding.)]
Be nice to me, [He adds, one hand curling around the cock he was being led to, and the other even lower,] or I'll leave you here with half a mast on your own.
[No, he won't. In the end, he always is the last one to walk away.]
[ His eyes flicker open. They're long, expert fingers that wrap around him and it brings a hitch to his breath.
Curious. How those hands can be both familiar and yet not. They've tended to all parts of his body: at first only when he couldn't manage on his own—times when, were he alone, he'd have had to drag himself to a healer and cough up the coin—and then later, during rare moments when he would allow it. When the nights were especially warm and he decided it was not the worst thing in the world to have some help (some solace), even if he didn't truly need it. But they have never tended to him quite like this.
He tugs Jaskier closer for a kiss. His teeth catch on that lower lip, the one that's curved into a smile, the one that so often shamelessly pouts at him like it'll fucking have any effect except exasperate him. (Except.)
Sometimes he wants to give more than he takes. Tonight, he doesn't. Tonight, he just wants to have and if Jaskier will indulge him, that's what he'll do.
Blunt nails press into Jaskier's wrist, just hard enough to be felt, or maybe leave a small mark. He glides his lips under Jaskier's jaw where splashes from the bath have left the skin wet. Then up, to the shell of Jaskier's ear, where he mummers low: challenging, knowing, a promise all at once. ] You won't.
[Jaskier hums into the kiss, his eyes fluttering closed. This edge of roughness is exquisite; this quiet threat as if Geralt really could become something more than man, if he so decided to. That his teeth would sharpen and he would bite. Violence hidden behind a strange, human beauty.
The scrape of teeth only sends a floaty pleasure through him, not fear. Not pain.
He does try so hard to make himself seem frightening, doesn't he? Even now. Perhaps it's not even intentional -- no, he suspects it isn't, not with him. Geralt is just a demanding sort, has always been, even if he would be the last to describe himself that way.
Oh. Yes. That's wonderful.
Jaskier hums a teasing tune.] Do you really want to take that chance? [His hand jerks around the length of him, pushing back into his nails. Let him leave marks. What does Jaskier care? As he tips the point of his chin, it's both offering and challenge.
He may need to hide them from Ciri, later, but who would really suspect Geralt first?] Old friend? You'll miss these hands much more than I'll miss yours.
[ It isn't, no. Not quite. But he doesn't go out of his way to pretend what he isn't, either. Never has. There's an unyielding, inhuman strength to his grip even if his fingers are careful not to bruise. (Yet.) Maybe some part of him just wants to press; Jaskier is not afraid of him, has not been afraid of him from the moment they met, and it's something he knows will never change.
He draws in an unsteady breath. Fuck. Mmh. He's always known those hands were skilled. He closes his lips around Jaskier's earlobe and sucks. Pushes into those hands for more friction. ]
Must you talk? [ Any trace of annoyance is absent from his words now. They're only words, breathless. A heated desire rolls through him. He walks his fingers down Jaskier's spine while they kiss. Captures his mouth so that he'll be quiet for once.
It's not only Jaskier's hands he may miss. He won't say it, though. He doesn't need to, for one. After this long—Jaskier already knows.
When they part briefly, when he says lightly, ] We're not friends, [ —it carries an edge of meaning that'd not been there in the past. ]
[Give him more friction he does, with the air of a man who holds a wilf wolf underneath his hands -- a bit smug, and endlessly fascinated. The things he has only seen Geralt do (perhaps not intentionally... for the most part) now scrape across his skin Teeth close to Jaskier's most vulnerable parts -- his ears, his neck.
Honestly, he almost thinks it's a shame Geralt's teeth hold no extra points. How hands they would look on him. How they'd feel on skin.
Jaskier's only response to that is a sucking of air through his lips, before they crash their lips together again. He needn't, no. But he did it for the complaint. For that quiet breathiness with which Geralt said it now. He was sure to hold the sound of that for many nights to come, close to his chest.
When he pulls back for air and Geralt rumbles that, low and gentle with that gravel in his voice, Jaskier's lips turn into a smile, and he bends his head lower to kiss across Geralt's shoulder.] Of course not. [He says to hot skin, beaded with more than water; says it while he jerks his long, coiled fingers around Geralt's cock and the surface dips and webs out from the movement; said while his leg moves to tangle behind Geralt's, the fucking step in this bath feeling far too small. He says it with the belief of a man being told the sky is falling, that the moon will not rise. That the stars will not shine.
It is, he thinks, the first time he's ever agreed with Geralt on that.]
[ One day, he's going to discover exactly what it is Jaskier saw him do and, more specifically, with whom, but that's a topic that's yet to arise. (There are, actually, a few topics yet to arise between them. Which is neither here nor there, for now.)
Of course not.
