[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. ]
[Only enough time for a breath before Geralt's kissing him, and he's open and hungry for it. It's different with everyone -- one of the reasons he bloody loves it -- but with Geralt, it's already proven to be like coming home. Stepping into worn boots, walking into familiar territory. A place he knows every inch of. That he could hike through blindfolded. Sure, there's the messy basement he ignores and maybe a few dusty nooks and crannies, but those aren't necessary to be known.
He lifts his head, licking his lips after.]
Anything you'd like. Isn't that the point? [He smiles, warm, sliding his legs back onto the bed.
That thought does give him an idea, though. A... a simple one. Far from the raunchy things he may have come up with once. Jaskier threads his fingers through the air, coming away with a single silk piece of cloth, folded over. A jar of gently scented lube beside Geralt's leg.
He holds out the sink blindfold.] If you'll do the honors.
[ Mm. It is the point. But it isn't about what he's looking for; it's about what Jaskier wants. The soft silk materializes, and he thinks he knows. He winds it between his fingers. It smells of floral and pine.
He likes simplicity.
The truth is, he likes familiarity, too. He likes knowing, without question. And with Jaskier, there has never been much by way of questions. Not after two decades of history between them, not when Jaskier remains the only person here who met him before. Before Destiny, before Yennefer, before Ciri. Before so fucking much happened. He doesn't regret being where he is now; he's not one to look back. But perhaps it means something, to have someone who's seen nearly every side of him and has remained his friend.
An old friend, he thinks, brushing Jaskier's hair off his face before he gently wraps the silk over his eyes. He bends down afterwards, letting his teeth nip at the shell of Jaskier's ear. ] Good?
[Jaskier has certainly found an appreciation for simplicity he may not have had before. Where he once would have gone for something much more exciting -- bindings or even some sort of leather strap, if he was feeling particularly frisky, he can't --
He balks from the idea now. It's too much. It's --
He can trust Geralt not to go too far. Funny he should even consider it a concern, that he should even think it at all.
Jaskier closes his eyes as the silk goes on top of them, pressing against his eyelashes. There is no mistaking what's there, that his senses are cut off, but there is also no mistaking who he's with. Even from the weight of Geralt against him. The way scarred fingertips feel on his skin.
His lips quirk into a smile. Soft of him. Isn't it? Jaskier's answer immediately is a light hum. Blind now, he finds Geralt's arms and drags his fingertips up the swell of them.] I feel you pondering. Good thoughts, I hope?
[ Pondering. He rolls his eyes, imagines Jaskier need not see to know that he has. He settles next Jaskier instead of on top—the bed has plenty of room here—and coaxes Jaskier onto his side. ]
Maybe. [ Mm. Not unpleasant thoughts. He can recognize Jaskier trusts him and he can recognize, too, that in the Horizon, it tends to feel—safer. It's a feeling he understands can't be relied upon to ignore reality—it doesn't work like that—but one which he also has come to use from time to time. A reprieve.
(Perhaps he is ignoring the world, a bit.)
His hand runs down bare skin, over Jaskier's hips. The alcohol leaves him with less on his mind; desire takes care of the rest. There's just this, them. A jar oil that he slicks his fingers with, and then he's gliding them down Jaskier's spine, further and further. ]
[He can definitely feel him rolling his eyes; a shift in the air, the breeze rattling through the leaves. Though he's curious about the positioning, Jaskier moves onto his side with ease. He stretches himself out, posing with a sense of respose, knowing quite well how good his body looks in any position.
He worked hard on it. Thank you.
Jaskier shivers, shifting a leg. He's still rolling in that soft afterglow, but like Geralt, it isn't enough to get off quickly. He enjoys languishing. And with Geralt so strangely relaxed -- for once -- he wishes to enjoy that, too.
He feels out for Geralt's lips, tracing them, then leaning in to kiss just as fingers press inside.] As long as it's about me, I can't say I mind.
[ His tone is a more obviously teasing when he answers that sentiment with another, ] Maybe.
