[ Jaskier is right to feel uncertain, his gut feeling would be right but perhaps for different reasons. As Geralt disappeared for the rest of the day and good part of the evening without his horse, sword, or even his armor. And while he may have lied about where he was going and what he was doing, he eventually does return to the new tavern they've rooted themselves into. Not so much as covered in any flavoring of monster guts, but definitely a bit more weathered than when he left.
The witcher finds a rowdy sort of crowd, stomping their feet and sloshing mugs of ale. The kind that lets him slip in without drawing too much attention to himself, which is a feat given who he is. But the candles burn low, and people are less interested to who comes and goes. Not one to want to disrupt the snafu of merriment, he doesn't seek Jaskier out in the midst of his performance. However at least he does make eye contact, which reveals him to still be under affect of some potion. Golden eyes still filled with pure black.
Instead, takes his attention to fetch a much needed drink. Which the bar maid behind the counter revolts surprisingly at the witcher's blank gaze. Even as he explained, under the chaotic mingle of chattering voices and delightful song, she reluctantly took his offer of coin. He gathers his drink with a scuffed hand, though he had washed them before returning, still showed tenderness and broken skin around his knuckles. ]
[ Leaving in such a way has been worrisome and Jaskier found himself anxious despite his anger and despite knowing Geralt can take care of himself. At the inn, he played the songs that he knew best rather than new ones he was still perfecting because his mind was too unfocused and he didn't want to risk missing a keynote and messing up the tune. The songs are still popular and so far it had earned him amused looks, people singing along, and a respectable amount of coin.
No one seemed to be paying much attention to the Witcher but since Jaskier had been trying to find him among the crowd all night, he almost jumps in relief when the man shows up. By pure luck, he finishes his song without issue and starts one more to keep appearances, making it short but lively, getting the patrons to cheer and laugh before excusing himself for the night.
He makes his way up to Geralt's side, trying not to walk too fast and make it obvious but the bard is moving as if he's in some sort of trance. To Jaskier, the sight of the black pupils is even more striking up close than when he had spotted them while singing. He wasn't fully sure of what he had seen back then but now there's no missing the black that covers all of Geralt's usually golden eyes, even the sclera. It clashes heavily against his now pale skin and Jaskier can't stop looking.
He's reacting with a measure of shock as well but for an entirely opposite reason that the bar maid's one. His mouth feels suddenly very dry, his scent spiking up with lust, and he's reaching out to brush the pad of his fingers against the high curve of Geralt's cheekbones before he realizes what he's doing. Jaskier's own pupils are blown out and almost completely engulf any blue in his eyes. ]
[ It's long enough a time to pass for him to finish his drink, the coin enough to earn him another immediate refill. Jaskier's short jig filling the room with further uproar, he knew them well enough to know how much time he has left to finish his drink. His head kept low, not only to alarm anyone else that might be curious enough to catch his eye, but the sheer avoidance of the lantern lights. Which even in the slightly murky dark of a tavern, is still bright enough to give him a headache so long as the potion remains swirling around his system.
The song ends as he takes his last gulp of strong spirit, enough to light a small burn behind his nostrils that sneer as Jaskier makes his way to him. He looks up then, the corner of his eye having caught the familiar pattern of the bard's trousers. Able to pick out the finer details in the dark, the widening of his gaze as they meet. Not quite the smell, but just the minute little twitch of his shoulders. The flutter of the man's heart pushing heat up his neck. He's so focused on it he doesn't even realize Jaskier has reached out to touch him until he does. Fingers dry and slightly scrubbed from the strings of his lute. His cheek turns, inadvertently leaning into it, as his eyes scan to look around to see whose eyes might be on them.
Geralt doesn't agree or disagree, but merely sets his cup aside and tips his head for him to lead the way. Still lingering a guilt, a complicated tightness in his chest from what he'd gone and done. The fight he had has been long over, but the adrenaline is still tickling through his veins. Wearing on his limbs, the way he holds himself. Leaving his fingertips yearning and jittery. He'll bumble along if guided, still carefully weaving around those around him or brushing them out of his path.]
[ When Geralt has to drink concoctions for a fight, it means the enemy is too dangerous for Jaskier to hang around as a spectator, so he's never quite caught Geralt looking like this before. He knows about the potions all Witchers use but never mentions them in his songs because it would do Geralt no good to let possible enemies know about his boosts and secret tricks. Those are the sort of private details Jaskier likes to know, to witness and catalog, and that he keeps to himself. He never mentions Kaer Morhen either.
He makes a soft whimper at the back of his throat when Geralt's face turns, presses his face against Jaskier's fingers by pure chance or honest interest, he can not tell. They're still in public and they don't need to bring attention to themselves but Jaskier couldn't help himself. He has a lot of questions and, at the same time, none seems relevant enough. His heart rate picks up, muscle beating like a trapped hummingbird in a cage when Geralt puts his drink now.
Jaskier's glance lowers to and he catches sight of the injured knuckles. The corner of his lips twists down in sympathy and apprehension, he doesn't like to see Geralt hurt no matter the inevitability of it due to the man's profession. He will worry about those later. Now, Jaskier's hand slide over Geralt's own carefully, fingers brushing the softer skin of his inner wrist, feeling the slow pulse underneath. As if he's looking for reassurance that Geralt is here and real and not just a ghost. A very attractive looking ghost to him, but still. That same hand gently wraps around the Witcher's wrist a moment later. Jaskier turn and starts moving towards the stairs, leading them away from the prying eyes and the loud sounds.
The bard is oddly quiet, feeling like that if he tries to speak it will ruin something. His heart is beating wildly in his throat, he figures Geralt can even heart it. Once they reach their room, Jaskier closes the door carefully and only lets go of Geralt's hand to snuff out some of the candles so the place is more shadows than bright light for the all too sensitive Witcher. Geralt is too silent, even for his stony usual self. But there's that aura of barely contained energy around him that draws Jaskier in, makes him walk over and press his body against the Witcher's chest, like a moth to a flame. His hands rise up to cup Geralt's face again, clear blue eyes staring into black pools, not even a little bit afraid. ]
How do I help you? [ The voice is only a whisper, his lips a brush against Geralt's own. His eyes say something else. Touch me, touch me. Let me touch you too.]
