#sleepersith

[thefamouswhitewolf]

Under their tent in the north of Zerrekania, Jaskier and Geralt slept deeply, exhausted as they were from their sudden flight from Nilfgaardian troops looking to question the strangers on their way through the empire. Flight was a polite term for it; Jaskier ran until his lungs were on fire and Geralt covered his back as he ran behind him. They joined back up with Roach at their original encampment and fled with her into the darkness, finally pitching their tent within the Fiery Mountains, where Nilfgaardians didn’t like to go. 

Something about The Pits of Hell. Geralt didn’t care. He’d buried them both beneath the blankets after Roach was taken care of, and then slept like the dead.

Geralt’s eyes opened as the sun rose and he scowled at the peak of their tent, feeling Jaskier shifting beside him and not settling in the least. He wasn’t jerking off or uncomfortable, Geralt was sure, but Jaskier was getting closer and closer and yes, that was his head being pillowed on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Are you finished?” Geralt asked quietly, his eyebrows drawn together in what looked like concern. It wasn’t, but it looked like it. “You’re keeping me awake and your hands are like ice.”

Jaskier hummed and boldly buried the cold fingers of one hand between Geralt’s thighs, just warming the digits and earning a grunt of discomfort from the glaring witcher. Eyes closed and the hand slowly tugged back and cradled against his own body, Jaskier slid the rest of himself to rest against Geralt’s side. He hiked a leg over one thick thigh and got as close as possible, letting himself toy with tiny white hairs that littered Geralt’s chest. They were barely there, but Jaskier loved them.

Geralt began to rumble in his wolfish way of purring, one big hand curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck to massage lightly while the other hand petted the bard’s side. Geralt was painfully tactile and liked feeling the warm flesh beneath his hands, but neither of them were in any position to go any further than lazy morning cuddles. They hadn’t really bathed properly in days--a quick dip in a frigid stream two days earlier was helped with a sliver of soap Jaskier had been jealously guarding--and they were to meet Yennefer in Lyria in less than a week, so a real bath was still a long way out.

“You’re warm now,” Geralt murmured, still stroking Jaskier’s side and rubbing his thumb over the pulse point in Jaskier’s neck. He loved how solid Jaskier was, and how eagerly he came to the witcher for attention.

“So I am,” Jaskier replied, his cheek mushed against Geralt’s shoulder and his mouth leaving dry, crooked kisses against whatever skin it could reach. “Shall I shove off and start us a fire for breakfast, or are we still running?”

“Hmm, running. I don’t hear anything besides Roach but a fire will draw attention if they are nearby.”

“You’re right. Boiled eggs and bread while on the road, it is,” Jaskier offered. He knew they still had a half dozen boiled eggs from a batch they’d done two days earlier, and there was bread aplenty in the saddle bags too. Coin was abundant, but so were eager farmers selling their wares at harvest markets throughout the world.

“Perhaps with a touch of honey for the bread?” Jaskier asked with a sad-eyed look, tugging Geralt’s attention to him by grabbing the witcher by the chin and redirecting his gaze. “It’s only fair after you originally stole the pot from our sundry goods to use for your poultices. Honey is for eating, my dear Geralt, not for rubbing all over your harpy scratches.”

“I could start using pine tar again. Though I clearly remember it causing you severe allergies last time.”

Jaskier buried his face against Geralt’s shoulder again and stretched out beneath their big bear skin blanket, very definitely having to wake up or listen to Geralt reminding him of how awful it’d been with an allergic reaction to pine tar on his hands.

“I couldn’t play for a month, Geralt,” he whined, massaging Geralt’s big chest with one very skilled hand. 

Geralt rumbled his pleased sound again and closed his eyes to enjoy the massage, kneading Jaskier’s hip. “I’ll buy you a new honey pot at the next market.”

Jaskier grinned against Geralt’s shoulder and planted a loud kiss against his neck as he wiggled his backside. “So generous. Pumpkin honey should be in season right now. I’ll definitely have to find a large pot.”

[abespokesuitalwaysfits]

Promise

Promise is one of the words in the English language that Harry likes to use as seldom as possible. It solidifies plans and is the perfect catalyst for ruined relationships and broken hearts, when said promise needs to be broken.

He’s never promised to return from a mission, because things could go wrong.

He could be lost forever in some underground bunker.

He could be killed.

Therefore, the promise he’d have made back at HQ would be broken. A moot point. Not worth the air he’d used to speak the word itself.

He’d wanted to use the word once upon a time, but things hadn’t gone as smoothly as Harry had hoped. He wanted to come back to HQ after his trip to Kentucky, and he’d wanted to make an honest man of himself. Perhaps convince Merlin to actually marry him. They’d been together over thirty years, but Harry was a romantic and he still liked the idea of matching, meaningful rings.