[ Jaskier lays himself out like a bird spreading its mating feathers. Colourful and bright, somehow, even stripped of his clothes. Geralt drinks it in without restraint. His eyes roam over the dip of Jaskier's hips, the swell of his backside. The scar that runs up his arm.
He slips his fingers in, one at a time, slow. Languid. They've all the hours in the world. (They haven't, in reality, but right now it feels as though they may.) His forehead drops against Jaskier's shoulder. It hides a smile. Not that he needs to; Jaskier can't see him. Feel it, perhaps. He can't say he minds, either, having Jaskier occupy his thoughts. He keeps going, pushing deeper, but for all the patience he exhibits, he's wanting, too. Desire curls through him, warms his blood; soon enough, he's undone the rest of his buttons.
Spread on his side next to Jaskier, he eases in. His palm splays against Jaskier's stomach, a soft breath falling from him. ]
[It's with a laugh Jaskier moves onto his other side, offering his backside like the gift it is. It's. It's good to see that. Jaskier hardly spends his time worrying about Geralt; if he anything, he suspects Geralt spends a bit more time worrying about him. Still, no man is immune to heartbreak. He knows that, no matter where this situation with Yennefer goes, his friend is hurt.
The important part to pain is holding it, and yet moving on. Not something, he thinks, Geralt has ever troubled himself with.
He breathes out with a hiss as the first finger pushes inside. The sweet spark of it. It is languid, excessively so for the Witcher. Has he finally found a space in which do indulge? Certainly the tree crafts that for Jaskier.
Jaskier feels it. Yet he has the good graces, at least with Geralt in his bed, to not mention it.
Later. He'll never hear the end of it. Besides, grumbling and minimal words aside, Geralt is good at what he does. Slready there's a new twinge in his cock, a new flare of heat. He pushes back into him, letting the sunlight shift just enough it falls in random splotches across the bed. Picturesque. Not for the romance of it, but simply because it's pretty. Atmospheric.] And here I thought you never fucked slowly.
[ It's easier to take his time when the whole place seems made for it. Made for lazy sunlight and soft beds and gentle touches. They're not things he lets himself have often, but it's been granted to him here and he won't turn it down.
He nips at Jaskier's bare shoulder. ] Shut up.
[ He's allowed to suck him off hard and then fuck him slowly. He wants both. He wants everything. He wants what he can only have with Jaskier. He might've come to visit in part because Yennefer was on his mind, but she is not why he's in Jaskier's bed now.
The scrape of his teeth turns into a kiss. He leans over to press his lips to Jaskier's jawline, feels the scratch of stubble there. His hair spills over around them as he shifts his hips, setting a steady rhythm. ]
Never. [He laughs between his groans, his skin prickling under Geralt's touches -- but more precisely at the scrape of teeth on his shoulders, which he's always sworn are that tiny hint sharper than human teeth.
A kiss not to hide it, but almost to preserve the feeling left behind. The breeze strengthens outside, that hint of pain turning into a heated pleasure.
Jaskier turns his head like he knows it's coming, eyes fluttering shut. He draws his nails up one of the arms holding him, teasing Geralt with a tight squeeze around him.] Worry not. I won't tell a soul.
[It's a promise, clearly.]
Might... mmm. Might write a song about it, though.
[ Clearly. He tugs on the silk because he can, and then he tugs on Jaskier's hair, too. Pulls him back to actually kiss him on the lips. ]
What? About my cock?
[ He's a romantic, naturally. His nails dig into Jaskier's hips. He knows precisely how his friend likes it. He's learned. Funny, that there are still more things to learn about Jaskier. He's known him for so fucking long, but this.
It's both recent and isn't. And maybe it's good, to reacquaint himself. Some part of him thought—after the mountain, after the nearly two years between them, there would be a distance he couldn't cross. There isn't. ]
[Instead of a laugh, which he means, it's a moan. Fuck. It's always the pulling of his hair. How does everyone know it so quickly? Is he advertising it somehow? Growing it out was the best decision he's made so far, really.]
