[ Maybe quiet is what he's after in the end. Though he can't say Jaskier's legs wrapped around him while they kissed was a poor memory. Not even close.
He hums, letting Jaskier tug on his hair. There is the feather-light brush of Jaskier's mouth, a sharp nip. Bit by bit, he sinks into it, carefully letting go of the tightly wound pieces of himself. Jaskier smells like sage and the oils he uses to polish his lute; it's a scent he can pick out of a crowd with ease, and one he breathes in as he leans forward to kiss him. It grows heated quickly, his arm slipping under Jaskier to hold him steady. The water sloshes around them.
And here it is: what's been building up over the past few weeks. He walked out of that dungeon two months ago and his time there lingers more than he's been willing to admit. Or perhaps it's risen belatedly, after having been forced under the surface all this time: his inability to have any real rest, his constant concern for Jaskier, and then Ciri and Yen afterwards, the simple fact that he'd never gone so long without the strength and senses he's come to rely on. Escaping should've brought relief, but the truth is, he's not been able to feel it. Any notion of safety is far off. They're a long fucking way from home, if that door is even still open.
But here, with one of the very few people he can trust without question, he's allowing himself to feel it at last: a sense of respite, one that's different than the forgetting he has found in the beds of others, different than merely shoving his thoughts aside for a few brief moments. One that lets him lower his guard. He doesn't think about who might be watching around them or what might interrupt. He doesn't concern himself with what trouble the next day, the next hour, will hold. The only thing on his mind is that Jaskier tastes good, feels warm, and he wants more of it. If spurring is the poet's goal, then he's done it. Geralt's hand burrows in the lengthening locks of Jaskier's hair, twisting them around his fingers. ]
no subject
He hums, letting Jaskier tug on his hair. There is the feather-light brush of Jaskier's mouth, a sharp nip. Bit by bit, he sinks into it, carefully letting go of the tightly wound pieces of himself. Jaskier smells like sage and the oils he uses to polish his lute; it's a scent he can pick out of a crowd with ease, and one he breathes in as he leans forward to kiss him. It grows heated quickly, his arm slipping under Jaskier to hold him steady. The water sloshes around them.
And here it is: what's been building up over the past few weeks. He walked out of that dungeon two months ago and his time there lingers more than he's been willing to admit. Or perhaps it's risen belatedly, after having been forced under the surface all this time: his inability to have any real rest, his constant concern for Jaskier, and then Ciri and Yen afterwards, the simple fact that he'd never gone so long without the strength and senses he's come to rely on. Escaping should've brought relief, but the truth is, he's not been able to feel it. Any notion of safety is far off. They're a long fucking way from home, if that door is even still open.
But here, with one of the very few people he can trust without question, he's allowing himself to feel it at last: a sense of respite, one that's different than the forgetting he has found in the beds of others, different than merely shoving his thoughts aside for a few brief moments. One that lets him lower his guard. He doesn't think about who might be watching around them or what might interrupt. He doesn't concern himself with what trouble the next day, the next hour, will hold. The only thing on his mind is that Jaskier tastes good, feels warm, and he wants more of it. If spurring is the poet's goal, then he's done it. Geralt's hand burrows in the lengthening locks of Jaskier's hair, twisting them around his fingers. ]