How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.
Jaskier laughs when Geralt picks him and throws him, a tent already forming in his pants, the scent of arousal taking over. They've slept on this bed already, and Jaskier hadn't thought much of it - twenty years of traveling together means they've fallen asleep in thousands of different places, one stops noticing after a while. It's downing on him now though, feeling the fur tickle the back of his head, this is Geralt's bed. Geralt, the White Wolf, mighty witcher, is going to fuck him. On his bed. Who nobody else has ever gotten to share, not like this at least.
His blood may be traveling south pretty quickly, but his ego is hitting the fucking roof. And Geralt wanted him to believed he was only capable of 'echos' while bringing him to his most intimate, private space? Hah.
As soon as Geralt's hands touch his legs, Jaskier is opening them himself in a silent invitation, lips being licked at the sight of Geralt climbing on top of him... which causes him to accidentally bite his tongue when he whimpers as his doublet is ripped as easily as it had been paper.
He'll spend the whole day tomorrow searching for those buttons.
Worth it.
"Fuck." It's deep, heartfelt, somehow managing to pronounce every letter naughtily. "I love how strong you are." Jaskier's fully hard now, and his hips thrust up when Geralt descends on him to mark his neck. "Do I look better on your bed as well, my wolf?" He asks as deft fingers start working on the buttons of Geralt's pants. "Do I--ah, yes, mmh, keep doing that-- do I smell of you yet? I want to, so badly-- mmh, fuck-- I want every single witcher in this keep to smell what you've done to me as soon as I leave this room."
Buttons undone, Jaskier slips a hand inside, starting to stroke Geralt's bulge through his small clothes. Usually he wouldn't jump so soon on it, but he remembers the little witcher biology lesson Geralt gave him in the cabin, so he wants to help. Besides, after having to wait for so long, he's simply dying to hold such a powerful cock in his hand and have his way with it all night long.
Jaskier is the first human who has been welcomed at Kaer Morhen since the sacking, other than Geralt's child surprise. The first person that Geralt has ever brought to this bed, the first to be pressed against the furs, the first to have spent an entire night there with him. The first, if Geralt doesn't do something else that's wildly wrong, to spend an entire winter there with him.
The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.
Geralt may think he hasn't done much at all, but for Jaskier, every little gesture of his speaks volumes. Will there be a future where the fact he's actually fucking Geralt of Rivia doesn't blow his mind? Probably, but that's not a thought for this moment. Right now, Jaskier wants to lose himself in the feelings of his beloved witcher caring for and wanting him back, in all those details that coming from his wolf mean a hundred times more because Jaskier knows how special they are, how not just anyone gets this privilege.
(How most people wouldn't even consider it a privilege.)
"Then do some--" His cheeky remark is interrupted when his chemise is tugged up but hey, he isn't complaining. The exact opposite in fact, it strokes his ego just right that Geralt is as eager for this as he is, desperate for more contact. Geralt bucks into his hand as Jaskier's body arches under the witcher's mouth, whimpering when teeth play with his nipples, smiling at the fact Geralt doesn't mind either his chest hair or his new scars.
Am I still pretty? he wants to ask, and he knows it's a very stupid question, because Geralt obviously still wants to fuck him, and he shouldn't feel self conscious about them when the witcher has carried his own for a century. So he keeps it to himself.
"Fuck." He says as well, his turn to thrust his hips against Geralt's hand, which is sadly gone too soon. It had barely been one second of touching his groin and he can already feel his whole body on fire, only made worse (or shall we say better) by Geralt tugging at his pants above his ass, so teasingly close yet not touching enough. (Mental note: the bow is a deliciously torture success.) "And you will smell of me, right? A constant reminder of whom snatched the White Wolf from their pack right under their sensitive noses..."
He mainly means Vesemir, obviously, but the idea in general is inherently erotic - carrying the brooch on his chest is one thing. But for Geralt to go out smelling of claim as well, the mighty wolf showing he belongs to a mere human bard... fuck. Jaskier may be lucky not to have a witcher's sense of smell after all, or he'd be hard all day long.