Why not? What sort of man doesn't want a ballad written about his cock's escapades?
[And it gives Jaskier a perfect opportunity to sing of his own accolades in bed.
Geralt, for all his faults, at least is a giving lover. (He's so much more than that.) He digs his nails in the perfect way. Not leaving bruising (not anymore), but supplying points of pressure, of the barest pain.
Jaskier's hand reaches between his legs, wrapping around his own. Stroking with the rhythm. He'll make sure he comes, what, three times in the song? But if he can manage two himself, that's close enough to the truth.]
[ He huffs out a deep noise in his throat. ] Fuck off.
[ An annoyance, he thinks, but it's fond. He fucks Jaskier just the way he knows Jaskier likes. He knows because he can hear it, in the skip of Jaskier's pulse, the catch of his breath. The shudder of his warm body underneath his hands—rough hands that delve between those legs.
A heat unfurls inside him. It is a familiar one, a pressure that grows and grows. His breaths come heavy, until he spills with a groan. His fingers tangle with Jaskier's, a buzz humming around his veins, in the air.
He inhales sharply. He's curled around Jaskier still, their bodies entwined as he listens to the stutter of a heartbeat. ]
[He gives a laugh, cut off by another moan as his body curls up, growing tighter and tighter, heated as a fire. Gods, if anything about this place is amazing, it's that sex feels just as good in the Horizon as it does in their world.
Oh. Fuck it. He can come as many times as he wants here, can't he?
Two will do it. He holds it as Geralt fucks into him, matching his noises until, with one rather striking thrust, his friend spills. And as does he, messily onto his hands with a shudder over his body.
Lights sparkle across the air, and he isn't quite sure if it's in his eyes, or he meant to make that happen.
Jaskier doesn't move. With Geralt wrapped around him, warm as a stone left in the sun, he couldn't imagine pulling away now.] Mm. Very glad you came today.
[ He can practically hear the pleased chuckle in Jaskier's voice. Geralt tugs off the silk so that Jaskier can see the exasperation written on his face.
Even so, his words are light, low in his chest. ] Aren't you?
[ He is, too. A contented breath escapes him. He likes having Jaskier in the real world, but there's something to be said about the convenience of the Horizon. He rolls over onto his back. ]
I prefer this bed over the one we've actually got.
[ Much softer. Significantly larger. He's fucked Jaskier in the other bed, but it takes some maneuvering and he's kicked a jug or a pile of books off the table before. ]
[Oh, he is definitely pleased. His eyes are still closed as the silk pulls away. Ah. Those little sparkles were behind his eyes. And yet so fucking pretty.]
Mmhmm. As are you, I imagine. I don't even need to look at you to know that warm expression.
[Jaskier sits up, rubbing his eyes. Giving them time to adjust to light peering through the lids. Strange, how he'd nearly forgotten it was there. There were so many other sensations to focus on, it hadn't mattered.
He laughs.]
Only the best of the best when you're here. [He carefully opens his eyes, letting the natural sunlight through the tree's branches, through the open air door, hit across his legs. Acclimating them again.
God. That'd been... good.] Shall we get a larger bed next, then? Now that your lovely bookshelves are up, and Mog has made his nest.
[ Geralt neither confirms nor denies his so-called warm expression. Besides, it was a good fuck. Only feels right to be warm. He can still taste him, smell him, and he lets himself sink into it. ]
Mm. [ Geralt has given little thought to beds. He's rarely home, sleeps just fine on the floor or next to Jaskier as needed. It isn't that they can't afford one. Maybe it's—he has never gotten himself a bed. In his entire life. He has his room in Kaer Morhen, shitty and full of holes with old furs piled atop a rickety wood frame. That's all he's ever had. Now they're here. Settling. And he did find them a larger place, but that's the thing. For them, is what he tells himself. Jaskier, Ciri, Rinwell. Were he on his own, he'd still be holed up in a cheap dusty inn.
