[He thought he needed time to himself, but it feels like it's only clawed at him worse as the days go on. He no longer even finds solace in wine, like he once did after surviving Rience. After living in heartbreak.
Now he lets the Witcher take his weight and allows himself to break apart, his flour dusted arms going around Geralt's bulk. So much can be said of his abilities in comfort, but there is nothing more firm, more grounded in reality, than Geralt's warm body, his muscles, how easily he can hold up a grown man falling to pieces.
And then he builds himself back up. Those memories, if one could call them that, were mere fantasy. The things a man like him might wish for, in his weakest moments. A life that is seemingly too perfect. Unaffected by time, or disease, or misfortune.
Skin to skin, He closes his eyes, inhaling. Jaskier isn't sure how much time has passed (time didn't mean anything then.)] I'm all right. Thank you. That was... woo. Embarrassing.
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Now he lets the Witcher take his weight and allows himself to break apart, his flour dusted arms going around Geralt's bulk. So much can be said of his abilities in comfort, but there is nothing more firm, more grounded in reality, than Geralt's warm body, his muscles, how easily he can hold up a grown man falling to pieces.
And then he builds himself back up. Those memories, if one could call them that, were mere fantasy. The things a man like him might wish for, in his weakest moments. A life that is seemingly too perfect. Unaffected by time, or disease, or misfortune.
Skin to skin, He closes his eyes, inhaling. Jaskier isn't sure how much time has passed (time didn't mean anything then.)] I'm all right. Thank you. That was... woo. Embarrassing.