Jaskier's voice rises in indignation, chastising Geralt for his games. Seeing the bard worked up like this, with his cock hard and his face flushed a pretty rosy hue, is exactly why he did it, along with the amusement that he'd get from knowing that Jaskier's sitting in the library with sore balls because of his own insatiable libido. But he refuses to leave the baths until he's taken care of his little problem, and that's hardly the worst outcome that could have come from this. Sure, Eskel might become impatient and get annoyed with how long they're taking, but-- well, he's free to walk in and see what the holdup is. Not that he'd stay for very long, nor does he think that Jaskier would entirely mind if he made an appearance. Nothing would come of it, other than Eskel getting irritated and having to quickly leave before he sees his own brother in a compromising position with a very horny bard.
One of the bard's pretty hands dips below the surface of the water, and Geralt feels it brush against his thigh before it wraps around Jaskier's cock. He takes his time about it, too; keeps his hand gentle and teasing rather than the quick, efficient strokes that Geralt knows that he'd prefer while on the road, when it was solely for the purposes of tending to a biological need. The quick, furtive fumblings that he'd indulge in while wrapped up in his bedroll, trying to stay quiet enough for a witcher's ears to not overhear him. He could never manage to be quite quiet enough, though, and Geralt always heard him.
And his sex drive had been... prodigious, when he was young. Chasing after skirts every night that they were in town, coming back to the room smelling like sex and satisfaction. It was tolerable-- so long as the bard didn't end up in the bed of someone he shouldn't-- if they were sleeping in separate beds, but almost insufferable when they had to share and the scent was inescapable. At the time, he'd thought that it was simple jealousy that Jaskier could find bed partners wherever he went without even having to pay a penny. But maybe he wouldn't have found it so objectionable if instead of a foreign scent lingering on the bard's skin, there had been his own.
But that's an old jealousy-- there aren't any nameless paramours leaving their traces on Jaskier anymore, certainly not until spring. Jaskier thumbs at the head of his cock and Geralt rumbles his approval low in his throat, smells the salt tang of precum and the steadily growing scent of lust. The bard's head rests against his shoulder and Geralt tips his nose into his hair, breathes deep. His hands wander along his wet back.
"And how would I help you?" He lets his voice drop low, and it's half because he knows how much Jaskier likes it, half because of his own interest in the proceedings. "How would I touch you, Jaskier?"
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One of the bard's pretty hands dips below the surface of the water, and Geralt feels it brush against his thigh before it wraps around Jaskier's cock. He takes his time about it, too; keeps his hand gentle and teasing rather than the quick, efficient strokes that Geralt knows that he'd prefer while on the road, when it was solely for the purposes of tending to a biological need. The quick, furtive fumblings that he'd indulge in while wrapped up in his bedroll, trying to stay quiet enough for a witcher's ears to not overhear him. He could never manage to be quite quiet enough, though, and Geralt always heard him.
And his sex drive had been... prodigious, when he was young. Chasing after skirts every night that they were in town, coming back to the room smelling like sex and satisfaction. It was tolerable-- so long as the bard didn't end up in the bed of someone he shouldn't-- if they were sleeping in separate beds, but almost insufferable when they had to share and the scent was inescapable. At the time, he'd thought that it was simple jealousy that Jaskier could find bed partners wherever he went without even having to pay a penny. But maybe he wouldn't have found it so objectionable if instead of a foreign scent lingering on the bard's skin, there had been his own.
But that's an old jealousy-- there aren't any nameless paramours leaving their traces on Jaskier anymore, certainly not until spring. Jaskier thumbs at the head of his cock and Geralt rumbles his approval low in his throat, smells the salt tang of precum and the steadily growing scent of lust. The bard's head rests against his shoulder and Geralt tips his nose into his hair, breathes deep. His hands wander along his wet back.
"And how would I help you?" He lets his voice drop low, and it's half because he knows how much Jaskier likes it, half because of his own interest in the proceedings. "How would I touch you, Jaskier?"