He doesn't think about it, the emphasis put upon words like friends or companions. None of it matters, none of what it's called matters because at the end of the day, he has what he has. And what he has is important to him. It's a rare thing, for him to acknowledge when something (someone) is important to him. It always feels too easily taken away. (How many times has that happened?)
His fingers dig deeper into Jaskier's hip, and if he wasn't leaving bruises before, he must be now. He releases heavy, needy breaths. A hunger burns deep inside. He wants to swallow all of this whole, all of what he's feeling—grasping it so it can't be fucking torn from him. Water glides over Jaskier's skin. He can hear Jaskier's pulse stutter every time his teeth come close to an artery, a soft bit of flesh, and Geralt doesn't hesitate to give Jaskier more of what he wants.
This time, they scrape harder against his throat—where the vein sits, thrumming. ]
[In this moment, there isn't much that matters to Jaskier outside the cock his hands are on and the heavier breaths from the Witcher that tells him exactly how he's doing this. Which, as he knows, is exceptionally well.
(What a contrast to Yennefer, speaking of whoms. Yennefer, who treated him like a conquest, but of no consequence. Who dragged words out of him like pieces of a soul. Who used him, bruised and spent.
He doesn't know where he sits with her, even now. But here, he knows his place.)
Geralt's fingers press harder, and Jaskier swears he can feel the pressure pop underneath his skin. Marking him, bruising him, turning those pinpoints sore. Combined with the scrape of teeth, the moan that slips out is unintentional, and quite real.
There's nothing like being fucked by men who can kill you. Especially kill you without trying. It's -- it's like an added spice to a magnificent feast. An addictive sort of spice. Oh, no. It was a sure bet that next time he was alone, in bed or in their tub, and his fingers were tracing those bruises -- he knew where his mind would be.]
Fuck. [It slips out, almost whispered, as he tightens his grip in the next jerk of his hands. Jaskier knew he was good at estimating, but not this good. He'd pegged Geralt down immediately. Rough, but gentle. Where it counted.] Bit harder. Just a bit.
[He could bet Geralt was good at following requests, too.]
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cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
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He rather likes the idea of moving past the whole event and going on as if nothing has changed. Which, truly, is the way it feels. He does know quite a bit more about Ciri and her position on the Continent, but... all right, it's a lot to take in, but what he's to do about it? They're here, and he may as well continue living the life he has carved out on this sphere while he is here to live it.
There is only one problem. One thing that has changed.
He doesn't quite notice it much as he begins to perform again, selling himself to the local tavern for a handful of coin (and gods, does it feel good to go back to it. All that time sitting in bed gave him more than enough time to work on new songs.) Mostly because after the whole wraith invasion, he is not liken to spent too much time out during the dark. You know, in case such a fiasco happens again. A few mages have reassured that it was a fluke, which is a funny way to say they raised the dead on accident.
But today? Gods. He feels it today. After leaving early on in the morning to go shopping -- or, more accurately, to go spying on things he wanted to purchase and knew well he should not be -- and now having performed for hours, he feels it. At first it was only a slight tingling in his arm, but the longer he holds his lute, the longer he plays, the tighter this cord up his arm tightens until he's nearly biting his tongue with the effort of holding the instrument up.
It's when he's finishing up a set that he sees the Witcher arrive -- it is, after all, rather impossible to miss him -- and he glances away from him, focusing on belting out the last note as enthusiastically as he can... as if to compensate for the ache that is now growing excruciating. With a bit of raccous applause and a bow to his audience, he sets his lute back in its case and snaps it closed, taking a quiet moment to himself as he leans over it.
It's worse than he'd thought. Jaskier had been, for a time, quite sure the potion had healed everything, simply unable to cosmetically restore skin where there was skin no more. Surely he had lost quite a few inches in that blast of chaos. What he was not prepared for is this tension, a string through his muscle that wound so tightly it caused an ache to thrum through the entire appendage. Aching to the point he feared dropping his instrument at the wrong time. Breaking it somehow.
Wiping his face, he pulls the strap of the instrument case around his shoulder and goes to meet Geralt, who is either extremely fucking bored or has come to him for something. He greets him with a smile as he always does, though his arm feels as if a brand has been pressed onto it.]
Well, well. Sneaking in to enjoy your favorite music, I see. [He may not have brought it up, but it is more than once that Jaskier has thought about it -- especially fantasizing what may have happened had it not been interrupted and he had gone to find company elsewhere. It's not the only thing he misses. He imagines right now, Julie's medical herbs would be helping him quite well.
Without ceremony, Jaskier slides in against him, stealing his drink to take a swig to cool his heated throat.] Ale again? Gods, I miss the cocktails already. Free and endless. Now everything tastes a bit bitter in comparison.
[He chatters because it comes naturally, and also to distract: once he's set his lute down to the side, he can't stop himself from rubbing his arm, hoping the movement will soothe the ache.]