Speaking of hard, Geralt is getting there faster than he had in the cabin, but there's still some work to be done - he's the one needing the attention next. Jaskier lightly pushes and is surprised at the fact Geralt moves along, allowing them to flip their positions. Not something he would have trouble achieving with the ladies or fellow twinks, but his boyfriend is a fucking brick wall. It's this kind of trust that drives him crazy, how can he not be so strongly aroused already?
"You complain about my clothes." He comments as he moves to the edge of the bed. "But you're overdressed as well, love. What do you think is harder to take off, mmh? Some innocent buttons? Or the pants you wear like a bloody second skin?"
Grinning, he pulls at the black leather then throws it on the floor, making it land near his doublet to make a point. He's dying to take off Geralt's smallclothes as well, but he waits for that one, unsure if the witcher's self-esteem wants his dick exposed while not fully hard yet - not something to be embarrassed of, but he knows how Geralt's mind works.
Jaskier hops off the bed then, and since Geralt has already undone the bow, he only has to wiggle his hips to let his pants fall to the floor, which he does while looking directly at golden eyes and licking his lips - there's already a pre-come stain on his own smallclothes.
"Would you take your tunic off for me, my dear? Let me see you flex those marvelous muscles." His eyes are still on Geralt as he walks towards his grooming kit, only taking them off that god-like body to retrieve the one vial of oil that has nothing to do with baths. Said vial is thrown on the mattress on his way back, but before jumping back on the bed, Jaskier turns around and very slowly pulls down his smallclothes, bending over just right as he wiggles his ass and strokes his legs for Geralt.
(His fingers brush the whip marks on the back of his legs and he hopes Geralt's dumb brain aren't thinking too hard about them. Like he is.)
"Like what you see?" He asks with a flirty and fake-shy tone as he climbs on Geralt's lap to straddle him, his erection hard and proud for the witcher, making him hiss when it brushes Geralt's body as he sits down on his groin to roll his hips and press his ass against that slow raising boner. Jaskier bends over to undo Geralt's hair tie and it's then that the idea hits him - he's surprised yet again when he takes the medallion off that thick neck without protest from his lover and gods, isn't that another amazing fuck you at witcher 'tradition'? He puts it around his own neck before tilting his head and asking with the same bawdy voice from before. "How about now?"
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.
It's downright exhilarating to have Geralt's gaze follow his every move and observe every inch of skin he reveals, golden eyes filled with what can only be described as hunger. And when he makes that low noise on his chest? Fuck, Jaskier is two seconds away from just laying down on the bed and letting the wolf devour him.
He wants to be devoured.
Geralt's hands are back on him and every spot of skin he touches is on fire, making Jaskier hum with pleasure as well, his ass answering by pressing harder against Geralt's groin. His thighs are being touched, scars and all, and isn't that a wonderful-- wait. What?
"Oi! Ladies like me because of my charm, my generosity as a lover, my sweet words and my gentle touch." Humble bard right here, ladies and gentlemen. "Not only because of my--" And then what Geralt is saying really hits him. His pouting becomes bright smile. "...you like my dick." He can't help it, he freaking giggles. "Thanks."
It seems wearing the medallion is an excellent idea after all - Jaskier stays quiet for a second, letting Geralt admire the view, letting the meaning sink in. The brooch carries a message as well, of course, but wearing the medallion is a hundred times more powerful, and Jaskier can feel the heavy weight of that meaning on his chest, on the cold metal that touches his blushed skin. If this right here isn't love, trust, a pear, then he doesn't know what it is.
A yesssss is murmured when Geralt sits up, and Jaskier meets his kiss mid-way to crash their mouths together and let their tongues meet each other (eager, desperate to explore) as his hands are finally close enough to go all out. He strokes every muscle, from arms to shoulders to that amazing thick neck, claws at those defined abs and gropes those firm pecs, nails digging in a little bit when Geralt pinches his nipple. Jaskier doesn't stop being noisy even while being kissed, pleasantly humming and whimpering against Geralt's mouth, but he has to break their making out to throw his head back and groan when a big hand finally touches his dick.
