[ 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.]
[ A place certainly exists here. Jaskier carved it out for himself without permission and Geralt allowed it to happen. Now they're here, tied together not by Destiny or magic but two decades of history Geralt had not meant to have with anyone. And after pushing it away once, he no longer wants to.
There's a slight curve to his lips as he traces them along Jaskier's throat. Maybe the bard can sense it. It's teasing and knowing and a little curious. He knows his own strength well, would not be leaving marks if Jaskier didn't want them, but the fact is there's that needy little noise out of Jaskier each time he squeezes, each time he presses hard. Makes him wonder if Jaskier has imagined him doing this before or if he's only discovered he likes it now.
Geralt obliges either way: he nips at the skin with his teeth until it blooms hot beneath, reddened and pink. His body coils tight, Jaskier's hand wrapped firmly around him. He lets his nails rake down, shudders with a gasping breath. His chest rises and falls.
[Not sharpened into fangs, but perfectly sharp in the most human way, leaving marks he knew would pink at first, then darken. He offers his throat readily, more of those needy noises slipping, but much greedier in their intensity.
He's going to look a mess. He feels a mess, a bit, but gods, he needed it, too.
The scratch down his back takes him by surprise; Jaskier gasps, jerking at the scrape, every hair on his body raising with a shudder. Oh. Fuck. That, combined with Geralt's final gasp, the pump into his hand.
What a combination.
Jaskier doesn't come himself, but he feels about as good as if he had. The scratches grow warm even under the water; perhaps not quite torn skin, but enough he knows he'll feel it when he lays down again.
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and lifts his hands to hold onto the Witcher's shoulder as he kisses him. Normally he'd love to tease -- better than you imagined? -- but it doesn't quite rise to his tongue.
There's a relaxing in Geralt he hasn't seen for months, and that's good enough. Answer enough.]
[ He does expect a teasing comment; maybe even a biting one. That's how they've always been and when it doesn't come, Geralt finds himself peering at his friend instead: searching, wondering, and not quite asking. It needn't be asked. Just—
Hm.
He sits back, a pleasant hum over his skin. Later, he might think about this moment. Or he might not. Either way, it isn't a bad memory, not even close. A rare shard in his life not wrapped in shadows.
And he can't say he minds the marks he left behind. He touched one now, just at the side of Jaskier's neck. He says nothing of it, but the quiet, vaguely intrigued sound he makes in response to it is plenty commentary coming from him. He's known Jaskier for a long time. But occasionally, it seems he can still learn something new. ]
[Oh. Oh, no. Something about that look was nearly too weighted. Jaskier glances at him and then pushes Geralt's cheek away with a huff, as if he might erase the very idea of sentimentality.
Not from Geralt. Oh, no.]
Oh, stop with that look. I know I'm the best --
[But he stops, quieting, as Geralt's hand trails down his throat. Gentle, as he always has the ability to be. He tips his head to the side, bringing his eyes back to him.
Ugh. It's weird. Not from Geralt. Directed towards him? Rare. Rare, if ever. Maybe... maybe once, he thinks, when he woke from that bed. With blood still in his mouth, and a witch trying to cut his dick off.
Weird. But... it's not unwanted, either.]
You are the only man I've met who can finish off a tryst with a grunt. [He smiles, his hands on Geralt's shoulders, and he kisses again, stealing perhaps the last one he may have.] How do they look?
[ He rolls his eyes. Some of the spell breaks, though not in an unpleasant way. He lets Jaskier have the kiss, because he wants it, too, but this time instead of pulling back when it's over, he gives Jaskier a light push away. ]
Like you fucked a bruxa.
[ There's fondness that he doesn't try to pretend isn't lingering. Geralt doesn't often stop to deeply examine what he's feeling and he doesn't do so now. He knows he enjoyed it, that Jaskier did as well, and that's enough. What else may be there is inconsequential.
The rest of their time is no less easy. Eventually, he hauls himself out of the bath, throws a towel at Jaskier's face, and does, in fact, wait for the bard outside. Because Jaskier always takes far longer to put himself together than Geralt, who's slipped on his shirt and tied back his still damp hair with little care.
It's a warm night, but no longer oppressive with the heat of two months ago. For a moment, he can almost say being here isn't the worst thing. ]
[He laughs.] If I should be so lucky! You're only half as handsome as a bruxa.
[He smooths his hands between his legs, moving away to actually wash himself with a bit of soap. They were here to be clean. Sort of. Or, rather... Geralt had brought him here for his arm. And now that the spell between them has broken -- or relaxed, more like -- he could remember that. For those moments, he'd forgotten the ache in it.
He twisted it, rubbing his palm into the scar. No. It really did feel better now, the ache nearly gone.
That was what he took his extra time on, only huffing at Geralt in the most familiar of ways once he caught the towel. (He was far better at catching them than he had the thousands of other times Geralt had decided to throw something at his face. Ass.) By the time he left, he was reasonably dry aside from his hair, which wet the rounded collar of his undershirt.] Shall we return home? I'd hate to suffer a second night, running from wraiths.
[ He doesn't glance over when Jaskier appears beside him, but he does move to fall into step with him as they begin to walk. Geralt had not pursued this between them for how it might change things; in fact, he'd done it explicitly for the opposite. A small reprieve that will leave no lasting consequences and that's what he wants. Other than that he now knows, without a doubt, that Jaskier has a certain strength in his fingers. ]
Worried you'll not make it without the mage girl?
