[ 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.
[ Oh, his fault. Mm-hm. Geralt idly swats Jaskier's hand away.
There's no need to mention it. He looked at the wobbly bed legs to see if he could repair them and found them all chewed to shit. Decided it wasn't worth fixing while the damn beast was apparently being housebroken still. (Mog also gnawed on his gloves the first couple weeks. Geralt had sighed, then quietly purchased a new pair and now makes sure to keep his bag closed at all times.)
He hums, acknowledging that. The Horizon was never the retreat for him as it is for some, but he understands what Jaskier means. Their home, it's—worn and scuffed and Geralt's repaired more broken hinges and crooked shelves than he can count, but it's theirs. It's more than a single inn room with four of them piled into two beds and a kitchen that's almost too tight for even Rinwell. The rent's twice as much here, but he can see how much better Ciri and Rinwell like it. He knows he'd pay any price for that. Besides, what else is his coin for? Contracts are easier to come by here. He's no shortage of work, especially when he's one of the rare few who can travel as quickly and as far as he does. Jaskier grows half their ingredients; Geralt hunts the other half easily, and Sam appears now and again with a cooked pot of something or other.
It isn't perfect. He wishes...things had not gone the way they had, between him and Yennefer. He wishes that come next winter, he will be able to go to Kaer Morhen as always and he can't. He can never return again. There's a cost to all things, isn't there? But the choice to pay it was his.
He's got this. Here. It's enough. ]
Ciri came by not long ago. To mine. Tree's back together now. [ Jaskier has not seen his domain, fallen apart. He doesn't need to. He was there when it happened in the real world. It's the first time Geralt's really spoken of it, though. ]
[Jaskier, like him, knows the move was worth it. Feels it. He'd do it again if they needed, if only to give room to Ciri and Rinwell their own rooms. He'd loved glancing at Rinwell's loft in the mornings, making sure to leave extra pancakes to the side for her when she woke -- often already with a book in her hands.
And it was large enough they had gotten a second table for proper dining, so Ciri no longer needed to butcher scorpions or whatever where they ate.
It was cozy. It was lived in. Home.
He lays on his side facing Geralt, propping his head up on a hand. He smiles.] You fixed it? Only the two of you?
[He knows. He doesn't ask why the tree was shattered in the first place; a foolish question, when Jaskier's domain had turned into from a lovely, sunny vineyard to that stupid, stinking tavern. Hearing that Geralt's was damaged the same, but repaired in the end -- it felt like some sort of. Good omen.] That's really wonderful to hear, Geralt. I'm sorry that I was not... I was not able to help.
[He had been in no state to even offer. And he had not gone; has barely gone, really, since he saw that basement in Geralt's Kaer Morhen.]
She wanted to do something. [ Just the tree. Hanging the medallions. Most of the rest, Geralt took care of on his own. Nadine and Sam had stumbled by incidentally, lent him a hand briefly, but otherwise he pieced it together himself. Bit by bit.
Julie had apologized, too. For not coming to help. He feels now as he did then: that it isn't anyone's responsibility except his own. Something inside him broke it. At the end of the day, he's been repairing Kaer Morhen since he was a boy. Fixing crumbling walls and rotting floors. Rebuilding benches and tables worn by time, by the wet and cold that filters in through the holes in the keep. ]
You helped elsewhere. And it's done now.
[ He tucks an arm under his head. He knows why Jaskier does not come. It is the same reason he goes to his domain less and less. Before it fell, he could put aside what laid behind that door, beneath the stairs. Now it's—he's spent all that time fixing every inch of the fortress, and yet there's one place he can't touch. If anything, it seems to grow. Last time he ventured to open the door, it was no longer just a blood-stained lab. It was dark, cold stone, smelled thick of rot and blood and vomit, and he had shut it immediately.
He doesn't bring it up. He has carved his space in the Horizon. It's a shard of home and there's comfort within it in many places. But as with the only home he ever knew, it is splintered deep in its foundations, too. He isn't certain it can be any different. ]
[Sounds like Ciri. Like Geralt, hardly ever still. Always doing something. And with that bright spark of kindness hidden beneath dirt and blood and sweat. Of course she wanted to do something. He can only imagine she blamed herself for its destruction in the first place.]
Suppose I did.
[He doesn't ask what. Doesn't matter. He's safe here, fulfilled, and as he reaches over to thread his fingers through Geralt's hair -- taking advantage while Geralt is feeling generous -- he relaxes.]