[ It's far from a common occurrence for Geralt to be seen like this. He's not even taken the most toxic of elixirs tonight, just the one that allowed him to move around in the dark. Still, the muddled mixture would soon wreak its own kind of havoc on his body. No matter the mutations that even allow him the fortitude to swallow them, once the heat of a fight wore down the poisons would wear at him. The witcher is used to the brunt feeling of it, shrugging it off in the morning like any other hangover. The collapse hasn't quite hit him yet, but he could feel it coming.
As Jaskier released him, he turned his head sharply with a snarl to avoid more blundering light. Busying himself with turning around and shutting the door with a little snap while lanterns were lowered and candles were snuffed. The flutter of Jaskier's heartbeat is easy to follow, listening as his breath quietly hitches around the room. The scent of warm wax settling in the air with the smoke.
Geralt clears his pockets of a couple indistinct bags of coin onto the nearest table just in time to meet the thud of weight up against his chest. Flush with the bard's scent of stale ale, the perfume of every shoulder he's rubbed up against that night, whatever crumb he's hard for dinner, at the distinct pique of his arousal. He can feel Jaskier's heartbeat now, thudding underneath his fingertips as Geralt stares him down with voided eyes. And whether or not he can really ply those thoughts from Jasker's mind or the meaning behind the deep well of his eyes, he relents.]
Don't. [ Geralt dismisses, voice deep and graveled before cutting itself off as he snares the bard's mouth with a barely restrained kiss. His weight pushes forward with a slight hiccuped stumble as his hands gather up at Jaskier's hips to immediately push him flush to the adjacent wall. He inhales deeply, as if trying to absorb all those tiny negligible facets of his day and find something deep within to sink into. Not wanting to be coddled or cooed. No playful banter. Just something to take the edge off, and even more so someone. This one in particular. His kiss breaks, hands sliding down to cup his ass tightly against him. ] Just want you.
[ The snarling sound Geralt let go a moment before sent a shiver down Jaskier's spine. It should have been one of fear, not desire, because Geralt was a dangerous person and probably more so now that he is so attuned to everything, the light, the sounds, the smell. What it should have been and what it is doesn't matter to Jaskier's body or mind. Geralt can act more beast than man on occasion but the bard doesn't treat him as such no matter what. Instead of panic, the whole situation brings another layer of want towards the Witcher that doesn't fully smoother the worry about Geralt's well being.
He's taken these sorts of poisons for years, Jaskier knows he would be fine, eventually. But he wants to help make it better, easier, and he also wants to ride Geralt until none of them can't walk the next day. Probably not possible, Witcher's stamina and all that, but he would try. Geralt's refusal makes Jaskier wonder if he's pushing it too far and his hands still briefly only to find himself at the mercy of a bruising kiss. His back connects with the wall a moment later, Geralt blanketing Jaskier’s body with his own, and hell, this is all the confirmation he needs. ]
Yes. Yes. [ He arches up into the heat of Geralt's body, giving him room to grab and squeeze at his ass to his heart content. Everything that comes out of his mouth is a mindless, wanton moan. Arms wrap around Geralt's neck, fingers raking over his nape and scalp before Jaskier buries them into the silver-white hair to give it tug. His free hand starts tugging at Geralt's clothes, trying to get everything off as soon as possible, desperate for contact. There's too many damned layers in the way, not counting Jaskier's own complicated outfit. His mouth meets the man's lips for another searing kiss that's more teeth than tongue. He pulls away only to sucks the Witcher's earlobe into his mouth before whispering in a breathless voice. ]
Just...ah..tear everything off, I know you can. [ He will regret giving Geralt free rein to ruin his clothes come tomorrow morning but they will die a good death. He doesn't even care. ]
[ Geralt's not entirely sure what part of the night that tore him back on this path to find him. He'd intended on waiting, shaking off the rattle that usually came from a fight. When he usually feels his darkest, the most untouchable. He doesn't know if it'd been spurned on by the blundering contention in the morning. Reminding him of the other night. Where the bard's innate vulnerability shorn bare scuffed, rattled, and mildly ashamed. There's still some of that anger he felt then, now seeping out of his fingertips. All those feelings flushed back to the surface had not yet had their time to calm down.
The raw moans of content in Jaskier's throat just feeds into him. His hands gripped tighter, delighting in the warm and firm contact of flushed hips and pressed cocks that lifts the other man onto his toes. The witcher falls into his mouth, using his weight to press him back up against the wall. Sneering with a low rumbling growl at teeth sinking into his lips at the same time his head is turned under the tangled bard's fingers. His mouth is unrelenting, fighting to catch his mouth and sink down into plump pink flesh and lapping at the reddish indentations they leave behind. And only when he pulls away he tries to find somewhere else to occupy, barely nipping at the bone of his jaw when the warmth of his voice rocks against his ear.
It's a bit of irony, just a little bit in the request. Given the last time he had his hands on the bard's doublet. The emotional journey he takes, slightly furrowed brow can be seen as he untangles himself with a half-step back. The witcher's chest rises and falls as the devouring of his mouth has already rendered him slightly bereft with a half untucked shirt. It's only a beat that passes, looking him over with his own slightly unsettling gaze.
Geralt's hands move swift, snapping apart Jaskier's doublet like its paper. Bits and bobbles of string and cloth covered buttons skitter across floorboards and table tops. His fingers move in a subtle sign as he draws a hand bag to clutch the open collar of the other man's linen undershirt and shears it down the middle with a warm singe of embers under his fingertips. The witcher steps in to find his mouth again. The acrid smell of charred fibers wafting under their noses as he draws his hands back up under both layers to force the bard's arms up over his head as he works the garments up and off of him.]