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Geralt looks up. A furrow knits his brows together. Jaskier has not ended his performance early to come speak to him. Jaskier does not ever interrupt his performances unless Lady Death herself is knocking. Possibly not even then.
His gaze roams over Jaskier. The bard speaks, and Geralt gives no reply while he puzzles out what he's missing. Jaskier may be good at distracting others with chatter, but Geralt's mastered the art of ignoring chatter when he's onto something. Whether he's aware of it or not, there's an instinctive compulsion within him that, when it rears its head, means Geralt will not let a matter go until he's found the answer. Which he does. It clicks, a minute or so later, as Jaskier rubs his arm.
It shouldn't catch him off guard. He knows better than anyone wounds do not always heal in full. That scars are not only marks which sit upon the surface. But he'd been hoping that it was different with Jaskier. That the potion had healed him quickly, effectively. For a few weeks, that'd seemed to be true. Jaskier hadn't shown signs of recovery. At least not where his arm was concerned. Just the typical irritation that a scar leaves behind. So this—it must be a new development. Also not unusual. It happens. It's just...he doesn't want to say he feels guilty. He's aware no one's to blame for what happened. An accident, in the truest sense of the word.
No, it isn't a sense of fault. One of responsibility, perhaps. Because Jaskier is here, alongside him, mired in this horseshit they've been dragged into. From the start, he's meant to keep Jaskier safe. Jaskier and Ciri both. And in that, it feels as though he's beginning to slip. Or already has, more than he should've allowed.
When he finally reacts, it's to take his ale back. He doesn't ask after Jaskier's arm. He knows the reason now, why Jaskier has stopped playing early, why he looks faintly strained, and that's all that matters. Raising it is pointless. Jaskier will not want to talk about it because if Jaskier did, he'd not be trying to hide it in the first place.
Instead, Geralt says, ] Have you got places to be tonight?
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It's annoying. He wants to pinch it. For once in his life, he does not want to be analyzed. There's nothing anyone can do about it. And he does not regret trying to help Ciri. Every bloody Witcher around here already has far too much guilt weighing them down, whether they'll admit it or not.
Geralt doesn't say it, because of course he doesn't. He doesn't need to say it for both of them to know he's sourced out what is happening already.
Jaskier doesn't want to bring it up, either. His fingers rub together, first on the table but then tucked under, the tick so obvious even he notices he's doing it. The pain has only lessened by a degree. And Geralt, well. He knows injuries well. But Jaskier does not desire for this to ever be a source of contention between himself and Ciri. Or Geralt, really. As a witcher's bard, it was inevitable. That one day he would be injured.
But before he can bring it up, Geralt asks... a rather honest question. Point-blank, as always.
He glances up to meet his eyes.]
Ah. No. [The surprise only lasts a moment.] And where is it you want to drag me to tonight? I do so know how you can't stand being alone. [He teases with ease, considering pulling away to order a drink, but stopping. Well, if they're going somewhere -- and there's no question he'll come along, of course. Why not?] Probably not a hunt, or you wouldn't specifically invite me. Oh, wait! Did you find a place here? With cocktails?
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[ He gets up, leaving Jaskier to finish the ale if he wants or to simply follow. Either way, he pauses at the door to make sure Jaskier is keeping up before he steps back out into the night.
He'd not specifically planned to take Jaskier anywhere. He'd come to gauge the mood and maybe, if he has to admit, for company. He likes his solitude. He does. He will hold to that to his last breath. But the truth is, he occasionally wants...more. The strangeness of this world leaves him feeling out of sorts in a way he normally doesn't. On the Continent, he has familiar towns, familiar villages. Even familiar faces. He's lived a long time. It's impossible not to know a handful of folk, no matter how reluctant he is to make those connections. Out here, he hasn't got anyone. Not really. (He never made it home, for the winter. Sometimes he wonders if he ever will again.)
Since Jaskier is obviously having trouble with his newly healed injury, though, Geralt knows where to go. If the bard has at all grown familiar with the city, he might catch on. There's only one bathhouse in this area, within easy walking distance. He says little while they walk, answering with vague assent now and again. Only when they reach the doors of the bathhouse does he tip his head, indicating for Jaskier to go inside first.
It'll help. With the wound, that is, though he doesn't explain that that's the reason they're here. Either Jaskier will realize or he won't. Geralt has no desire to elaborate. It's not meant to be a gesture of any kind. He just thinks Jaskier needs a good soak. Fuck, he could use one, too. ]
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So he does want company. Perhaps he'll refrain from poking fun at him about it any further tonight.]
I do so love it when you lead me into dark, mysterious corners, where I have no idea what to expect.