"Geralt." Each letter of his lover's name is filthy with need, and his hips can't help thrusting against those fingers (calloused as his own, because of the sword and not the lute, but it's still such a lovely connection to have). He hasn't been touched in so long, and he's only had that one orgasm in Oxenfurt recently, he doesn't know how long he'll last if Geralt goes for a full hand job. Which would be embarrassing as hell, because he prides himself of being an excellent lover, and that doesn't include coming too soon.
"Easy, my wolf." He teases as he buries his face in Geralt's neck to do some biting and kissing of his own, deft fingers massaging Geralt's pecs still. "My body craves for your touch with the rawest of needs, years of pining and weeks without company have me more sensitive than usual. I wouldn't want to let you down by reaching ecstasy with the timing of a virgin."
Jaskier is a wonderfully noisy bedpartner-- Geralt had once desired blessed silence from the bard, but that was before he knew what he sounded like when he was being kissed senseless, the way he drawled the witcher's name with a voice dripping with lust. Geralt swallows the noises that he makes in their kiss, every sigh and moan, and even adds a few of his own; Jaskier's hands are never still, wandering their way over his body and touching everything in their reach, wringing pleasure from him. His nails dig into Geralt's skin and he sighs, enjoys the brief sting of it as they leave half-moon marks on his chest. They wouldn't last for very long, but that's fine, Jaskier could try to leave whatever marks he wanted on his skin. If he tries very hard, maybe something would see the light of morning.
"Jaskier," he replies, his voice teasing and carrying an undercurrent of lust.
The bard's hips jerk against his fingers and that's... appealing, in many ways. He's sensitive and reacts to every little thing that Geralt does, twitches when he switches from rubbing the crown to thumbing underneath the frenulum, tracing his fingers along the thick veins of his shaft. He'd rarely had the time to really acquaint himself with any individual's member, since his only dalliances with men were in brothels and his time with them was paid for by the hour. Jaskier's cock, despite being fully erect, is surprisingly soft skinned-- steel wrapped in silk. Geralt thinks that he might like to put it in his mouth, if that would be something that Jaskier would be inclined towards.
He hums at the feeling of Jaskier's teeth in his neck, his hands still enthralled with his chest. And that's... interesting, he can understand why Jaskier would be drawn towards a woman's soft breasts, but it's odd that he would have that kind of regard for the witcher's own firm pectorals. Jaskier digs his fingers into a sore spot-- he'd overworked his muscles a little when he was repairing the western wall-- and Geralt grunts. He almost wishes that the bard had grabbed the chamomile oil, he could've used a massage.
"I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire," he says, and his hand slides further down until he's cupping Jaskier's balls, gently rolling them in his palm. "Come whenever it pleases you. I can wait until you're ready again."
Geralt himself is at about half-mast by now. Even if Jaskier came before he was ready, there would be some time before he was fully hard anyway, and he could be patient. He could wait and tease the bard until he's back to full hardness again and then continue their play.
Jaskier is noisy in every aspect of life and sex isn't the exception - his lovers deserve to know how good they make him feel, his pleasure deserves to be expressed. He doesn't expect Geralt to return the favor, knowing the witcher too well... or maybe not, because Geralt adds quite a few noises of his own and Jaskier's ears fucking tingle, his whole body shivering when his name is said just right.
He swears to the gods he could come just from it - one day, he thinks. One day, when he's learned Geralt's likes and tells in bed like he knows his own, he'll ask the witcher to guide him through his orgasm with just his deep, sexy voice. And it shall be marvelous.
His hands are marvelous as well, something Jaskier has know for a while merely through observation but is pleased to relearn in practice. They're big, thick and strong, just like the rest of Geralt, yet they are kind when they stroke his dick, making Jaskier bite his neck a little harder than he intended. He licks the bite mark as apology as his hips continue to thrust into Geralt's fingers, moaning more for him and relishing the fact the White Wolf himself is touching him like this, gently, softly, controlling the strength that can decapitate enemies just for him.
