Jaskier is easy to manhandle, but only because he's willing-- if there was even a hint of sourness to his smell or the bard protested his grasp, Geralt would let him go immediately. There are some men who enjoy inflicting fear on their bed partners-- and some bed partners who enjoy being on the receiving end-- Geralt can barely tolerate disgust, though, nevertheless true fear.
But Jaskier smells like nothing but willingness and lust, and with his legs wrapped around Geralt's hips, he can feel the hardening length of his cock pressing into him. It's good, perfect, and though it takes longer for Geralt to get going than it does for even Jaskier at forty, a warm thrum of arousal is stirring in his blood. That slow witcher heart of his will pick up the pace eventually. If he could just satisfy Jaskier for the first round or two with his mouth and hands, that might be enough of a delay for the rest of him to catch up, and possibly without the bard noticing so long as he's good enough.
"There's nothing virginal about you," he says, mouth still pressed to the thin skin of his neck while Jaskier feels his way across the witcher's arms and chest and shoulders like he hadn't had his hands on them hundreds of times before.
Jaskier's hands are far more deft at undoing tiny buttons than his are; a necessary skill to have, he supposes, for a man who readily beds ladies in fussy court clothes. Always lousy with buttons and laces, those things. But once the doublet hangs open, Jaskier gives him the prettiest invitation that Geralt has ever received-- to mark up his neck, make it obvious to anyone who laid eyes on him that he is spoken for. Claimed. And, well, enough people have seen Geralt skulking around Oxenfurt to draw their own conclusions about who put bruises all over the bard's neck.
"Fuck, Jask."
That growling edge is back in his voice and Geralt wastes little time in tugging the lacy collar of his chemise away from his neck, leaving all that pretty, pale skin vulnerable to him. He goes for the throat with the brutal efficiency of a witcher, starting high up near his jaw and working his way down, sucking and biting until there's a trail of red marks going down it that are sure to darken. Then he moves to the other side-- thoroughness is the mark of a good witcher-- and does the same there, so there's no hiding it. Even the tallest collar wouldn't be able to hide all the bruises.
He takes Jaskier's chin in his hand and turns his head this way and that, admiring his work and making a low, approving noise at the sight of it.
"Now, the rest."
He starts to push the doublet off of Jaskier's shoulders, to get to the rest of his clothes underneath.
no subject
But Jaskier smells like nothing but willingness and lust, and with his legs wrapped around Geralt's hips, he can feel the hardening length of his cock pressing into him. It's good, perfect, and though it takes longer for Geralt to get going than it does for even Jaskier at forty, a warm thrum of arousal is stirring in his blood. That slow witcher heart of his will pick up the pace eventually. If he could just satisfy Jaskier for the first round or two with his mouth and hands, that might be enough of a delay for the rest of him to catch up, and possibly without the bard noticing so long as he's good enough.
"There's nothing virginal about you," he says, mouth still pressed to the thin skin of his neck while Jaskier feels his way across the witcher's arms and chest and shoulders like he hadn't had his hands on them hundreds of times before.
Jaskier's hands are far more deft at undoing tiny buttons than his are; a necessary skill to have, he supposes, for a man who readily beds ladies in fussy court clothes. Always lousy with buttons and laces, those things. But once the doublet hangs open, Jaskier gives him the prettiest invitation that Geralt has ever received-- to mark up his neck, make it obvious to anyone who laid eyes on him that he is spoken for. Claimed. And, well, enough people have seen Geralt skulking around Oxenfurt to draw their own conclusions about who put bruises all over the bard's neck.
"Fuck, Jask."
That growling edge is back in his voice and Geralt wastes little time in tugging the lacy collar of his chemise away from his neck, leaving all that pretty, pale skin vulnerable to him. He goes for the throat with the brutal efficiency of a witcher, starting high up near his jaw and working his way down, sucking and biting until there's a trail of red marks going down it that are sure to darken. Then he moves to the other side-- thoroughness is the mark of a good witcher-- and does the same there, so there's no hiding it. Even the tallest collar wouldn't be able to hide all the bruises.
He takes Jaskier's chin in his hand and turns his head this way and that, admiring his work and making a low, approving noise at the sight of it.
"Now, the rest."
He starts to push the doublet off of Jaskier's shoulders, to get to the rest of his clothes underneath.