There isn't a damn thing that's humble about Jaskier, especially not since the success of Toss a Coin.
But he does seem to greatly enjoy Geralt playing along with his little game, telling him little teasing things in his growling voice. And, really, he has no room to talk about liking voices, considering how his scent spikes whenever Geralt drops his own into lower registers. It makes him shiver, and the witcher cocks his head slightly to one side, considering how he might be able to take advantage of this when he does finally get the bard on his back.
Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt's knee-- kind of a down-grade from where it had been before, but his eyes have softened and so have his words. They're still very pretty words, probably prettier ones than he needs to waste on Geralt, meant to comfort him. It's... kind, probably. Jaskier is a gentle kind of man, tries to soothe even when the witcher doesn't need it.
"A distraction is a distraction, and a distracted witcher is a dead one."
But that's neither here nor there. It's bad enough that after a few weeks without a whore or a visit from Yennefer meant that Geralt's brain would wander to salacious thoughts about a certain bard and his vocal range. Worse is spending too much time on how those thoughts might manage to distract him during a hunt.
His mouth twists a little in annoyance at the comment about his trousers. He keeps getting comments like that, both from the women in brothels and, sometimes, normal folk. And, yes, he prefers for his trousers to be well fitted, but that's purely for practical reasons-- excess fabric would impede his movement during combat with unnecessary bulk.
"My trousers aren't that tight."
He takes the offered half-tart, but eats it without a hint of coyness-- it's the same way that he would finish anything that was left of Jaskier's meals on the road. When they were traveling, the bard usually got better food, anyway, especially in regions that weren't quite as taken by his pro-witcher songs. They would usually give the previous night's leftovers to Geralt rather than fresh fare, or, if he was particularly unlucky, something from several days past that was just barely better than rancid.
Oxenfurt, of course, has been accommodating, and Geralt washes down the tart with what's left of his perfectly decent ale.
Geralt stands, then, and takes Jaskier's elbow to lead him off. A few of the people near them notice and grin knowingly, someone off in the distance whistles. Geralt's jaw tightens when he hears it, but he resolutely ignores it.
no subject
But he does seem to greatly enjoy Geralt playing along with his little game, telling him little teasing things in his growling voice. And, really, he has no room to talk about liking voices, considering how his scent spikes whenever Geralt drops his own into lower registers. It makes him shiver, and the witcher cocks his head slightly to one side, considering how he might be able to take advantage of this when he does finally get the bard on his back.
Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt's knee-- kind of a down-grade from where it had been before, but his eyes have softened and so have his words. They're still very pretty words, probably prettier ones than he needs to waste on Geralt, meant to comfort him. It's... kind, probably. Jaskier is a gentle kind of man, tries to soothe even when the witcher doesn't need it.
"A distraction is a distraction, and a distracted witcher is a dead one."
But that's neither here nor there. It's bad enough that after a few weeks without a whore or a visit from Yennefer meant that Geralt's brain would wander to salacious thoughts about a certain bard and his vocal range. Worse is spending too much time on how those thoughts might manage to distract him during a hunt.
His mouth twists a little in annoyance at the comment about his trousers. He keeps getting comments like that, both from the women in brothels and, sometimes, normal folk. And, yes, he prefers for his trousers to be well fitted, but that's purely for practical reasons-- excess fabric would impede his movement during combat with unnecessary bulk.
"My trousers aren't that tight."
He takes the offered half-tart, but eats it without a hint of coyness-- it's the same way that he would finish anything that was left of Jaskier's meals on the road. When they were traveling, the bard usually got better food, anyway, especially in regions that weren't quite as taken by his pro-witcher songs. They would usually give the previous night's leftovers to Geralt rather than fresh fare, or, if he was particularly unlucky, something from several days past that was just barely better than rancid.
Oxenfurt, of course, has been accommodating, and Geralt washes down the tart with what's left of his perfectly decent ale.
Geralt stands, then, and takes Jaskier's elbow to lead him off. A few of the people near them notice and grin knowingly, someone off in the distance whistles. Geralt's jaw tightens when he hears it, but he resolutely ignores it.
"Come on, bard."