[But he does enjoy walking with him. In this city, like so many towns and cities in the past, there are looks. Either it's the presence of the Witcher with him, the constrast of Geralt's blacks with his own bright colors (which, today, are royal blues and dandelion yellows.) It is only a mere echo of the paths they'd once walked together, but after so much excitement as of late, he can't help but search for those faded ghosts of nostalgia.
Their sphere feels farther away than ever.
Jaskier doesn't pay much attention to where they're going, but he has a suspicion the closer they go. And there it is.
A bathhouse, of all places. Seemingly a bizarre place to invite him to without prompting.
But he understands. He smiles, opening the door and holding it open for the Witcher.]
A distinct lack of cocktails, but a good choice nonetheless. [He turns to him, watches him coming in. The presences his body takes up. Was he thinking what Geralt was thinking? In this, it was hard to tell. Yet.] And the perfect chance to enjoy a bit of nudity between friends.
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He follows inside, the door swinging shut behind them. His eyes settle on Jaskier as he slides over the money for their entry. He can see the bard's thoughts forming—or thinks he can. That is not actually the reason they are here, but only because Geralt needn't first invite his friend someplace where they're required to strip in order to ask him if he wants to fuck. He'd have just asked him at the tavern. Which he was, actually, vaguely considering until it became obvious Jaskier's arm was bothering him.
Having said that, Geralt is not opposed to raising the topic here while they're at it. Bathhouse is as good a place as any. He slips past the curtains, glancing briefly over his shoulder. ] Only a bit?
[ They've kissed twice (thrice); they were steps away from fucking at that party. True, Geralt saw no need to discuss and he still doesn't. This isn't a discussion. It's a simple matter of a yes or no. Because Geralt does want, and he hasn't got reason to hide it or pretend otherwise. It feels rather pointless, even if he were to care to be coy. Which he doesn't. Coy is the last thing Geralt is capable of being.
And if Jaskier tells him no, that'll be that. He suspects he won't get a no, though. They're both wanting for company, aren't they? Not that they can't find it elsewhere. But there's something to be said for company that knows him. Really knows him. Someone he never has to explain himself to, rarely has to even say much at all to be understood. ]
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Jaskier's lips immediately turn up into a smile. One may even call it a smirk. Public sex, even? His Witcher was getting quite spicy as of late. Jaskier ducks through the curtain, already moving through the buttons of the doublet he'd decorated up in. Already the steam of the water was leaving him feeling humid and severely overdressed.
He leaves Geralt hanging for a bit, because it is so rare for him to not jump at an answer immediately. He removes his doublet, pulling the cream chemise off underneath. The water pours from the wall, much like it did in Thorne. And though it's not as nice as the baths in Thorne, it's still better than the stifling air of the tavern when he was feeling... uncomfortable. In pain. (It's a bit better now, actually.)
And this place still has opportunity for privacy. He cannot help but note how different the space between them is now, compared to in Thorne. For obvious reasons. Geralt is free here.
Free to do as he wishes.
Or whom.
Jaskier can be coy enough for the two of them.]
More than a bit, I'd say. [He turns to Geralt, catching his pretty eyes that glow even here, in the low flickering light.] Why don't we see where the night leads us, my friend? But do not expect I'll be washing your ass for you. Again.
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He doesn't give much thought towards why he's seeking what he is. Maybe it's to do with everything that's happened, maybe it's a primal loneliness that even he is capable of feeling, one that as of late has unfurled more and more. He doesn't think about it because it feels too much as though he might crack open what he will not be able to put back together. He wants what he wants. Does the rest matter? He has Jaskier here, who leans easily towards him. Who knows every jagged piece that makes him what he is, in a way no one else does, and remains by him even so. That's enough.
His lips quirk. There's a hum in reply, but he says nothing else of it. The water steams, his back is in desperate need of relief, and he slips into one of the quieter corners of the bath. ]
Wouldn't dream of it. [ He waits for Jaskier to join him before he reaches out to catch his arm. It's the first time he's acknowledged he's noticed what's going on with that scar. He traces his thumb up alongside it, then presses gently down on the muscle where he knows the tension lies. ] The heat will loosen it.
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[It is far from the first time Jaskier has ever admired Geralt’s body. There is so much to admire, and so much he knows well, even if he has done little more than bathe it — when Geralt is too hurt or sore to do it himself, or too covered in gore that Jaskier knew alone he would never cleanse it all. But these scars, he knows. These stories he’s pulled from Geralt over the years, or the chapters where Jaskier himself was there to witness their making. These permanent etchings into Geralt’s skin that he has sang of. The vampiress. The kikimore. One of the newest, from the bite on his leg. The striga, the princess —
Jaskier sheds his remaining clothes and steps into the water, a sigh of relief pulled easily from him.
He doesn’t mean to flinch at the pull; it’s more a bracing for something, a new ache or pain. Unlike in the Horizon, the persistent ache in it cannot be magicked away. But the way Geralt’s thumb slides along its ridges (much in the way he has often fantasized himself tracing Geralt’s) elicits a much sharper, heated breath.
