[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. ]
Hah. Hah. You're hilarious, Geralt, really. Have you ever considered doing comedy shows? What a lot of coin we'd make.
[It's all in good fun. Jaskier's in high spirits now; it certainly says something that the invasion of the wraiths is so easily put behind him. He was only (mildly) choked for a moment, and he... it feels as if he's gaining better control of those vines. Earth magic, Rinwell had called it. And she had not been surprised to see it.
There was some relief in that, as little as he understood it. It had to mean that, if she were familiar, others could wield it. It wasn't only him.
He'd have to ask her. If it was someone here, that he could meet. That he could ask.]
Anyway, I know you like her, too. She's spunky. And rude, occasionally. Both qualities you enjoy.
[It doesn't need to be said, of course. Not when she's already begun sleeping on their cushions. Or. One could say she's moved in. They seem to be catching a habit of allowing in stray mages, which he has no complaint about, really. Jaskier himself loves the company, the energy of a busy household with so many opinions in it. As he takes a seat in their tiny kitchen, he pulls out a fresh(er) loaf of bread with some brie, a staple in their home. It's delicious and cheap and he even has butter for it, which he cannot deal with having such easy access to. With Alucard's (perhaps unintentional) encouragement, Jaskier has even begun experimenting with the herbs he grows, including adding bits of rosemary and garlic to the butters.
He pushes still-wet hair behind his ears, watching Geralt move about the room. Ah. He was right. Sitting on his ass with those bruises is quite lovely.] You know, next time you'd like another go, there's no need to pretend we need the bathhouse first.
[ Of course he likes her. Rinwell is one of the few who gets the dubious honour of having Geralt admit as much easily, even if he will refer to her as the mage girl more than he will her name. She's a quick study, straightforward, and seems content with her books and a good meal. Doesn't ask too many questions, either. And she's good company for Ciri.
Besides, he sees it. The way she looks on occasion when he indicates her to join for supper, the few times he's there in the evenings. Like she both does not expect it and yet is quietly hopeful. He might've been discarded by his mother, but his childhood was not wholly spent alone. So. He thinks, if she wishes to spend hers with them while she's trapped here, he will not take that away from her.
He seats himself on the table, feet planted on a chair, and gathers up some bread and butter. He lets his eyes rake over Jaskier, because he can, and because there are things to appreciate.
He tears the bread in two. Bluntness has always been his trademark, but the coarseness is especially deliberate this time, as though he remembers how he'd been not an hour ago. (Too soft. Too wanting.) Which he doesn't regret. He just doesn't want that aura to linger. ] I planned on fucking you behind that tavern.
[ That's both an admission and maybe a suggestion. It's also all he will say on the topic. For now. ]
[Jaskier, ever aware of his animal magnetism, doesn't miss that look. He gives him a grin between reaching for his half of bread, and a bit of cheese. Of course the food is much more varied here, and while Jaskier does enjoy it, there's nothing to him like the food they had on the road. It's nostalgic. And honestly, nothing beats fresh bread.
The bread lately has been staying quite fresh, too. He found a fallen roll on the floor and it was still soft somehow.
Jaskier gasps, banging the end of his knife on the table.] Geralt! Damn you, why didn't you say so? Fuck, that would've been fun. [He sighs, giving him a half-hearted hit on the shoulder.] Though, honestly, my arm feels loads better.
[The soreness was practically gone, the full feeling returned to his fingers. He'd need to make a habit of it, he expects, after performances, along with use of the salves Ciri has pushed upon him.] Ah, well. Next time.
[He gives Geralt a wink, popping the bread in his mouth. Ah. As soft as if it came out of the oven.]
[ Uh-huh. Geralt chooses not to explain why he didn't say so, since that necessitates explaining that the reason is because Jaskier's arm was more important. Though he'd gotten a tryst out of it nonetheless, so. One of the better decisions he's made. (A short list.)
Mostly, he's simply glad to see Jaskier both in better spirits and in less pain. He chews on bread that's too fresh for having sat about since yesterday. It's something he's noticed, almost immediately, if only because Geralt is long used to keeping an eye on stores of food. When you travel as much as he does, you know exactly how long certain rations last. And theirs have been lasting.
He almost doesn't want to ask. Unless Jaskier sold his soul to a demon, he's assumed this is just another spell Jaskier has picked up and hasn't said because it isn't flashy and interesting. Useful, though. ]
Don't get ahead of yourself, bard. [ That's not a no. ]
Distinctly not a no, dear Witcher. [Since he's already taken to calling Jaskier by his title, not his name. A shame. He did enjoy hearing the sound of it. Jaskier pulls a tiny piece of bread off and throws it at Geralt's face, laughing as he leans back in his chair.
