Geralt looked at his empty hand, the wrist still held by a warm touch, before those cat eyes slid up to Jaskier's face. Cherubic, the bard had been called, and certainly his face had gotten him out of plenty of tight spots. That most of those had been of his own creation and design mattered far less than his charming escapes. Now his expression was almost comically mobile, sliding through arousal, confusion, anger. In comparison the witcher's current stoicism was stony, his silence deafening: he simply watched Jaskier and the utter flatness of his face served as a highlight to show how animated Geralt actually tended to be. Tonight there was nothing. Eyes on Jaskier, the rest of him was a blank. Inside his head was the roar and whisper-- maim him, humiliate him. Use him and toss him to the wolves. Death is too easy, too forgiving, for him. Make Jaskier suffer. Make it slow.
Every fiber of his being needed to make those words a reality. There was no consideration for the friendship that they shared, the time they'd spent on the road or in each other's pockets. All of his feelings for the man kneeling in front of him had been drowned by the ocean. At the back of mind, clinging to the smallest bubble of oxygen in that submerged cave, a small question was asked-- is this what it truly is to have no emotion? No ties? But it was mute next to the roar of the surf and the wooden smack of the wind chimes.
Maim him, humiliate him. Slowly.
"Come, Jaskier." His lips, his tongue, his voice. "It's nothing."
And then his free hand moved like a snake striking, stinking into the front of that lovely doublet, crushing creases into smooth fabric as fingers curled into a tight fist. His other arm twisted and bit into Jaskier's elbow and between the two grips he tossed the bard onto his back on the bed. Strong thighs straddled the man and Geralt leaned down, white hair falling like a cage around them. Palms on legs to balance him as he leaned there was very little concern of Jaskier managing to get anywhere else other than there as he sat his weight against the man's lap. "'A beautiful bed is a hard thing to pass up,' isn't that what you always say?"
no subject
Every fiber of his being needed to make those words a reality. There was no consideration for the friendship that they shared, the time they'd spent on the road or in each other's pockets. All of his feelings for the man kneeling in front of him had been drowned by the ocean. At the back of mind, clinging to the smallest bubble of oxygen in that submerged cave, a small question was asked-- is this what it truly is to have no emotion? No ties? But it was mute next to the roar of the surf and the wooden smack of the wind chimes.
Maim him, humiliate him. Slowly.
"Come, Jaskier." His lips, his tongue, his voice. "It's nothing."
And then his free hand moved like a snake striking, stinking into the front of that lovely doublet, crushing creases into smooth fabric as fingers curled into a tight fist. His other arm twisted and bit into Jaskier's elbow and between the two grips he tossed the bard onto his back on the bed. Strong thighs straddled the man and Geralt leaned down, white hair falling like a cage around them. Palms on legs to balance him as he leaned there was very little concern of Jaskier managing to get anywhere else other than there as he sat his weight against the man's lap. "'A beautiful bed is a hard thing to pass up,' isn't that what you always say?"