He supposes to most, it's just a fucking bed. It doesn't matter. But to him, it does. He can't explain it. Almost as if the more comforts he has, the more uncomfortable he instinctively feels.
Jaskier says we, though, and he finds he can accept that. If Jaskier wants to bring in a larger bed. He can benefit on the side. ] We have got room now. And yours wobbles.
It doesn't -- all right, it does, but I'm fairly certain that's your fault somehow. Possibly from this?
[He lightly smacks Geralt's ass.
Jaskier distinctly does not mention that when he first got Mog, the gryphon had started scratching his claws and gnawing at the bed legs. It was not important, and of course, with any creature, there are growing pains as they acclimate to a new home.
The creature deserves no scorn for his mild destruction.]
I'll look into it, then. Put some real coin into it. Surely there's a carpenter here who can carve something that can hold even you up. [He grins, pushing hair out of his face. With the magic of the Horizon, no cleanup is even necessary -- though Jaskier lets the smell of sex linger, and the sweat coating his skin. His head falls back, arms propped behind him, letting the last of that warmth linger inside him.
Sometimes this simplicity is what he craves. Fucking a man he's known nearly all his life. No complications. His heart has long been entangled with Geralt's, and there are no tangles that can be straightened now.
He breathes in. The sweet scent of the oak's flowers makes it even in here.] We've quite the home now. Some days I don't even think about this place, as perfect as it is.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
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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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He lifts his head, licking his lips after.]
Anything you'd like. Isn't that the point? [He smiles, warm, sliding his legs back onto the bed.
That thought does give him an idea, though. A... a simple one. Far from the raunchy things he may have come up with once. Jaskier threads his fingers through the air, coming away with a single silk piece of cloth, folded over. A jar of gently scented lube beside Geralt's leg.
He holds out the sink blindfold.] If you'll do the honors.
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He likes simplicity.
The truth is, he likes familiarity, too. He likes knowing, without question. And with Jaskier, there has never been much by way of questions. Not after two decades of history between them, not when Jaskier remains the only person here who met him before. Before Destiny, before Yennefer, before Ciri. Before so fucking much happened. He doesn't regret being where he is now; he's not one to look back. But perhaps it means something, to have someone who's seen nearly every side of him and has remained his friend.
An old friend, he thinks, brushing Jaskier's hair off his face before he gently wraps the silk over his eyes. He bends down afterwards, letting his teeth nip at the shell of Jaskier's ear. ] Good?
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He balks from the idea now. It's too much. It's --
He can trust Geralt not to go too far. Funny he should even consider it a concern, that he should even think it at all.
Jaskier closes his eyes as the silk goes on top of them, pressing against his eyelashes. There is no mistaking what's there, that his senses are cut off, but there is also no mistaking who he's with. Even from the weight of Geralt against him. The way scarred fingertips feel on his skin.
His lips quirk into a smile. Soft of him. Isn't it? Jaskier's answer immediately is a light hum. Blind now, he finds Geralt's arms and drags his fingertips up the swell of them.] I feel you pondering. Good thoughts, I hope?
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Maybe. [ Mm. Not unpleasant thoughts. He can recognize Jaskier trusts him and he can recognize, too, that in the Horizon, it tends to feel—safer. It's a feeling he understands can't be relied upon to ignore reality—it doesn't work like that—but one which he also has come to use from time to time. A reprieve.
(Perhaps he is ignoring the world, a bit.)
His hand runs down bare skin, over Jaskier's hips. The alcohol leaves him with less on his mind; desire takes care of the rest. There's just this, them. A jar oil that he slicks his fingers with, and then he's gliding them down Jaskier's spine, further and further. ]
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[He can definitely feel him rolling his eyes; a shift in the air, the breeze rattling through the leaves. Though he's curious about the positioning, Jaskier moves onto his side with ease. He stretches himself out, posing with a sense of respose, knowing quite well how good his body looks in any position.
He worked hard on it. Thank you.