He sinks deeper into the water.]
I didn’t imagine it would feel so tight. [He doesn’t move his arm out of Geralt’s grip. In fact, he stays quite close. He glances at Geralt’s face, blue eyes sharp through his hair where it has grown quite long in their time here.] Don’t tell her. I don’t want her to know it’s… it’s affected my playing.
[Of course Geralt knows. Almost as soon as he realized it himself. Or… at least, as soon as he’d accepted it.]
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He decides not to mention his dreams as of late have been especially restless. Dark hair and blood across the sand. Sometimes Cirilla is crying, but he cannot understand why. They're only dreams. Fuck knows that's nothing new. They linger, that's all. Ever since he walked out of that dungeon with Ciri and Jaskier in tow, a mounting pressure has grown in the air. And every small thing, every mishap, every indication that things aren't right (the disappearances, the summons, the wraiths, the attack on the hills with Sam) has added to it. Only short bursts have eased that weight. With Julie. The docks. That little moment with Ciri.
Perhaps now, in the quiet of the water.
He meets Jaskier's gaze. There's no reaction to the flinch other than a brief loosening of his grip before he presses down more firmly. He rolls his thumb in a manner that suggests he's done it many times. On himself, mostly. It'll ache more, at first, but given a minute or so, it'll start to soothe. ] I know.
[ No need to say it. Ciri will only feel worse, and it'll change nothing. He's at least glad to know Jaskier can still play. Part of him is already considering if an additional healer might help. Hard to tell. Some pains can't be healed.
He almost asks, What did she say? About the scar, the incident. He doesn't. He knows Jaskier went to see Yennefer, for Ciri's sake, two weeks ago. Beyond that, it matters none. He's slipped that damn token back where it belongs. He doesn't want reminders that she's circling the periphery of his life. It's necessary, for Ciri. But just because Ciri needs her doesn't mean he has to let her in. He's tired of the inches given between them that amount to only a hollow gap in the earth.
He pushes the thoughts aside. Considers the absence of tension between Jaskier and Ciri that was present during the first month. It's one bright spot. ] You're growing on the girl.
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He can still play. That's what matters, at any rate.
And being alive. Obviously.
Jaskier moves as if he may pull away, but stops at the last moment. Geralt's thumb pressing into his skin raises goosebumps on his arm; at first in pleasure, and then, with a sharp inhale, in pain. An acute pain centered directly under the pressure of his grip, tightening and tightening until he's ready to jerk away -- and then, with an inaudible snap he can feel in his scalp, whatever has tangled so tightly in his arm (a tendon? An artery?) rights itself. It is not so different from the knotting his shoulders would receive after long days and nights of carrying his lute, but this relief is even more than the back massages he would receive in Toussaint on his richest days.
Of course he should have gone to his friend with this pain. Geralt has plenty of scars of his own. Yet this was the one thing he meant to keep to himself, even if he should have known the attempt would be foolhardy.
He meets Geralt's eyes. Like Yennefer, his fingers follow the new, curious scar on the bard. But where her touch was feather-light until she used it to control him (and how thoroughly she had controlled him, in the end), Geralt's is only meant to relieve.
Certainly it would raise certain questions in some circles, that Jaskier has now slept with his best friend's ex-lover. It is the sort of material used in some of the baudiest ballads. It isn't that he feels guilty over it, either. Yennefer was the one who seduced him (and he is very aware, especially in retrospect, that is exactly what happened), but he allowed it to happen. And far be it for any preestablished relationship to stop him from sleeping with who he wills, as long as it is fun and consensual and he is likely to escape a window with his cock still attached.
He wouldn't say it was fun.
Unfortunately, he would also do it again.
Jaskier sweeps those thoughts out impatiently, in order to leave a spot for what is currently going on now. For he does not wish to be elsewhere but here, with his friend. Yennefer, and the complications she brings with her, can wait. (He is very thankful that the smell of her does not translate to this world.)]
Like a weed, I imagine you want to say. Like I did with you.
[Except his grip on the Witcher was far more constricting; he had not given Geralt the time to abandon him. Not when he had seen such ripe opportunity in traveling with him.
Jaskier moves closer, until their legs press together. He doesn't pull his arm out of Geralt's grip, either.] I know, I know. You will never admit it. And yet I so enjoy the moments of fondness you show, especially when you least mean to.
[Like his exasperation. Exasperated or not, Geralt had sought him out specifically. For company, maybe for a fuck. It doesn't matter. What matters is he did seek Jaskier out, and they are both here, and seeking him out is enough to show that fondness.
Moreso that he suspects Geralt did not initially mean to bring him to a bathhouse, of all places, but so decided it when he sussed out the bard's pain so immediately. It is not a hard guess.