[ It might be because of the same kind of force that drawns Jaskier to the Witcher, what made him seek him out and follow him around until Geralt gave up on trying to scare the annoying bard off. Years after their first talk in Posada, Jaskier is still following him despite the danger and the occasional harsh words because it's worth it, the company and the adventure. He wouldn't change it for anything else in the world. Not even now, when Geralt's current look and behavior might send enemies running for the hills. But Jaskier is a friend, he likes to label himself as one no matter how hard-pressed the Witcher would be to admit it, and he knows the other man wouldn't hurt him on purpose.
Geralt moves slightly back and Jaskier has the urge to kiss him between the brows and smooth out the frown he spots there. Instead, he gives a pleased purr when the black abyss that is Geralt's eyes meets his own. Jaskier only needs a tail curling behind him to be the perfect picture of a cat that’s spotted a delicious-looking dish of cream. But he doesn't get a word in, the pause is too brief and Geralt is making good work of his clothes. The bard might have asked for it but he's surprised still at how his outfit doesn't stand a chance under the skilled hands of a Witcher. it makes him swallow thickly, because holy shit. ]
Oh, wow. This has no right to be so hot. I should have asked you sooner. Did you just use ma...hmmph. [ It comes out winded and impressed, interrupted by a moan when Geralt silences him with a kiss that could match the burning of the embers. It's partly from surprise and partly from the sheer yearning that has welled up. This is a much better use of his tongue, Jaskier decides, submitting easily under the touch and letting Geralt take control. He would let the white-haired man do as he pleased with him, in fact, pride be damned. It's a pity they have to break apart for less unimportant things, like breathing, to get the clothes off. He has half a mind left to lift his arms and make it easier for Geralt to undress him, not like the Witcher needs any real help.
He keeps his chin up, delicate neck exposed in silent offering, a request for more bites and marks. Jaskier isn't blessed with the fast healing of Witchers and the teeth marks and fingerprints will be on his skin for days. They will most likely end poked and prodded by Jaskier's own fingers as a smile graces his lip at the reminder of how they ended there. He likes to be marked, to feel like he belongs to someone even for a little while.
Now, unless Geralt grabs and pines his wrists to the wall, Jaskier hands will keep wandering. One is working on the buttons of Geralt's trousers - and there's far too many of then, it's absurd- and the other pressing a palm up the curve of his erection, squeezing through the layers of cloth. ]
[ Geralt shouldn't be surprised this is the kind of reaction he gets from Jaskier, but in part it is. It all winds back to the first day they met. No matter how much he growls and sneers like a poorly trained guard dog, Jaskier still reaches out to him with confident hands. At times it's suffocating, psychologically overstimulating after so many years of villagers spitting at his heels. Women reclining from him in horror. There are those who fawn and preen him over the bard's stories, but there's something too shallow in it to feel real.
But this is real, this is tangible. The earnest moans whining out of Jaskier's mouth, the thick scent of his lust. Not afraid, in fact turned on by the state of the witcher. Who only still feels on the fringes of being monstrous, it's all too easy to sink into his touch with a pleasurable growl. Feed into all that want that exists for him. Geralt's hips coerced upward into Jaskier's hand as he slaps the ruined remains of Jaskier's clothes somewhere across the floor. His own shirt yanked off with it joins the pile. The tediousness isn't lost on him, but it's damn cathartic.
The deep lean he means to chase the bard's fondling fingers brings a knee to the wall astride his leg. His hands coming down to snare Jaskier's up again to push them back flush against the wall above his head as he lets his weight push them flush chest to chest, nose to nose. Geralt can't help but grind at him deep, like feeding an itch that draws in a deep breath.]
Still want to ride me until I beg? [ He asks, the rawness of his voice is undercut by the choke of a breath in his throat. Though by the tone of his voice, he's not in any mood to do any begging. From what he's learned, he knows what Jaskier is tedious to get a taste for. His hands aren't holding him down with any significant force. There's no anger, but there's weight. There's pressure of his thumbs pressed flush along his wrists. Feeling his heart race as he continues to look into the deep pools reflecting back at him.] Or shall I fuck you across something until your knees buckle? And you beg?
[ They were both stubborn men and Jaskier was determined to slowly chip away at Geralt's armored exterior and burrow snugly underneath. He could understand the Wicher's reticence, far too used to unkind words and rocks thrown at him cowardly. If anything, the worse people got the more was the bard determined to try and make it better. Sometimes it worked, others it frustrated Geralt more than anything, but here and now, they're both caught with their want and needs.
And oh, does Jaskier want desperately. Geralt moves against him and he makes a noise as stripped raw as he feels. It turns into an appreciative rumble born at the back of his throat when Geralt's shirt is no longer depriving him of the view of the Witcher's chest. Scarred, yes, but Jaskier never minded about those, rarely asks about a scar unless it's fresh and he's trying to decide if Geralt is doing a poor job at cleaning the wound and needs help with it. He doesn't get the chance to touch the man's chest or to smooth his fingers over that spot just under the head of Geralt's dick that might get him to groan because Geralt is grabbing at his wrists, lifting them without issue.
Jaskier's cock gives an interested twitch. He has to struggle for a second not to buck up into the sensation too hard because, damn, it's nice. Geralt's mouth is moving, so he's talking, a rarity on the best of days, and the brunette tries to focus on what it's being said. A moment later he almost regrets it, he knows already he will make a fool of himself.
The second offer is what gets Jaskier to tremble, to let out a ragged, drawn-out whimper and close his eyes, grinding against Geralt with a slow roll of his hips. Something fast, good and rough might just be what they need to take some of the edge of. His cock is already straining and when he opens his eyes to answer to Geralt he can only keep them half-lidded, hazy with need. ]
W-why don't we do both? [ Always an overachiever, his bard. A groan wrenches out of him before he can go on, and choked-off moans follow, filling the air between them. ] There's, aaah, a small vial in my pocket...
[ He's gotten used to carrying oil around in part because his lute strings need tending and in part because...well he does not have another good excuse but the fact he needs tending too and he had hoped that Geralt would pay him attention. Jaskier has the decency to blush after that, a light shade of pink staining his cheekbones as he avoids Geralt's eyes for the first time. It wouldn't take him long to beg, he would happily do so now if it means the Witcher will keep touching him, holding him up, pressing their hardness together.