I'll come by soon. I already know you need help sprucing the place up with a bit of decoration. And, of course, I owe your wolf a steak or two.
[A part of himself in Kaer Morhen. He doesn't bring it up, and neither does Geralt. Like Moglad, the wolf is more Geralt's than anyone else's anymore. Jaskier doesn't even lay claim to it, nor to why he created it in the first place.
Silently, he's thankful to the beast. Someone to protect Kaer Morhen, and someone to keep Geralt company when no one else can.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
There's no need to mention it. He looked at the wobbly bed legs to see if he could repair them and found them all chewed to shit. Decided it wasn't worth fixing while the damn beast was apparently being housebroken still. (Mog also gnawed on his gloves the first couple weeks. Geralt had sighed, then quietly purchased a new pair and now makes sure to keep his bag closed at all times.)
He hums, acknowledging that. The Horizon was never the retreat for him as it is for some, but he understands what Jaskier means. Their home, it's—worn and scuffed and Geralt's repaired more broken hinges and crooked shelves than he can count, but it's theirs. It's more than a single inn room with four of them piled into two beds and a kitchen that's almost too tight for even Rinwell. The rent's twice as much here, but he can see how much better Ciri and Rinwell like it. He knows he'd pay any price for that. Besides, what else is his coin for? Contracts are easier to come by here. He's no shortage of work, especially when he's one of the rare few who can travel as quickly and as far as he does. Jaskier grows half their ingredients; Geralt hunts the other half easily, and Sam appears now and again with a cooked pot of something or other.
It isn't perfect. He wishes...things had not gone the way they had, between him and Yennefer. He wishes that come next winter, he will be able to go to Kaer Morhen as always and he can't. He can never return again. There's a cost to all things, isn't there? But the choice to pay it was his.
He's got this. Here. It's enough. ]
Ciri came by not long ago. To mine. Tree's back together now. [ Jaskier has not seen his domain, fallen apart. He doesn't need to. He was there when it happened in the real world. It's the first time Geralt's really spoken of it, though. ]
no subject
And it was large enough they had gotten a second table for proper dining, so Ciri no longer needed to butcher scorpions or whatever where they ate.
It was cozy. It was lived in. Home.
He lays on his side facing Geralt, propping his head up on a hand. He smiles.] You fixed it? Only the two of you?
[He knows. He doesn't ask why the tree was shattered in the first place; a foolish question, when Jaskier's domain had turned into from a lovely, sunny vineyard to that stupid, stinking tavern. Hearing that Geralt's was damaged the same, but repaired in the end -- it felt like some sort of. Good omen.] That's really wonderful to hear, Geralt. I'm sorry that I was not... I was not able to help.
[He had been in no state to even offer. And he had not gone; has barely gone, really, since he saw that basement in Geralt's Kaer Morhen.]
no subject
Julie had apologized, too. For not coming to help. He feels now as he did then: that it isn't anyone's responsibility except his own. Something inside him broke it. At the end of the day, he's been repairing Kaer Morhen since he was a boy. Fixing crumbling walls and rotting floors. Rebuilding benches and tables worn by time, by the wet and cold that filters in through the holes in the keep. ]
You helped elsewhere. And it's done now.
[ He tucks an arm under his head. He knows why Jaskier does not come. It is the same reason he goes to his domain less and less. Before it fell, he could put aside what laid behind that door, beneath the stairs. Now it's—he's spent all that time fixing every inch of the fortress, and yet there's one place he can't touch. If anything, it seems to grow. Last time he ventured to open the door, it was no longer just a blood-stained lab. It was dark, cold stone, smelled thick of rot and blood and vomit, and he had shut it immediately.
He doesn't bring it up. He has carved his space in the Horizon. It's a shard of home and there's comfort within it in many places. But as with the only home he ever knew, it is splintered deep in its foundations, too. He isn't certain it can be any different. ]
no subject
Suppose I did.
[He doesn't ask what. Doesn't matter. He's safe here, fulfilled, and as he reaches over to thread his fingers through Geralt's hair -- taking advantage while Geralt is feeling generous -- he relaxes.]
I'll come by soon. I already know you need help sprucing the place up with a bit of decoration. And, of course, I owe your wolf a steak or two.
[A part of himself in Kaer Morhen. He doesn't bring it up, and neither does Geralt. Like Moglad, the wolf is more Geralt's than anyone else's anymore. Jaskier doesn't even lay claim to it, nor to why he created it in the first place.
Silently, he's thankful to the beast. Someone to protect Kaer Morhen, and someone to keep Geralt company when no one else can.]