He reaches out, pulling a wet strand of hair from Geralt's cheek to replace it with his hand. Far sweeter than last time, when drink and drugs fueled his desires. Sober, however, they do not burn any quieter.] There it is. That look of fondness. Mixed with what I think is a desire to choke me so I cannot speak anymore.
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This damn world.
He means to let Jaskier go, but a flicker over Jaskier's face has him pausing. He searches, feeling like there's something he's not seeing as clearly as he should. After a second, he shakes it off, releasing his grip. ]
A mushroom, actually. [ At this point, it's only a matter of principle that he will not acknowledge his. Fondness. They both know the truth. As the years slip by, he's stopped bothering to deny it, even if he'll still not actually say any of it aloud. Stopped asking why Jaskier is here, why he kept following a Witcher through rough mountain slopes and sticky bogs despite having long ceased needing material for his music. Jaskier has more than made a name for himself for the past decade.
It's a thought he returns to often. The fact that Jaskier doesn't need stay. And yet he does.
Geralt sinks further into the water. Lets the heat seep into his shoulders. Company or a fuck—it doesn't matter where and how they wind up at the end of the night. He just wants to remember what it's like not to have all this bullshit pressing down around him. There are simpler times between him and Jaskier. A time before the Singularity, before Destiny and a princess and a sorceress who changed too much about him, stole pieces of himself he should've never given over. He doesn't often care to look towards the past. Prefers to forge ahead, leave the shadows and dust behind. But right now, maybe—
He looks over as a hand rests against his cheek. It's soft. A part of him instinctively wants to pull back, and it shows in the small furrow of his brows before they smooth out.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, his eyes drop from Jaskier's face to his lips. ] I doubt even death could shut you up, Jaskier.
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[A mushroom! As if he was anything like a fungus. Jaskier preferred a weed, actually, because at least weeds could have flowers. (Though he did love a good mushroom, fried in real butter... gods. All right, perhaps a mushroom wasn't the worst.)
It does show. So, so obviously. And like in the past, when he's found a quiet moment to appreciate something of Geralt's -- when it is them and they are alone, and he says something heartfelt or particularly meaningful (which is often, thank you), he can feel Geralt pull back from it. Nearly recoil.
You can have gentle things, you know, he wants to say, but it won't change anything. Instead he pulls himself into Geralt's lap with a coy little wiggle of his eyebrows. If Geralt will not accept gentle things, good things, then, like always, they must be thrust upon him.]
You are absolutely correct. And, like the wraiths of our yesterdays, I will come back and haunt everyone with both word and song. [He considers that for a second.] With less murderous intent, I assume.
[So close, he cannot miss where Geralt's eyes are focused. And since the large, rough-and-tumble Witcher means to simply stare, Jaskier will have to make the first move.
Simply to press him (and because it has always held attraction for him), he leans in and kisses the edge of the Witcher's jaw, his scarred arm slipping out of Geralt's grip to move onto Geralt's shoulder, fingers plucking at his hair. Gentle. Thrust upon him.] I think I miss the ears a bit.
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It doesn't stay.
(Right now, he wants Jaskier to stay. Maybe that's why it was easier at that party, heated and rough, why it was easier earlier when he had sat at that tavern and thought of pressing him hard against the wall outside until they both shuddered apart. Then Jaskier had touched that scar and Geralt had brought him here instead and now he feels something achingly tender in the space between them. Something he'd not meant to spark. Something he isn't sure how to put back or if he even wants to.)
He's almost afraid Jaskier will speak it aloud. That feeling. But of course Jaskier knows him too fucking well and instead he ends up with a bard in his lap under the water and a reply that makes him huff quietly. ] I don't miss the damn hooves.
[ It is still too soft. But it's unrelenting enough, as well, that Geralt decides not to push it away. He turns his head, lets Jaskier trace his jawline with his lips. His hand trails up Jaskier's side, rests at the small of his back.
The base of his spine. ] Perhaps the tail.
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He knows it wasn't the herbs or the drink, considering Geralt had pointed out Jaskier was high with them, not himself. (Though, a shame. He wouldn't mind that feeling more. Like floating.)]
You loved those damn hooves. Especially wrapped around you.
[He's not sure he can replicate that moment. But fuck, he can try. Though they are missing the thumping music, replicating a heartbeat. The heated bodies grinding around them. He suspects this will be a much more quieter affair.
He laughs against his throat, where his lips have landed. Godsdammit. He's trying to set a mood here, and Geralt is making shitty jokes.]
My tail? I certainly do. It was very handy, having a third... er, arm. So to speak.
[Right now he only has two, which is unfortunate. They're still quite capable, though. Like how he grabs a fistful of Geralt's hair and pulls it backwards, to tip his head back and expose the raw length of his throat, his Adam's apple. Jaskier kisses there, and then he bites --- a nip, he hopes, that will spur a bit of energy into the Witcher.]
