Jaskier rolls off of him, collapsing onto the bed in a warm, content heap. Geralt listens to his heart, the way it goes from a thunder in his chest down to its steady resting rate, a familiar rhythm. If Geralt had thought that his scent was sweet before, thought that it could never be better than when he was at the height of arousal, that was only because he hadn't smelled what Jaskier was like in afterglow. Even if they hadn't planned on attending to Geralt's cock later, just the scent of him would be a reward in and of itself.
Sweet, heady and satisfied, sweat and musk and sex; physical evidence that Geralt has pleased him, that he's done his job well. Been a useful tool for Jaskier's pleasure. There's a part of him that wants to roll over and shove his face into the bard's hairy chest, breathe in that scent until he's drunk on it. He's certain it would make his head spin faster than alcohol ever could.
He doesn't need to move at all, as Jaskier does instead-- pressing himself up against his side, an arm flung over his chest. He leans over towards Geralt's face, angling for a kiss, and the witcher obliges him, wrapping one arm around his waist to support him. It's unbearably gentle, a soft and tender press of lips against his own that makes something in his chest feel tight. His hands itch to wrap around him, pull him to his chest and hold him close, until he could feel every one of Jaskier's breaths press against his own rib cage. But the bard seems content with this, with laying against him with lazy satisfaction, and Geralt won't burden him with neediness, of all things.
Jaskier pulls back to speak, informing him of what he tastes like with glee while Geralt huffs a laugh. Some men like to taste themselves on a lover, and apparently Jaskier is one of them-- it's good to know, for the future. Geralt will remember the things he prefers like he remembers a monster's weaknesses, to know how best to slay them. When Jaskier looks down, attention diverted from the bitter-salt taste on Geralt's lips, there's something for him to look at-- and he's undoubtedly pleased at the sight. Geralt's quite certain, at least, that no one has ever looked at his cock with such obvious delight before.
Enjoyed that, love?
Love. Jaskier says it so easily, so simply.
"As I'd said," he replies, "watching you is foreplay enough."
He traces the chain of the medallion where it winds around Jaskier's neck, then touches his cheek, pushes a little of his sweaty hair back from his forehead. The bard tolerates his touch admirably, and it helps to alleviate the hungry thing in his skin that craves contact.
"It's not important right now." His cock could wait; it isn't going anywhere. "You'd mentioned something about spilling on my chest?"
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Sweet, heady and satisfied, sweat and musk and sex; physical evidence that Geralt has pleased him, that he's done his job well. Been a useful tool for Jaskier's pleasure. There's a part of him that wants to roll over and shove his face into the bard's hairy chest, breathe in that scent until he's drunk on it. He's certain it would make his head spin faster than alcohol ever could.
He doesn't need to move at all, as Jaskier does instead-- pressing himself up against his side, an arm flung over his chest. He leans over towards Geralt's face, angling for a kiss, and the witcher obliges him, wrapping one arm around his waist to support him. It's unbearably gentle, a soft and tender press of lips against his own that makes something in his chest feel tight. His hands itch to wrap around him, pull him to his chest and hold him close, until he could feel every one of Jaskier's breaths press against his own rib cage. But the bard seems content with this, with laying against him with lazy satisfaction, and Geralt won't burden him with neediness, of all things.
Jaskier pulls back to speak, informing him of what he tastes like with glee while Geralt huffs a laugh. Some men like to taste themselves on a lover, and apparently Jaskier is one of them-- it's good to know, for the future. Geralt will remember the things he prefers like he remembers a monster's weaknesses, to know how best to slay them. When Jaskier looks down, attention diverted from the bitter-salt taste on Geralt's lips, there's something for him to look at-- and he's undoubtedly pleased at the sight. Geralt's quite certain, at least, that no one has ever looked at his cock with such obvious delight before.
Enjoyed that, love?
Love. Jaskier says it so easily, so simply.
"As I'd said," he replies, "watching you is foreplay enough."
He traces the chain of the medallion where it winds around Jaskier's neck, then touches his cheek, pushes a little of his sweaty hair back from his forehead. The bard tolerates his touch admirably, and it helps to alleviate the hungry thing in his skin that craves contact.
"It's not important right now." His cock could wait; it isn't going anywhere. "You'd mentioned something about spilling on my chest?"