[ His eyes land on Jaskier, steady. He came here because Jaskier understands her. Jaskier has always understood all of them, he thinks, better than themselves. He isn't looking for someone to be angry or hurt alongside him, to capture it and unleash it twofold. This, what he feels—it's his, it's private. It isn't meant to be shared. It need not be amplified. Jaskier is not angry with her, on his behalf or otherwise. He cares about her in his own way. That's what Geralt wants. Someone who will be there for her because he no longer has it in himself to do so. ]
I know. [ It's not laughable at all. The world is cold, dark. And he's found, over the years, that when it's too much, Jaskier has been there. Warm—insistently, protectively so. Safe. He hadn't known what to do with it at first except push it away.
He adds nothing more on the topic. For awhile, he sits, silent, Jaskier's hand on his. Eventually, he takes a sip of the wine. ]
I, ah. [ He scoffs a bit, like he knows how absurd it will sound. ] Your little pet. His bed is by the window.
[ Yes. He finished it. And the damn thing better like it. It's a nice bed. ]
[I know is about as good as he'll get right now. Jaskier gives him a smile, topping off his wine (of course his first glass has already been drained), squeezing Geralt's hand. He'll do it for Geralt, but for himself, too. Yennefer has become... something strange, if only because of how they were once. A friend, he supposes. In the end.
Jaskier likes to think this is not where it ends. Not because of Destiny, or the Wish -- if you ask him, he's never really believed in it, even if he knows better than the others the power behind a djinn -- but because of who Yennefer and Geralt are.
Both stubborn. Both idiots.
But...]
My little pet? [Jaskier repeats with a laugh, his eyes glowing. A bed! So that was what he was working on. And why Geralt wouldn't explain what it was.] I would say Mog is ours now, if you're building him beds. [He grins.] He'll love it. Right next to the sunlight. Thank you, Geralt.
[ The smallest smile curls his lips. It's tired, a little heavy, but it's there. For a moment, he thinks of Yennefer saying I can't help but wish we could begin again, and he lets himself imagine a path where the three—the four—of them could sit here together. In this gentle space Jaskier has carved out.
He pushes it aside and tips back more of his glass. ]
He isn't mine. I'm not taking it on walks. [ Token grumbling at best. It's clear he's already fond of the creature. He picks at the cheese; pours more wine. In the Horizon, he can indulge. He can shed his need to stay alert, to make sure he's. Keeping himself together, because he nearly went to pieces after what happened in Thorne and now—this, these memories. If he stops for too long, it feels as if he might be crushed under the weight of it all.
Everyone important to him, in Cadens—they are healing, slowly. Doing better. And he's realized this has left him with nowhere for his attentions to turn except inwards.
He is not keen on looking inwards right now. He just wants to fucking drink. ]
And I don't want to find him sleeping on top of me.
[And unbeknownst to Geralt, he intends to make that a reality one day. It may take ages, but shall have it. In this space he's crafted for everyone and no one in particular, where there could be calm finally found. After all, the four of them run rampant through Bleobheris: the wolves along the bannisters; the rich lilacs and buttercups growing around its roots, in the gardens outside, and etched into the walls of the bedrooms; and the swallows carved into the ceilings of nearly every room, flying together in flocks that spread out wide through the wood.
It only makes sense. They came from the same world, the four of them. And like it or not, Destiny has inextricably tied them together with little red strings.]
He doesn't need walks. He isn't a dog. Gods, Geralt, have you never had a clever animal before?
[Jaskier gives him a laugh, squishing soft, salty brie between crackers that have slid onto the table, seemingly from nowhere.] Oh? Really? And what are you going to do if my deeply beloved pet gryphon takes a snooze on your snout? Turn him into a hat?
[ A frown greets that remark. Geralt looks genuinely offended, as though he can't fathom how this answer is not obvious to Jaskier. What does Jaskier think Roach is? ] Yes.
[ Horses are clever. He will not be taking arguments. Regardless, this is beside the point. He only means to say that it's not—theirs. The gryphon. Even if he did craft it a bed and place it by the window, near a spot of afternoon sun.
He takes the crackers, ignoring that they've appeared from nowhere. The Horizon has become familiar to him now, how it shifts and grows and changes from one blink to the next. Geralt doesn't treat it that way—he's steady, unchanging, both in his appearance and his domain except where his mind takes over in places he doesn't want—but those he spends time with most in the Horizon are different. Moulding it on a whim, almost thoughtless. ]
He'd make for a decent hat. [ Geralt sits back, a hint more relaxed. He drains his wine, wonders if he should simply take the bottle itself. ] Plenty of feathers.
[Jaskier purses his lips.] You don't take horses on walks.
