If this is the best and sexiest praise that Jaskier has ever gotten, either his previous bedpartners have been surprisingly uncreative or the bard is just particularly biased towards Geralt. More the latter than the former, likely. He has definitely said something right, though, judging by how quickly Jaskier turns on him and crashes their lips together, kissing him like Geralt might disappear at any moment. His hands tug at the line of buttons on the witcher's trousers, opening them with an impressive amount of dexterity considering that his mouth is too preoccupied to look down at what he's doing.
One of Geralt's hands grabs the bard's waist, and he's only a little disappointed at the number of layers between his hand and Jaskier's skin. He could try to pull up the woolen tunics, the many layered shirts that Geralt had insisted that the bard put on to try to keep him warm, but it may well be a useless fight. Too many layers there to get through without removing some first. That's fine-- he can cup the bard's jaw with his other hand, feel both the places where his skin is still as smooth as it was when he was eighteen and the rasp of a few days' worth of stubble.
The bard's deft hand delved into his trousers, his strong musician fingers gripping Geralt's cock, and the movement of his hand sends a warm thrum up his spine. A good start, certainly, but the bard's wrist would get tired before Geralt's cock would make it to half-mast. Regardless, Jaskier sounds enthusiastic about the dimensions of the witcher's third sword, though he has yet to ever see it fully hard due to Geralt's own biology. He knows that he is considered large, enough so that even the whores are sometimes wary of him, but he has learned how to be gentle with their insides. He doesn't enjoy their discomfort. He would have the same consideration for the bard-- if he hates the discomfort of whores, he wouldn't be able to stand Jaskier's-- though Jaskier would have no way of knowing that, based off of the reputation of witchers. He seems to have no reservations about the sword in Geralt's trousers, not even a hint of apprehension in his scent. Fearless, even when he shouldn't be.
Geralt turns his head and kisses the bard again, and he tastes like vodka and pickles.
"Are you ever completely silent?" he asks, running his thumb over Jaskier's soft lower lip. He couldn't believe that the bard would make no noise, even with his mouth stuffed full. "And you are free to be as noisy as you like when I return the favor. The offer I made in Rinde still stands."
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One of Geralt's hands grabs the bard's waist, and he's only a little disappointed at the number of layers between his hand and Jaskier's skin. He could try to pull up the woolen tunics, the many layered shirts that Geralt had insisted that the bard put on to try to keep him warm, but it may well be a useless fight. Too many layers there to get through without removing some first. That's fine-- he can cup the bard's jaw with his other hand, feel both the places where his skin is still as smooth as it was when he was eighteen and the rasp of a few days' worth of stubble.
The bard's deft hand delved into his trousers, his strong musician fingers gripping Geralt's cock, and the movement of his hand sends a warm thrum up his spine. A good start, certainly, but the bard's wrist would get tired before Geralt's cock would make it to half-mast. Regardless, Jaskier sounds enthusiastic about the dimensions of the witcher's third sword, though he has yet to ever see it fully hard due to Geralt's own biology. He knows that he is considered large, enough so that even the whores are sometimes wary of him, but he has learned how to be gentle with their insides. He doesn't enjoy their discomfort. He would have the same consideration for the bard-- if he hates the discomfort of whores, he wouldn't be able to stand Jaskier's-- though Jaskier would have no way of knowing that, based off of the reputation of witchers. He seems to have no reservations about the sword in Geralt's trousers, not even a hint of apprehension in his scent. Fearless, even when he shouldn't be.
Geralt turns his head and kisses the bard again, and he tastes like vodka and pickles.
"Are you ever completely silent?" he asks, running his thumb over Jaskier's soft lower lip. He couldn't believe that the bard would make no noise, even with his mouth stuffed full. "And you are free to be as noisy as you like when I return the favor. The offer I made in Rinde still stands."