Geralt's holding up his wrist sends a thrill down his body, makes his blood run hotter and that while knowing he can probably get out of the hold if he really wanted to. Geralt’s touch is strong but he wouldn't hold him down against his will. The bard has no intentions to move, there's nowhere he would rather be, and Geralt is holding him just so right. ]
[ The bard is chipping away at something, that's for certain. If the older man was more honest with himself, he'd say it's been happening for a long time. It's been a field test in constant patience, spanning decades. And though he'd never say it, Jaskier is one of the truest friends he has. And where or how the lines continue to get muddled in the process, he's lost track. Or he doesn't care. Because it's simple, it's unhinged, it's convenient. Somehow, it feels right.
A part of it must be the innate desire that trembles off Jaskier in waves. As though he's not ever noticed it before, even before the prior night they'd fucked, but pushed it aside. It's difficult telling even now how much of it is just feeding into his pure wanon hunger and what's his own. Only that it's intoxicating, it's delicious feeling his writhing and the quivering in his throat when he moans. Acting like he's never been touched before. Geralt knows he has, often not by him, as history dictates.
Geralt doesn't provide him a confirmation, but a telling hum finds some charm in Jaskier's over-eagerness to be fucked five more ways before sunrise again. The sentiment lost on an avoided gaze that might tell Geralt just exactly how over-eager he is. So, he does think about it. The witcher is briefly caught wondering how often. The threat of fatigue is higher that night, although he doesn't reveal it. Once the potion finally weans, he'll crash. He always does.
Without a word, at his direction he releases one of Jaskier's wrists to search the pocket he feels the vial just gently presenting between their thighs. Without lifting away, still nose to nose, soaking in the look of him. The feel of his thigh sits warm against the fabric brushed against the backs of his knuckles. He wishes he could better see color under the condition of this elixir. The complete flush of his face is apparent. It comes off in waves of the breaths that mingle between them. However, Geralt could only see the darkness touching his otherwise pale face.
Geraly tucks the vial under his thumb once retrieved, immediately searching for the sideline of buttons of Jaskier's trousers. There's a bit of warning that slips from him, as his hand traces up the bard's wrist to lace their fingers with a firm grip. Simple and feigning intimacy that isn't meant to be profound, but possibly uncharacteristic. Just as he tugs away at the trouser buttons with another delightful snapping of threads. The motion feels gruffer than the first, with more force needed to snap less delicate fastenings. His hand delves in without hesitation, seeking to gather just a touch of his cock and the look melting across his face before he has to turn him around. ]
[ In the past, Jaskier used to bring up the F word into their conversations. He does it less nowadays, not because he doesn't believe it truth but because Geralt's refusals sting more than before. He's settled for leaving things unsaid between them, telling himself that definitions don't matter so much. Some days it works, others don't, but the days go on regardless. The only problem is that, unlike Geralt, time isn't on Jaskier's side. It's another reason why he never wants to waste it. He prefers to regret the things he's done that the things he never dared to try.
What he has with Geralt now, whatever it is, It's uncharted territory. The bard wanted it for a long time and it went from a smoldering kind of need to something all-consuming after seeing Geralt's eyes black as a moonless night. He couldn't put it in words even if he tried, can't explain why he wants Geralt so badly even at his most unnatural. It's still Geralt and Jaskier loves him more for all his oddities, no less. It's still Geralt, the one person who can make him pant and moan with only a fleeting touch and the smallest hint of attention like this is his first time.
Despise his words, Jaskier will welcome anything Geralt can give him, one time or twenty, and still be satisfied. He's easy like that where Geralt is concerned and he's embarrassingly aware of it. And the bard will still be here once Geralt crashes, will try his best to care for the man and put him back together if the Witcher allows it. The bruised knuckles still need to be taken care off but it's a little difficult to focus on them when Geralt's hand is getting all his attention instead, wandering and retrieving the vial. Jaskier doesn't move his hand once one of the wrists is free and once he glances back at Geralt, he can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from him. They're so close he can feel the warmth of his breath brushing his own lips, and the younger man whines softly in the back of his throat when Geralt lace their fingers together. It's oddly sweet, unexpected and practical all at once. It gives Jaskier something to hold onto and he desperately needs it by the time Geralt's other hand tears off the rest of his clothes. ]
Fuck, aah... [ The muscles in his stomach jump and quiver and Jaskier bites his bottom lips, fighting to remain upright and not arch and grind down onto Geralt’s fingers.
It's hard to read Geralt in this state and Jaskier wonders if he's enjoying this as much as he is. Or perhaps he's waiting for something, he did mention that he wanted to hear him beg. After another long pause the bard keens, fingers tugging against Geralt’s. It's ineffectual, the Witcher's hands are bigger, fingers longer than his own, keeping him anchored where he is. He's not trying to get away as he is fidgeting like a pinned butterfly, tight with tension and all too fleeting rippling pleasure. ]
[ Witcher's don't express, or they don't express very well. Even under the affects of cloudy black eyes, it's understandably more nuanced. It's well and truly a lie that Geralt doesn't feel. He may not whimper and mewl at every little thing that sends a shiver up his spine, but there is its own level of enjoyment in watching him do it. Keening into his hand, warm and damp as his cock begins to harden. He's not waiting for him to beg, but hearing his name snaps him out of the brief fascination.
The witcher's hand withdraws along the same as his fingers untangle themselves from the last of Jaskier's hands, gathering him back at the waist as he peels him off the wall and turns him astride to face an adjacent table. It's as he's bending him over to place Jaskier's hands down upon it, he wonders how much of it Jaskier wants or if it's just a ploy to satisfy Geralt's needs. Stark to the contrast of their last encounter spent rutting both fast and slow. It's not necessarily a situation where Geralt is asking to be taken care of - - no the gesture reeks to him of preening and tenderness. Neither of which tonight he needs or deserves. There's no denying the bard craves a bit of the roughness, that much he can tell, but finds it difficult when the other man acts so soft and pliable in his hands.