[Er. He's fairly sure. Horses sort of walk themselves... anyway, that is far from the point. The point is Mog mostly takes care of himself, and Jaskier adores him and will not let anything happen to him. The other point is that he finds it delightful Geralt simply cannot help himself and is already attempting to father a young gryphon on top of his other responsibilities.
Jaskier throws a cracker at his head.] Don't you even jest! He is not getting turned into anything except a beloved family pet. He's already helped me tremendously.
[Not being alone, for one. And... simply, having him around makes Jaskier's heart warmer. He's wonderful company at the plant stand, for one.]
[ You do if you can't ride them and they haven't been let out to stretch their legs. No, it's—absolutely far from the point.
He isn't certain what the point is. He's drinking the wine without paying attention. It matters not because he does not wish to be sober and this means the Horizon provides accordingly. The cracker narrowly misses his head as he leans to the side.
Family pet. He curls his fingers tighter around his glass. Is that what he's building here, yet again? (He is.) He doesn't...mean to leave his other family behind. It's just. They don't need him the same way. He's made his choice. His brothers still have each other. He has what he's got here.
His expression softens. Jaskier seems different. Genuinely so, rather than struggling to pretend he's all right. ] I am glad.
[Jaskier pauses, looking at Geralt. He leans back, then ducks under the table to retrieve his thrown cracker. He pops it in his mouth, chewing a bit thoughtfully.]
You mean that.
[Not a knock against Geralt, really. He only... he's glad, in turn, that Geralt gets it. Without him having to explain. And Ciri, too, embraced the creature without any hesitation, even when Jaskier had been prepared for it. He wasn't sure. Monster hunters, you know. Even if Geralt had a rather soft heart for more than just monsters.
He could kiss him for it. Only because he really feels as if he is finding his footing again. Jaskier wants the same for his friend.]
A testament to the power of healing and time, I suppose. [His lips quirk. Geralt knows better than anyone that healing does not mean his nightmares have stopped. It does not mean Jaskier doesn't flinch from fire still, or goes to bed without the lamp on. But it means he isn't looking for answers in the bottom of bottles.] I'm glad you came, too. To see this place. You should stay as long as you like.
[ He gets it. He spent decades alone but he was never without his horse. There's a simplicity to that sort of loyal companionship. Besides, it's as Jaskier said: the toy gryphon is only a danger to small lizards. Not even then. He's seen several escape its valiant hunting efforts. He can't quite call it a monster, in truth. A little beast, perhaps.
Healing and time. He lowers his gaze. He knows. When you heal, the scars remain. They don't ever disappear. Jaskier still carries the burns on his fingers. Geralt still bears the scar down his spine, the lashes that mark his back. He can feel it when he bends, how the skin flexes not as it once did there. His dreams have not left him, either. In the desert, alone, he sleeps more often solely for the fact that he need not worry who will hear him in the night. ]
I haven't got elsewhere to be. [ He'll stay. He wants the calm for a bit longer. He finished the shelves, the bed. No contract to fill. Not much left for him to bury himself in. ] You?
[ He'll be here either way, whether Jaskier is with him or not. But admittedly, the company is...good. ]
[Hmm. He hums in assent, knowing it must be true. He isn't much sure of what, exactly, sort of hole Geralt has so hastily dug himself into in regards to Yennefer, but he will discuss it, whatever it is, when he wishes. Just as he's done tonight.
Jaskier's lips quirk, a solid warning to either his teasing or his flirtations.]
No. Mog has been fed for the night and, I imagine, he will soon discover his bed and lay in it for the next twenty hours. [It is not an exaggeration that Mog spends more of his time sleeping than awake. Which, honestly, is quite helpful to a man who rarely stays still.]
How about I give you a tour of some of the bedrooms? I even added a few decorations I think you'll like. You're more than welcome to bring the bottle with us. It's not as if it'll go empty here.
[After two decades, sometimes you can take a hasty guess at what, exactly, your friend could use from you. Including a solid distraction. Or a solid fuck. Either way.]
[ Ah. So that's where it's going tonight. He did not come here for that, exactly, but he won't say it never crossed his mind. It certainly does not leave his mind now that the taste of it has been introduced into the air, thickening it. Geralt plucks the bottle off the table as he stands. Jaskier is right: it doesn't go empty. He tips it back and it stays perpetually half-full, wine sloshing as he drinks while he follows Jaskier towards his bedroom tour.
The steps spiral upwards again, deep into the emerald leaves. Has Ciri seen it yet? Is he the first? Part of him feels as if he's missed things: between one contract or another, or the projects he's made for himself, he knows he's been burying his head a bit. Something is afoot with the eclipse, the Singularity. He should be concerned and he is, but at the same time, he's. Fucking tired.
