This is most certainly a play in Jaskier's war against Geralt's emotional repression-- it's evident in the way he lights up at the simple request, at being given the opportunity to do something for Geralt. And perhaps he shouldn't refuse Jaskier the things that please him, even if such things make the witcher feel uncomfortable and off-balance.
It's not important just at this moment, though, not when Jaskier is back between his legs, pressing tender kisses to his stomach on the way to his smalls. Geralt helpfully lifts his hips when the bard pulls the clothing down, bends his legs at his gentle direction. His hard cock, exposed to Jaskier's sight, rests heavy and full against his belly. Jaskier's tongue darts out to briefly wet his lips, and Geralt doesn't even need a witcher's senses to tell that he likes what he sees.
And he goes on to appreciate what he sees with more kisses, doling them out across Geralt's thick thighs, pressing them to the cross-cross of scars along them. Even drops one to the wound that he never talks about-- one that the bard has, surprisingly, been tactful enough not to bother him about too much. He doesn't like to talk about Blaviken.
(He'll tell him about it one day, if he promises never to turn it into a song.)
He gets restless under the unrelenting assault of Jaskier's praise, calling him gorgeous and magnificent as though anyone could really believe that Geralt, a witcher with a mug that scared children, is any of those things. But that's how the bard operates, always spouting off poetry and capable of flattering even the plainest maid with compliments. Could charm the skin off of a snake, that man. Geralt manages to grumble out "Shut up, Jask," his only defense against him, before the bard's hand closes around his cock and Geralt would have a difficult time saying anything coherent. Jaskier's hands are deceptively strong-- all of that lute playing has given him deft, well-developed muscles in his fingers-- and he strokes Geralt with great confidence and competence, considering that it's the first time he's gotten his hands on the witcher's prick. Makes him bite back a groan, but the pre-cum beading on the head of his cock would betray how good his hands are.
His hips push his cock into Jaskier's warm grip, and as the bard's head dips down to taste him, it takes all of the self-restraint that he has to keep himself still. (He does not quiver with the strain of maintaining his control. It's just a trick of the light.)
"Jaskier," he says, voice rough as the bard straddles him and sets his weight on Geralt's stomach. The curve of his prick rests snugly against the cleft of his ass and his hands grab onto the warm meat of his thighs. It's torture, keeping still-- he wants to rut against Jaskier's ass until he stripes it with come. He wants to roll him over and fuck him until his voice echoes in the rafters. He wants to wrap his hands around the bard's trim waist and sit him on his prick. He wants to have Jaskier in every way that the bard would let himself be had, but right now? Jaskier is far more interested in dripping chamomile oil onto his chest and rubbing at it.
He is sore, granted, and the rubbing does feel nice. It's just not the kind of rubbing that Geralt would prefer right now.
"Tease," he says, using enough willpower to loosen his grip on Jaskier's thighs into something that wouldn't bruise. Can't quite summon enough to let go, though. "What else?"
There must have been plenty of things that Jaskier had thought about doing while he rubbed oil into Geralt's skin, judging by the way he had smelled like lust while he did it. Back then, Geralt had had a trail of pretty barmaids and elegant ladies to blame the bard's salacity on-- it had seemed like a far more plausible explanation than the man being smitten with his witcher companion. He knows far better now.
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It's not important just at this moment, though, not when Jaskier is back between his legs, pressing tender kisses to his stomach on the way to his smalls. Geralt helpfully lifts his hips when the bard pulls the clothing down, bends his legs at his gentle direction. His hard cock, exposed to Jaskier's sight, rests heavy and full against his belly. Jaskier's tongue darts out to briefly wet his lips, and Geralt doesn't even need a witcher's senses to tell that he likes what he sees.
And he goes on to appreciate what he sees with more kisses, doling them out across Geralt's thick thighs, pressing them to the cross-cross of scars along them. Even drops one to the wound that he never talks about-- one that the bard has, surprisingly, been tactful enough not to bother him about too much. He doesn't like to talk about Blaviken.
(He'll tell him about it one day, if he promises never to turn it into a song.)
He gets restless under the unrelenting assault of Jaskier's praise, calling him gorgeous and magnificent as though anyone could really believe that Geralt, a witcher with a mug that scared children, is any of those things. But that's how the bard operates, always spouting off poetry and capable of flattering even the plainest maid with compliments. Could charm the skin off of a snake, that man. Geralt manages to grumble out "Shut up, Jask," his only defense against him, before the bard's hand closes around his cock and Geralt would have a difficult time saying anything coherent. Jaskier's hands are deceptively strong-- all of that lute playing has given him deft, well-developed muscles in his fingers-- and he strokes Geralt with great confidence and competence, considering that it's the first time he's gotten his hands on the witcher's prick. Makes him bite back a groan, but the pre-cum beading on the head of his cock would betray how good his hands are.
His hips push his cock into Jaskier's warm grip, and as the bard's head dips down to taste him, it takes all of the self-restraint that he has to keep himself still. (He does not quiver with the strain of maintaining his control. It's just a trick of the light.)
"Jaskier," he says, voice rough as the bard straddles him and sets his weight on Geralt's stomach. The curve of his prick rests snugly against the cleft of his ass and his hands grab onto the warm meat of his thighs. It's torture, keeping still-- he wants to rut against Jaskier's ass until he stripes it with come. He wants to roll him over and fuck him until his voice echoes in the rafters. He wants to wrap his hands around the bard's trim waist and sit him on his prick. He wants to have Jaskier in every way that the bard would let himself be had, but right now? Jaskier is far more interested in dripping chamomile oil onto his chest and rubbing at it.
He is sore, granted, and the rubbing does feel nice. It's just not the kind of rubbing that Geralt would prefer right now.
"Tease," he says, using enough willpower to loosen his grip on Jaskier's thighs into something that wouldn't bruise. Can't quite summon enough to let go, though. "What else?"
There must have been plenty of things that Jaskier had thought about doing while he rubbed oil into Geralt's skin, judging by the way he had smelled like lust while he did it. Back then, Geralt had had a trail of pretty barmaids and elegant ladies to blame the bard's salacity on-- it had seemed like a far more plausible explanation than the man being smitten with his witcher companion. He knows far better now.