Geralt takes the vial to his teeth to bite off the stopper and spit it off to the side, rumbling around somewhere under a dresser. Slicking a pool of it across his fingers before discarding it. His mouth dips in to find refuge along the warm skin of Jaskier's shoulder. Tasting the remnant of linen and musk as he brushes aside the hem of his open trousers so that they no longer cling to his hips and crumple halfway down the bard's thighs. ]
Your smell, when you're turned on - [ Geralt breathes across his neck, voice little more than a whisper. Pausing to bite down into the curve of his neck as he eases a finger inside of him. Wondering how long it'll take this time, perhaps better if he can distract him. ] Is sweet and spiced.
[ He could smell it in the tavern, he's swam in it the last night they spent together. And every little time before that may have been lost and disregarded. Jaskier's lust has been haunting him for years, even if he never made quite a mood before. Geralt knew, he could always smell it. And now he can enjoy it face deep, tinted sweat along the nape of his neck where he plies his mouth again. Swirling his tongue and biting down. ]
[ It if weren't because the Witcher's touch returns soon enough, holding his hips and maneuvering him around, Jaskier would have whimpered loudly at the loss. As it is, he only lets out a soft gasp at the way heat is settling in his gut, a heady anticipation of what is to come after he rests his upper body on the table.
He turns his head towards Geralt, looking at him over his shoulder, eyes soft and yet heavy with yearning, an all-consuming need that would be embarrassing if Jaskier wasn't beyond the point of caring. He misses kissing the Witcher, Jaskier could easily get lost in the sensation of Geralt’s tongue, warm and wet against his own, but it's almost impossible at this angle. Luckily, the man's mouth is on his skin soon enough, keeping the wanting at bay. It makes the bard more pliant but not wordless, small mewling sounds keep falling from his parted lips. Moans, gasps, and Geralt's name mingling together.
His head turns to the other side as if he's trying to hide and he bits his bottom lip, shuddering at the intrusion even as he wills his body to relax around Geralt's finger. This is always the most inconvenient part of sex, no matter how much he wants it. But It doesn't take Jaskier much this time, it's not like the first time they did this together. The Witcher's finger is bluntly thick inside him, sliding in and out easily, offering a perfect stretch that leaves the younger man wanting for more. And then Geralt starts talking, voice grave but soft, and Jaskier's skin feels like it’s on fire, burning from the inside out. ]
I...always...always wanted you. [ One of Jaskier's hands leaves the table to reach out and bury itself on Geralt's hair, giving it a tug. The other is digging its nails on the wood, knuckles white. ] I...fuck aah...Knew it from the moment I saw your face in that tavern.
[ He shifts his legs, first moving them closer so the clothes fall to the floor and he can step out of his breeches, and then arching his back and spreading his legs. His hips rock back in small jerks, ass pushing back onto Geralt's finger when he's ready for another. ] More. Geralt, more.
[ He's aching into the contact, pulse thundering in his ears and cock harder than he's ever known. Jaskier needs more of their skin pressed together, wants to feel Geralt fully inside him, and he knows he's never going to be able to forget this. ]
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givingexposition) wrote2020-01-03 11:55 pm
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The witcher finds a rowdy sort of crowd, stomping their feet and sloshing mugs of ale. The kind that lets him slip in without drawing too much attention to himself, which is a feat given who he is. But the candles burn low, and people are less interested to who comes and goes. Not one to want to disrupt the snafu of merriment, he doesn't seek Jaskier out in the midst of his performance. However at least he does make eye contact, which reveals him to still be under affect of some potion. Golden eyes still filled with pure black.
Instead, takes his attention to fetch a much needed drink. Which the bar maid behind the counter revolts surprisingly at the witcher's blank gaze. Even as he explained, under the chaotic mingle of chattering voices and delightful song, she reluctantly took his offer of coin. He gathers his drink with a scuffed hand, though he had washed them before returning, still showed tenderness and broken skin around his knuckles. ]
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No one seemed to be paying much attention to the Witcher but since Jaskier had been trying to find him among the crowd all night, he almost jumps in relief when the man shows up. By pure luck, he finishes his song without issue and starts one more to keep appearances, making it short but lively, getting the patrons to cheer and laugh before excusing himself for the night.
He makes his way up to Geralt's side, trying not to walk too fast and make it obvious but the bard is moving as if he's in some sort of trance. To Jaskier, the sight of the black pupils is even more striking up close than when he had spotted them while singing. He wasn't fully sure of what he had seen back then but now there's no missing the black that covers all of Geralt's usually golden eyes, even the sclera. It clashes heavily against his now pale skin and Jaskier can't stop looking.
He's reacting with a measure of shock as well but for an entirely opposite reason that the bar maid's one. His mouth feels suddenly very dry, his scent spiking up with lust, and he's reaching out to brush the pad of his fingers against the high curve of Geralt's cheekbones before he realizes what he's doing. Jaskier's own pupils are blown out and almost completely engulf any blue in his eyes. ]
Let's go up.
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The song ends as he takes his last gulp of strong spirit, enough to light a small burn behind his nostrils that sneer as Jaskier makes his way to him. He looks up then, the corner of his eye having caught the familiar pattern of the bard's trousers. Able to pick out the finer details in the dark, the widening of his gaze as they meet. Not quite the smell, but just the minute little twitch of his shoulders. The flutter of the man's heart pushing heat up his neck. He's so focused on it he doesn't even realize Jaskier has reached out to touch him until he does. Fingers dry and slightly scrubbed from the strings of his lute. His cheek turns, inadvertently leaning into it, as his eyes scan to look around to see whose eyes might be on them.
Geralt doesn't agree or disagree, but merely sets his cup aside and tips his head for him to lead the way. Still lingering a guilt, a complicated tightness in his chest from what he'd gone and done. The fight he had has been long over, but the adrenaline is still tickling through his veins. Wearing on his limbs, the way he holds himself. Leaving his fingertips yearning and jittery. He'll bumble along if guided, still carefully weaving around those around him or brushing them out of his path.]
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He makes a soft whimper at the back of his throat when Geralt's face turns, presses his face against Jaskier's fingers by pure chance or honest interest, he can not tell. They're still in public and they don't need to bring attention to themselves but Jaskier couldn't help himself. He has a lot of questions and, at the same time, none seems relevant enough. His heart rate picks up, muscle beating like a trapped hummingbird in a cage when Geralt puts his drink now.