Every room is inviting, warm. Sunlight filters through the branches. He traces the running wolves etched into the railings; perhaps when he's less full of wine, he might stop to think about what it really means. For now, all he does is step inside, liquor buzzing through his veins. He's looking at the decorations, but he's looking at Jaskier, too: slender fingers as they gesture, the cant of his hips, his lips. It isn't long before Geralt re-corks the wine and interrupts with a shove that pins Jaskier to the wall. The kiss is hungry, a hint sloppy, and he pulls at the quaint little bow at the back of those silk breeches. ]
[All right, he wasn't exactly being subtle, but the choice was, as ever, Geralt's. And yes, while it may not be exactly gouache in some circles for him to offer his body to someone who may be experiencing some heartache --
Well. He wouldn't agree if he wasn't interested. It was that simple. If Jaskier could trust him about anything, it was that Geralt did not lie about what he felt. Or what he wanted.
At first, he does mean it to be a tour. There are all sorts of bedrooms for all sorts of people: extra tall ceilings, or cleared of plants and leaves (for those with allergies; the idea came from a professor Jaskier once had he was quite fond of, unfortunately allergic to the grasses staining their boots.) However, in one particular bedroom that Jaskier favors for its large bed and the prancing wolves, it is there Geralt pins him to the wall.
He barely releases a gasp, his lips turning up once his mouth has been so thoroughly explored.] Mm. I do love being right.
[If it tastes this sweet, he certainly does. He lifts his hips from the wall to give Geralt's hands room, cutting straight down Geralt's tunic with a claw-tipped ring that appears on his finger. Here he is king, and he has no time for buttons. The sound of cloth ripping nearly makes him laugh.] It's good wine, isn't it?
[ He gives a short exhale of a laugh. Of course Jaskier would say that, and Geralt can't give a damn at the moment that it's true. Jaskier is right. He is always right because he understands the Witcher in ways Geralt shouldn't have ever allowed from anyone—never meant to allow from anyone—and yet.
Here they are.
He shrugs off his ruined shirt; lets it fall to the floor. ] I can think of better things.
[ Better things to taste, better things to want. He slips his hand inside Jaskier's loosened trousers. Curls his fingers around what he finds there.
Better things, indeed. Jaskier is offering and Geralt is taking. They both want. In the end, what does it matter, the reasons why? His heart aches. He won't deny that. He doesn't want to dwell on it. He wants to be here. With his friend, who looks lighter at last, who's decided to leave the Continent behind alongside him. He is building something, something important, and despite everything, he knows with all certainty that he wants Jaskier to be a part of it.
(He does not let himself think about all those vanishing faces, quietly fading from this world. If one day, Jaskier may join them. He can't, he won't.) ]
[Beautiful. His hands spread across that naked chest, scraping over curls of hair and the scars where they no longer sprout. Gods, there is a lot to appreciate about Geralt, and his body is definitely at the top of that list. It may even be number one.
Oh. Shit. Is Geralt flattering him? Fatherhood may have changed him for the better.
Jaskier grabs him by his chin, pulling him down for a kiss as he grinds into his hand. The wind rushes around Bloebheris, rattling the branches and leaves in a quiet symphony. How convenient no one walks by, no one looks through the windows. It is only them, and the dimming sunlight, the smell of wine in the air itself, mixed with soft florals.
He bites Geralt's lip, pulling it between his teeth.] So can I.
[His hands move from Geralt's hips to his back, Geralt's arm trapped between them like a secret. And though he hesitates as he finds the new scars there (all this time, and he's still not used to them,) he still explores them with the burned, scarred caps of his own fingertips.] The bed?
[It's merely an invitation. Jaskier hardly has reservations about any locations where lovemaking is to take.]
[ The wind rustles the leaves, and Geralt leans harder into the kiss. Wraps his fingers more firmly around Jaskier's cock. He can feel those hands trailing down his back; he doesn't think about it, on his part, how they trace over his newest scars. He's earned so many, they've become just one more. A handful of many reminders.
Maybe he tries to dwell on these a little less, though. There is more to it, than teeth and claws.
He pushes Jaskier back in answer—walking forward with his lips still exploring Jaskier's throat until they hit the bed. He falls on top, Jaskier underneath. The mattress sinks, plush, yielding.
He slides his hand under Jaskier's shirt, a heavy exhale falling from him. ]
[A silent answer is perfectly suitable. Jaskier's breath leaves his lungs all at once as he falls. Geralt is skilled enough to ensure his weight doesn't hit him more than to pin him down, which he hardly has complaints about.
He's too busy pulling him down for another kiss, both hands on his cheeks, holding him close. Shivering as scarred fingers move across his chest.
Fascinating, this. Meeting in the Horzion. There's hardly reason for it when they live together, but... there's something to it, too. The feeling here. The freedom of it.
