"I suppose I forgive you," Geralt replies, just to be a shit. There's something that twists oddly in his chest whenever Jaskier calls him things like beloved, and the way he gets annoyed at Geralt's lack of romance makes it more bearable. Thankfully, he doesn't fuck around any more and gets the bottle of oil, uncorking it and splashing it across his cock. It squelches along his sternum and the overflow runs down his neck, dropping onto the furs. It'll be a pain to get them clean so that they don't feel greasy, but Geralt foresees a lot of laundry in their future, anyway.
Jaskier spreads the oil and then starts moving, his cock gliding easily through the slick that coats Geralt's skin. He babbles for part of it, saying the sorts of things that Geralt would expect a man to say when he's getting his prick rubbed in a way that he likes. Jaskier mentions something about worshiping him all day long-- translated from Ridiculous Bard Speech, fucking the day away like they had nothing better to do-- which is an interesting enough idea for Geralt to give a considering hum to it, but he doubts if Jaskier is serious. For one thing, it's rare for them to be in a place where they could waste a whole day to such a thing, and for another, Geralt doubts that he'd have the stamina. But it's a nice idea.
His hands stay on the bard's ass, encouraging his thrusts and occasionally squeezing the firm flesh. It's different, watching Jaskier move on top of him without the urgency of arousal; he has the opportunity to watch his expression shift, the way his hips snap and his legs clutch around his chest.
As he gets close to the edge, he lets go of Geralt's chest to grip the bed sheets; the witcher takes over for him, despite how awkward it feels to be pushing his own pectorals around Jaskier's cock, giving him that slick, warm channel to fuck into. The bard's brow furrows and his mouth drops open in a soft o as he chases his pleasure, expression open and vulnerable and lovely, and Geralt is certain that the spot between his eyebrows is exactly where he'll wrinkle first, and he'll never hear the end of it. Jaskier shakes and his come splashes across Geralt's collarbone and neck; one particularly enthusiastic spurt splatters across his chin, just shy of his lower lip. His tongue darts out almost without thinking, and the taste of Jaskier is bitter and musky, as it was last night.
While the bard pants and rides out the satisfaction of his orgasm, Geralt moves his hands to Jaskier's sides and pats his flank like he'd praise Roach after a hard ride. Good bard. He seems pleased and he came quickly, so presumably fucking the witcher's tits has been an experience that's lived up to his fantasies, as well. Geralt makes note of this for the future-- it would be good to have a way to satisfy Jaskier that doesn't require much effort on his part, for when he's tired or injured from a hunt. The bard then drags his fingers through the mess that he's made, smearing it over Geralt's chest. Last night's activities had already mixed their scents, but Jaskier smearing his spend into his skin is more than just that, makes him smell claimed. There's another tug of arousal in his stomach at that, pleasant even if it doesn't go anywhere.
"They'll smell it either way," he says, "and I refuse to suffer breakfast sticky just because you enjoy irritating Vesemir."
It will be a long winter if Jaskier never learns to tolerate Vesemir, but it will at least be something that he has in common with Lambert. For the moment, though, he focuses on the problem that he can actually remedy-- he reaches over the edge of the bed and snatches another scrap of ruined doublet from the floor, using that to wipe the mess off of his chest before it starts to dry. He does not want to deal with the hassle of scrubbing dried come out of his chest hair. Once he's finished mopping up, he tosses the soiled cloth aside and smacks Jaskier's hip, just hard enough to make a satisfying noise, to get him to move.
"Up. Lambert'll eat fucking everything if we don't go down soon."
Eskel's warning wasn't idle-- the youngest Wolf would, indeed, eat all the rest of breakfast, even if he isn't hungry and is only doing it to spite Geralt. Especially if it's to spite Geralt.
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Jaskier spreads the oil and then starts moving, his cock gliding easily through the slick that coats Geralt's skin. He babbles for part of it, saying the sorts of things that Geralt would expect a man to say when he's getting his prick rubbed in a way that he likes. Jaskier mentions something about worshiping him all day long-- translated from Ridiculous Bard Speech, fucking the day away like they had nothing better to do-- which is an interesting enough idea for Geralt to give a considering hum to it, but he doubts if Jaskier is serious. For one thing, it's rare for them to be in a place where they could waste a whole day to such a thing, and for another, Geralt doubts that he'd have the stamina. But it's a nice idea.
His hands stay on the bard's ass, encouraging his thrusts and occasionally squeezing the firm flesh. It's different, watching Jaskier move on top of him without the urgency of arousal; he has the opportunity to watch his expression shift, the way his hips snap and his legs clutch around his chest.
As he gets close to the edge, he lets go of Geralt's chest to grip the bed sheets; the witcher takes over for him, despite how awkward it feels to be pushing his own pectorals around Jaskier's cock, giving him that slick, warm channel to fuck into. The bard's brow furrows and his mouth drops open in a soft o as he chases his pleasure, expression open and vulnerable and lovely, and Geralt is certain that the spot between his eyebrows is exactly where he'll wrinkle first, and he'll never hear the end of it. Jaskier shakes and his come splashes across Geralt's collarbone and neck; one particularly enthusiastic spurt splatters across his chin, just shy of his lower lip. His tongue darts out almost without thinking, and the taste of Jaskier is bitter and musky, as it was last night.
While the bard pants and rides out the satisfaction of his orgasm, Geralt moves his hands to Jaskier's sides and pats his flank like he'd praise Roach after a hard ride. Good bard. He seems pleased and he came quickly, so presumably fucking the witcher's tits has been an experience that's lived up to his fantasies, as well. Geralt makes note of this for the future-- it would be good to have a way to satisfy Jaskier that doesn't require much effort on his part, for when he's tired or injured from a hunt. The bard then drags his fingers through the mess that he's made, smearing it over Geralt's chest. Last night's activities had already mixed their scents, but Jaskier smearing his spend into his skin is more than just that, makes him smell claimed. There's another tug of arousal in his stomach at that, pleasant even if it doesn't go anywhere.
"They'll smell it either way," he says, "and I refuse to suffer breakfast sticky just because you enjoy irritating Vesemir."
It will be a long winter if Jaskier never learns to tolerate Vesemir, but it will at least be something that he has in common with Lambert. For the moment, though, he focuses on the problem that he can actually remedy-- he reaches over the edge of the bed and snatches another scrap of ruined doublet from the floor, using that to wipe the mess off of his chest before it starts to dry. He does not want to deal with the hassle of scrubbing dried come out of his chest hair. Once he's finished mopping up, he tosses the soiled cloth aside and smacks Jaskier's hip, just hard enough to make a satisfying noise, to get him to move.
"Up. Lambert'll eat fucking everything if we don't go down soon."
Eskel's warning wasn't idle-- the youngest Wolf would, indeed, eat all the rest of breakfast, even if he isn't hungry and is only doing it to spite Geralt. Especially if it's to spite Geralt.