The bard gets over his ruined doublet quite quickly once he sees Geralt stretched out next to him. He fits neatly against the witcher's side, laying on Geralt's arm while he flings his own across his thick waist. If they stay like this, he'll end up with a numb limb by morning, but that's a small price to pay for a lover who'll lay with him for an entire night. Jaskier props his chin on Geralt's sternum, looking perfectly content at using the witcher's chest as his pillow. If that's what Jaskier wants, he won't object-- but it might be a bit hard on his neck, keeping it like that all night. But Jaskier's an adult, he can get a crick in his neck if it pleases him.
Geralt huffs a laugh as Jaskier spills some rot about being ruined for any other dick-- that sounds exactly like the sort of thing that the whores said when he was done, angling for a better tip out of him. Not that they really needed to, because Geralt always tipped them well to compensate for the inconvenience of having to attend to a witcher. He doesn't have a swelled enough head to think that he'd be ruining anyone for anything with his prowess. He has a cock and after some seven decades he knows how to use it, but he's not going to delude himself into thinking that someone would be irrevocably changed after an encounter with his magical witcher cock.
"My cock has yet to ruin anyone, for other men or anything else."
And certainly not Jaskier. If a man could be ruined by cock-- which they can't-- the bard would've been ruined a long time ago.
Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier, probably just cutting off circulation to it even more, but it's worth it to be able to trail his fingers along the jut of his hip and his upper thigh, to skim along the crease where the two meet. His skin is very soft in these vulnerable, hidden places, and it probably only partly has to do with all those expensive soaps and lotions that he uses. Though much of the mess has been cleaned off of his skin, Geralt doesn't even have to press his nose close to him to catch heavy scent of it still clinging to him. It's probably a little bit disgusting, but there's definite appeal to how claimed the bard smells.
"But it was good," he says, his voice a low rumble as post-coital satisfaction starts to melt into a warm, languid sort of sleepiness. Sex is a good cure for insomnia, on those rare occasions that he has it in a place that he can sleep afterwards, and he lets his eyes drift closed. "You can just speak plainly about it. I don't need any of your sweet-talk."
He isn't one of Jaskier's maids or courtiers, after all, who like to listen to the bard's pretty poetry after they've been fucked. He has him there, a warm weight on his chest-- for now, Jaskier wants him, has spent much of this evening ensuring that Geralt knows, explicitly, that he wants him. He doesn't need more words to reassure him of that.
no subject
Geralt huffs a laugh as Jaskier spills some rot about being ruined for any other dick-- that sounds exactly like the sort of thing that the whores said when he was done, angling for a better tip out of him. Not that they really needed to, because Geralt always tipped them well to compensate for the inconvenience of having to attend to a witcher. He doesn't have a swelled enough head to think that he'd be ruining anyone for anything with his prowess. He has a cock and after some seven decades he knows how to use it, but he's not going to delude himself into thinking that someone would be irrevocably changed after an encounter with his magical witcher cock.
"My cock has yet to ruin anyone, for other men or anything else."
And certainly not Jaskier. If a man could be ruined by cock-- which they can't-- the bard would've been ruined a long time ago.
Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier, probably just cutting off circulation to it even more, but it's worth it to be able to trail his fingers along the jut of his hip and his upper thigh, to skim along the crease where the two meet. His skin is very soft in these vulnerable, hidden places, and it probably only partly has to do with all those expensive soaps and lotions that he uses. Though much of the mess has been cleaned off of his skin, Geralt doesn't even have to press his nose close to him to catch heavy scent of it still clinging to him. It's probably a little bit disgusting, but there's definite appeal to how claimed the bard smells.
"But it was good," he says, his voice a low rumble as post-coital satisfaction starts to melt into a warm, languid sort of sleepiness. Sex is a good cure for insomnia, on those rare occasions that he has it in a place that he can sleep afterwards, and he lets his eyes drift closed. "You can just speak plainly about it. I don't need any of your sweet-talk."
He isn't one of Jaskier's maids or courtiers, after all, who like to listen to the bard's pretty poetry after they've been fucked. He has him there, a warm weight on his chest-- for now, Jaskier wants him, has spent much of this evening ensuring that Geralt knows, explicitly, that he wants him. He doesn't need more words to reassure him of that.