[He may not need to say it -- there's very little between them that has needed to be said for years, Geralt's apology not withstanding -- but he also wishes for his intentions to not be mishandled, misunderstood. There is so very little Jaskier plays close to the vest, but this? This is one. There is no need to have Ciri bear any more pain. He will deal with the consequences of his choice as Geralt often does his: in silence.
He can still play. That's what matters, at any rate.
And being alive. Obviously.
Jaskier moves as if he may pull away, but stops at the last moment. Geralt's thumb pressing into his skin raises goosebumps on his arm; at first in pleasure, and then, with a sharp inhale, in pain. An acute pain centered directly under the pressure of his grip, tightening and tightening until he's ready to jerk away -- and then, with an inaudible snap he can feel in his scalp, whatever has tangled so tightly in his arm (a tendon? An artery?) rights itself. It is not so different from the knotting his shoulders would receive after long days and nights of carrying his lute, but this relief is even more than the back massages he would receive in Toussaint on his richest days.
Of course he should have gone to his friend with this pain. Geralt has plenty of scars of his own. Yet this was the one thing he meant to keep to himself, even if he should have known the attempt would be foolhardy.
He meets Geralt's eyes. Like Yennefer, his fingers follow the new, curious scar on the bard. But where her touch was feather-light until she used it to control him (and how thoroughly she had controlled him, in the end), Geralt's is only meant to relieve.
Certainly it would raise certain questions in some circles, that Jaskier has now slept with his best friend's ex-lover. It is the sort of material used in some of the baudiest ballads. It isn't that he feels guilty over it, either. Yennefer was the one who seduced him (and he is very aware, especially in retrospect, that is exactly what happened), but he allowed it to happen. And far be it for any preestablished relationship to stop him from sleeping with who he wills, as long as it is fun and consensual and he is likely to escape a window with his cock still attached.
He wouldn't say it was fun.
Unfortunately, he would also do it again.
Jaskier sweeps those thoughts out impatiently, in order to leave a spot for what is currently going on now. For he does not wish to be elsewhere but here, with his friend. Yennefer, and the complications she brings with her, can wait. (He is very thankful that the smell of her does not translate to this world.)]
Like a weed, I imagine you want to say. Like I did with you.
[Except his grip on the Witcher was far more constricting; he had not given Geralt the time to abandon him. Not when he had seen such ripe opportunity in traveling with him.
Jaskier moves closer, until their legs press together. He doesn't pull his arm out of Geralt's grip, either.] I know, I know. You will never admit it. And yet I so enjoy the moments of fondness you show, especially when you least mean to.
[Like his exasperation. Exasperated or not, Geralt had sought him out specifically. For company, maybe for a fuck. It doesn't matter. What matters is he did seek Jaskier out, and they are both here, and seeking him out is enough to show that fondness.
Moreso that he suspects Geralt did not initially mean to bring him to a bathhouse, of all places, but so decided it when he sussed out the bard's pain so immediately. It is not a hard guess.
He reaches out, pulling a wet strand of hair from Geralt's cheek to replace it with his hand. Far sweeter than last time, when drink and drugs fueled his desires. Sober, however, they do not burn any quieter.] There it is. That look of fondness. Mixed with what I think is a desire to choke me so I cannot speak anymore.
no subject
He can still play. That's what matters, at any rate.
And being alive. Obviously.
Jaskier moves as if he may pull away, but stops at the last moment. Geralt's thumb pressing into his skin raises goosebumps on his arm; at first in pleasure, and then, with a sharp inhale, in pain. An acute pain centered directly under the pressure of his grip, tightening and tightening until he's ready to jerk away -- and then, with an inaudible snap he can feel in his scalp, whatever has tangled so tightly in his arm (a tendon? An artery?) rights itself. It is not so different from the knotting his shoulders would receive after long days and nights of carrying his lute, but this relief is even more than the back massages he would receive in Toussaint on his richest days.
Of course he should have gone to his friend with this pain. Geralt has plenty of scars of his own. Yet this was the one thing he meant to keep to himself, even if he should have known the attempt would be foolhardy.
He meets Geralt's eyes. Like Yennefer, his fingers follow the new, curious scar on the bard. But where her touch was feather-light until she used it to control him (and how thoroughly she had controlled him, in the end), Geralt's is only meant to relieve.
Certainly it would raise certain questions in some circles, that Jaskier has now slept with his best friend's ex-lover. It is the sort of material used in some of the baudiest ballads. It isn't that he feels guilty over it, either. Yennefer was the one who seduced him (and he is very aware, especially in retrospect, that is exactly what happened), but he allowed it to happen. And far be it for any preestablished relationship to stop him from sleeping with who he wills, as long as it is fun and consensual and he is likely to escape a window with his cock still attached.
He wouldn't say it was fun.
Unfortunately, he would also do it again.
Jaskier sweeps those thoughts out impatiently, in order to leave a spot for what is currently going on now. For he does not wish to be elsewhere but here, with his friend. Yennefer, and the complications she brings with her, can wait. (He is very thankful that the smell of her does not translate to this world.)]
Like a weed, I imagine you want to say. Like I did with you.
[Except his grip on the Witcher was far more constricting; he had not given Geralt the time to abandon him. Not when he had seen such ripe opportunity in traveling with him.
Jaskier moves closer, until their legs press together. He doesn't pull his arm out of Geralt's grip, either.] I know, I know. You will never admit it. And yet I so enjoy the moments of fondness you show, especially when you least mean to.
[Like his exasperation. Exasperated or not, Geralt had sought him out specifically. For company, maybe for a fuck. It doesn't matter. What matters is he did seek Jaskier out, and they are both here, and seeking him out is enough to show that fondness.
Moreso that he suspects Geralt did not initially mean to bring him to a bathhouse, of all places, but so decided it when he sussed out the bard's pain so immediately. It is not a hard guess.
He reaches out, pulling a wet strand of hair from Geralt's cheek to replace it with his hand. Far sweeter than last time, when drink and drugs fueled his desires. Sober, however, they do not burn any quieter.] There it is. That look of fondness. Mixed with what I think is a desire to choke me so I cannot speak anymore.