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He hums, letting Jaskier tug on his hair. There is the feather-light brush of Jaskier's mouth, a sharp nip. Bit by bit, he sinks into it, carefully letting go of the tightly wound pieces of himself. Jaskier smells like sage and the oils he uses to polish his lute; it's a scent he can pick out of a crowd with ease, and one he breathes in as he leans forward to kiss him. It grows heated quickly, his arm slipping under Jaskier to hold him steady. The water sloshes around them.
And here it is: what's been building up over the past few weeks. He walked out of that dungeon two months ago and his time there lingers more than he's been willing to admit. Or perhaps it's risen belatedly, after having been forced under the surface all this time: his inability to have any real rest, his constant concern for Jaskier, and then Ciri and Yen afterwards, the simple fact that he'd never gone so long without the strength and senses he's come to rely on. Escaping should've brought relief, but the truth is, he's not been able to feel it. Any notion of safety is far off. They're a long fucking way from home, if that door is even still open.
But here, with one of the very few people he can trust without question, he's allowing himself to feel it at last: a sense of respite, one that's different than the forgetting he has found in the beds of others, different than merely shoving his thoughts aside for a few brief moments. One that lets him lower his guard. He doesn't think about who might be watching around them or what might interrupt. He doesn't concern himself with what trouble the next day, the next hour, will hold. The only thing on his mind is that Jaskier tastes good, feels warm, and he wants more of it. If spurring is the poet's goal, then he's done it. Geralt's hand burrows in the lengthening locks of Jaskier's hair, twisting them around his fingers. ]
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Not a single complaint. (And it would be far from either of their first times, he suspects.)
Much like his arm, he thinks, he can feel Geralt tightening, tightening, tightening -- and at the scrape of his teeth, as Jaskier's hands drop down and move up Geralt's sides, bumping over muscles and scars, the snap. The snap of a muscle, of tension, finally letting itself loose. Untangling. Like this, Geralt releases something he's been holding back.
It doesn't sweep over them and threaten to drown Jaskier in it, not like the dance floor. This is much more manageable, and somehow all the sweeter for it. (He's smart enough to not mention that sentiment. Nothing is quicker to get rid of the Witcher than the expression of some sort of affectionate emotion.)
Jaskier hums his approval, kissing him with a bruising pressure. His hands move down Geralt's ribs, to the front of his belly, down to his thigh where he begins to circle the scar left by the stabbing of a knife. A princess, Geralt told him once.]
It's a good thing I've practiced holding my breath. How long do you think I'll make it?
[He is absolutely not doing that, because he has no interest in choking or drowning. But it's Jaskier. He has to make the joke.
Gods, these are. Thighs. A lot of thigh. He squeezes them, eager as he presses closer. If his arm is set off by certain hand movements, he will be very upset.] Suppose we could bet on it.
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Mm. Quite fine.
Sentiments of sweeter or gentler or any kind of real emotion are carefully kept out of his thoughts. He grasps the physical presence instead: calloused fingers on his skin, a warm breath against ear, a weight pressing down on him. There are plenty of scars to trace on his body and Jaskier knows almost all of them. Stories, pulled out of him a hair's width at a time, over drinks, over rare quiet nights where the bard has managed to catch him in a sharing mood. Over years and years.
His eyes close. Fuck, Jaskier's got to make his shit jokes even now, hasn't he? It draws a noise out of him—annoyed but not without the lightest note humour—that occurs when he doesn't want to grant Jaskier the satisfaction of a laugh.
Normally, he'd be willing to bat some banter back and forth. Right now, his attentions are elsewhere. ] Shut up.
[ Idiot. Geralt wraps his fingers around Jaskier's wrist and brings that hand gripping his thigh to between his legs. He isn't subtle and he isn't asking. He wants. He wants a lot, and he plans on having it. ]
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Demanding, are we? [His smile is devilish, curled deliciously at the edges. He didn't fight the hold. To be fair, he'd never much fought any of Geralt's holds, rare as they were. (Djinn bottle notwithstanding.)]
Be nice to me, [He adds, one hand curling around the cock he was being led to, and the other even lower,] or I'll leave you here with half a mast on your own.
[No, he won't. In the end, he always is the last one to walk away.]
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Curious. How those hands can be both familiar and yet not. They've tended to all parts of his body: at first only when he couldn't manage on his own—times when, were he alone, he'd have had to drag himself to a healer and cough up the coin—and then later, during rare moments when he would allow it. When the nights were especially warm and he decided it was not the worst thing in the world to have some help (some solace), even if he didn't truly need it. But they have never tended to him quite like this.