Nobody makes him feel as seen as Geralt, which is an irony, because the man used to make him feels as ignored as well. Ah, Destiny, you crazy bitch.
The grunt calls his attention, recognizing it as not a very comfortable one - years of learning to speak Geraltese do that to you. Jaskier pauses he ministrations instantly: hands stop groping to rest tenderly on Geralt's chest instead, his head is pulled back (cheeks flushed, lips red and glistening with saliva, hair tousled and pupils wide with arousal) to look at his witcher with worry. Did he do something wrong? The question dies in his lips, however, when Geralt speaks up, once again being a romantic bastard without even meaning to.
I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire. Fuck if that doesn't deserve to be a line in a poem!
"I'm not in the habit of making my lover waaa-AAH, FUCK." The cupping of his balls makes Jaskier go his loudest so far, and the rolling of his hips becomes more frantic, his cock twitching at the loss of contact. He slows down a bit, however, at the question. His record is six, and he remembers that night fondly, however...
He isn't eighteen anymore.
It isn't just one, at least, that he knows well, and he hopes his dick won't fail him tonight- it simply can't, he thinks, not when they're finally fucking the person that has kept it up the most. If someone could help him have orgasms as if he was young again, that's definitely Geralt.
(One day he won't be able to do this anymore, and Geralt will need whores again. Jaskier won't stop him from leaving then.)
"A-a few. It depends." He starts kissing Geralt's shoulders as he speaks. "But I told you before, didn't I? I like foreplay. I like touching you. I don't mind waiting for you."
"Hm," Geralt says, and this is a particularly thoughtful sort of hm, a sound that indicates that he has just learned something interesting and intends to commit it to memory. Jaskier practically yelped when he started paying attention to his balls, and Geralt found the sudden jump in his voice and the desperate rutting of his hips to be quite appealing. The bard's cock twitches, and there's a clear bead of precome on the head of it that the witcher considers tasting. Perhaps he tastes as good as he smells.
He would like to taste all of Jaskier, really. As much as the bard will allow him. And if he has more than one orgasm in him for a night, well, there's no reason why Jaskier couldn't have one or two of them while Geralt's cock is still trying to catch up.
There's a quiver to the bard's voice when he speaks, and it's a more pleasing sound than all of his white wolf ballads, and one that Geralt selfishly wants to keep for himself. His lips press against Geralt's scarred shoulder and he knows that they're soft and warm despite not being able to directly feel it, as the scar that he presses them to has nothing but deadened nerves. Claw marks from a beast that had gotten a lucky strike in, back before he had a bard to take care of his injuries for him. While he lays kisses to unfeeling skin, Geralt slides his hand to the back of Jaskier's neck, running his thumb across the nape of it, right along his hairline.
Jaskier's skin is very fine there, at the nape of his neck. Delicate, and Geralt is acutely aware of how easy it would be to hurt him. He keeps his grip loose, forces his touch into unaccustomed gentleness.
"A few is fine," he says. "You can spill down my throat on the first, come on my fingers for the second, and I'll fuck you for the third."
It's a good plan. A solid plan. And Geralt always performs best when he has clear, well-defined goals to strive for, and he is, if nothing else, an efficient tool. He can be as efficient in giving pleasure as he is with killing monsters, and he's far more comfortable with giving pleasure than receiving it. It's possibly an ideal situation-- a set of tasks for Geralt to complete with all the single-minded focus of a witcher, and with the only death at the end of it a few very pleasant little deaths.
Jaskier hums when Geralt rubs the nape of his neck, melting under the kindness and sensitivity of the touch - he can already picture their future together, cuddling in bed or just sitting by the fire, Geralt offering gentle affection. Once an impossible dream, now a reality he can look forward to.
The humming becomes a groan, however, when Geralt speaks again. Jaskier's hips give an extra hard thrust as he drops his forehead on Geralt's shoulder, his mind overwhelming him with the mental images, his ego and his heart full of love for this man both growing ten times bigger at the idea of Geralt finding him coming foreplay enough.
