"That is the idea," he replies to the bard's cursing, amused by his enthusiastic response. His heart rate had been a tic or two higher from the embarrassment of their discussion, but it jumps the moment that Geralt is down on his knees. Good-- Geralt prefers to have a solid biological indicator of interest. A heart rate is always honest.
Jaskier's pretty musician hands flutter over his head like restless birds; gentle little touches, stroking his hair and pushing a few errant strands out of his face before moving down to his cheeks, his jaw. His thumb pushes against Geralt's lips and he keeps his mouth soft, letting the bard do as he pleased.
There's some bullshit that he says while Geralt is preoccupied with the burgeoning scent of arousal coming from the bard-- his usual lines, stupid things about beauty that Geralt is sure that he's heard him say to any number of barmaids and farmer's daughters. It must be practically muscle-memory for him by now, to spout off some romantic drivel to whoever has gone down on their knees for him, even though it's not necessary for a a witcher like Geralt. He would go down on his knees for him regardless of what words are said, if that's what pleases him.
"Silence is a skill that must be practiced," he says, reaching for the buttons on Jaskier's trousers. They are more easily undone than the fiddly ones at Jaskier's throat. "We have an opportunity--"
He is interrupted by a knock at the door, and just gets to his feet in time for it to open. Chireadan pokes his head in, and his gaze falls on Jaskier, sitting on the bed with his face flushed and trousers unbuttoned, and then to Geralt, standing before him with his face very carefully neutral.
"Sorry to interrupt," the elf says, "I wanted to catch you before you were ready for bed. There's, ah, there are a few nekkers that are wandering a bit close to the stables, and I was hoping you might chase them off before they bother the horses?"
Nekkers. Of fucking course, there are more monsters to deal with, right when he tries to move past fucking kissing with the bard. He would think that he's cursed, except that no curse is this fucking stupid.
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Jaskier's pretty musician hands flutter over his head like restless birds; gentle little touches, stroking his hair and pushing a few errant strands out of his face before moving down to his cheeks, his jaw. His thumb pushes against Geralt's lips and he keeps his mouth soft, letting the bard do as he pleased.
There's some bullshit that he says while Geralt is preoccupied with the burgeoning scent of arousal coming from the bard-- his usual lines, stupid things about beauty that Geralt is sure that he's heard him say to any number of barmaids and farmer's daughters. It must be practically muscle-memory for him by now, to spout off some romantic drivel to whoever has gone down on their knees for him, even though it's not necessary for a a witcher like Geralt. He would go down on his knees for him regardless of what words are said, if that's what pleases him.
"Silence is a skill that must be practiced," he says, reaching for the buttons on Jaskier's trousers. They are more easily undone than the fiddly ones at Jaskier's throat. "We have an opportunity--"
He is interrupted by a knock at the door, and just gets to his feet in time for it to open. Chireadan pokes his head in, and his gaze falls on Jaskier, sitting on the bed with his face flushed and trousers unbuttoned, and then to Geralt, standing before him with his face very carefully neutral.
"Sorry to interrupt," the elf says, "I wanted to catch you before you were ready for bed. There's, ah, there are a few nekkers that are wandering a bit close to the stables, and I was hoping you might chase them off before they bother the horses?"
Nekkers. Of fucking course, there are more monsters to deal with, right when he tries to move past fucking kissing with the bard. He would think that he's cursed, except that no curse is this fucking stupid.
"Fine. I'll look into it."