Geralt grunts at the friction of Jaskier's rolling hips, rubbing his hard cock along the soft curve of his ass. It's torture, and though Geralt is very good at handling pain, apparently the way to break a witcher is with pleasure instead. Pleasure and sweet words from his bard are enough to crack the white wolf's resolve.
He holds onto his willpower by a thread. As much as he wants to flip the bard over and give him what he's asking for, he'd told Jaskier to talk. He couldn't just cut him off like that, could he? Not even if it means prolonging his own slow, sweet torment.
But surely that isn't indicative of anything.
Jaskier talks about twenty years of pining and fantasies, grasping one of the witcher's hands and guiding it up along his body. His palm smooths over Jaskier's stomach, feels the breath billowing in and out of him; gently makes its way up his torso and towards his chest, as though the bard wants him to map every inch of skin with his fingers. And Geralt wants to-- wants to map every curve and crevice of him with hands and mouth and anything else that Jaskier would allow.
Words have always been Jaskier's purview, his weapon of choice. He's no less devastating with them now, telling Geralt about all the fantasies that he'd never thought would ever come true. The ways he would want to be fucked, the ways he would want to introduce Geralt to the fine art of taking a cock. It's something that the witcher had thought about in abstracts, not something that he had been too enthusiastic about attempting. But the way that it sounds in Jaskier's voice, the promises of opening him up, filling him up, riding him hard and putting him away wet--
It's said that, along with all the other things, that witchers can't blush. This isn't true; blood can move to a witcher's cock, so it can move to his skin, too, it's just slow about it. Blood's already moved to his cock, and now there's a faint hint of pink to his face, a little down his chest.
His fingers are coated in oil, his hand guided back to Jaskier's hole. He cannot wrench his eyes away from the bard's face, hovering over him with his own medallion against his chest.
"Yes," he says, and his fingers, at least, remember what to do by muscle-memory. He traces them around his tight rim, spreading the slick fluid a little before slowly trying to work one into him. He's tight and hot and absolutely perfect.
"We'll start with this and then work through the rest."
All those fantasies and then some, if he can.
He leans up to kiss him, to swallow his noises as though he can't get enough. Witcher discipline doesn't fail him, though, and even with a naked, wriggling bard on top of him, he keeps his composure; works him open first with one finger, then another when he feels loose enough. Stays patient, distracting him with kisses until he can get three stuffed inside, the slick sound of them thrusting into his body almost obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room.
Once prepared, though-- Geralt's experience fades a little. Whores preferred it if he fucked them from behind, so as not to look at him more than they had to, or on top of them if they were tired. Yen would mount him and take her pleasure at her own leisure. He doesn't know how Jaskier prefers to be taken, and needs some kind of indication as to what he likes best. What Geralt needs to do to give him everything he needs.
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He holds onto his willpower by a thread. As much as he wants to flip the bard over and give him what he's asking for, he'd told Jaskier to talk. He couldn't just cut him off like that, could he? Not even if it means prolonging his own slow, sweet torment.
But surely that isn't indicative of anything.
Jaskier talks about twenty years of pining and fantasies, grasping one of the witcher's hands and guiding it up along his body. His palm smooths over Jaskier's stomach, feels the breath billowing in and out of him; gently makes its way up his torso and towards his chest, as though the bard wants him to map every inch of skin with his fingers. And Geralt wants to-- wants to map every curve and crevice of him with hands and mouth and anything else that Jaskier would allow.
Words have always been Jaskier's purview, his weapon of choice. He's no less devastating with them now, telling Geralt about all the fantasies that he'd never thought would ever come true. The ways he would want to be fucked, the ways he would want to introduce Geralt to the fine art of taking a cock. It's something that the witcher had thought about in abstracts, not something that he had been too enthusiastic about attempting. But the way that it sounds in Jaskier's voice, the promises of opening him up, filling him up, riding him hard and putting him away wet--
It's said that, along with all the other things, that witchers can't blush. This isn't true; blood can move to a witcher's cock, so it can move to his skin, too, it's just slow about it. Blood's already moved to his cock, and now there's a faint hint of pink to his face, a little down his chest.
His fingers are coated in oil, his hand guided back to Jaskier's hole. He cannot wrench his eyes away from the bard's face, hovering over him with his own medallion against his chest.
"Yes," he says, and his fingers, at least, remember what to do by muscle-memory. He traces them around his tight rim, spreading the slick fluid a little before slowly trying to work one into him. He's tight and hot and absolutely perfect.
"We'll start with this and then work through the rest."
All those fantasies and then some, if he can.
He leans up to kiss him, to swallow his noises as though he can't get enough. Witcher discipline doesn't fail him, though, and even with a naked, wriggling bard on top of him, he keeps his composure; works him open first with one finger, then another when he feels loose enough. Stays patient, distracting him with kisses until he can get three stuffed inside, the slick sound of them thrusting into his body almost obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room.
Once prepared, though-- Geralt's experience fades a little. Whores preferred it if he fucked them from behind, so as not to look at him more than they had to, or on top of them if they were tired. Yen would mount him and take her pleasure at her own leisure. He doesn't know how Jaskier prefers to be taken, and needs some kind of indication as to what he likes best. What Geralt needs to do to give him everything he needs.