The post-coital euphoria rarely lasts very long for Geralt-- usually, this is due to the fear-stench of a whore souring it, or because Yennefer would only tolerate the heavy sprawl of his limbs around her for a certain period of time. Geralt's nose is currently still buried in the crook of Jaskier's neck, his senses filled with warmth and satiety and contentment. The bard makes no complaint about the weight of his body on top of him, his arms a loose, soft weight across Geralt's back, fingers tracing meaningless little patterns. It's impossible to resist the temptation to drift, floating on the feeling of his body devoid of tension, his nerves thrumming with the last lingering aftershocks of pleasure, mind blissfully quiet.
Euphoric, as Jaskier murmurs against his ear. If he could lay here and never lose this feeling, he might never have the will to rise again-- he might just stay, skin to skin with Jaskier, until the day he died. A willing sacrifice to pleasure and Jaskier's body the altar.
Jaskier must be rubbing off on him, in the metaphorical sense, if he's entertaining this kind of melodrama. The bard kisses his neck and says words that he can't return, and there's a part of him that wishes that he had the capacity to do so-- to tell him what he would so badly want to hear and have it be more than just an echo. Instead he presses his lips to Jaskier's throat and shifts, moving some of his considerable weight off of the poor bard, and his softening cock slips out of him in the process. He makes a low noise at the loss, but it would've happened sooner rather than later. A few long moments later, or maybe a minute or two-- his sense of time isn't great when his head's pleasure-addled-- he drags a hand up the bard's legs to the apex, just to feel how wet his thighs are with a mix of oil and cum.
That's not the only part of them that's wet, though, and the fluid trapped between their bellies is starting to become less appealing and more... sticky. The inevitable deterioration of the post-coital bliss. Even the euphoria has started to fade, and perhaps for the best; they have to get cleaned up eventually. Geralt gets a hand against the bed and props himself up, and underneath him, Jaskier is no less a beautiful creature now than he was moments from orgasm. Geralt kisses him, briefly but as gently as he can manage.
He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs one of the ripped pieces of silk from Jaskier's ruined doublet and uses that to wipe up the mess that coats their skin. The fabric will absolutely be ruined by the mix of sweat and spend, and Geralt cannot even begin to care. He settles down at the bard's side after throwing the scrap aside, resting a hand on Jaskier's thigh. The furs and pillows prop him up comfortably and he tucks his other hand behind his head, stretches out languorously. Every so often, the bard's thigh quivers faintly underneath his hand.
"You're trembling," he says, turning his head towards Jaskier with his voice low and a little hint of a tease to it. "Rougher ride than you were expecting?"
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Euphoric, as Jaskier murmurs against his ear. If he could lay here and never lose this feeling, he might never have the will to rise again-- he might just stay, skin to skin with Jaskier, until the day he died. A willing sacrifice to pleasure and Jaskier's body the altar.
Jaskier must be rubbing off on him, in the metaphorical sense, if he's entertaining this kind of melodrama. The bard kisses his neck and says words that he can't return, and there's a part of him that wishes that he had the capacity to do so-- to tell him what he would so badly want to hear and have it be more than just an echo. Instead he presses his lips to Jaskier's throat and shifts, moving some of his considerable weight off of the poor bard, and his softening cock slips out of him in the process. He makes a low noise at the loss, but it would've happened sooner rather than later. A few long moments later, or maybe a minute or two-- his sense of time isn't great when his head's pleasure-addled-- he drags a hand up the bard's legs to the apex, just to feel how wet his thighs are with a mix of oil and cum.
That's not the only part of them that's wet, though, and the fluid trapped between their bellies is starting to become less appealing and more... sticky. The inevitable deterioration of the post-coital bliss. Even the euphoria has started to fade, and perhaps for the best; they have to get cleaned up eventually. Geralt gets a hand against the bed and props himself up, and underneath him, Jaskier is no less a beautiful creature now than he was moments from orgasm. Geralt kisses him, briefly but as gently as he can manage.
He reaches over the side of the bed and grabs one of the ripped pieces of silk from Jaskier's ruined doublet and uses that to wipe up the mess that coats their skin. The fabric will absolutely be ruined by the mix of sweat and spend, and Geralt cannot even begin to care. He settles down at the bard's side after throwing the scrap aside, resting a hand on Jaskier's thigh. The furs and pillows prop him up comfortably and he tucks his other hand behind his head, stretches out languorously. Every so often, the bard's thigh quivers faintly underneath his hand.
"You're trembling," he says, turning his head towards Jaskier with his voice low and a little hint of a tease to it. "Rougher ride than you were expecting?"