Grateful Dead. That's... dad music. It's not that Jaskier minds it (it's in his collection for a reason), but it does make him grin for a different reason, not related to personal music taste. It's things like this that remind Jaskier how adorable and sweet Geralt can be. Does Ciri hate the music her dad listens to, Jaskier has to wonder. And is--
...is that Geralt's butt?
Jaskier freezes in the middle of the kitchen with the kettle in his hands, staring at the crack... of the door. And okay, another crack too. Because it's round and perky and peaches wish they were that butt, holy shit. Sadly, it's over pretty quickly, and Jaskier has to remind himself that's a good thing. Which is hard as fuck, because Grateful Dead isn't exactly helping.
♪ Let me in baby I don't know what you got / But you better take it easy 'cause this place is hot / And I'm so glad you made it, so glad you made it / You got to gimme some lovin', gimme gimme some lovin' ♪
He sings along as he makes his tea, trying to distract his mind from the image it just acquired. Has he been a creep? This doesn't count, right? Just an accident with an open door. Right. Absolutely. No creeps here. This is fine! Totally fine. ...but better face away from the bathroom while he does his thing. Just in case.
That means he doesn't see Geralt when he returns to the living room at first, but he does laugh pretty hard at the question.
"The answer is yes. You don't really think I've ever been on a rugby team, do you? Or any other sport, for that matter." He shakes his head, the tone of his voice indicating how ridiculous the mere idea is. "Yes, I went to Oxford. And yes, I stole that shirt. The benefits of flirting with a handsome- cock."
The spoon in his hands is dropped to the floor as soon as he turns around and sees Geralt in the improvised ensemble. There's no accident to be blamed this time, he's definitely staring as the creep he is. But how the hell can he not? He dares anyone not to stare when Geralt is making a fucking rugby shirt, worn by the buffiest blokes in the entire university, look tight! His boobs are about to pop the buttons off any second now, and Jaskier is dying to bury his face in them and use them as a pillow. He's always known Geralt had nice, thick thighs, but the yoga pants show them off even better. And then there's the... the...
The dick.
The big dick.
Big, long, thick, mighty. Jaskier wants it in his ass. And his mouth. Any area Geralt is willing to put it into, really. Gosh, is his mouth dry? This is ridiculous. He steps back, trying to regain control of his mind and body, prevent his blood from going south. And he manages it... when he steps on the spoon.
"Ouch! Bollocks." Cursing under his breath, he hurries to pick up the spoon, which is mainly an excuse to crouch, hide his flushed face and take a deep breath. This man is going to be the death of him, he swears. This is it, this is how he's going to die, from the worst case of blue balls in the world.
"Where was I?" He asks with a nervous laugh as he resurfaces to stir his tea with a little more energy than necessary - it's almost a teashake by now. "Yeah, right, I went to Oxford University, music program. Did you go to college? Great music choice, by the way, I love me some good ol' rock. Oh, do you want me to drop your clothes in the washer? It's the least I could do."
He's rambling, he knows, buying time before returning to Geralt's side and facing that bulge from a closer angle. At least it's not cat on the stove, excuse he gave the time Mr Stael caught him and Virginia in his tennis court...
no subject
...is that Geralt's butt?
Jaskier freezes in the middle of the kitchen with the kettle in his hands, staring at the crack... of the door. And okay, another crack too. Because it's round and perky and peaches wish they were that butt, holy shit. Sadly, it's over pretty quickly, and Jaskier has to remind himself that's a good thing. Which is hard as fuck, because Grateful Dead isn't exactly helping.
♪ Let me in baby I don't know what you got / But you better take it easy 'cause this place is hot / And I'm so glad you made it, so glad you made it / You got to gimme some lovin', gimme gimme some lovin' ♪
He sings along as he makes his tea, trying to distract his mind from the image it just acquired. Has he been a creep? This doesn't count, right? Just an accident with an open door. Right. Absolutely. No creeps here. This is fine! Totally fine. ...but better face away from the bathroom while he does his thing. Just in case.
That means he doesn't see Geralt when he returns to the living room at first, but he does laugh pretty hard at the question.
"The answer is yes. You don't really think I've ever been on a rugby team, do you? Or any other sport, for that matter." He shakes his head, the tone of his voice indicating how ridiculous the mere idea is. "Yes, I went to Oxford. And yes, I stole that shirt. The benefits of flirting with a handsome- cock."
The spoon in his hands is dropped to the floor as soon as he turns around and sees Geralt in the improvised ensemble. There's no accident to be blamed this time, he's definitely staring as the creep he is. But how the hell can he not? He dares anyone not to stare when Geralt is making a fucking rugby shirt, worn by the buffiest blokes in the entire university, look tight! His boobs are about to pop the buttons off any second now, and Jaskier is dying to bury his face in them and use them as a pillow. He's always known Geralt had nice, thick thighs, but the yoga pants show them off even better. And then there's the... the...
The dick.
The big dick.
Big, long, thick, mighty. Jaskier wants it in his ass. And his mouth. Any area Geralt is willing to put it into, really. Gosh, is his mouth dry? This is ridiculous. He steps back, trying to regain control of his mind and body, prevent his blood from going south. And he manages it... when he steps on the spoon.
"Ouch! Bollocks." Cursing under his breath, he hurries to pick up the spoon, which is mainly an excuse to crouch, hide his flushed face and take a deep breath. This man is going to be the death of him, he swears. This is it, this is how he's going to die, from the worst case of blue balls in the world.
"Where was I?" He asks with a nervous laugh as he resurfaces to stir his tea with a little more energy than necessary - it's almost a teashake by now. "Yeah, right, I went to Oxford University, music program. Did you go to college? Great music choice, by the way, I love me some good ol' rock. Oh, do you want me to drop your clothes in the washer? It's the least I could do."
He's rambling, he knows, buying time before returning to Geralt's side and facing that bulge from a closer angle. At least it's not cat on the stove, excuse he gave the time Mr Stael caught him and Virginia in his tennis court...