#mmmmm i do need to finish the fic that precedes this story too

[kuwdora]

Whats a piece of prose youre really proud of?

Oh! Yes, I have quite a few pieces I'm very proud of but here is one section in particular. I don't always do a lot of talking about my fic on main but I like writing soft romantic Geralt and Jaskier a lot. ---- Geralt wasn’t sure how long he was drifting with the memories before Jaskier slid his arms around him and kissed his nape. Affection swelled in Geralt’s chest and Jaskier’s hands fanned across his sternum. He welcomed the touch immensely, particularly after the long week away in the rain.

Jaskier pressed his cheek against the back of his shoulder, hands sweeping down Geralt’s abdomen. His beard was a scratchy counterpoint to the silk robe that brushed his thighs. 

“Finally run out of words?” Geralt asked with quiet humor; it was his familiar jab, like Jaskier’s incessant need to bait him about the white honey. Usually he asked the question when Jaskier was breathlessly fucked out.

Jaskier kissed Geralt’s shoulder in reply. He turned around and Jaskier swayed, moving like he did when he wanted Geralt to dance with him, albeit in a slower, more fatigue-ridden way. His fingers skimmed along the scars on Geralt’s chest that he’d once sung about, and all those he hadn’t. 

Jaskier’s smile was small—the kind of smile he wore when he was focused and thoughtful—and his brow furrowed, softening the mirth in his eyes. He cupped Geralt’s face and gently kissed him on the chin and the corner of his mouth.

“To think that after all this time, I could still want you like this. Have you like this,” Jaskier said, letting go of Geralt’s face to sweep his hands across his shoulders and back with the reverence he had for the simple, intimate touches. “I could grow to be a thousand years and never tire of this.” 

Jaskier leaned forward and kissed Geralt’s chest. His lips were dry and his beard tickled the divots of scar tissue where he whispered, “All the Spheres spin with envy that I have learned the shape, the taste of this love.”

Geralt exhaled slowly, his mind staggering from the words.

Jaskier was still fully clothed in the rumpled nightshirt and silk robe, wearing those mismatching socks, but he was naked in the poetry of his words, wearing nothing but his years. Geralt’s heart fucking wrenched.

“You can write that one down for me later,” Jaskier said, and that damnably coy smile lit him from the inside.  read more: stories we tell, memories we share, and the words we hold dear, aka the scribe fic, aka the one where geralt strips naked and transcribes jaskier's poetry for him. they're also very old, it's a happily ever after.