He tugs Jaskier closer for a kiss. His teeth catch on that lower lip, the one that's curved into a smile, the one that so often shamelessly pouts at him like it'll fucking have any effect except exasperate him. (Except.)
Sometimes he wants to give more than he takes. Tonight, he doesn't. Tonight, he just wants to have and if Jaskier will indulge him, that's what he'll do.
Blunt nails press into Jaskier's wrist, just hard enough to be felt, or maybe leave a small mark. He glides his lips under Jaskier's jaw where splashes from the bath have left the skin wet. Then up, to the shell of Jaskier's ear, where he mummers low: challenging, knowing, a promise all at once. ] You won't.
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The scrape of teeth only sends a floaty pleasure through him, not fear. Not pain.
He does try so hard to make himself seem frightening, doesn't he? Even now. Perhaps it's not even intentional -- no, he suspects it isn't, not with him. Geralt is just a demanding sort, has always been, even if he would be the last to describe himself that way.
Oh. Yes. That's wonderful.
Jaskier hums a teasing tune.] Do you really want to take that chance? [His hand jerks around the length of him, pushing back into his nails. Let him leave marks. What does Jaskier care? As he tips the point of his chin, it's both offering and challenge.
He may need to hide them from Ciri, later, but who would really suspect Geralt first?] Old friend? You'll miss these hands much more than I'll miss yours.
[That one's simply a lie.]
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He draws in an unsteady breath. Fuck. Mmh. He's always known those hands were skilled. He closes his lips around Jaskier's earlobe and sucks. Pushes into those hands for more friction. ]
Must you talk? [ Any trace of annoyance is absent from his words now. They're only words, breathless. A heated desire rolls through him. He walks his fingers down Jaskier's spine while they kiss. Captures his mouth so that he'll be quiet for once.
It's not only Jaskier's hands he may miss. He won't say it, though. He doesn't need to, for one. After this long—Jaskier already knows.
When they part briefly, when he says lightly, ] We're not friends, [ —it carries an edge of meaning that'd not been there in the past. ]
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Honestly, he almost thinks it's a shame Geralt's teeth hold no extra points. How hands they would look on him. How they'd feel on skin.
Jaskier's only response to that is a sucking of air through his lips, before they crash their lips together again. He needn't, no. But he did it for the complaint. For that quiet breathiness with which Geralt said it now. He was sure to hold the sound of that for many nights to come, close to his chest.
When he pulls back for air and Geralt rumbles that, low and gentle with that gravel in his voice, Jaskier's lips turn into a smile, and he bends his head lower to kiss across Geralt's shoulder.] Of course not. [He says to hot skin, beaded with more than water; says it while he jerks his long, coiled fingers around Geralt's cock and the surface dips and webs out from the movement; said while his leg moves to tangle behind Geralt's, the fucking step in this bath feeling far too small. He says it with the belief of a man being told the sky is falling, that the moon will not rise. That the stars will not shine.
It is, he thinks, the first time he's ever agreed with Geralt on that.]
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Of course not.
He doesn't think about it, the emphasis put upon words like friends or companions. None of it matters, none of what it's called matters because at the end of the day, he has what he has. And what he has is important to him. It's a rare thing, for him to acknowledge when something (someone) is important to him. It always feels too easily taken away. (How many times has that happened?)
His fingers dig deeper into Jaskier's hip, and if he wasn't leaving bruises before, he must be now. He releases heavy, needy breaths. A hunger burns deep inside. He wants to swallow all of this whole, all of what he's feeling—grasping it so it can't be fucking torn from him. Water glides over Jaskier's skin. He can hear Jaskier's pulse stutter every time his teeth come close to an artery, a soft bit of flesh, and Geralt doesn't hesitate to give Jaskier more of what he wants.
This time, they scrape harder against his throat—where the vein sits, thrumming. ]
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(What a contrast to Yennefer, speaking of whoms. Yennefer, who treated him like a conquest, but of no consequence. Who dragged words out of him like pieces of a soul. Who used him, bruised and spent.
He doesn't know where he sits with her, even now. But here, he knows his place.)
Geralt's fingers press harder, and Jaskier swears he can feel the pressure pop underneath his skin. Marking him, bruising him, turning those pinpoints sore. Combined with the scrape of teeth, the moan that slips out is unintentional, and quite real.
There's nothing like being fucked by men who can kill you. Especially kill you without trying. It's -- it's like an added spice to a magnificent feast. An addictive sort of spice. Oh, no. It was a sure bet that next time he was alone, in bed or in their tub, and his fingers were tracing those bruises -- he knew where his mind would be.]
Fuck. [It slips out, almost whispered, as he tightens his grip in the next jerk of his hands. Jaskier knew he was good at estimating, but not this good. He'd pegged Geralt down immediately. Rough, but gentle. Where it counted.] Bit harder. Just a bit.
[He could bet Geralt was good at following requests, too.]
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