[If you ask him -- and everyone really should ask for him to retrace every moment of this night in lyric, because it may just be his next greatest feat -- it is so perfectly poetic that they should find this energy in a place that looks as if a massacre has taken place. It is the polar opposite of everything that was Sam's get-together: it is loud and pulsating; the air stifling; the heat unnatural, in a way: from bodies, not from the sun. There is no quiet lake to sit by and ponder, though one things remain the same: Jaskier has alcohol in his head and on his breath, even though this is a fair bit more fruity than all of his previous drinks before.
So far, his favorite is pineapple. He's not even really sure what that is.
He meets Geralt's gaze, watching how the lights pulsing changes his white hair faintly blue, then purple, then pink. Hah. A Witcher with pink hair. He cannot even imagine --
Geralt moves, Jaskier's eyes already closing. If he is a master of any dance, it's this one.
The kiss is Geralt's this time, and being the force of it, it makes sense that it is shaped like him. Quiet and without prompting; like a very good Witcher, the kiss is there when one needs it most. It is skilled in as much as it appears effortless. Like killing, he supposes.
It's no surprise to Jaskier that drink and seduction makes such a heady, lyrical cocktail in his head. (Hah! A cocktail! He knows what that is now!)
And speaking of -- the poet will blame his lack of verbal response on those very same cocktails, because when they break it is only long enough for Jaskier to take in what color Geralt's eyes have turned now in the lights (a sort of vague, sunset orange) before he is pulling Geralt back down again, to kiss him with its opposing force: an energy that is hurried, and perhaps needy, but more likely greedy than anything. It is no accident that his tail slips around Geralt's leg with the grace of a snake, exploring a body as his hands are quite busy now.]
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So far, his favorite is pineapple. He's not even really sure what that is.
He meets Geralt's gaze, watching how the lights pulsing changes his white hair faintly blue, then purple, then pink. Hah. A Witcher with pink hair. He cannot even imagine --
Geralt moves, Jaskier's eyes already closing. If he is a master of any dance, it's this one.
The kiss is Geralt's this time, and being the force of it, it makes sense that it is shaped like him. Quiet and without prompting; like a very good Witcher, the kiss is there when one needs it most. It is skilled in as much as it appears effortless. Like killing, he supposes.
It's no surprise to Jaskier that drink and seduction makes such a heady, lyrical cocktail in his head. (Hah! A cocktail! He knows what that is now!)
And speaking of -- the poet will blame his lack of verbal response on those very same cocktails, because when they break it is only long enough for Jaskier to take in what color Geralt's eyes have turned now in the lights (a sort of vague, sunset orange) before he is pulling Geralt back down again, to kiss him with its opposing force: an energy that is hurried, and perhaps needy, but more likely greedy than anything. It is no accident that his tail slips around Geralt's leg with the grace of a snake, exploring a body as his hands are quite busy now.]