[ Ah. So that's where it's going tonight. He did not come here for that, exactly, but he won't say it never crossed his mind. It certainly does not leave his mind now that the taste of it has been introduced into the air, thickening it. Geralt plucks the bottle off the table as he stands. Jaskier is right: it doesn't go empty. He tips it back and it stays perpetually half-full, wine sloshing as he drinks while he follows Jaskier towards his bedroom tour.
The steps spiral upwards again, deep into the emerald leaves. Has Ciri seen it yet? Is he the first? Part of him feels as if he's missed things: between one contract or another, or the projects he's made for himself, he knows he's been burying his head a bit. Something is afoot with the eclipse, the Singularity. He should be concerned and he is, but at the same time, he's. Fucking tired.
Every room is inviting, warm. Sunlight filters through the branches. He traces the running wolves etched into the railings; perhaps when he's less full of wine, he might stop to think about what it really means. For now, all he does is step inside, liquor buzzing through his veins. He's looking at the decorations, but he's looking at Jaskier, too: slender fingers as they gesture, the cant of his hips, his lips. It isn't long before Geralt re-corks the wine and interrupts with a shove that pins Jaskier to the wall. The kiss is hungry, a hint sloppy, and he pulls at the quaint little bow at the back of those silk breeches. ]
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The steps spiral upwards again, deep into the emerald leaves. Has Ciri seen it yet? Is he the first? Part of him feels as if he's missed things: between one contract or another, or the projects he's made for himself, he knows he's been burying his head a bit. Something is afoot with the eclipse, the Singularity. He should be concerned and he is, but at the same time, he's. Fucking tired.
Every room is inviting, warm. Sunlight filters through the branches. He traces the running wolves etched into the railings; perhaps when he's less full of wine, he might stop to think about what it really means. For now, all he does is step inside, liquor buzzing through his veins. He's looking at the decorations, but he's looking at Jaskier, too: slender fingers as they gesture, the cant of his hips, his lips. It isn't long before Geralt re-corks the wine and interrupts with a shove that pins Jaskier to the wall. The kiss is hungry, a hint sloppy, and he pulls at the quaint little bow at the back of those silk breeches. ]