Jaskier's a sight when he comes, his head resting on Geralt's shoulder, back arched and body trembling as he strokes him all the way through it. He doesn't need to worry about whether or not his legs are stable enough to hold him, not when the witcher can take his weight easily and keep him upright. He wouldn't want to miss a moment of this, of Jaskier's hips pushing his rosy prick into his fist and the hot white spurts of come that are washed away in the water.
It's a good thing that Geralt has such good control over his own body, otherwise he might have been in the same position that Jaskier had been in-- hard and left wanting. Even so, there's a little life in his cock, the beginnings of an erection that could have turned into something if he let it. But he has work to do and it would take far too much time to get his blood up enough, so he chooses to ignore it and instead focus on kissing the bite mark that he left on Jaskier's shoulder. It's already started to turn red from the pressure and would certainly darken throughout the day; by the time they have lunch, it ought to be nicely bruised. He shouldn't take pleasure in the sight of his marks on the bard's skin, but he still likes the look of them.
Jaskier slumps back against him, his face turned to press into Geralt's neck. His panting breaths are warm against his throat, his heart still beating a quick drum-beat in his chest. Geralt's hands trail up to the bard's sides, holding him securely while he rests after his exertion. He runs the palm of one of his hands over Jaskier's stomach, feeling his diaphragm expand and contract with his breathing.
"Hm." It's a vague reply to his statement, but Jaskier and mortality are two things that he doesn't enjoy thinking about, even in jest. He's spent too many years trying to keep the bard from an early death either from getting too close to a dangerous monster or angry cuckolds, he wouldn't undo his own good work by killing the bard via orgasm. No matter how appealing such an end might be to him.
"You should follow me on fewer hunts if you want to die on my third sword."
Since Jaskier's legs aren't particularly keen on bearing him anywhere, Geralt slides an arm underneath his knees and hoists him up, carrying him as he steps out of the bath. He deposits the bard on a stone bench-- the stone is kept faintly warm by the same geothermal activity that heats the springs-- and fetches towels for them both to dry off with. Can't have a damp bard walking around the keep, after all.
"Here," he says, tossing one of them to him. "We're late."
Which is technically his fault, but also Jaskier's for being incorrigible.
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It's a good thing that Geralt has such good control over his own body, otherwise he might have been in the same position that Jaskier had been in-- hard and left wanting. Even so, there's a little life in his cock, the beginnings of an erection that could have turned into something if he let it. But he has work to do and it would take far too much time to get his blood up enough, so he chooses to ignore it and instead focus on kissing the bite mark that he left on Jaskier's shoulder. It's already started to turn red from the pressure and would certainly darken throughout the day; by the time they have lunch, it ought to be nicely bruised. He shouldn't take pleasure in the sight of his marks on the bard's skin, but he still likes the look of them.
Jaskier slumps back against him, his face turned to press into Geralt's neck. His panting breaths are warm against his throat, his heart still beating a quick drum-beat in his chest. Geralt's hands trail up to the bard's sides, holding him securely while he rests after his exertion. He runs the palm of one of his hands over Jaskier's stomach, feeling his diaphragm expand and contract with his breathing.
"Hm." It's a vague reply to his statement, but Jaskier and mortality are two things that he doesn't enjoy thinking about, even in jest. He's spent too many years trying to keep the bard from an early death either from getting too close to a dangerous monster or angry cuckolds, he wouldn't undo his own good work by killing the bard via orgasm. No matter how appealing such an end might be to him.
"You should follow me on fewer hunts if you want to die on my third sword."
Since Jaskier's legs aren't particularly keen on bearing him anywhere, Geralt slides an arm underneath his knees and hoists him up, carrying him as he steps out of the bath. He deposits the bard on a stone bench-- the stone is kept faintly warm by the same geothermal activity that heats the springs-- and fetches towels for them both to dry off with. Can't have a damp bard walking around the keep, after all.
"Here," he says, tossing one of them to him. "We're late."
Which is technically his fault, but also Jaskier's for being incorrigible.