Geralt hums, pleased at the array of kisses that Jaskier drops along his jaw and neck. If the bard was happily surprised that his witcher allowed so much physical affection, it would overjoy him to know that he could’ve gotten away with so much more, that Geralt would have gladly pulled him so close that there was no space between them. Or perhaps he’d be upset that Geralt isn’t speaking all of his desires— but give him time. He’s like a man set before a feast that he’d always been denied, and now has been told he can touch. There’s too much to choose.
“You’ve written so much poetry about my anatomy, does the sight of my third sword no longer move you?”
Teasing, of course— though he says it with his usual measured deadpan. It’s hard to maintain that deadpan, though, when Jaskier’s thigh slips between his own and pressed up against that third sword. He rocks his hips against it to get a little friction, which would be all the sweeter if he was fully nude. He’s tempted to divest himself of his smalls, but... it would be far preferable if the bard did it for him.
He grunts at the poke to his side. Geralt isn’t ticklish— blame the mutagens for that— but the sudden jab surprises a noise out of him.
“It’s nothing,” he says at first. Jaskier has been very insistent about clarity, though, demanding that Geralt explain things even when he doesn’t think that more words are required. “The western wall is badly damaged. It’s hard work.”
And hard work makes for a sore witcher. There’s nothing wrong with anything that Jaskier’s done; in fact, on any other day, he would’ve appreciated the touch. Still would appreciate it, if there’s more oil and and rubbing involved.
no subject
“You’ve written so much poetry about my anatomy, does the sight of my third sword no longer move you?”
Teasing, of course— though he says it with his usual measured deadpan. It’s hard to maintain that deadpan, though, when Jaskier’s thigh slips between his own and pressed up against that third sword. He rocks his hips against it to get a little friction, which would be all the sweeter if he was fully nude. He’s tempted to divest himself of his smalls, but... it would be far preferable if the bard did it for him.
He grunts at the poke to his side. Geralt isn’t ticklish— blame the mutagens for that— but the sudden jab surprises a noise out of him.
“It’s nothing,” he says at first. Jaskier has been very insistent about clarity, though, demanding that Geralt explain things even when he doesn’t think that more words are required. “The western wall is badly damaged. It’s hard work.”
And hard work makes for a sore witcher. There’s nothing wrong with anything that Jaskier’s done; in fact, on any other day, he would’ve appreciated the touch. Still would appreciate it, if there’s more oil and and rubbing involved.