Jaskier shivers, shifting a leg. He's still rolling in that soft afterglow, but like Geralt, it isn't enough to get off quickly. He enjoys languishing. And with Geralt so strangely relaxed -- for once -- he wishes to enjoy that, too.
He feels out for Geralt's lips, tracing them, then leaning in to kiss just as fingers press inside.] As long as it's about me, I can't say I mind.
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[ Jaskier lays himself out like a bird spreading its mating feathers. Colourful and bright, somehow, even stripped of his clothes. Geralt drinks it in without restraint. His eyes roam over the dip of Jaskier's hips, the swell of his backside. The scar that runs up his arm.
He slips his fingers in, one at a time, slow. Languid. They've all the hours in the world. (They haven't, in reality, but right now it feels as though they may.) His forehead drops against Jaskier's shoulder. It hides a smile. Not that he needs to; Jaskier can't see him. Feel it, perhaps. He can't say he minds, either, having Jaskier occupy his thoughts. He keeps going, pushing deeper, but for all the patience he exhibits, he's wanting, too. Desire curls through him, warms his blood; soon enough, he's undone the rest of his buttons.
Spread on his side next to Jaskier, he eases in. His palm splays against Jaskier's stomach, a soft breath falling from him. ]
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The important part to pain is holding it, and yet moving on. Not something, he thinks, Geralt has ever troubled himself with.
He breathes out with a hiss as the first finger pushes inside. The sweet spark of it. It is languid, excessively so for the Witcher. Has he finally found a space in which do indulge? Certainly the tree crafts that for Jaskier.
Jaskier feels it. Yet he has the good graces, at least with Geralt in his bed, to not mention it.
Later. He'll never hear the end of it. Besides, grumbling and minimal words aside, Geralt is good at what he does. Slready there's a new twinge in his cock, a new flare of heat. He pushes back into him, letting the sunlight shift just enough it falls in random splotches across the bed. Picturesque. Not for the romance of it, but simply because it's pretty. Atmospheric.] And here I thought you never fucked slowly.
[Okay, he couldn't hold any teasing for long.]
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He nips at Jaskier's bare shoulder. ] Shut up.
[ He's allowed to suck him off hard and then fuck him slowly. He wants both. He wants everything. He wants what he can only have with Jaskier. He might've come to visit in part because Yennefer was on his mind, but she is not why he's in Jaskier's bed now.
The scrape of his teeth turns into a kiss. He leans over to press his lips to Jaskier's jawline, feels the scratch of stubble there. His hair spills over around them as he shifts his hips, setting a steady rhythm. ]
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A kiss not to hide it, but almost to preserve the feeling left behind. The breeze strengthens outside, that hint of pain turning into a heated pleasure.
Jaskier turns his head like he knows it's coming, eyes fluttering shut. He draws his nails up one of the arms holding him, teasing Geralt with a tight squeeze around him.] Worry not. I won't tell a soul.
[It's a promise, clearly.]
Might... mmm. Might write a song about it, though.
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What? About my cock?
[ He's a romantic, naturally. His nails dig into Jaskier's hips. He knows precisely how his friend likes it. He's learned. Funny, that there are still more things to learn about Jaskier. He's known him for so fucking long, but this.
It's both recent and isn't. And maybe it's good, to reacquaint himself. Some part of him thought—after the mountain, after the nearly two years between them, there would be a distance he couldn't cross. There isn't. ]
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Why not? What sort of man doesn't want a ballad written about his cock's escapades?
[And it gives Jaskier a perfect opportunity to sing of his own accolades in bed.
Geralt, for all his faults, at least is a giving lover. (He's so much more than that.) He digs his nails in the perfect way. Not leaving bruising (not anymore), but supplying points of pressure, of the barest pain.
Jaskier's hand reaches between his legs, wrapping around his own. Stroking with the rhythm. He'll make sure he comes, what, three times in the song? But if he can manage two himself, that's close enough to the truth.]
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[ An annoyance, he thinks, but it's fond. He fucks Jaskier just the way he knows Jaskier likes. He knows because he can hear it, in the skip of Jaskier's pulse, the catch of his breath. The shudder of his warm body underneath his hands—rough hands that delve between those legs.
