One of Jaskier's arms wraps around his chest and the other lands on his neck, ghosting over his skin and hair as he rumbles out a long, slow sigh. There's a hunger in his skin for this, these gentle hands that roam wherever they please, and he doesn't want him to stop. Maybe doesn't want him to ever stop. Confident that the bard has no desire to escape from his grasp, Geralt shifts his hands from Jaskier's hips to around his back, pulling him in until the bard is a long line of warmth along his front. Sweetness seeps back into his scent and the witcher wants to drown in it, breathe him in so deep that he'll always be in his lungs.
Jaskier remembers Vizima, but of course he would-- he had a rightfully earned victory over his rival troubadour, even if the man later tried to soften the blow to his reputation by spreading rumors that Jaskier had cheated. It didn't matter, though, not when Jaskier also placed highly in the competition later that week, returning north with a full purse and enough stories to talk Geralt's ear off for days. By the time they met again, Geralt had forced that greedy wanting down until it was a bare simmer in the back of his mind. After this, he doesn't know if he can do it again; the only beast that he can't conquer.
The bard pieces together what happened, though, with Geralt's meager words and his general pattern of behavior. So much for those songs that Jaskier wrote about him, calling him noble and brave-- the brave witcher, running away from his his own damned emotions because he saw a bard smile from across the room. If only Vesemir could see him now, see that all of his training and tutelage had been unable to withstand prolonged contact with this one man, that Geralt, for all his extra mutagens and experimentation, is weak.
Geralt hums in vague affirmation of Jaskier's suspicions as to why he was difficult to locate; he had tried to keep himself busy with contracts in the north until he felt stable again, in control. Any job had been fine, from simple drowners to werewolves to a katakan up near Hengfors. That last one had been bad-- Geralt left that encounter with two scarred puncture marks near his inner elbow where it had bitten him.
The witcher would have preferred to keep his face where it is, but Jaskier's hands move to cup his jaw and he lets him move his head as he pleases. The bard's eyes are blue, like cornflowers, and his gaze is so soft and fond that it makes that thing choke up in Geralt's chest again, the same thing that made him flee Vizima.
Jaskier's lips are just as soft and tender as his gaze against Geralt's, and, gods old and new, if this is how he kissed all those barmaids and courtiers, than he understands why they went so willingly with Jaskier to dark corners. A sound wrenches its way out of his throat that he barely recognizes, but it's low and broken as though Jaskier had killed him rather than kissed. Like he'd gutted him where he stands. Geralt pulls back just a fraction, only enough to speak and breathe each others' air.
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Jaskier remembers Vizima, but of course he would-- he had a rightfully earned victory over his rival troubadour, even if the man later tried to soften the blow to his reputation by spreading rumors that Jaskier had cheated. It didn't matter, though, not when Jaskier also placed highly in the competition later that week, returning north with a full purse and enough stories to talk Geralt's ear off for days. By the time they met again, Geralt had forced that greedy wanting down until it was a bare simmer in the back of his mind. After this, he doesn't know if he can do it again; the only beast that he can't conquer.
The bard pieces together what happened, though, with Geralt's meager words and his general pattern of behavior. So much for those songs that Jaskier wrote about him, calling him noble and brave-- the brave witcher, running away from his his own damned emotions because he saw a bard smile from across the room. If only Vesemir could see him now, see that all of his training and tutelage had been unable to withstand prolonged contact with this one man, that Geralt, for all his extra mutagens and experimentation, is weak.
Geralt hums in vague affirmation of Jaskier's suspicions as to why he was difficult to locate; he had tried to keep himself busy with contracts in the north until he felt stable again, in control. Any job had been fine, from simple drowners to werewolves to a katakan up near Hengfors. That last one had been bad-- Geralt left that encounter with two scarred puncture marks near his inner elbow where it had bitten him.
The witcher would have preferred to keep his face where it is, but Jaskier's hands move to cup his jaw and he lets him move his head as he pleases. The bard's eyes are blue, like cornflowers, and his gaze is so soft and fond that it makes that thing choke up in Geralt's chest again, the same thing that made him flee Vizima.
Jaskier's lips are just as soft and tender as his gaze against Geralt's, and, gods old and new, if this is how he kissed all those barmaids and courtiers, than he understands why they went so willingly with Jaskier to dark corners. A sound wrenches its way out of his throat that he barely recognizes, but it's low and broken as though Jaskier had killed him rather than kissed. Like he'd gutted him where he stands. Geralt pulls back just a fraction, only enough to speak and breathe each others' air.
"Jask."