[He already loves the sound of that actually. He takes a step back, wraps a hand around her wrist gently, sliding his fingertips across the back of her hand.]
Ah, yes. The goat legs certainly change things a bit, don't they? [He does not miss the dichotomy of him being undressed when his lover is not, or the flare of heat it pools in him. Only once he's kissed her hand does he sink his toes into the furs with another step back. As much as he loved the strangeness of those legs, and he could have them now -- could change himself however he wanted -- Jaskier's never been entirely interested in doing so. Even the scar of his arm is represented. Much like her own.]
Let me make a show of it, then.
[Romantic or not, it's still Jaskier. He can't not show off. So he lays back on the furs, the blankets, as if it's as good as a stage. Since his shirt is already gone, he begins at the front of his trousers instead: a neatly tied lace in a bow. One pull of it and the bow comes undone. He lifts his hips, elbows sinking into fur as he slides himself out of his trousers. Unlike her, he doesn't bother with undergarments. Not here.
He sits up only to get them off his feet, pushing them off to the side. He spreads his legs.] The real me. As promised.
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[He already loves the sound of that actually. He takes a step back, wraps a hand around her wrist gently, sliding his fingertips across the back of her hand.]
Ah, yes. The goat legs certainly change things a bit, don't they? [He does not miss the dichotomy of him being undressed when his lover is not, or the flare of heat it pools in him. Only once he's kissed her hand does he sink his toes into the furs with another step back. As much as he loved the strangeness of those legs, and he could have them now -- could change himself however he wanted -- Jaskier's never been entirely interested in doing so. Even the scar of his arm is represented. Much like her own.]
Let me make a show of it, then.
[Romantic or not, it's still Jaskier. He can't not show off. So he lays back on the furs, the blankets, as if it's as good as a stage. Since his shirt is already gone, he begins at the front of his trousers instead: a neatly tied lace in a bow. One pull of it and the bow comes undone. He lifts his hips, elbows sinking into fur as he slides himself out of his trousers. Unlike her, he doesn't bother with undergarments. Not here.
He sits up only to get them off his feet, pushing them off to the side. He spreads his legs.] The real me. As promised.