It's light. He feels light. He feels as if the shadow of what happened to him will not linger for long. There is light on the horizon. Things will either remain the same, or they will get better. The firmer their foothold in this world becomes, the better.
He drinks his ale and tips his head back. Before he gets up to take over their bed first, he gives Geralt a pat on the shoulder -- and leans down to kiss his cheek. Because he can.] Don't let me occupy your dreams too long, Geralt.
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cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
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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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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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[It's all in good fun. Jaskier's in high spirits now; it certainly says something that the invasion of the wraiths is so easily put behind him. He was only (mildly) choked for a moment, and he... it feels as if he's gaining better control of those vines. Earth magic, Rinwell had called it. And she had not been surprised to see it.
There was some relief in that, as little as he understood it. It had to mean that, if she were familiar, others could wield it. It wasn't only him.
He'd have to ask her. If it was someone here, that he could meet. That he could ask.]
Anyway, I know you like her, too. She's spunky. And rude, occasionally. Both qualities you enjoy.
[It doesn't need to be said, of course. Not when she's already begun sleeping on their cushions. Or. One could say she's moved in. They seem to be catching a habit of allowing in stray mages, which he has no complaint about, really. Jaskier himself loves the company, the energy of a busy household with so many opinions in it. As he takes a seat in their tiny kitchen, he pulls out a fresh(er) loaf of bread with some brie, a staple in their home. It's delicious and cheap and he even has butter for it, which he cannot deal with having such easy access to. With Alucard's (perhaps unintentional) encouragement, Jaskier has even begun experimenting with the herbs he grows, including adding bits of rosemary and garlic to the butters.
He pushes still-wet hair behind his ears, watching Geralt move about the room. Ah. He was right. Sitting on his ass with those bruises is quite lovely.] You know, next time you'd like another go, there's no need to pretend we need the bathhouse first.
[It may be a tease. Or it may be the truth.]
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Besides, he sees it. The way she looks on occasion when he indicates her to join for supper, the few times he's there in the evenings. Like she both does not expect it and yet is quietly hopeful. He might've been discarded by his mother, but his childhood was not wholly spent alone. So. He thinks, if she wishes to spend hers with them while she's trapped here, he will not take that away from her.
He seats himself on the table, feet planted on a chair, and gathers up some bread and butter. He lets his eyes rake over Jaskier, because he can, and because there are things to appreciate.
He tears the bread in two. Bluntness has always been his trademark, but the coarseness is especially deliberate this time, as though he remembers how he'd been not an hour ago. (Too soft. Too wanting.) Which he doesn't regret. He just doesn't want that aura to linger. ] I planned on fucking you behind that tavern.
[ That's both an admission and maybe a suggestion. It's also all he will say on the topic. For now. ]
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The bread lately has been staying quite fresh, too. He found a fallen roll on the floor and it was still soft somehow.
Jaskier gasps, banging the end of his knife on the table.] Geralt! Damn you, why didn't you say so? Fuck, that would've been fun. [He sighs, giving him a half-hearted hit on the shoulder.] Though, honestly, my arm feels loads better.
[The soreness was practically gone, the full feeling returned to his fingers. He'd need to make a habit of it, he expects, after performances, along with use of the salves Ciri has pushed upon him.] Ah, well. Next time.
[He gives Geralt a wink, popping the bread in his mouth. Ah. As soft as if it came out of the oven.]
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Mostly, he's simply glad to see Jaskier both in better spirits and in less pain. He chews on bread that's too fresh for having sat about since yesterday. It's something he's noticed, almost immediately, if only because Geralt is long used to keeping an eye on stores of food. When you travel as much as he does, you know exactly how long certain rations last. And theirs have been lasting.
He almost doesn't want to ask. Unless Jaskier sold his soul to a demon, he's assumed this is just another spell Jaskier has picked up and hasn't said because it isn't flashy and interesting. Useful, though. ]
Don't get ahead of yourself, bard. [ That's not a no. ]
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Distinctly not a no, dear Witcher. [Since he's already taken to calling Jaskier by his title, not his name. A shame. He did enjoy hearing the sound of it. Jaskier pulls a tiny piece of bread off and throws it at Geralt's face, laughing as he leans back in his chair.
It's light. He feels light. He feels as if the shadow of what happened to him will not linger for long. There is light on the horizon. Things will either remain the same, or they will get better. The firmer their foothold in this world becomes, the better.
He drinks his ale and tips his head back. Before he gets up to take over their bed first, he gives Geralt a pat on the shoulder -- and leans down to kiss his cheek. Because he can.] Don't let me occupy your dreams too long, Geralt.
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