[mannersmademan]

Apathy

Harry has always been diligent.

  As a child he’d rescue spiders so his sister didn’t swat them with a newspaper. He’d pick litter up and carry it to the bin. As a student he’d push his chair in at the end of class.

Even now, as a grown man, he spends time ensuring everything that can be recycled is. That he doesn’t have the volume on his television too loud after 10.30 pm in case it disturbs his neighbours.

  After Kentucky, for the first few months. He felt an overwhelming sense of Apathy.

He didn’t brush his teeth, or comb his hair, or shave.

  He simply sat there.

This was considered a symptom of Depression given his severe injuries and some PTSD from the event.

Harry had never felt the sort of listlessness that he felt in those few months. The lack of urgency to do anything at all. 

  After he recovered enough to begin taking care of himself again, he vowed never to get into that mindset again.

[ronmanmob]

☼ for a joking text (from: champagneandswitchblades)

☼ [Tedbear]:  Ted. Ted. Joke for yah...An Englishman an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar, and the barman says, ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ Send us one back won’t yah. Bored. - Ron

[thefamouswhitewolf]

➳♥

18. Hip

Sometimes, the easiest way to truly appreciate the bard was to stretch Jaskier out over the furs by the hearth, and kneel between his legs with both hands on his hips. There was nothing feminine at all about him and Geralt often wondered about the sanity of the public, when they accused Jaskier of being a pansy.

He was covered in hair, for one. It went from neck to groin and was only sparse around his sides and hips, right where Geralt’s mouth was busy sucking a bruise into the pale skin. Even Jaskier’s back had hair upon it and truth be told, so did Geralt, but in a lesser amount. It was also slightly lighter than Jaskier’s, but no less wiry and coarse.

He nosed through the hair directly above Jaskier’s cock and went to the other hip, dragging his teeth over the bone there, barely visible through the taut flesh. The bard moaned and rolled his hips, earning a hushed rumble from Geralt and a sharper bite, this time followed by a whine in a higher pitch.

Geralt pressed a wet kiss to the spot he’d nipped at and smoothed both hands around Jaskier’s hips to his buttocks, feeling how tight the muscles were as jaskier tried not to simply writhe endlessly.

“Mmmm turn over, sweet thing,” Geralt commanded, his voice so low it could’ve been a vanishing memory of a phrase to Jaskier’s lust-hazed mind. No attention was paid in the slightest to Jaskier’s cock as he obediently rolled over and it was on purpose; Geralt loved teasing Jaskier to the point that the bard often came untouched.

[thefamouswhitewolf]

☮ = waking them up after a nightmare .  ❂ = wiping blood off their face .

☮ 

Geralt wasn’t a heavy sleeper unless he was injured and even then, it wasn’t often that he fell into a sleep deep enough to dream. The dreams that did come could casually be referred to as nightmares, as nothing good ever came of Geralt’s dreams.

His thrashing about and murmurs of Ma and Please had woken Jaskier, and he’d desperately attempted to shake Geralt awake to break him out of it. Geralt woke with a snarl and due to being weaponless that night--he and Jaskier had agreed that no daggers were to remain beneath pillows when they slept together, after an unfortunate event wherein Jaskier nearly found himself beheaded by a spooked Witcher--all Geralt had was his hands and his scary face.

He lashed out with his hands to push away from whatever was holding him and with eyes wide and teeth bared, he focused on Jaskier’s frightened face, though the bard wasn’t really in mortal danger. The fright in Geralt’s eyes had Jaskier gently shrugging Geralt’s hands off of him so Jaskier could get near enough to cup Geralt’s face with both hands.

“Shhhh, my dear Witcher. It’s all right. It was only a dream, hm?”

Jaskier’s bravery in confronting a scared Witcher could be considered foolish, but Geralt knew who held him this time and he simply melted against Jaskier’s hands, closing his eyes and breathing slowly to calm himself.

“That’s it, you’re doing so well. Now, I’m not going to ask you to talk about it but here, please have a drink.”

Jaskier held a water skin for Geralt to take, clean stream water sloshing about inside. “Just a small one. Don’t go making yourself ill.”

Geralt took the skin with still-shaking hands and took a long drink, but didn’t guzzle or gulp it. Jaskier was right; he’d upset his stomach with a sudden gut full of ice cold water.

“There now, that’s better. Lay your big self back down and we’ll try this sleep thing a second time, how’s that?”

Jaskier didn’t really expect an answer but he smiled weakly as Geralt gave an affirmative hum, then settled himself back down. The bard cuddled back in beside him, turned on his side to face Geralt, watching as his face slackened while the Witcher drifted back to sleep.