He shifts, grinding up against Geralt's leg, his breath heated.] Give me a spot of room, I can get out of this for you.
[ Bed's certainly more comfortable than the one they have in their home. It lets him straddle Jaskier easily as he kisses him, hard, nipping at his lip, his jawline. He pulls at Jaskier's clothes—an impatient grunt before he lifts up and off.
He helps pull everything off and shoves the silk and linen to the side. Kisses down Jaskier's chest. He grinds against him, pleasure building hot inside.
The liquor warms his veins, his blood. He isn't the most refined at the moment, but when he is ever? Jaskier sure as fuck doesn't care and neither does he. He lets his desires consume him easily, reaching between Jaskier's legs once all of his clothes are gone. His thumb slides up the length of it. ]
[Even less talkative than usual. Well, if that's how it must be. Jaskier raises his arms, aiding Geralt in the quick removal of his clothing (yes, he could simply turn it to nothing, but this heated touching, the tugging and ripping, is far more attractive an option.)
Then there he is, naked before the tree and Geralt. Good thing he'd made sure these blankets were so damn soft.
He bites his lip. It's the wine that makes Geralt's fingers so terribly warm, he thinks.]
Oh? This is new. A polite inquiry? [He pulls a bit of Geralt's hair, widening the spread of his legs.] Or a slightly raunchy question? Hmmm. How about: will you show me a lovely time, kissing me until stars burst behind my eyes?
Or: will you hold me down and fuck me, already? Don't make me wait.
[ He much prefers stripping another's clothes off. It's part of the enjoyment—but then, he's always liked using his hands.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He rolls his eyes: as much fondness as irritation in the gesture. His grip grows firmer, before he releases him to slide his hand up Jaskier's thigh instead. Those legs open for him, and he takes advantage. ]
And what if I do? Hm?
[ A teasing shine lights his eyes. Maybe Jaskier simply makes it too easy to toy with him a little—but he isn't exactly leaving him unattended, either. He kisses Jaskier's jaw, the side of his throat.
Only then does he start to reach for the buttons on his trousers, slipping them loose one by one. ]
[He groans in irritation. Why does he bother teasing? Geralt is cruel and evil and always takes it to the extreme, such as -- such as releasing his cock when he was really starting to enjoy it.
Jaskier lays and stares up at him. The weight pushing him down. (He is safe here. Safer than he will ever be.)]
You could try. [He skims a finger down Geralt's chest, the edge of that clawed ring digging delicately into his skin. The softest shade of bronzing to it from his travels to the desert. Another one is coming up, Jaskier can guess. Another few weeks without seeing his friend.
So he should enjoy this. To its fullest.] Something tells me you'll grow impatient faster than I.
[ Geralt cups Jaskier face, running a thumb over his cheekbone. Confident indeed. He's tempted to do it, but it isn't impatience that gets him so much as a simple desire to want to see Jaskier enjoy himself. Plenty of room to annoy him later. ]
Another time. [ He pulls the last button loose, and then leaves it be, his trousers half-open. Maybe it's deliberate, maybe it isn't—but he's between Jaskier's legs soon enough. His hand wraps back around Jaskier. It's slow, steady, and eventually, he closes his lips around the length of him.
It is coming up soon, his trip. Within days. Sometimes he thinks about forgoing his long travels—he has people now, people who rely on him—but the truth is, these two weeks in Cadens alone have made him restless out of his fucking mind. He isn't made for it. He isn't. It's different to winter in Kaer Morhen, where he trains, runs the Killer, hunts for dinner, repairs the walls and cleans and keeps certain troublemakers amongst his brothers in line. The city offers what he needs for easy purchase; their home is not difficult to maintain. Rinwell looks after Roach, takes care of most meals. Advancements and magic make quick the tasks that once took effort, like hauling water or preserving food. There's so much empty time, time he hasn't any idea how to fill without a sword in his hands and a trail to pursue.
Some of that restlessness comes out now, in the way he takes Jaskier in his mouth and grips his hip, intent on drawing out the noises he knows Jaskier likes to make. The ones he knows he can drag out of him, because he's done it before. Several times. ]
[Jaskier tosses his head back with a laugh.] Called it.
[Not even ready for a challenge, is he? He. Oh. Oh, all right. He was in that sort of mood -- a mood, granted, that seemed to come them rather eagerly when they found themselves in this certain position.
His head throws back for different reasons, his groan deeper, more heated.] Fuck's sake, Geralt. I see we're in a mood tonight.
[Whether it's the wine, or the tree itself, or that -- well, whatever manner of things is on Geralt's mind (it's Yennefer, of course; it always is), Jaskier truly doesn't care. All that undivided attention's on him now. His hands find fistfuls of Geralt's hair, not holding him down as much as encouraging him with a pull, until the heat of lips makes his toes curl.