A heat unfurls inside him. It is a familiar one, a pressure that grows and grows. His breaths come heavy, until he spills with a groan. His fingers tangle with Jaskier's, a buzz humming around his veins, in the air.
He inhales sharply. He's curled around Jaskier still, their bodies entwined as he listens to the stutter of a heartbeat. ]
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[He gives a laugh, cut off by another moan as his body curls up, growing tighter and tighter, heated as a fire. Gods, if anything about this place is amazing, it's that sex feels just as good in the Horizon as it does in their world.
Oh. Fuck it. He can come as many times as he wants here, can't he?
Two will do it. He holds it as Geralt fucks into him, matching his noises until, with one rather striking thrust, his friend spills. And as does he, messily onto his hands with a shudder over his body.
Lights sparkle across the air, and he isn't quite sure if it's in his eyes, or he meant to make that happen.
Jaskier doesn't move. With Geralt wrapped around him, warm as a stone left in the sun, he couldn't imagine pulling away now.] Mm. Very glad you came today.
[Hah. Double entendre.]
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Even so, his words are light, low in his chest. ] Aren't you?
[ He is, too. A contented breath escapes him. He likes having Jaskier in the real world, but there's something to be said about the convenience of the Horizon. He rolls over onto his back. ]
I prefer this bed over the one we've actually got.
[ Much softer. Significantly larger. He's fucked Jaskier in the other bed, but it takes some maneuvering and he's kicked a jug or a pile of books off the table before. ]
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Mmhmm. As are you, I imagine. I don't even need to look at you to know that warm expression.
[Jaskier sits up, rubbing his eyes. Giving them time to adjust to light peering through the lids. Strange, how he'd nearly forgotten it was there. There were so many other sensations to focus on, it hadn't mattered.
He laughs.]
Only the best of the best when you're here. [He carefully opens his eyes, letting the natural sunlight through the tree's branches, through the open air door, hit across his legs. Acclimating them again.
God. That'd been... good.] Shall we get a larger bed next, then? Now that your lovely bookshelves are up, and Mog has made his nest.
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Mm. [ Geralt has given little thought to beds. He's rarely home, sleeps just fine on the floor or next to Jaskier as needed. It isn't that they can't afford one. Maybe it's—he has never gotten himself a bed. In his entire life. He has his room in Kaer Morhen, shitty and full of holes with old furs piled atop a rickety wood frame. That's all he's ever had. Now they're here. Settling. And he did find them a larger place, but that's the thing. For them, is what he tells himself. Jaskier, Ciri, Rinwell. Were he on his own, he'd still be holed up in a cheap dusty inn.
He supposes to most, it's just a fucking bed. It doesn't matter. But to him, it does. He can't explain it. Almost as if the more comforts he has, the more uncomfortable he instinctively feels.
Jaskier says we, though, and he finds he can accept that. If Jaskier wants to bring in a larger bed. He can benefit on the side. ] We have got room now. And yours wobbles.
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[He lightly smacks Geralt's ass.
Jaskier distinctly does not mention that when he first got Mog, the gryphon had started scratching his claws and gnawing at the bed legs. It was not important, and of course, with any creature, there are growing pains as they acclimate to a new home.
The creature deserves no scorn for his mild destruction.]
I'll look into it, then. Put some real coin into it. Surely there's a carpenter here who can carve something that can hold even you up. [He grins, pushing hair out of his face. With the magic of the Horizon, no cleanup is even necessary -- though Jaskier lets the smell of sex linger, and the sweat coating his skin. His head falls back, arms propped behind him, letting the last of that warmth linger inside him.
Sometimes this simplicity is what he craves. Fucking a man he's known nearly all his life. No complications. His heart has long been entangled with Geralt's, and there are no tangles that can be straightened now.
He breathes in. The sweet scent of the oak's flowers makes it even in here.] We've quite the home now. Some days I don't even think about this place, as perfect as it is.
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