------------------------------------

 ❂ 

“It’s unnecessary, Jaskier! I’ll be healed by midday, now stop!”

Geralt didn’t like fighting with the bard anymore; not since they’d begun what Jaskier referred to as a relationship, and which Geralt referred to as a partnership. The Witcher had been gored by a beast called a Ysgithyrwyn; a wild board-like creature as big as a man, but which no king could successfully have killed.

Geralt managed to kill it simply for its tusks--a feat he was slightly disgusted by because the beast had neither attacked anyone nor posed a threat to any kingdom on the Continent--and the coin being paid for the retrieval of the tusks was enough to ensure he and Jaskier had coin in their purses for at least six months.

The downfall of the expedition, was Geralt getting gored in the side by the beast’s tusks before it was killed and getting his forehead bashed in by a tree trunk when the boar unexpectedly threw him across a clearing. The holes in his side were already itching as they knitted with the help of a potion, but Jaskier insisted on tending to the bleeding wound on Geralt’s forehead.

“But you’re still covered in blood, Geralt!. Sit still while I finish.” Jaskier made no effort to walk away as Geralt had demanded and honestly, Geralt had worked out a system on which battles he was best to lose when it came to keeping his bard happy. If letting Jaskier rub a foul-smelling cloth all over his face meant a pleasant afternoon thereafter, so be it.

“There’s a good boy. Now, hold your breath or grit those lovely teeth of yours. This might hurt somewhat.”

Geralt managed a weak snarl before growling out loud and grabbing at the log beneath him, the sting of the alcohol-soaked rag rather fierce as it was rubbed right over his open wound. Chireadan had once mentioned the use of surgical spirits for cleansing shallow wounds and Jaskier had taken it upon himself from that day forward to stock them with it, finding that it prevented infection far better than any of Geralt’s disgusting poultices.

“Oh oh oh oh, be a big boy and grit it out. It’ll pass in a moment,” Jaskier chided, clucking his tongue like an unconcerned mother.

One more swipe with the cloth and the wound had slowed its bleeding, needing only a final dab and Jaskier was pleased with the result. Geralt’s face remained passive but grumpy and Jaskier leaned in to rub their noses together, earning a grunt and a curl of the Witcher’s arm around Jaskier’s waist.

“Thank you,” Geralt rumbled, liking Jaskier’s close scent better than the stink of the sharp alcohol.

“Mm, you’re welcome. Now it’s time to rub some of this lovely stuff all over your side, as well. Sit up straight and shirt off please, Sir Witcher.”

“Jaskier, no.”

“Sit up. Shirt off.”

Pick your battles, Geralt, he told himself as he sat back, removed his shirt, and prepared himself for a bit more pain. Pick your battles.

[thefamouswhitewolf]

Rope, perfume, candle

Rope

Geralt kept a decent length of rope with his gear just in case he needed to rappel anywhere, or haul things out of a lake or bog, or secure extra goods and monsters to Roach’s back. He didn’t keep it for what it was currently being used for, and it almost seemed a shame. He’d have to do it more often, but under less bothersome circumstances.

It wasn’t a particularly soft rope, nor did it feel good against bare skin, but Jaskier hadn’t complained in the slightest, even when Geralt had wrapped a single loop of it around the bard’s neck. It fit snugly below Jaskier’s adam’s apple and it made the bump bob when he swallowed. Jaskier hadn’t ever truly gone feral since joining Geralt on his trek across the Continent, but Jaskier also hadn’t ever been bitten by a brimstone bug before.

He positively seethed with anger right up until Geralt secured his wrists and ankles with the single length of rope, adding the loop around Jaskier’s neck only to keep him from attempting escape; the more he struggled, the tighter it would become. The fact that Jaskier seemed to like being trussed like a holiday hog was not lost on Geralt, and the Witcher stored that tidbit of knowledge away for when they had a chance to experiment further with the rope, sans rage.

Perfume

“No fucking way, bard,” Geralt growled, his nose wrinkled and his teeth bared as he backed away from the room they were sharing at a rather fancy inn in Oxenfurt. “Not on your life. There’s a limit to the things I’ll allow--that I have allowed--and this sure as hell isn’t one of them.”

Jaskier had his doublet off and his undershirt’s sleeves rolled up while he was kneeling, elbow-deep, over a low washtub filled with laundry. His laundry, while Geralt held onto his own like a man possessed. Jaskier had more than enough coin at the moment to waste on what Geralt had deemed frivolous things, and one of the bard’s purchases that morning, was heavily-perfumed soap for their washing.

