[It's all very lovely they have both forgone the idea they would actually bathe properly. A bit sinful of them, really. Simply waiting to be caught in here, canoodling.
Not a single complaint. (And it would be far from either of their first times, he suspects.)
Much like his arm, he thinks, he can feel Geralt tightening, tightening, tightening -- and at the scrape of his teeth, as Jaskier's hands drop down and move up Geralt's sides, bumping over muscles and scars, the snap. The snap of a muscle, of tension, finally letting itself loose. Untangling. Like this, Geralt releases something he's been holding back.
It doesn't sweep over them and threaten to drown Jaskier in it, not like the dance floor. This is much more manageable, and somehow all the sweeter for it. (He's smart enough to not mention that sentiment. Nothing is quicker to get rid of the Witcher than the expression of some sort of affectionate emotion.)
Jaskier hums his approval, kissing him with a bruising pressure. His hands move down Geralt's ribs, to the front of his belly, down to his thigh where he begins to circle the scar left by the stabbing of a knife. A princess, Geralt told him once.]
It's a good thing I've practiced holding my breath. How long do you think I'll make it?
[He is absolutely not doing that, because he has no interest in choking or drowning. But it's Jaskier. He has to make the joke.
Gods, these are. Thighs. A lot of thigh. He squeezes them, eager as he presses closer. If his arm is set off by certain hand movements, he will be very upset.] Suppose we could bet on it.
no subject
Not a single complaint. (And it would be far from either of their first times, he suspects.)
Much like his arm, he thinks, he can feel Geralt tightening, tightening, tightening -- and at the scrape of his teeth, as Jaskier's hands drop down and move up Geralt's sides, bumping over muscles and scars, the snap. The snap of a muscle, of tension, finally letting itself loose. Untangling. Like this, Geralt releases something he's been holding back.
It doesn't sweep over them and threaten to drown Jaskier in it, not like the dance floor. This is much more manageable, and somehow all the sweeter for it. (He's smart enough to not mention that sentiment. Nothing is quicker to get rid of the Witcher than the expression of some sort of affectionate emotion.)
Jaskier hums his approval, kissing him with a bruising pressure. His hands move down Geralt's ribs, to the front of his belly, down to his thigh where he begins to circle the scar left by the stabbing of a knife. A princess, Geralt told him once.]
It's a good thing I've practiced holding my breath. How long do you think I'll make it?
[He is absolutely not doing that, because he has no interest in choking or drowning. But it's Jaskier. He has to make the joke.
Gods, these are. Thighs. A lot of thigh. He squeezes them, eager as he presses closer. If his arm is set off by certain hand movements, he will be very upset.] Suppose we could bet on it.