Jaskier takes his good, sweet time, dragging his hands along every inch of skin from hip to neck, like he'd never had the chance to touch a witcher's scars before. His hands are warm and competent, tracing along the jagged edges where his body had knit itself back together. It's different, when Jaskier touches his scars compared to when a whore does it; she knows them from the stories that the bard sings, thinks of them in terms of exaggerated heroics and aggrandized bravery. Jaskier knows them as they were, knows the blood and guts and gore, the work of pushing a man's guts back into his abdomen and stitching the muscle closed again. The days after that Geralt had lain in agony, drinking potions and waiting for his body to piece itself together again. There's no glory in that, just pain and fear, and Jaskier still runs his fingers over the long scar that arcs just above his navel, where Geralt had once been eviscerated.
Perhaps humans have short memories. Maybe Jaskier just doesn't care that Geralt has been split open before and will likely be split open again and if he stays by his side, he'll have to keep going through it all again. Perhaps another man might think that he'd choose to stay despite the blood and terror because of love, because the thought that Geralt could have to hold his own guts in alone is worse than Jaskier being there to see it himself. Geralt prefers to be distracted by Jaskier's weight settling on the mattress next to his chest, the planes of his body highlighted by warm firelight. Long legs, delicate hands, firm ass, body kept trim by miles upon miles of walking-- Jaskier's a lovely sight. The low light doesn't hide the scars that mar his skin, but it does soften them.
Geralt can also see directly up Jaskier's nose from this angle. This fact is, surprisingly, not a deterrent.
The bard's fingers run gently through his hair, and Geralt hums softly at the kind touch, then down to his chin. He could perhaps object at being grabbed by the jaw as though he's a misbehaving dog, but does not-- he kisses the thumb that presses against his lips. It's rough, calloused from his lute strings, and he approves of the texture.
Jaskier is finally ready to put that cock of his where Geralt has been offering; it is hard and flushed and appreciably large in the bard's fist. Jaskier could say all he likes about women liking him for his other charms, but Geralt would bet him a crown that their fondness for his cock rivaled all his other virtues.
"You won't hurt me," he says, then opens his mouth so that Jaskier can feed him his cock.
Geralt minds his teeth as the bard pushes in, filling his mouth and flooding it with the musky, masculine taste of him. It has been some time since he'd had a man's cock in his mouth, and exactly never since he'd had it in this position, but it's a simple enough process. You don't forget how to suck a dick, even if you're out of practice, and-- well. He will be good enough at this to satisfy Jaskier, at least for this first time around. Hopefully any deficiencies in his technique will be forgiven, and then forgotten by what they do afterwards. He drops his hands to Jaskier's ass-- squeezes it, for good measure, it truly is an excellent specimen-- and lets the bard move his hips as he pleases. He looks up at Jaskier, gauging his reactions as he tongues at the head of his cock, slides it along the slit like the bard had done to his thumb before, back in the cabin.
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Perhaps humans have short memories. Maybe Jaskier just doesn't care that Geralt has been split open before and will likely be split open again and if he stays by his side, he'll have to keep going through it all again. Perhaps another man might think that he'd choose to stay despite the blood and terror because of love, because the thought that Geralt could have to hold his own guts in alone is worse than Jaskier being there to see it himself. Geralt prefers to be distracted by Jaskier's weight settling on the mattress next to his chest, the planes of his body highlighted by warm firelight. Long legs, delicate hands, firm ass, body kept trim by miles upon miles of walking-- Jaskier's a lovely sight. The low light doesn't hide the scars that mar his skin, but it does soften them.
Geralt can also see directly up Jaskier's nose from this angle. This fact is, surprisingly, not a deterrent.
The bard's fingers run gently through his hair, and Geralt hums softly at the kind touch, then down to his chin. He could perhaps object at being grabbed by the jaw as though he's a misbehaving dog, but does not-- he kisses the thumb that presses against his lips. It's rough, calloused from his lute strings, and he approves of the texture.
Jaskier is finally ready to put that cock of his where Geralt has been offering; it is hard and flushed and appreciably large in the bard's fist. Jaskier could say all he likes about women liking him for his other charms, but Geralt would bet him a crown that their fondness for his cock rivaled all his other virtues.
"You won't hurt me," he says, then opens his mouth so that Jaskier can feed him his cock.
Geralt minds his teeth as the bard pushes in, filling his mouth and flooding it with the musky, masculine taste of him. It has been some time since he'd had a man's cock in his mouth, and exactly never since he'd had it in this position, but it's a simple enough process. You don't forget how to suck a dick, even if you're out of practice, and-- well. He will be good enough at this to satisfy Jaskier, at least for this first time around. Hopefully any deficiencies in his technique will be forgiven, and then forgotten by what they do afterwards. He drops his hands to Jaskier's ass-- squeezes it, for good measure, it truly is an excellent specimen-- and lets the bard move his hips as he pleases. He looks up at Jaskier, gauging his reactions as he tongues at the head of his cock, slides it along the slit like the bard had done to his thumb before, back in the cabin.