"Fuck, Geralt. Destroying this poor bard with his own weapon, aren't you?" Words, he means.
Usually he wouldn't be hesitating this much - multiple orgasms isn't anything particularly kinky, in fact, he would call at least two his standard. Side-effects of fucking a witcher, he supposes, especially after the talk they just had. And especially because he knows how Geralt's mind works. He isn't second guessing the idea, he's just worried about the why behind it.
Speaking of their recent conversation... he should be trusting Geralt in return, shouldn't he? But he can't help it, it feels like witcher logic is a shadow that haunts them. Which isn't Geralt's fault. Once again, Jaskier pulls his head back to look at his lover eye to eye as both his hands cup the witcher's face. Blue eyes search gold (his favorite color, oh how lucky he is) for any kind of silly thoughts, he ends up licking his lips and whimpering a bit when he finds raw lust in them. For him.
"Fiiiiine. Fine! It's not something I would've ever thought I would have to think about twice - I mean, who would? Multiple orgasms! Being the center of your attention! An instant yes, really! I should be ashamed of myself right now!" He shakes his head, mostly at himself, but then he pecks Geralt's lips. "I just want you to be reassured that this is for our fun and pleasure, my dear, and not because I mind waiting for you. Understood?"
Remember to trust me, his tone says. He kisses Geralt again then, intending to start a good and proper make-out, but as his hands leave the witcher's face to make their way down, he realizes something. If he's going to come more than once tonight, well... he would like to keep his orgasms varied, then. Do all the things he's dreamed about doing for so long. Okay, not all of them, that will take all winter. But at least a few.
Would it be too soon to ask, he wonders as he breaks the kiss to worry his lower lip for a second. It's not like it's something super kinky but... oh, to hell with it. Obviously Geralt is talking dirty to him - may as well take the chance and do the dirty too.
"I spill in your mouth, you spill in my ass. I like the sound of that, love." Another term of endearment, said with a low tone full of promise and need. His calloused fingers find Geralt's nipples and start playing with them as he makes his request. "As for the third one-- would you allow me to spill on your gorgeous chest?"
He pinches both nipples then, showing exactly how much he likes them. Which is a lot.
Jaskier cups his face in both of his hands, looking into Geralt's eyes as though searching for something there. The witcher waits, despite his desire to start on the tasks that he'd been given-- like a dog whose master is holding a treat in front of him and telling him to stay. His obedience doesn't temper the want in his eyes or quell his desire to taste the bard's skin. Jaskier licks his lips and Geralt's eyes flicker to them, briefly, and for a lesser man, it may have been too much of a temptation to resist. Even a witcher's prodigious resolve could only take so much.
He speaks-- of course he speaks, Jaskier rarely does anything else-- and the brief, chaste press of his lips to Geralt's isn't even close to enough. This is for our fun and pleasure, he reminds his witcher, as though he could have forgotten that being in bed with Jaskier is a pleasure. It would be a pleasure even if Jaskier had made him sit on the other side of the room and watch him bring himself to orgasm and not allowed him to touch at all.
Geralt is kissed again before he can respond, which is just as well. He presses into it and would gladly make it as filthy and deep as Jaskier likes, except that the bard pulls back again and he makes an annoyed noise at the break. Are they to talk all night? Had Jaskier not gotten his fill of blue balls in the past few weeks? If they're prevented from fucking again by the bard's own inability to shut up, Geralt will have Vesemir check him for curses, awkwardness of explaining this to the old witcher be damned.
When Jaskier speaks, it's confirming part of the course of action that Geralt intended to take, with the addition of an endearment that's... still hard to hear. It's still difficult, every time Jaskier calls him love or mentions loving him, from the sheer inequality of their feelings. He makes up for it with the pinches to Geralt's chest, and he'll soon discover that though the witcher's cock is slow to rise, his nipples require far less blood flow and perk up much quicker.
Geralt groans, both at the tug of bard's fingers and his words. Jaskier could come on whatever part of Geralt pleases him.
