[ The buck of Jaskier's hips elicits a strangled grunt from Geralt, and it's an interesting challenge, seeing what interesting noises he can draw out of the terse, often-monosyllabic witcher. Whores have sometimes been quietly disappointed at the fact, at how they can't wring anything out of him: he's a fierce lover but completely silent, and utterly disinterested once they're done.
This, though, promises to be a little different. Jaskier can feel Geralt's stomach tighten against his touch, the muscles rippling. Geralt's own hands drift down, settle on Jaskier's ass, squeeze firmly as the bard shifts his weight again. ]
You must be doing something right, considering the shit you've landed us in over the years from people's wives.
[ When the bard's voice softens, though, he — all of a sudden — can't quite find it in him to maintain that challenging bite in his own voice. Instead, Geralt sizes up the bard, his yellow eyes staring up. After a pause, he nods. Something in his face shifts, though few besides Jaskier would have been able to notice. ]
[ Making Geralt communicate and talk to him has always been exciting for no other reason than it isn't easy and it takes effort. Even then, Jaskier won't be upset or offended if Geralt is still not very vocal during sex, it's the man's nature and the bard can only do so much to bring him out of his shell. Focusing on the present, Jaskier bites back a moan when big hand settle in his ass, arching his back to lean into the touch. ]
Sometimes the husbands too. [ The younger man chuckles, shameless. He has kept that sort of affairs more private, proving that he does have a degree of decency, because some common folks can be really narrow-minded and Jaskier has no wish to be stoned to death.
Now, his hand gives Geralt's chest another squeeze and then retreats so he can quickly unlace his doublet and drop it to the floor along with his embroidered shirt. His skin is creamy and unmarred save from a few small scars scattered here and there from those times Jaskier got in trouble or couldn't get away from a monster fast enough. ]
Good. [ Leaning in, he presses their lips together, first softly then pushes against Geralt's tongue, plays with it and his lips, kisses along his face. He starts to suck a mark under Geralt's chin where jawline meets neck and lets his hands wander down again, tugging at the buttons of Geralt's trousers. Now that they're started, he's practically vibrating with energy even if he told Geralt that he plans to take his sweet time with things. ]
Lie back for me? Let's get you out of these, they're so tight I'm surprised you can feel your legs. Not that I'm complaining, it's always an experience to see you run and fight disgusting monsters in these pants.
[ Geralt watches Jaskier as he undresses, with a hunger glinting in the witcher's yellow eyes. This is such a different context than when they've caught glimpses of each other naked before, just in the natural process of their adventuring together: shivering in a river, a flash of bare skin and ass, getting dressed quickly in the mornings. Geralt is terrifically good at compartmentalisation; hadn't fully conceptualised Jaskier as someone he could desire and be desired by in return, until now, until the scales had suddenly tipped with the added weight of Jaskier's flirting and they'd both realised, ah, alright. This is an option.
The bard's smooth skin is a sign of the comparatively safer life he's lived; his fingertips are calloused from strumming a lyre, not from gripping a sword. Geralt's own hardworn fingers trace the lines of those few scars, which are more meaningful, in a way, for how much rarer they are on the man's body. The prostitutes always make a show of asking Geralt about his own scars, fawning for their stories, and he's bored with it.
Not so, here. ]
Leather is sturdy, [ he points out, but there's a burr of humour in his voice. He's aware the trousers are ridiculously tight. Surprisingly obliging, he leans back and raises his hips off the cot to aid Jaskier in unlacing them. Then, bemused: ]
Does this mean you've been checking out my arse when I've been running around protecting us from being eaten alive?
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givingexposition) wrote2020-01-03 11:55 pm
no subject
[ The buck of Jaskier's hips elicits a strangled grunt from Geralt, and it's an interesting challenge, seeing what interesting noises he can draw out of the terse, often-monosyllabic witcher. Whores have sometimes been quietly disappointed at the fact, at how they can't wring anything out of him: he's a fierce lover but completely silent, and utterly disinterested once they're done.
This, though, promises to be a little different. Jaskier can feel Geralt's stomach tighten against his touch, the muscles rippling. Geralt's own hands drift down, settle on Jaskier's ass, squeeze firmly as the bard shifts his weight again. ]
You must be doing something right, considering the shit you've landed us in over the years from people's wives.
[ When the bard's voice softens, though, he — all of a sudden — can't quite find it in him to maintain that challenging bite in his own voice. Instead, Geralt sizes up the bard, his yellow eyes staring up. After a pause, he nods. Something in his face shifts, though few besides Jaskier would have been able to notice. ]
Alright.
no subject
Sometimes the husbands too. [ The younger man chuckles, shameless. He has kept that sort of affairs more private, proving that he does have a degree of decency, because some common folks can be really narrow-minded and Jaskier has no wish to be stoned to death.
Now, his hand gives Geralt's chest another squeeze and then retreats so he can quickly unlace his doublet and drop it to the floor along with his embroidered shirt. His skin is creamy and unmarred save from a few small scars scattered here and there from those times Jaskier got in trouble or couldn't get away from a monster fast enough. ]
Good. [ Leaning in, he presses their lips together, first softly then pushes against Geralt's tongue, plays with it and his lips, kisses along his face. He starts to suck a mark under Geralt's chin where jawline meets neck and lets his hands wander down again, tugging at the buttons of Geralt's trousers. Now that they're started, he's practically vibrating with energy even if he told Geralt that he plans to take his sweet time with things. ]
Lie back for me? Let's get you out of these, they're so tight I'm surprised you can feel your legs. Not that I'm complaining, it's always an experience to see you run and fight disgusting monsters in these pants.
I'M SLOW AF SORRY
The bard's smooth skin is a sign of the comparatively safer life he's lived; his fingertips are calloused from strumming a lyre, not from gripping a sword. Geralt's own hardworn fingers trace the lines of those few scars, which are more meaningful, in a way, for how much rarer they are on the man's body. The prostitutes always make a show of asking Geralt about his own scars, fawning for their stories, and he's bored with it.
Not so, here. ]
Leather is sturdy, [ he points out, but there's a burr of humour in his voice. He's aware the trousers are ridiculously tight. Surprisingly obliging, he leans back and raises his hips off the cot to aid Jaskier in unlacing them. Then, bemused: ]
Does this mean you've been checking out my arse when I've been running around protecting us from being eaten alive?