How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.
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How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.