Jaskier's glance lowers to and he catches sight of the injured knuckles. The corner of his lips twists down in sympathy and apprehension, he doesn't like to see Geralt hurt no matter the inevitability of it due to the man's profession. He will worry about those later. Now, Jaskier's hand slide over Geralt's own carefully, fingers brushing the softer skin of his inner wrist, feeling the slow pulse underneath. As if he's looking for reassurance that Geralt is here and real and not just a ghost. A very attractive looking ghost to him, but still. That same hand gently wraps around the Witcher's wrist a moment later. Jaskier turn and starts moving towards the stairs, leading them away from the prying eyes and the loud sounds.
The bard is oddly quiet, feeling like that if he tries to speak it will ruin something. His heart is beating wildly in his throat, he figures Geralt can even heart it. Once they reach their room, Jaskier closes the door carefully and only lets go of Geralt's hand to snuff out some of the candles so the place is more shadows than bright light for the all too sensitive Witcher. Geralt is too silent, even for his stony usual self. But there's that aura of barely contained energy around him that draws Jaskier in, makes him walk over and press his body against the Witcher's chest, like a moth to a flame. His hands rise up to cup Geralt's face again, clear blue eyes staring into black pools, not even a little bit afraid. ]
How do I help you? [ The voice is only a whisper, his lips a brush against Geralt's own. His eyes say something else. Touch me, touch me. Let me touch you too.]
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As Jaskier released him, he turned his head sharply with a snarl to avoid more blundering light. Busying himself with turning around and shutting the door with a little snap while lanterns were lowered and candles were snuffed. The flutter of Jaskier's heartbeat is easy to follow, listening as his breath quietly hitches around the room. The scent of warm wax settling in the air with the smoke.
Geralt clears his pockets of a couple indistinct bags of coin onto the nearest table just in time to meet the thud of weight up against his chest. Flush with the bard's scent of stale ale, the perfume of every shoulder he's rubbed up against that night, whatever crumb he's hard for dinner, at the distinct pique of his arousal. He can feel Jaskier's heartbeat now, thudding underneath his fingertips as Geralt stares him down with voided eyes. And whether or not he can really ply those thoughts from Jasker's mind or the meaning behind the deep well of his eyes, he relents.]
Don't. [ Geralt dismisses, voice deep and graveled before cutting itself off as he snares the bard's mouth with a barely restrained kiss. His weight pushes forward with a slight hiccuped stumble as his hands gather up at Jaskier's hips to immediately push him flush to the adjacent wall. He inhales deeply, as if trying to absorb all those tiny negligible facets of his day and find something deep within to sink into. Not wanting to be coddled or cooed. No playful banter. Just something to take the edge off, and even more so someone. This one in particular. His kiss breaks, hands sliding down to cup his ass tightly against him. ] Just want you.
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He's taken these sorts of poisons for years, Jaskier knows he would be fine, eventually. But he wants to help make it better, easier, and he also wants to ride Geralt until none of them can't walk the next day. Probably not possible, Witcher's stamina and all that, but he would try. Geralt's refusal makes Jaskier wonder if he's pushing it too far and his hands still briefly only to find himself at the mercy of a bruising kiss. His back connects with the wall a moment later, Geralt blanketing Jaskier’s body with his own, and hell, this is all the confirmation he needs. ]
Yes. Yes. [ He arches up into the heat of Geralt's body, giving him room to grab and squeeze at his ass to his heart content. Everything that comes out of his mouth is a mindless, wanton moan. Arms wrap around Geralt's neck, fingers raking over his nape and scalp before Jaskier buries them into the silver-white hair to give it tug. His free hand starts tugging at Geralt's clothes, trying to get everything off as soon as possible, desperate for contact. There's too many damned layers in the way, not counting Jaskier's own complicated outfit. His mouth meets the man's lips for another searing kiss that's more teeth than tongue. He pulls away only to sucks the Witcher's earlobe into his mouth before whispering in a breathless voice. ]
Just...ah..tear everything off, I know you can. [ He will regret giving Geralt free rein to ruin his clothes come tomorrow morning but they will die a good death. He doesn't even care. ]
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The raw moans of content in Jaskier's throat just feeds into him. His hands gripped tighter, delighting in the warm and firm contact of flushed hips and pressed cocks that lifts the other man onto his toes. The witcher falls into his mouth, using his weight to press him back up against the wall. Sneering with a low rumbling growl at teeth sinking into his lips at the same time his head is turned under the tangled bard's fingers. His mouth is unrelenting, fighting to catch his mouth and sink down into plump pink flesh and lapping at the reddish indentations they leave behind. And only when he pulls away he tries to find somewhere else to occupy, barely nipping at the bone of his jaw when the warmth of his voice rocks against his ear.
It's a bit of irony, just a little bit in the request. Given the last time he had his hands on the bard's doublet. The emotional journey he takes, slightly furrowed brow can be seen as he untangles himself with a half-step back. The witcher's chest rises and falls as the devouring of his mouth has already rendered him slightly bereft with a half untucked shirt. It's only a beat that passes, looking him over with his own slightly unsettling gaze.
Geralt's hands move swift, snapping apart Jaskier's doublet like its paper. Bits and bobbles of string and cloth covered buttons skitter across floorboards and table tops. His fingers move in a subtle sign as he draws a hand bag to clutch the open collar of the other man's linen undershirt and shears it down the middle with a warm singe of embers under his fingertips. The witcher steps in to find his mouth again. The acrid smell of charred fibers wafting under their noses as he draws his hands back up under both layers to force the bard's arms up over his head as he works the garments up and off of him.]