The usual lye soap was harsh on fabric, sure, but it lacked a scent other than lye and therefore, didn’t bother Geralt’s keen sense of smell. The soap Jaskier had purchased was pleasant to human standards; rosewood, citrus, some sort of herbal flower that was likely chamomile or jasmine. To Geralt, it smelled like an apothecary had taken up residence within his sinuses, and it was causing a rather wicked headache.

Jaskier wasn’t exactly listening as he scrubbed at his smallclothes, removing stains and sweat, and other grossness. He’d planned on washing Geralt’s clothes as well, as a peace offering after a light blowout on the road, wherein Geralt had learned of Jaskier’s newest song lyrics written during a month of separation. Witchers, apparently, snore loudly enough to wake the dead.

“Then you’re washing them yourself, my dear Witcher,” Jaskier said finally, drying his hands and arms as he stood to survey the pile of clean but damp clothing on the stool beside him. He’d hang them from the rafters before the hearth to dry but not before he got his way, as usual.

Geralt didn’t want to wash his own clothes. He also didn’t want to pay a washer woman to do it. They were often careless with the seams in his trousers, and Geralt would have to mend them while on the road. Heaving a heavy sigh, Geralt threw his armload of clothes into the washtub, then left the room to fetch a pair of pails, both filled with clean water from the well. He dumped them into the washtub with a smirk, then sat himself down with a grunt.

“A compromise. They’ll still smell like you’ve had a hand in their washing, but it’ll be diluted. Have at it, bard.”

Cheerful that he’d basically won, Jaskier got right back to work, humming a tune this time.

Candle

Jaskier often worked by candlelight when they had a room for the night and he didn’t particularly enjoy it. It was hard on the eyes to write in a journal with the flickering of the candle right before him, and camp fire was no better. It was the movement of the flame that bothered him. Give the bard broad daylight and a spot by a sunny window, and he was in heaven.

Geralt however, loved the way flames could dance. His enhanced eyesight wasn’t hurt by direct firelight and the dancing of the flames didn’t cause him undue pain or discomfort. He could sew and work his blades by it, he could read and write by it, and it was nicest to fuck by it, as well.

“The shadows it casts soften your corners, bard,” Geralt would rumble, as he rooted through Jaskier’s chest hair with his tongue after a long fuck, the rasp of it loud in the otherwise silent room as Geralt fetched the last taste of Jaskier’s come from his skin. “It doesn’t change your shape because I love the shape that you are, but it makes you softer somehow.”

Jaskier just hummed out loud as he wrapped his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, overly satisfied and painfully close to falling asleep. “Is that so? If you want soft, find yourself a woman, Sir Witcher. I killed a man this week, remember?”

Geralt snorted out a laugh and finally settled, his cheek resting over Jaskier’s heartbeat. He was heavy and hard for Jaskier to focus on as he glanced down at the top of Geralt’s head, the candlelight low enough that it caused a fuzziness to occur with Jaskier’s eyesight. Perhaps he’d need spectacles soon. They looked fashionable enough, and all the best of Oxenfurt’s graduates wore them.

Lazy hands gently stroked through Geralt’s hair and down his shoulders until they moved no more, the lightest of snores coming from the fucked-out bard. Geralt was fast to follow--as he often was after a decent lay--and all of their edges softened into nothing, as the candles died out and finally cast the room into blessed darkness.

[thefamouswhitewolf]

peach

peach. my muse groping your muse’s ass during grinding. 

They had little time before the master of the house came back to pay Geralt what he was owed; a drowner had been eating the man’s swans in his private lake, so Geralt had slayed it and left it beside the water as proof earlier that morning, but Jaskier had been a little too enamoured with how swiftly–and gloriously–Geralt had killed the beast.

Geralt’s hands found Jaskier’s ass as the bard crawled up into the Witcher’s personal space, kissing him hard and sliding his arms around Geralt’s neck. It was a nice handful on either side and Geralt growled into the kiss, hauling Jaskier closer to grind their groins together.

“You fit so perfectly into my hands, fuck.”

Jaskier moaned a reedy sound that sang of desperation and demand. “Damned be the master of the house, should he return before we’ve finished. Think we can get in a quick one before he co-”

The sound of horses drawing a carriage had Geralt wrinkling his nose in anger and Jaskier whining low in his throat. They peeled apart from each other and straightened their clothes, now immensely eager to just get paid and leave.

“Better be the prettiest coins we’ve ever laid our eyes upon. Do you know how excruciatingly hard I am right now? Do you?”

Geralt snorted and gave Jaskier’s arm a light slap as the lord rounded the corner of the entryway, a soft purse in hand, jingling and fat with coin. Geralt held his hand out, nodded as it was placed in his palm without so much as a word from the gentleman, and was on his way out the door, leaving Jaskier to splutter a thank you and follow, a blush high on the bards cheeks.