Jaskier writhes and pants and moans on his fingers prettier than even the most expensive whore, arches his back and pushes into the three calloused digits that Geralt has pressed up inside him like they're the best thing he's ever felt. His scent is all lust and anticipation and desire and it's honest, something that's impossible to fake. When he kisses Geralt back, he's sloppy about it, too distracted to get his limbs properly coordinated, and there is something deeply satisfying about his clumsiness. Jaskier, whose prowess in the bedroom is known from one end of the Continent to the other, has been reduced to a helpless, panting wreck by his witcher's fingers.
If this is what he's like with just Geralt's hand, he'll love his cock.
Or, that's the goal, anyway. But Geralt's prick is bigger than even three of his fingers, and it took time and patience and a fair amount of slick to get him loose enough for those. If there's anything that he wouldn't be able to abide, it would be the bard's discomfort, the way it would sour the sweetness of his scent.
Jaskier pushes hair out of his face and kisses him, reassuring him even though he does not-- should not-- need any such thing just to fuck a man. He's fucked men before. Geralt was fucking men before Jaskier was even born, there's no reason for him to hesitate now.
(Except that Jaskier matters in ways that the men he fucked before never did. That was purely transactional-- this is... this.)
The bard asks him where he wants him, and Geralt is about to reply-- everywhere-- when he grasps Geralt in a slick, tight fist and gives his cock a few long, slow pulls. Anything that he was about to say is swallowed up in a low groan, his hips pushing up into the touch regardless of Jaskier's weight on him.
"Fuck," he curses and grabs onto Jaskier's waist, his one slick hand smearing oil across his skin. His skin is smooth and warm and Geralt wants to dig his fingers in and never let go.
"Up," he says, gives him a squeeze. The solidity of him is attractive-- for all that his clothes are cut to make him look slim and rakish, he is not a small man. There's substance to him, a reassuring heft to his body. He will not break. "You've wanted a ride for twenty years. Have one."
And aside from the fact that it is a desperately appealing idea to have Jaskier bouncing himself on his prick, it also gives most of the control to him, as well. Geralt is not small and this position would allow the bard to decide the depth and speed at which he took the witcher's cock, let him get used to taking a thick intrusion again on his own terms.
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If this is what he's like with just Geralt's hand, he'll love his cock.
Or, that's the goal, anyway. But Geralt's prick is bigger than even three of his fingers, and it took time and patience and a fair amount of slick to get him loose enough for those. If there's anything that he wouldn't be able to abide, it would be the bard's discomfort, the way it would sour the sweetness of his scent.
Jaskier pushes hair out of his face and kisses him, reassuring him even though he does not-- should not-- need any such thing just to fuck a man. He's fucked men before. Geralt was fucking men before Jaskier was even born, there's no reason for him to hesitate now.
(Except that Jaskier matters in ways that the men he fucked before never did. That was purely transactional-- this is... this.)
The bard asks him where he wants him, and Geralt is about to reply-- everywhere-- when he grasps Geralt in a slick, tight fist and gives his cock a few long, slow pulls. Anything that he was about to say is swallowed up in a low groan, his hips pushing up into the touch regardless of Jaskier's weight on him.
"Fuck," he curses and grabs onto Jaskier's waist, his one slick hand smearing oil across his skin. His skin is smooth and warm and Geralt wants to dig his fingers in and never let go.
"Up," he says, gives him a squeeze. The solidity of him is attractive-- for all that his clothes are cut to make him look slim and rakish, he is not a small man. There's substance to him, a reassuring heft to his body. He will not break. "You've wanted a ride for twenty years. Have one."
And aside from the fact that it is a desperately appealing idea to have Jaskier bouncing himself on his prick, it also gives most of the control to him, as well. Geralt is not small and this position would allow the bard to decide the depth and speed at which he took the witcher's cock, let him get used to taking a thick intrusion again on his own terms.