Jaskier smells like lust again, the change in his scent coming quicker than Geralt would've thought possible without the intervention of a succubus, except that he's known Jaskier for two godsdamned decades. His libido would be impressive for a young man, nevertheless a forty-year-old one, and it's gotten him into plenty of trouble. It's a good thing that Geralt likes the smell on him, the way it gives his scent that spicy-sharp edge. He wouldn't tire of it, even after another few decades. Maybe not ever.
Geralt huffs a laugh next to Jaskier's ear, amused at his confession. He'd already noticed that Jaskier is terribly fond of his voice, though this is the first time that the bard has told him exactly how much. Perhaps it makes sense that the bard is enamored of voices, considering how enamored he is of his own. And there's a certain shift in Jaskier's voice as he talks, this lovely note that sounds like yearning, like wanting. He likes the sound of it, when it's for him. And when he asks like that, how can Geralt refuse, or neglect to give him what he wants in the voice that he's so fond of? The bard likes it when he talks, so he'll talk.
"There's nothing humble about you, bard," he says, squeezing Jaskier's warm thighs. "Were we back in Oxenfurt, I wouldn't have to choose. I'd have all of you in that ridiculous bed and make you late for your own classes."
Fuck, if that werewolf hadn't shown up in Oxenfurt, he would've been able to ruin the bard in that soft bed, give him everything he had ever wanted, indulge all of his fantasies. Or, at least, indulge in as many of them as Jaskier could manage in one night without a rest. The man is forty, after all.
"We're of limited means right now." A shame. But there is one definite selling point about this cabin-- there isn't going to be a single soul for miles. They're alone, as much as any two people can be alone in this world. "But I think I'd like to see the virtues of your hands. Can you do that for me?"
His pretty, deft hands, the ones that pluck at his lute with such dexterity. He brushes his lips over the bard's ear, speaks in that low voice that he loves.
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Geralt huffs a laugh next to Jaskier's ear, amused at his confession. He'd already noticed that Jaskier is terribly fond of his voice, though this is the first time that the bard has told him exactly how much. Perhaps it makes sense that the bard is enamored of voices, considering how enamored he is of his own. And there's a certain shift in Jaskier's voice as he talks, this lovely note that sounds like yearning, like wanting. He likes the sound of it, when it's for him. And when he asks like that, how can Geralt refuse, or neglect to give him what he wants in the voice that he's so fond of? The bard likes it when he talks, so he'll talk.
"There's nothing humble about you, bard," he says, squeezing Jaskier's warm thighs. "Were we back in Oxenfurt, I wouldn't have to choose. I'd have all of you in that ridiculous bed and make you late for your own classes."
Fuck, if that werewolf hadn't shown up in Oxenfurt, he would've been able to ruin the bard in that soft bed, give him everything he had ever wanted, indulge all of his fantasies. Or, at least, indulge in as many of them as Jaskier could manage in one night without a rest. The man is forty, after all.
"We're of limited means right now." A shame. But there is one definite selling point about this cabin-- there isn't going to be a single soul for miles. They're alone, as much as any two people can be alone in this world. "But I think I'd like to see the virtues of your hands. Can you do that for me?"
His pretty, deft hands, the ones that pluck at his lute with such dexterity. He brushes his lips over the bard's ear, speaks in that low voice that he loves.
"Can you play me as well as you play your lute?"