Jaskier is the first human who has been welcomed at Kaer Morhen since the sacking, other than Geralt's child surprise. The first person that Geralt has ever brought to this bed, the first to be pressed against the furs, the first to have spent an entire night there with him. The first, if Geralt doesn't do something else that's wildly wrong, to spend an entire winter there with him.
The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.
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The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.