Yeah, he's not quiet. He doesn't need to be. Everything here is his except the man between his legs, and that's. What he needs.] Love your moods. [He licks his lips, releasing a hot breath.] Could use more of them, really.
[ He laughs a little: breathless, still curled over Jaskier. A mood. It's a number of things. All of those things. She is on his mind, but it's more than that, too. A coiled tension of just too much that's been building up since...shit. Weeks? Months? He can't even say. He isn't even aware of it, fully. He only knows there's been a tension inside him, threatening to spill over, and with enough wine, with someone he can let his guard down with, that's exactly what it does. Some of it, at least. Not all, but. A small burst that flares hot inside him.
Jaskier's not complaining. Not near it.
He lets Jaskier bury his fingers in his hair. He can hold him down if he wants; he doesn't give a fuck. He finds there isn't much he cares about at the moment, except where Jaskier's hands are, what the stutter of his heart says. (It says Jaskier likes this a hell of a lot.) His tongue curls, flattens; he trails his nails down Jaskier's leg, feels the rough brush of hair against his palm.
He wants to taste him and then he wants to fuck him. That's what's on his mind right now. ]
[He has words, and they eventually devolve into only noises, but none of them are complaints. At first he only lays back and enjoys the strokes of his tongue, the way it drags up his cock and send shivers up his back.]
Oh, fuck.
[He pulls. His hair. A fistful of it, soft and utterly familiar in its texture. Jaskier's legs close around him on either side, wound tight.
He lifts his head eventually to watch. Of course he has to. Has to see a glimpse of the Witcher's lips around him, a pretty pink like a petal. The way his hair falls ragged across his face, brushing Jaskier's thighs.
Jaskier tugs his hair with a gentle jerk when he's close. He wants to come to a glimpse of the Witcher's eyes -- and it isn't a whim he can think to voice.
Geralt's eye flash up and that's it. Perfect. He comes with a groan, head falling back onto a pillow.
Brilliant. But he knows better. It's not like Geralt to only have a quick fuck.]
[ He is not aware of what Jaskier is seeking, specifically—but he can tell from the stutter of Jaskier's heart when he's close. It's quick, inelegant, and he wants it to be nothing else but that. His nose bumps Jaskier's stomach as that soft groan fills the air.
The slickness to his lips is wiped away with the back of his hand as he lifts up. He looks at once satisfied and wanting. His palm rests on Jaskier's chest and he bends to kiss him—lets Jaskier taste himself there. It isn't the first time as a whole, but it is the first time in the Horizon. ]
What else have you got in this room of yours? [ An open-ended invitation for Jaskier to create whatever he likes. If he wants. Why the fuck not? They're free to take advantage of the creation magic on this plane.
And even as he asks, his fingers are trailing up Jaskier's chest. He drags his nails along. He does want more than a quick taste. But he's not in a rush to take it just yet. ]
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cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
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I know. [ It's not laughable at all. The world is cold, dark. And he's found, over the years, that when it's too much, Jaskier has been there. Warm—insistently, protectively so. Safe. He hadn't known what to do with it at first except push it away.
He adds nothing more on the topic. For awhile, he sits, silent, Jaskier's hand on his. Eventually, he takes a sip of the wine. ]
I, ah. [ He scoffs a bit, like he knows how absurd it will sound. ] Your little pet. His bed is by the window.
[ Yes. He finished it. And the damn thing better like it. It's a nice bed. ]
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Jaskier likes to think this is not where it ends. Not because of Destiny, or the Wish -- if you ask him, he's never really believed in it, even if he knows better than the others the power behind a djinn -- but because of who Yennefer and Geralt are.
Both stubborn. Both idiots.
But...]
My little pet? [Jaskier repeats with a laugh, his eyes glowing. A bed! So that was what he was working on. And why Geralt wouldn't explain what it was.] I would say Mog is ours now, if you're building him beds. [He grins.] He'll love it. Right next to the sunlight. Thank you, Geralt.
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He pushes it aside and tips back more of his glass. ]
He isn't mine. I'm not taking it on walks. [ Token grumbling at best. It's clear he's already fond of the creature. He picks at the cheese; pours more wine. In the Horizon, he can indulge. He can shed his need to stay alert, to make sure he's. Keeping himself together, because he nearly went to pieces after what happened in Thorne and now—this, these memories. If he stops for too long, it feels as if he might be crushed under the weight of it all.
Everyone important to him, in Cadens—they are healing, slowly. Doing better. And he's realized this has left him with nowhere for his attentions to turn except inwards.
He is not keen on looking inwards right now. He just wants to fucking drink. ]
And I don't want to find him sleeping on top of me.
