This is shaping up to be a very nice morning for the both of them-- Jaskier's second orgasm of the day, and Geralt has gotten to watch him have both of them. He had originally intended to let Jaskier suffer through his own absurd libido, but he'll enjoy this little show just as well. The bard's hand grips onto his bicep as he leans in close, his body a long line of warmth down Geralt's front, and his hand can't even make it most of the way around the witcher's arm.
Jaskier's hand moves slowly over himself, teasing and gentle and drawing it out for as long as possible as he described all the things he fantasized about, his voice a lovely, low drawl. The scent of lust and need is almost overwhelming on his skin, heady and spicy-sweet, physical proof of the veracity of his words. Not that he thinks that Jaskier would outright lie about what he wanted, but he's prone to exaggeration-- his scent is proof of the magnitude of his lust for what he describes.
A lust that drives him to buck his hips into his hand, chasing his release while imagining a witcher's rough, sword-calloused palm around him. Geralt hums low in his throat, and it's really only by virtue of his slow pulse that he hasn't gotten himself into an uncomfortable situation, cock-wise, just from the demonstration on how Jaskier likes to be touched. He can ignore that for a while yet; he has a better idea.
"Jaskier," he says, grasping the bard's wrist with one hand and gently pulling it away from his prick. He takes him by the shoulders and turns him around, then tugs him back so that his back rests against his front, his chin hooked over the bard's shoulder. This way he can see what he's doing, can drag his palms down the length of his body and underneath the water easily. He leaves his cock alone for now and instead cups his sack, stroking his thumb along the smooth, soft curve of them. His other hand tips Jaskier's head back, exposing the long line of his throat, still mottled with healing bruises.
"Would I tell you that you're a hunt I've been planning for twenty years? That I heard you every time you touched yourself in your bedroll, your fist in your mouth to try to keep yourself quiet? That I know which of your lovers pleased you the most by your smell, and how they bruised you?" He nips at the exposed throat, letting him feel just the edge of those teeth; enough to thrill him, not enough to hurt. "Or that I heard all the things that you said in your sleep, everything you begged me for in your dreams?"
Mercy, then-- he brings both hands to bear underneath the water, taking Jaskier's cock into his fist and tugging it quick and efficient, putting to good use the practical demonstration that the bard had given him. And this time he gets to be touched just how he likes with the hands that he'd been dreaming of, no need to pretend that the callouses were in the wrong place from lute strings rather than sword grips.
no subject
Jaskier's hand moves slowly over himself, teasing and gentle and drawing it out for as long as possible as he described all the things he fantasized about, his voice a lovely, low drawl. The scent of lust and need is almost overwhelming on his skin, heady and spicy-sweet, physical proof of the veracity of his words. Not that he thinks that Jaskier would outright lie about what he wanted, but he's prone to exaggeration-- his scent is proof of the magnitude of his lust for what he describes.
A lust that drives him to buck his hips into his hand, chasing his release while imagining a witcher's rough, sword-calloused palm around him. Geralt hums low in his throat, and it's really only by virtue of his slow pulse that he hasn't gotten himself into an uncomfortable situation, cock-wise, just from the demonstration on how Jaskier likes to be touched. He can ignore that for a while yet; he has a better idea.
"Jaskier," he says, grasping the bard's wrist with one hand and gently pulling it away from his prick. He takes him by the shoulders and turns him around, then tugs him back so that his back rests against his front, his chin hooked over the bard's shoulder. This way he can see what he's doing, can drag his palms down the length of his body and underneath the water easily. He leaves his cock alone for now and instead cups his sack, stroking his thumb along the smooth, soft curve of them. His other hand tips Jaskier's head back, exposing the long line of his throat, still mottled with healing bruises.
"Would I tell you that you're a hunt I've been planning for twenty years? That I heard you every time you touched yourself in your bedroll, your fist in your mouth to try to keep yourself quiet? That I know which of your lovers pleased you the most by your smell, and how they bruised you?" He nips at the exposed throat, letting him feel just the edge of those teeth; enough to thrill him, not enough to hurt. "Or that I heard all the things that you said in your sleep, everything you begged me for in your dreams?"
Mercy, then-- he brings both hands to bear underneath the water, taking Jaskier's cock into his fist and tugging it quick and efficient, putting to good use the practical demonstration that the bard had given him. And this time he gets to be touched just how he likes with the hands that he'd been dreaming of, no need to pretend that the callouses were in the wrong place from lute strings rather than sword grips.