Indeed, Jaskier is busying himself by inspecting his surroundings, which means he completely misses on Geralt taking off some clothes as well. Probably for the best, he's already having enough of a hard time.
So Geralt had been lying, the bastard! Jaskier wants to huff... but a gasp escapes his lip instead when that a strong yet kind hand touches the nape of his neck. When did Geralt get behind him? How can a man this big be so sneaky? Fuck, his fingers are long and gentle and they're pushing through his hair now - Jaskier swears he could bloody swoon right now.
And if he pushes his head back against that hand, well. Totally an accident. Really.
"Y-you arse." Ah, his voice has come out a little too squeaky, hasn't it? Good lord, this is almost pathetic. He takes a deep breath and tries again, ignoring how fast his heart is beating and how it echoes in his own ears. "Don't play innocent with me, this is the second time you answer with a technicality just to avoid my questions. If you don't want to call it lying then call it bloody cheating."
He knows because he's a word-spinner and he used to pull the same shit on his parents. Not so fun when someone else pulls it on you, mmh, Jaskier?
One would think holding still should be a hard task for Jaskier - and usually it is, ball of energy and all. But it isn't so difficult this time, because he can feel Geralt's fingers on his ear and his body can only freeze as a shiver runs down his spine. His eyes are shut tight and Jaskier tries to think about not erotic things to distract himself from Geralt's hand on him and Geralt's warm breath on the back of his head and Geralt's body being so close and--
Fuck. Valdo Marx in a thong. Sundays spent in church. Spoiled milk. Nasty bugs, like the one Geralt is---
Oh for fuck's sake. This isn't working! It's the silence, it's gotta be. He hates silence, and it makes this moment worse by making it an Actual Moment (TM). He needs a topic of conversation asap. Where were they? Ah, yes. Literature.
"Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter," he recites Oscar Wilde as he realizes his chest is flushed now. Dammit, hopefully Geralt doesn't notice. "Is that lovely gothic section yours or your daughter's?"
Do they have books in common? Now that would be as unexpected as the excellent decoration.
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So Geralt had been lying, the bastard! Jaskier wants to huff... but a gasp escapes his lip instead when that a strong yet kind hand touches the nape of his neck. When did Geralt get behind him? How can a man this big be so sneaky? Fuck, his fingers are long and gentle and they're pushing through his hair now - Jaskier swears he could bloody swoon right now.
And if he pushes his head back against that hand, well. Totally an accident. Really.
"Y-you arse." Ah, his voice has come out a little too squeaky, hasn't it? Good lord, this is almost pathetic. He takes a deep breath and tries again, ignoring how fast his heart is beating and how it echoes in his own ears. "Don't play innocent with me, this is the second time you answer with a technicality just to avoid my questions. If you don't want to call it lying then call it bloody cheating."
He knows because he's a word-spinner and he used to pull the same shit on his parents. Not so fun when someone else pulls it on you, mmh, Jaskier?
One would think holding still should be a hard task for Jaskier - and usually it is, ball of energy and all. But it isn't so difficult this time, because he can feel Geralt's fingers on his ear and his body can only freeze as a shiver runs down his spine. His eyes are shut tight and Jaskier tries to think about not erotic things to distract himself from Geralt's hand on him and Geralt's warm breath on the back of his head and Geralt's body being so close and--
Fuck. Valdo Marx in a thong. Sundays spent in church. Spoiled milk. Nasty bugs, like the one Geralt is---
Oh for fuck's sake. This isn't working! It's the silence, it's gotta be. He hates silence, and it makes this moment worse by making it an Actual Moment (TM). He needs a topic of conversation asap. Where were they? Ah, yes. Literature.
"Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter," he recites Oscar Wilde as he realizes his chest is flushed now. Dammit, hopefully Geralt doesn't notice. "Is that lovely gothic section yours or your daughter's?"
Do they have books in common? Now that would be as unexpected as the excellent decoration.