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Geralt moves slightly back and Jaskier has the urge to kiss him between the brows and smooth out the frown he spots there. Instead, he gives a pleased purr when the black abyss that is Geralt's eyes meets his own. Jaskier only needs a tail curling behind him to be the perfect picture of a cat that’s spotted a delicious-looking dish of cream. But he doesn't get a word in, the pause is too brief and Geralt is making good work of his clothes. The bard might have asked for it but he's surprised still at how his outfit doesn't stand a chance under the skilled hands of a Witcher. it makes him swallow thickly, because holy shit. ]
Oh, wow. This has no right to be so hot. I should have asked you sooner. Did you just use ma...hmmph. [ It comes out winded and impressed, interrupted by a moan when Geralt silences him with a kiss that could match the burning of the embers. It's partly from surprise and partly from the sheer yearning that has welled up. This is a much better use of his tongue, Jaskier decides, submitting easily under the touch and letting Geralt take control. He would let the white-haired man do as he pleased with him, in fact, pride be damned. It's a pity they have to break apart for less unimportant things, like breathing, to get the clothes off. He has half a mind left to lift his arms and make it easier for Geralt to undress him, not like the Witcher needs any real help.
He keeps his chin up, delicate neck exposed in silent offering, a request for more bites and marks. Jaskier isn't blessed with the fast healing of Witchers and the teeth marks and fingerprints will be on his skin for days. They will most likely end poked and prodded by Jaskier's own fingers as a smile graces his lip at the reminder of how they ended there. He likes to be marked, to feel like he belongs to someone even for a little while.
Now, unless Geralt grabs and pines his wrists to the wall, Jaskier hands will keep wandering. One is working on the buttons of Geralt's trousers - and there's far too many of then, it's absurd- and the other pressing a palm up the curve of his erection, squeezing through the layers of cloth. ]
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But this is real, this is tangible. The earnest moans whining out of Jaskier's mouth, the thick scent of his lust. Not afraid, in fact turned on by the state of the witcher. Who only still feels on the fringes of being monstrous, it's all too easy to sink into his touch with a pleasurable growl. Feed into all that want that exists for him. Geralt's hips coerced upward into Jaskier's hand as he slaps the ruined remains of Jaskier's clothes somewhere across the floor. His own shirt yanked off with it joins the pile. The tediousness isn't lost on him, but it's damn cathartic.
The deep lean he means to chase the bard's fondling fingers brings a knee to the wall astride his leg. His hands coming down to snare Jaskier's up again to push them back flush against the wall above his head as he lets his weight push them flush chest to chest, nose to nose. Geralt can't help but grind at him deep, like feeding an itch that draws in a deep breath.]
Still want to ride me until I beg? [ He asks, the rawness of his voice is undercut by the choke of a breath in his throat. Though by the tone of his voice, he's not in any mood to do any begging. From what he's learned, he knows what Jaskier is tedious to get a taste for. His hands aren't holding him down with any significant force. There's no anger, but there's weight. There's pressure of his thumbs pressed flush along his wrists. Feeling his heart race as he continues to look into the deep pools reflecting back at him.] Or shall I fuck you across something until your knees buckle? And you beg?
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And oh, does Jaskier want desperately. Geralt moves against him and he makes a noise as stripped raw as he feels. It turns into an appreciative rumble born at the back of his throat when Geralt's shirt is no longer depriving him of the view of the Witcher's chest. Scarred, yes, but Jaskier never minded about those, rarely asks about a scar unless it's fresh and he's trying to decide if Geralt is doing a poor job at cleaning the wound and needs help with it. He doesn't get the chance to touch the man's chest or to smooth his fingers over that spot just under the head of Geralt's dick that might get him to groan because Geralt is grabbing at his wrists, lifting them without issue.
Jaskier's cock gives an interested twitch. He has to struggle for a second not to buck up into the sensation too hard because, damn, it's nice. Geralt's mouth is moving, so he's talking, a rarity on the best of days, and the brunette tries to focus on what it's being said. A moment later he almost regrets it, he knows already he will make a fool of himself.
The second offer is what gets Jaskier to tremble, to let out a ragged, drawn-out whimper and close his eyes, grinding against Geralt with a slow roll of his hips. Something fast, good and rough might just be what they need to take some of the edge of. His cock is already straining and when he opens his eyes to answer to Geralt he can only keep them half-lidded, hazy with need. ]
W-why don't we do both? [ Always an overachiever, his bard. A groan wrenches out of him before he can go on, and choked-off moans follow, filling the air between them. ] There's, aaah, a small vial in my pocket...
[ He's gotten used to carrying oil around in part because his lute strings need tending and in part because...well he does not have another good excuse but the fact he needs tending too and he had hoped that Geralt would pay him attention. Jaskier has the decency to blush after that, a light shade of pink staining his cheekbones as he avoids Geralt's eyes for the first time. It wouldn't take him long to beg, he would happily do so now if it means the Witcher will keep touching him, holding him up, pressing their hardness together.
Geralt's holding up his wrist sends a thrill down his body, makes his blood run hotter and that while knowing he can probably get out of the hold if he really wanted to. Geralt’s touch is strong but he wouldn't hold him down against his will. The bard has no intentions to move, there's nowhere he would rather be, and Geralt is holding him just so right. ]
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A part of it must be the innate desire that trembles off Jaskier in waves. As though he's not ever noticed it before, even before the prior night they'd fucked, but pushed it aside. It's difficult telling even now how much of it is just feeding into his pure wanon hunger and what's his own. Only that it's intoxicating, it's delicious feeling his writhing and the quivering in his throat when he moans. Acting like he's never been touched before. Geralt knows he has, often not by him, as history dictates.
Geralt doesn't provide him a confirmation, but a telling hum finds some charm in Jaskier's over-eagerness to be fucked five more ways before sunrise again. The sentiment lost on an avoided gaze that might tell Geralt just exactly how over-eager he is. So, he does think about it. The witcher is briefly caught wondering how often. The threat of fatigue is higher that night, although he doesn't reveal it. Once the potion finally weans, he'll crash. He always does.
Without a word, at his direction he releases one of Jaskier's wrists to search the pocket he feels the vial just gently presenting between their thighs. Without lifting away, still nose to nose, soaking in the look of him. The feel of his thigh sits warm against the fabric brushed against the backs of his knuckles. He wishes he could better see color under the condition of this elixir. The complete flush of his face is apparent. It comes off in waves of the breaths that mingle between them. However, Geralt could only see the darkness touching his otherwise pale face.
