The bard pushes at Geralt's shoulder and he moves with it, following his direction without complaint. The furs are warm and soft against his back and Jaskier is lovely above him, the firelight painting his skin in golden shades. He doesn't stay there for long, though, moving to the edge of the bed far sooner than Geralt would've liked, out of his reach. It's just to get his trousers off, and Geralt lifts his hips and helps him pull the fabric down. There's some difficulty getting the tight material over his ass and thick thighs.
"They're practical, unlike your silks," he says, because it's true. And then he adds, also because it's true, "You like them."
Jaskier hops off of the bed and Geralt props himself up on his elbows to watch him; he gets an excellent view of the bard's trousers dropping off of his hips. The garment had been barely clinging to him with the tie undone and needed only a little coaxing to fall, pooling at the bard's feet in a pile of colorful fabric. Geralt's gaze goes from the bard's feet and up those shapely legs of his-- all that walking did him a world of good, gave him firm calves and lean-muscled thighs and a tight ass. It lingers on his wet smalls, and Geralt can smell his arousal, a warm musk that makes his mouth water. The bard asks him to strip off his shirt and he obeys without hesitation, his eyes only leaving Jaskier's body because he has to drag the fabric over his head. It musses his hair in the process.
There's a soft thump as a vial lands on the bed next to him. It's filled with oil, but Geralt can tell without even popping the cork that it isn't one of the heavily fragranced ones that Jaskier uses for his baths. It's a neutral oil, slightly more viscous than standard seed oils, a pale amber in color. Its purpose is obvious, making what would otherwise be an innocuous bottle a lascivious connotation.
Jaskier doesn't just return to Geralt's arms immediately after fetching his supplies; he turns and drops his smallclothes coquettishly, bending over for a coy little strip-tease with his ass on display, and Geralt makes a low noise in his chest that couldn't be mistaken for anything but want. Even with the scars on his legs-- scars that shouldn't be there, scars that are his fault-- he's still a sight. A few marks would never be enough to dissuade Geralt from someone that he desires, and he desires Jaskier to an extent that may be unwise.
He returns to his witcher's lap and Geralt's hands are immediately back on his skin, running over his hips and thighs, making a pleased hum at the sounds that Jaskier makes when his cock brushes against his stomach. This isn't the first time that he'd seen the bard's cock-- they'd shared baths often enough that it would've been impossible not to have seen it-- but he usually doesn't see it in quite this state. Jaskier is impressively hard and, though Geralt isn't an expert on the aesthetics of penises, he has a cock that seems to be pleasing in both size and shape.
"I see why women are so fond of you," he says, his voice dropping into those low registers that he knows Jaskier is fond of. The slow grind of their hips produces a delicious friction, and Geralt hums at the growing heat and pleasure in his guts, at Jaskier's deft hands in his hair. The fact that Jaskier is taking such time with him and being so patient about the inconveniences of his witcher physiology isn't lost on him; with a normal man, Jaskier could have been on his back by now, getting pleasured in just the way he likes. Instead, he must endure Geralt's deficiencies before he can get what he wants.
He doesn't stop the bard when his hands go from Geralt's hair to the chain around his neck, pulling the medallion off and replacing it around his own. Geralt brings a hand up to touch the warm metal as it lays against his chest, running his thumb along the outer curve; he thinks of Coën and the two medallions that he wears on one chain, wolf and griffin together. No one has to say it out loud, what he and Clovis were. No one has asked Coën for the medallion back. If there is any rightful place for it to be, it's where it is now.
Geralt sits up, his hands reaching to frame Jaskier's face as he drags him into a kiss, one that is long and open-mouthed and filthy, speaks as much to his desire and how much he likes what he sees as anything could.
"Only while you're here," he says against Jaskier's soft lips, then leans back in to kiss him again and moves one hand from his face down to his chest-- pinches at one of his nipples, just to tease-- and down to where his hard cock is waiting. He thumbs over the tip, spreading some of the slick fluid that had collected there over the crown.
no subject
"They're practical, unlike your silks," he says, because it's true. And then he adds, also because it's true, "You like them."
Jaskier hops off of the bed and Geralt props himself up on his elbows to watch him; he gets an excellent view of the bard's trousers dropping off of his hips. The garment had been barely clinging to him with the tie undone and needed only a little coaxing to fall, pooling at the bard's feet in a pile of colorful fabric. Geralt's gaze goes from the bard's feet and up those shapely legs of his-- all that walking did him a world of good, gave him firm calves and lean-muscled thighs and a tight ass. It lingers on his wet smalls, and Geralt can smell his arousal, a warm musk that makes his mouth water. The bard asks him to strip off his shirt and he obeys without hesitation, his eyes only leaving Jaskier's body because he has to drag the fabric over his head. It musses his hair in the process.
There's a soft thump as a vial lands on the bed next to him. It's filled with oil, but Geralt can tell without even popping the cork that it isn't one of the heavily fragranced ones that Jaskier uses for his baths. It's a neutral oil, slightly more viscous than standard seed oils, a pale amber in color. Its purpose is obvious, making what would otherwise be an innocuous bottle a lascivious connotation.
Jaskier doesn't just return to Geralt's arms immediately after fetching his supplies; he turns and drops his smallclothes coquettishly, bending over for a coy little strip-tease with his ass on display, and Geralt makes a low noise in his chest that couldn't be mistaken for anything but want. Even with the scars on his legs-- scars that shouldn't be there, scars that are his fault-- he's still a sight. A few marks would never be enough to dissuade Geralt from someone that he desires, and he desires Jaskier to an extent that may be unwise.
He returns to his witcher's lap and Geralt's hands are immediately back on his skin, running over his hips and thighs, making a pleased hum at the sounds that Jaskier makes when his cock brushes against his stomach. This isn't the first time that he'd seen the bard's cock-- they'd shared baths often enough that it would've been impossible not to have seen it-- but he usually doesn't see it in quite this state. Jaskier is impressively hard and, though Geralt isn't an expert on the aesthetics of penises, he has a cock that seems to be pleasing in both size and shape.
"I see why women are so fond of you," he says, his voice dropping into those low registers that he knows Jaskier is fond of. The slow grind of their hips produces a delicious friction, and Geralt hums at the growing heat and pleasure in his guts, at Jaskier's deft hands in his hair. The fact that Jaskier is taking such time with him and being so patient about the inconveniences of his witcher physiology isn't lost on him; with a normal man, Jaskier could have been on his back by now, getting pleasured in just the way he likes. Instead, he must endure Geralt's deficiencies before he can get what he wants.
He doesn't stop the bard when his hands go from Geralt's hair to the chain around his neck, pulling the medallion off and replacing it around his own. Geralt brings a hand up to touch the warm metal as it lays against his chest, running his thumb along the outer curve; he thinks of Coën and the two medallions that he wears on one chain, wolf and griffin together. No one has to say it out loud, what he and Clovis were. No one has asked Coën for the medallion back. If there is any rightful place for it to be, it's where it is now.
Geralt sits up, his hands reaching to frame Jaskier's face as he drags him into a kiss, one that is long and open-mouthed and filthy, speaks as much to his desire and how much he likes what he sees as anything could.
"Only while you're here," he says against Jaskier's soft lips, then leans back in to kiss him again and moves one hand from his face down to his chest-- pinches at one of his nipples, just to tease-- and down to where his hard cock is waiting. He thumbs over the tip, spreading some of the slick fluid that had collected there over the crown.