[ Home. Even he's started to call it home, for ease. It settles strangely on his tongue. Home has been Kaer Morhen and nowhere else. Now he's been in Cadens for three months. Hasn't left far.
Perhaps there are worse places to be. With worse company.
He pushes open the door when they return. Ciri is not here, nor the other two who have started to move in. Hector and Rinwell. Geralt hasn't got any idea what's going on with the former, and he's not asked. Hector contributes and doesn't leave a mess, and Geralt only stops in to sleep or rest in any case. He pulls a jug of ale from the icebox—an invention he can admit is an improvement from what they have on the Continent—and pours a drink for the two of them. ]
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cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
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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.
nsfw all the way down
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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There's a slight curve to his lips as he traces them along Jaskier's throat. Maybe the bard can sense it. It's teasing and knowing and a little curious. He knows his own strength well, would not be leaving marks if Jaskier didn't want them, but the fact is there's that needy little noise out of Jaskier each time he squeezes, each time he presses hard. Makes him wonder if Jaskier has imagined him doing this before or if he's only discovered he likes it now.
Geralt obliges either way: he nips at the skin with his teeth until it blooms hot beneath, reddened and pink. His body coils tight, Jaskier's hand wrapped firmly around him. He lets his nails rake down, shudders with a gasping breath. His chest rises and falls.
Fuck. ] Fuck.
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He's going to look a mess. He feels a mess, a bit, but gods, he needed it, too.
The scratch down his back takes him by surprise; Jaskier gasps, jerking at the scrape, every hair on his body raising with a shudder. Oh. Fuck. That, combined with Geralt's final gasp, the pump into his hand.
What a combination.
Jaskier doesn't come himself, but he feels about as good as if he had. The scratches grow warm even under the water; perhaps not quite torn skin, but enough he knows he'll feel it when he lays down again.
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and lifts his hands to hold onto the Witcher's shoulder as he kisses him. Normally he'd love to tease -- better than you imagined? -- but it doesn't quite rise to his tongue.
There's a relaxing in Geralt he hasn't seen for months, and that's good enough. Answer enough.]
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Hm.
He sits back, a pleasant hum over his skin. Later, he might think about this moment. Or he might not. Either way, it isn't a bad memory, not even close. A rare shard in his life not wrapped in shadows.
And he can't say he minds the marks he left behind. He touched one now, just at the side of Jaskier's neck. He says nothing of it, but the quiet, vaguely intrigued sound he makes in response to it is plenty commentary coming from him. He's known Jaskier for a long time. But occasionally, it seems he can still learn something new. ]
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Not from Geralt. Oh, no.]
Oh, stop with that look. I know I'm the best --
[But he stops, quieting, as Geralt's hand trails down his throat. Gentle, as he always has the ability to be. He tips his head to the side, bringing his eyes back to him.
Ugh. It's weird. Not from Geralt. Directed towards him? Rare. Rare, if ever. Maybe... maybe once, he thinks, when he woke from that bed. With blood still in his mouth, and a witch trying to cut his dick off.
Weird. But... it's not unwanted, either.]
You are the only man I've met who can finish off a tryst with a grunt. [He smiles, his hands on Geralt's shoulders, and he kisses again, stealing perhaps the last one he may have.] How do they look?
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Like you fucked a bruxa.
[ There's fondness that he doesn't try to pretend isn't lingering. Geralt doesn't often stop to deeply examine what he's feeling and he doesn't do so now. He knows he enjoyed it, that Jaskier did as well, and that's enough. What else may be there is inconsequential.
The rest of their time is no less easy. Eventually, he hauls himself out of the bath, throws a towel at Jaskier's face, and does, in fact, wait for the bard outside. Because Jaskier always takes far longer to put himself together than Geralt, who's slipped on his shirt and tied back his still damp hair with little care.
It's a warm night, but no longer oppressive with the heat of two months ago. For a moment, he can almost say being here isn't the worst thing. ]
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[He smooths his hands between his legs, moving away to actually wash himself with a bit of soap. They were here to be clean. Sort of. Or, rather... Geralt had brought him here for his arm. And now that the spell between them has broken -- or relaxed, more like -- he could remember that. For those moments, he'd forgotten the ache in it.
He twisted it, rubbing his palm into the scar. No. It really did feel better now, the ache nearly gone.
That was what he took his extra time on, only huffing at Geralt in the most familiar of ways once he caught the towel. (He was far better at catching them than he had the thousands of other times Geralt had decided to throw something at his face. Ass.) By the time he left, he was reasonably dry aside from his hair, which wet the rounded collar of his undershirt.] Shall we return home? I'd hate to suffer a second night, running from wraiths.
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Worried you'll not make it without the mage girl?
[ Home. Even he's started to call it home, for ease. It settles strangely on his tongue. Home has been Kaer Morhen and nowhere else. Now he's been in Cadens for three months. Hasn't left far.
Perhaps there are worse places to be. With worse company.
He pushes open the door when they return. Ciri is not here, nor the other two who have started to move in. Hector and Rinwell. Geralt hasn't got any idea what's going on with the former, and he's not asked. Hector contributes and doesn't leave a mess, and Geralt only stops in to sleep or rest in any case. He pulls a jug of ale from the icebox—an invention he can admit is an improvement from what they have on the Continent—and pours a drink for the two of them. ]
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