Geraly tucks the vial under his thumb once retrieved, immediately searching for the sideline of buttons of Jaskier's trousers. There's a bit of warning that slips from him, as his hand traces up the bard's wrist to lace their fingers with a firm grip. Simple and feigning intimacy that isn't meant to be profound, but possibly uncharacteristic. Just as he tugs away at the trouser buttons with another delightful snapping of threads. The motion feels gruffer than the first, with more force needed to snap less delicate fastenings. His hand delves in without hesitation, seeking to gather just a touch of his cock and the look melting across his face before he has to turn him around. ]
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What he has with Geralt now, whatever it is, It's uncharted territory. The bard wanted it for a long time and it went from a smoldering kind of need to something all-consuming after seeing Geralt's eyes black as a moonless night. He couldn't put it in words even if he tried, can't explain why he wants Geralt so badly even at his most unnatural. It's still Geralt and Jaskier loves him more for all his oddities, no less. It's still Geralt, the one person who can make him pant and moan with only a fleeting touch and the smallest hint of attention like this is his first time.
Despise his words, Jaskier will welcome anything Geralt can give him, one time or twenty, and still be satisfied. He's easy like that where Geralt is concerned and he's embarrassingly aware of it. And the bard will still be here once Geralt crashes, will try his best to care for the man and put him back together if the Witcher allows it. The bruised knuckles still need to be taken care off but it's a little difficult to focus on them when Geralt's hand is getting all his attention instead, wandering and retrieving the vial. Jaskier doesn't move his hand once one of the wrists is free and once he glances back at Geralt, he can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from him. They're so close he can feel the warmth of his breath brushing his own lips, and the younger man whines softly in the back of his throat when Geralt lace their fingers together. It's oddly sweet, unexpected and practical all at once. It gives Jaskier something to hold onto and he desperately needs it by the time Geralt's other hand tears off the rest of his clothes. ]
Fuck, aah... [ The muscles in his stomach jump and quiver and Jaskier bites his bottom lips, fighting to remain upright and not arch and grind down onto Geralt’s fingers.
It's hard to read Geralt in this state and Jaskier wonders if he's enjoying this as much as he is. Or perhaps he's waiting for something, he did mention that he wanted to hear him beg. After another long pause the bard keens, fingers tugging against Geralt’s. It's ineffectual, the Witcher's hands are bigger, fingers longer than his own, keeping him anchored where he is. He's not trying to get away as he is fidgeting like a pinned butterfly, tight with tension and all too fleeting rippling pleasure. ]
Please, Geralt.
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The witcher's hand withdraws along the same as his fingers untangle themselves from the last of Jaskier's hands, gathering him back at the waist as he peels him off the wall and turns him astride to face an adjacent table. It's as he's bending him over to place Jaskier's hands down upon it, he wonders how much of it Jaskier wants or if it's just a ploy to satisfy Geralt's needs. Stark to the contrast of their last encounter spent rutting both fast and slow. It's not necessarily a situation where Geralt is asking to be taken care of - - no the gesture reeks to him of preening and tenderness. Neither of which tonight he needs or deserves. There's no denying the bard craves a bit of the roughness, that much he can tell, but finds it difficult when the other man acts so soft and pliable in his hands.
Geralt takes the vial to his teeth to bite off the stopper and spit it off to the side, rumbling around somewhere under a dresser. Slicking a pool of it across his fingers before discarding it. His mouth dips in to find refuge along the warm skin of Jaskier's shoulder. Tasting the remnant of linen and musk as he brushes aside the hem of his open trousers so that they no longer cling to his hips and crumple halfway down the bard's thighs. ]
Your smell, when you're turned on - [ Geralt breathes across his neck, voice little more than a whisper. Pausing to bite down into the curve of his neck as he eases a finger inside of him. Wondering how long it'll take this time, perhaps better if he can distract him. ] Is sweet and spiced.
[ He could smell it in the tavern, he's swam in it the last night they spent together. And every little time before that may have been lost and disregarded. Jaskier's lust has been haunting him for years, even if he never made quite a mood before. Geralt knew, he could always smell it. And now he can enjoy it face deep, tinted sweat along the nape of his neck where he plies his mouth again. Swirling his tongue and biting down. ]
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He turns his head towards Geralt, looking at him over his shoulder, eyes soft and yet heavy with yearning, an all-consuming need that would be embarrassing if Jaskier wasn't beyond the point of caring. He misses kissing the Witcher, Jaskier could easily get lost in the sensation of Geralt’s tongue, warm and wet against his own, but it's almost impossible at this angle. Luckily, the man's mouth is on his skin soon enough, keeping the wanting at bay. It makes the bard more pliant but not wordless, small mewling sounds keep falling from his parted lips. Moans, gasps, and Geralt's name mingling together.
His head turns to the other side as if he's trying to hide and he bits his bottom lip, shuddering at the intrusion even as he wills his body to relax around Geralt's finger. This is always the most inconvenient part of sex, no matter how much he wants it. But It doesn't take Jaskier much this time, it's not like the first time they did this together. The Witcher's finger is bluntly thick inside him, sliding in and out easily, offering a perfect stretch that leaves the younger man wanting for more. And then Geralt starts talking, voice grave but soft, and Jaskier's skin feels like it’s on fire, burning from the inside out. ]
I...always...always wanted you. [ One of Jaskier's hands leaves the table to reach out and bury itself on Geralt's hair, giving it a tug. The other is digging its nails on the wood, knuckles white. ] I...fuck aah...Knew it from the moment I saw your face in that tavern.
[ He shifts his legs, first moving them closer so the clothes fall to the floor and he can step out of his breeches, and then arching his back and spreading his legs. His hips rock back in small jerks, ass pushing back onto Geralt's finger when he's ready for another. ] More. Geralt, more.
[ He's aching into the contact, pulse thundering in his ears and cock harder than he's ever known. Jaskier needs more of their skin pressed together, wants to feel Geralt fully inside him, and he knows he's never going to be able to forget this. ]