[It is far from the first time Jaskier has ever admired Geralt’s body. There is so much to admire, and so much he knows well, even if he has done little more than bathe it — when Geralt is too hurt or sore to do it himself, or too covered in gore that Jaskier knew alone he would never cleanse it all. But these scars, he knows. These stories he’s pulled from Geralt over the years, or the chapters where Jaskier himself was there to witness their making. These permanent etchings into Geralt’s skin that he has sang of. The vampiress. The kikimore. One of the newest, from the bite on his leg. The striga, the princess —
Jaskier sheds his remaining clothes and steps into the water, a sigh of relief pulled easily from him.
He doesn’t mean to flinch at the pull; it’s more a bracing for something, a new ache or pain. Unlike in the Horizon, the persistent ache in it cannot be magicked away. But the way Geralt’s thumb slides along its ridges (much in the way he has often fantasized himself tracing Geralt’s) elicits a much sharper, heated breath.
He sinks deeper into the water.]
I didn’t imagine it would feel so tight. [He doesn’t move his arm out of Geralt’s grip. In fact, he stays quite close. He glances at Geralt’s face, blue eyes sharp through his hair where it has grown quite long in their time here.] Don’t tell her. I don’t want her to know it’s… it’s affected my playing.
[Of course Geralt knows. Almost as soon as he realized it himself. Or… at least, as soon as he’d accepted it.]
no subject
[It is far from the first time Jaskier has ever admired Geralt’s body. There is so much to admire, and so much he knows well, even if he has done little more than bathe it — when Geralt is too hurt or sore to do it himself, or too covered in gore that Jaskier knew alone he would never cleanse it all. But these scars, he knows. These stories he’s pulled from Geralt over the years, or the chapters where Jaskier himself was there to witness their making. These permanent etchings into Geralt’s skin that he has sang of. The vampiress. The kikimore. One of the newest, from the bite on his leg. The striga, the princess —
Jaskier sheds his remaining clothes and steps into the water, a sigh of relief pulled easily from him.
He doesn’t mean to flinch at the pull; it’s more a bracing for something, a new ache or pain. Unlike in the Horizon, the persistent ache in it cannot be magicked away. But the way Geralt’s thumb slides along its ridges (much in the way he has often fantasized himself tracing Geralt’s) elicits a much sharper, heated breath.
He sinks deeper into the water.]
I didn’t imagine it would feel so tight. [He doesn’t move his arm out of Geralt’s grip. In fact, he stays quite close. He glances at Geralt’s face, blue eyes sharp through his hair where it has grown quite long in their time here.] Don’t tell her. I don’t want her to know it’s… it’s affected my playing.
[Of course Geralt knows. Almost as soon as he realized it himself. Or… at least, as soon as he’d accepted it.]