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It only makes sense. They came from the same world, the four of them. And like it or not, Destiny has inextricably tied them together with little red strings.]
He doesn't need walks. He isn't a dog. Gods, Geralt, have you never had a clever animal before?
[Jaskier gives him a laugh, squishing soft, salty brie between crackers that have slid onto the table, seemingly from nowhere.] Oh? Really? And what are you going to do if my deeply beloved pet gryphon takes a snooze on your snout? Turn him into a hat?
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[ Horses are clever. He will not be taking arguments. Regardless, this is beside the point. He only means to say that it's not—theirs. The gryphon. Even if he did craft it a bed and place it by the window, near a spot of afternoon sun.
He takes the crackers, ignoring that they've appeared from nowhere. The Horizon has become familiar to him now, how it shifts and grows and changes from one blink to the next. Geralt doesn't treat it that way—he's steady, unchanging, both in his appearance and his domain except where his mind takes over in places he doesn't want—but those he spends time with most in the Horizon are different. Moulding it on a whim, almost thoughtless. ]
He'd make for a decent hat. [ Geralt sits back, a hint more relaxed. He drains his wine, wonders if he should simply take the bottle itself. ] Plenty of feathers.
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[Er. He's fairly sure. Horses sort of walk themselves... anyway, that is far from the point. The point is Mog mostly takes care of himself, and Jaskier adores him and will not let anything happen to him. The other point is that he finds it delightful Geralt simply cannot help himself and is already attempting to father a young gryphon on top of his other responsibilities.
Jaskier throws a cracker at his head.] Don't you even jest! He is not getting turned into anything except a beloved family pet. He's already helped me tremendously.
[Not being alone, for one. And... simply, having him around makes Jaskier's heart warmer. He's wonderful company at the plant stand, for one.]
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He isn't certain what the point is. He's drinking the wine without paying attention. It matters not because he does not wish to be sober and this means the Horizon provides accordingly. The cracker narrowly misses his head as he leans to the side.
Family pet. He curls his fingers tighter around his glass. Is that what he's building here, yet again? (He is.) He doesn't...mean to leave his other family behind. It's just. They don't need him the same way. He's made his choice. His brothers still have each other. He has what he's got here.
His expression softens. Jaskier seems different. Genuinely so, rather than struggling to pretend he's all right. ] I am glad.
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You mean that.
[Not a knock against Geralt, really. He only... he's glad, in turn, that Geralt gets it. Without him having to explain. And Ciri, too, embraced the creature without any hesitation, even when Jaskier had been prepared for it. He wasn't sure. Monster hunters, you know. Even if Geralt had a rather soft heart for more than just monsters.
He could kiss him for it. Only because he really feels as if he is finding his footing again. Jaskier wants the same for his friend.]
A testament to the power of healing and time, I suppose. [His lips quirk. Geralt knows better than anyone that healing does not mean his nightmares have stopped. It does not mean Jaskier doesn't flinch from fire still, or goes to bed without the lamp on. But it means he isn't looking for answers in the bottom of bottles.] I'm glad you came, too. To see this place. You should stay as long as you like.
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Healing and time. He lowers his gaze. He knows. When you heal, the scars remain. They don't ever disappear. Jaskier still carries the burns on his fingers. Geralt still bears the scar down his spine, the lashes that mark his back. He can feel it when he bends, how the skin flexes not as it once did there. His dreams have not left him, either. In the desert, alone, he sleeps more often solely for the fact that he need not worry who will hear him in the night. ]
I haven't got elsewhere to be. [ He'll stay. He wants the calm for a bit longer. He finished the shelves, the bed. No contract to fill. Not much left for him to bury himself in. ] You?
[ He'll be here either way, whether Jaskier is with him or not. But admittedly, the company is...good. ]
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Jaskier's lips quirk, a solid warning to either his teasing or his flirtations.]
No. Mog has been fed for the night and, I imagine, he will soon discover his bed and lay in it for the next twenty hours. [It is not an exaggeration that Mog spends more of his time sleeping than awake. Which, honestly, is quite helpful to a man who rarely stays still.]
How about I give you a tour of some of the bedrooms? I even added a few decorations I think you'll like. You're more than welcome to bring the bottle with us. It's not as if it'll go empty here.
[After two decades, sometimes you can take a hasty guess at what, exactly, your friend could use from you. Including a solid distraction. Or a solid fuck. Either way.]
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The steps spiral upwards again, deep into the emerald leaves. Has Ciri seen it yet? Is he the first? Part of him feels as if he's missed things: between one contract or another, or the projects he's made for himself, he knows he's been burying his head a bit. Something is afoot with the eclipse, the Singularity. He should be concerned and he is, but at the same time, he's. Fucking tired.
