"Fucking hell," Jaskier breathed there was something he needed to do--some confirmation he required--how did he always get this deep into things with Geralt before he remembered to ask permission? Geralt wanted him to shut up. Geralt always wanted him to shut up, so this wasn't really any different than usual, except now Geralt was grinding his hand into his dick, daring him to do something about it.
He hadn't been this turned on and eager to show someone what-for since he'd been a teenager. Geralt had only been touching him for a minute or two and already he was rising to the moment--yes, being pushed up against a wall and held there had gotten him going a bit, but that wasn't--look--he wasn't on trial, here.
He also wasn't a shrinking violet.
With Geralt looming and being angry, it was easy to forget, but Jaskier was possibly one of the least shy people on the continent. It was a simple fact and one that he recalled in an odd moment of clarity. He'd charged up here because he'd flustered the Witcher--he'd done it before, even! Geralt was certainly a master of that big, growly, scowling animal magnetism he had going, but Jaskier wasn't a damsel--he'd wanted to push the Witcher down onto a bed and worship his cock.
This whole interlude had been his plan, for fuck's sake--true, he hadn't intended to get into a fight before he did it, but that was beside the point.
The point was: Geralt just gave him permission and a challenge all at once.
He could work with that.
Jaskier was shorter than him, smaller than him, but so was the better portion of the continent. Geralt was built like he made it his personal mission to wrestle mountains into submission--there was no actual contending with that. Fine. Jaskier had never been an especially large fellow--he played an instrument and sang for a living for Melitele's sake--but he had a wiry strength. If Geralt didn't want to talk, fine, so be it, they could be pushy and shove-y.
Jaskier planted both hands on the Witcher's chest and pushed him away. (Or he attempted it, his success did rather necessitate the Witcher's willingness to cooperate.) The bed was opposite him--oh, and it was that gloriously comfortable feather mattress--and if Geralt gave in a few steps he'd have the man's knees against it and he could push him over. Jaskier followed as he pressed and leaned in. A kiss on the mouth felt a bit personal after being told they weren't lovers. Explicitly. He settled for dragging mouth and teeth against the Witcher's neck instead, it was easier to reach anyway.
no subject
He hadn't been this turned on and eager to show someone what-for since he'd been a teenager. Geralt had only been touching him for a minute or two and already he was rising to the moment--yes, being pushed up against a wall and held there had gotten him going a bit, but that wasn't--look--he wasn't on trial, here.
He also wasn't a shrinking violet.
With Geralt looming and being angry, it was easy to forget, but Jaskier was possibly one of the least shy people on the continent. It was a simple fact and one that he recalled in an odd moment of clarity. He'd charged up here because he'd flustered the Witcher--he'd done it before, even! Geralt was certainly a master of that big, growly, scowling animal magnetism he had going, but Jaskier wasn't a damsel--he'd wanted to push the Witcher down onto a bed and worship his cock.
This whole interlude had been his plan, for fuck's sake--true, he hadn't intended to get into a fight before he did it, but that was beside the point.
The point was: Geralt just gave him permission and a challenge all at once.
He could work with that.
Jaskier was shorter than him, smaller than him, but so was the better portion of the continent. Geralt was built like he made it his personal mission to wrestle mountains into submission--there was no actual contending with that. Fine. Jaskier had never been an especially large fellow--he played an instrument and sang for a living for Melitele's sake--but he had a wiry strength. If Geralt didn't want to talk, fine, so be it, they could be pushy and shove-y.
Jaskier planted both hands on the Witcher's chest and pushed him away. (Or he attempted it, his success did rather necessitate the Witcher's willingness to cooperate.) The bed was opposite him--oh, and it was that gloriously comfortable feather mattress--and if Geralt gave in a few steps he'd have the man's knees against it and he could push him over. Jaskier followed as he pressed and leaned in. A kiss on the mouth felt a bit personal after being told they weren't lovers. Explicitly. He settled for dragging mouth and teeth against the Witcher's neck instead, it was easier to reach anyway.