"That just sounds as though you like sonnets," he replies. A man writes a sonnet for you, he's fond of you-- if a man writes a dozen sonnets for you, he's fond of sonnets. In this case, it may be a little bit of both, but Geralt would prefer just the fondness, no poetry required. He's not really the type to appreciate it how Jaskier would want it to be appreciated. Or perhaps he would, considering that he'd gladly fuck Jaskier to stop him from reciting poetry.
Geralt grunts when Jaskier's thigh presses against his cock a little harder. His hips twitch almost entirely of their own volition, sending a hot jolt up his spine at the friction, and there's an interesting answering spike in the bard's scent at his reaction. There's lust, of course, Jaskier practically reeks of it, but it's tempered by a warm, fond softness, like Geralt's rutting is an endearing thing.
Jaskier kisses him after he clarifies, and the bard seems satisfied with that answer-- and it is the truth, Geralt is sore after a few days of a witcher's idea of hard labor. And that quick peck is a nice reward for his reply, except that it immediately precedes Jaskier leaving the bed, leaving him bereft of touch. He rumbles low in his throat at the loss, a disgruntled noise, and props himself up a little more comfortably on the pillows, stretched long and languid across the furs as he watches the bard dig out his grooming kit. He does get a nice view when Jaskier bends over, and the low firelight cuts his figure into stark highlights and shadows, like those paintings they hang in Oxenfurt by old masters. Chiaroscuro.
He returns to Geralt's side with chamomile oil, and his sensitive nose can already smell it before the cork is even pulled. One of Geralt's big hands comes to rest on Jaskier's knee, thumb stroking along the curve of it purely for the sake of touching him, something that he can finally do without pretense. His grip tightens when Jaskier's hand makes its way to his clothed cock, a confident touch that makes it twitch in its confines. He breathes slow and watches Jaskier through hooded eyes and wants.
There's appeal to both options that Jaskier presents to him, and Geralt would have been satisfied with either one, especially if the bard had picked. But it's being given to him as a choice, and the witcher suspects that this is part of Jaskier's ongoing campaign to make him express his desires verbally rather than letting them lay dormant or actively repressing them. So he has to choose, and even if he tried to turn it around on him, Geralt doesn't for a moment think that Jaskier wouldn't sit there all night long, stubbornly waiting for him to do so.
"...Undress me," he replies. Just the request in and of itself feels odd-- the passiveness of it, of asking that someone else take care of something that he could easily do himself. He would expect it from Jaskier, could easily picture the bard pillow queening on some luxurious bed and demanding to be indulged. But himself? He's more at home fulfilling demands than making them.
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Geralt grunts when Jaskier's thigh presses against his cock a little harder. His hips twitch almost entirely of their own volition, sending a hot jolt up his spine at the friction, and there's an interesting answering spike in the bard's scent at his reaction. There's lust, of course, Jaskier practically reeks of it, but it's tempered by a warm, fond softness, like Geralt's rutting is an endearing thing.
Jaskier kisses him after he clarifies, and the bard seems satisfied with that answer-- and it is the truth, Geralt is sore after a few days of a witcher's idea of hard labor. And that quick peck is a nice reward for his reply, except that it immediately precedes Jaskier leaving the bed, leaving him bereft of touch. He rumbles low in his throat at the loss, a disgruntled noise, and props himself up a little more comfortably on the pillows, stretched long and languid across the furs as he watches the bard dig out his grooming kit. He does get a nice view when Jaskier bends over, and the low firelight cuts his figure into stark highlights and shadows, like those paintings they hang in Oxenfurt by old masters. Chiaroscuro.
He returns to Geralt's side with chamomile oil, and his sensitive nose can already smell it before the cork is even pulled. One of Geralt's big hands comes to rest on Jaskier's knee, thumb stroking along the curve of it purely for the sake of touching him, something that he can finally do without pretense. His grip tightens when Jaskier's hand makes its way to his clothed cock, a confident touch that makes it twitch in its confines. He breathes slow and watches Jaskier through hooded eyes and wants.
There's appeal to both options that Jaskier presents to him, and Geralt would have been satisfied with either one, especially if the bard had picked. But it's being given to him as a choice, and the witcher suspects that this is part of Jaskier's ongoing campaign to make him express his desires verbally rather than letting them lay dormant or actively repressing them. So he has to choose, and even if he tried to turn it around on him, Geralt doesn't for a moment think that Jaskier wouldn't sit there all night long, stubbornly waiting for him to do so.
"...Undress me," he replies. Just the request in and of itself feels odd-- the passiveness of it, of asking that someone else take care of something that he could easily do himself. He would expect it from Jaskier, could easily picture the bard pillow queening on some luxurious bed and demanding to be indulged. But himself? He's more at home fulfilling demands than making them.