Every room is inviting, warm. Sunlight filters through the branches. He traces the running wolves etched into the railings; perhaps when he's less full of wine, he might stop to think about what it really means. For now, all he does is step inside, liquor buzzing through his veins. He's looking at the decorations, but he's looking at Jaskier, too: slender fingers as they gesture, the cant of his hips, his lips. It isn't long before Geralt re-corks the wine and interrupts with a shove that pins Jaskier to the wall. The kiss is hungry, a hint sloppy, and he pulls at the quaint little bow at the back of those silk breeches. ]
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Well. He wouldn't agree if he wasn't interested. It was that simple. If Jaskier could trust him about anything, it was that Geralt did not lie about what he felt. Or what he wanted.
At first, he does mean it to be a tour. There are all sorts of bedrooms for all sorts of people: extra tall ceilings, or cleared of plants and leaves (for those with allergies; the idea came from a professor Jaskier once had he was quite fond of, unfortunately allergic to the grasses staining their boots.) However, in one particular bedroom that Jaskier favors for its large bed and the prancing wolves, it is there Geralt pins him to the wall.
He barely releases a gasp, his lips turning up once his mouth has been so thoroughly explored.] Mm. I do love being right.
[If it tastes this sweet, he certainly does. He lifts his hips from the wall to give Geralt's hands room, cutting straight down Geralt's tunic with a claw-tipped ring that appears on his finger. Here he is king, and he has no time for buttons. The sound of cloth ripping nearly makes him laugh.] It's good wine, isn't it?
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Here they are.
He shrugs off his ruined shirt; lets it fall to the floor. ] I can think of better things.
[ Better things to taste, better things to want. He slips his hand inside Jaskier's loosened trousers. Curls his fingers around what he finds there.
Better things, indeed. Jaskier is offering and Geralt is taking. They both want. In the end, what does it matter, the reasons why? His heart aches. He won't deny that. He doesn't want to dwell on it. He wants to be here. With his friend, who looks lighter at last, who's decided to leave the Continent behind alongside him. He is building something, something important, and despite everything, he knows with all certainty that he wants Jaskier to be a part of it.
(He does not let himself think about all those vanishing faces, quietly fading from this world. If one day, Jaskier may join them. He can't, he won't.) ]
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Oh. Shit. Is Geralt flattering him? Fatherhood may have changed him for the better.
Jaskier grabs him by his chin, pulling him down for a kiss as he grinds into his hand. The wind rushes around Bloebheris, rattling the branches and leaves in a quiet symphony. How convenient no one walks by, no one looks through the windows. It is only them, and the dimming sunlight, the smell of wine in the air itself, mixed with soft florals.
He bites Geralt's lip, pulling it between his teeth.] So can I.
[His hands move from Geralt's hips to his back, Geralt's arm trapped between them like a secret. And though he hesitates as he finds the new scars there (all this time, and he's still not used to them,) he still explores them with the burned, scarred caps of his own fingertips.] The bed?
[It's merely an invitation. Jaskier hardly has reservations about any locations where lovemaking is to take.]
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Maybe he tries to dwell on these a little less, though. There is more to it, than teeth and claws.
He pushes Jaskier back in answer—walking forward with his lips still exploring Jaskier's throat until they hit the bed. He falls on top, Jaskier underneath. The mattress sinks, plush, yielding.
He slides his hand under Jaskier's shirt, a heavy exhale falling from him. ]
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He's too busy pulling him down for another kiss, both hands on his cheeks, holding him close. Shivering as scarred fingers move across his chest.
Fascinating, this. Meeting in the Horzion. There's hardly reason for it when they live together, but... there's something to it, too. The feeling here. The freedom of it.
He shifts, grinding up against Geralt's leg, his breath heated.] Give me a spot of room, I can get out of this for you.
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He helps pull everything off and shoves the silk and linen to the side. Kisses down Jaskier's chest. He grinds against him, pleasure building hot inside.
The liquor warms his veins, his blood. He isn't the most refined at the moment, but when he is ever? Jaskier sure as fuck doesn't care and neither does he. He lets his desires consume him easily, reaching between Jaskier's legs once all of his clothes are gone. His thumb slides up the length of it. ]
Ask me to fuck you.
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Then there he is, naked before the tree and Geralt. Good thing he'd made sure these blankets were so damn soft.
He bites his lip. It's the wine that makes Geralt's fingers so terribly warm, he thinks.]
Oh? This is new. A polite inquiry? [He pulls a bit of Geralt's hair, widening the spread of his legs.] Or a slightly raunchy question? Hmmm. How about: will you show me a lovely time, kissing me until stars burst behind my eyes?
Or: will you hold me down and fuck me, already? Don't make me wait.
