Jaskier hangs off of his arm once they're out of the dining hall, pressing up against him and grinning and smelling like light and flowers and lust. Geralt allows him to do this, even though it probably would be easier for him to just pick him up and carry him to their rooms.
Once they make it through the halls, Geralt unlocks the door and flings it open, dragging the bard inside after him. He slams the door shut again with one hand and then pins Jaskier to it with the other, grabbing a handful of ridiculous silk doublet to manhandle him with. He crowds him, cages him with his bulk-- the only way that Jaskier would probably ever suffer to be caged-- and dips his head to the hollow of his throat, breathing deep. Geralt rumbles low in his chest at the scent of him, all the better now that there aren't a hundred conflicting scents from the dining hall muddying it.
"Fuck," he says, his face pressed against the skin of his throat and teeth scraping against a bruise. "You smell so fucking good, Jask."
Flowers and sweat and satisfaction and want, all the fucking perfume-makers on the Continent couldn't come up with something that smelled better than that.
"If you don't get this thing off," he tugs at the silk doublet, "I'm going to rip it off you."
The warning is a courtesy, mostly because Geralt doesn't want to have to deal with his whining in the morning if he does tear it right off of him. But it's also a threat that he'll gladly follow through with, as the fine fabric wouldn't stand a chance against witcher strength and he'd leave it in tatters on the floor with ease. And with pleasure, too. Since this is a thing that he can acknowledge now, he could be honest with himself and admit that Jaskier's clothes would look far better in shreds on the floor than on his body.
no subject
Once they make it through the halls, Geralt unlocks the door and flings it open, dragging the bard inside after him. He slams the door shut again with one hand and then pins Jaskier to it with the other, grabbing a handful of ridiculous silk doublet to manhandle him with. He crowds him, cages him with his bulk-- the only way that Jaskier would probably ever suffer to be caged-- and dips his head to the hollow of his throat, breathing deep. Geralt rumbles low in his chest at the scent of him, all the better now that there aren't a hundred conflicting scents from the dining hall muddying it.
"Fuck," he says, his face pressed against the skin of his throat and teeth scraping against a bruise. "You smell so fucking good, Jask."
Flowers and sweat and satisfaction and want, all the fucking perfume-makers on the Continent couldn't come up with something that smelled better than that.
"If you don't get this thing off," he tugs at the silk doublet, "I'm going to rip it off you."
The warning is a courtesy, mostly because Geralt doesn't want to have to deal with his whining in the morning if he does tear it right off of him. But it's also a threat that he'll gladly follow through with, as the fine fabric wouldn't stand a chance against witcher strength and he'd leave it in tatters on the floor with ease. And with pleasure, too. Since this is a thing that he can acknowledge now, he could be honest with himself and admit that Jaskier's clothes would look far better in shreds on the floor than on his body.