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His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He rolls his eyes: as much fondness as irritation in the gesture. His grip grows firmer, before he releases him to slide his hand up Jaskier's thigh instead. Those legs open for him, and he takes advantage. ]
And what if I do? Hm?
[ A teasing shine lights his eyes. Maybe Jaskier simply makes it too easy to toy with him a little—but he isn't exactly leaving him unattended, either. He kisses Jaskier's jaw, the side of his throat.
Only then does he start to reach for the buttons on his trousers, slipping them loose one by one. ]
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Jaskier lays and stares up at him. The weight pushing him down. (He is safe here. Safer than he will ever be.)]
You could try. [He skims a finger down Geralt's chest, the edge of that clawed ring digging delicately into his skin. The softest shade of bronzing to it from his travels to the desert. Another one is coming up, Jaskier can guess. Another few weeks without seeing his friend.
So he should enjoy this. To its fullest.] Something tells me you'll grow impatient faster than I.
[Someone's gotten confident.]
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Another time. [ He pulls the last button loose, and then leaves it be, his trousers half-open. Maybe it's deliberate, maybe it isn't—but he's between Jaskier's legs soon enough. His hand wraps back around Jaskier. It's slow, steady, and eventually, he closes his lips around the length of him.
It is coming up soon, his trip. Within days. Sometimes he thinks about forgoing his long travels—he has people now, people who rely on him—but the truth is, these two weeks in Cadens alone have made him restless out of his fucking mind. He isn't made for it. He isn't. It's different to winter in Kaer Morhen, where he trains, runs the Killer, hunts for dinner, repairs the walls and cleans and keeps certain troublemakers amongst his brothers in line. The city offers what he needs for easy purchase; their home is not difficult to maintain. Rinwell looks after Roach, takes care of most meals. Advancements and magic make quick the tasks that once took effort, like hauling water or preserving food. There's so much empty time, time he hasn't any idea how to fill without a sword in his hands and a trail to pursue.
Some of that restlessness comes out now, in the way he takes Jaskier in his mouth and grips his hip, intent on drawing out the noises he knows Jaskier likes to make. The ones he knows he can drag out of him, because he's done it before. Several times. ]
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[Not even ready for a challenge, is he? He. Oh. Oh, all right. He was in that sort of mood -- a mood, granted, that seemed to come them rather eagerly when they found themselves in this certain position.
His head throws back for different reasons, his groan deeper, more heated.] Fuck's sake, Geralt. I see we're in a mood tonight.
[Whether it's the wine, or the tree itself, or that -- well, whatever manner of things is on Geralt's mind (it's Yennefer, of course; it always is), Jaskier truly doesn't care. All that undivided attention's on him now. His hands find fistfuls of Geralt's hair, not holding him down as much as encouraging him with a pull, until the heat of lips makes his toes curl.
Yeah, he's not quiet. He doesn't need to be. Everything here is his except the man between his legs, and that's. What he needs.] Love your moods. [He licks his lips, releasing a hot breath.] Could use more of them, really.
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Jaskier's not complaining. Not near it.
He lets Jaskier bury his fingers in his hair. He can hold him down if he wants; he doesn't give a fuck. He finds there isn't much he cares about at the moment, except where Jaskier's hands are, what the stutter of his heart says. (It says Jaskier likes this a hell of a lot.) His tongue curls, flattens; he trails his nails down Jaskier's leg, feels the rough brush of hair against his palm.
He wants to taste him and then he wants to fuck him. That's what's on his mind right now. ]
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Oh, fuck.
[He pulls. His hair. A fistful of it, soft and utterly familiar in its texture. Jaskier's legs close around him on either side, wound tight.
He lifts his head eventually to watch. Of course he has to. Has to see a glimpse of the Witcher's lips around him, a pretty pink like a petal. The way his hair falls ragged across his face, brushing Jaskier's thighs.
Jaskier tugs his hair with a gentle jerk when he's close. He wants to come to a glimpse of the Witcher's eyes -- and it isn't a whim he can think to voice.
Geralt's eye flash up and that's it. Perfect. He comes with a groan, head falling back onto a pillow.
Brilliant. But he knows better. It's not like Geralt to only have a quick fuck.]
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The slickness to his lips is wiped away with the back of his hand as he lifts up. He looks at once satisfied and wanting. His palm rests on Jaskier's chest and he bends to kiss him—lets Jaskier taste himself there. It isn't the first time as a whole, but it is the first time in the Horizon. ]
What else have you got in this room of yours? [ An open-ended invitation for Jaskier to create whatever he likes. If he wants. Why the fuck not? They're free to take advantage of the creation magic on this plane.
And even as he asks, his fingers are trailing up Jaskier's chest. He drags his nails along. He does want more than a quick taste. But he's not in a rush to take it just yet. ]
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