"Yes."
His objectives have been modified, but it's desirable, attainable. A monster that Geralt both knows how to slay and is eager to. There's no reason to waste more time with speaking-- anything that needs to be said, has been. Geralt shifts the both of them back a little, so that when he lays down again, his head is resting against the pillows. He could have chosen a different position, perhaps flipped the bard onto the bed and held his hips down, but this-- well, Jaskier had said to trust him. And there's little that he could do that would actually hurt Geralt, even if the bard is in control.
"Come," he says, with a little tap to the bard's ass. Scoot up, Jaskier, there's a witcher's mouth waiting to be full of your cock.
Not gonna lie, that annoyed noise at the break amuses Jaskier greatly, and it strokes his ego just right as well. To have someone desperately want him like this drives him crazy, and Jaskier relishes the feeling of it hitting so many needs of his - not only sexual ones, but also his need to be liked, desired, seen... and of course, to be the center of attention.
Geralt makes him feel like he's the center of his whole world.
They're both suffering of blue balls at the moment, so Jaskier saves the knowledge of those desperate sounds for a later occasion, wanting to experiment and see how much he could tease his lover, drive him mad in return, see if he can make Mr Mighty Witcher lose control. For now, he's perfectly happy to feel how well those nipples respond to his fingers, ears tingling at that wonderful groan - he's learning to play Geralt, and the music he's getting out of him is glorious.
His proposal is accepted, which definitely pleases him, but he isn't ready to see what comes next: Geralt lying down, baring himself open and vulnerable for him, giving him full control of the situation. His dick twitches at the glorious sight, his heart swells at this unfiltered demonstration of trust. It's at times like this when he wonders how could they doubt each other and argue about things when it's so fucking obvious how much they need and love (pear!) each other.
"Bloody hell, Geralt."
His voice comes out a little hoarse, throat almost dry at this turn of events. It's the tap on his ass that snaps him out of his staring, and once again he can't help giggling. Oh, this shall be a marvelous night worthy of a thousand ballads!
Jaskier raises on his knees and does start moving closer, but at a slow pace - his hands falls on Geralt's abs and they stroke their way up across every scar and muscle, blue eyes devouring every inch of skin with their staring, a whimper occasionally escaping whenever his dick brushes the witcher's body.
"What a gorgeous sight you make, my wolf. Sharper than a serpent's tooth, stronger than a whole army, more sensual than the curviest whore."
It should be reciting yet it almost comes out as begging thanks to the amount of raw need in his words. Jaskier's knees finally land against Geralt's armpits, and his hand reaches out to run his fingers through white hair before grabbing the witcher's chin, allowing a calloused thumb to brush those lips.
"You're the most erotic thing I've ever had the pleasure of bedding." He never stops looking right into golden eyes with the heaviest intensity, absolutely enthralled by this new side of Geralt, one that is getting engraved in his mind forever. His thumb sneaks between the witcher's lips as his free hand grabs his own erection to guide it to Geralt's mouth, the contact causing him to hiss. "Be a dear and open up for me, love. And if at any moment you need to stop, just pinch my thigh, understood?"
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.
Having Geralt under him like this makes Jaskier feel like a king, yet also incredibly small at the same time. Sweetness intertwines with his heavy arousal as Jaskier smiles like the lovefool he is at every little gesture - the humming to his touch, the kiss to his thumb, and-- you won't hurt me. Fuck, talk another grand demonstration of trust. This right here is worth twenty years of loyalty, of giving himself to the man. Can we be kings together?
"True, I wouldn't. But you may want to stop for other reasons, my dear, and your comfort is important to me." Sex is only fun if both parties are having a good time after all.
It's not Jaskier's first time in this position, but it is the first time he finds a male lover on the other side of it. Men in general aren't often interested in sucking his cock, unlike women - part of keeping the illusion up, Jaskier knows, of trying to pretend they aren't actually one of those queers. It's usually his ass and mouth they seek. Geralt, once again, proves to be different, willing to take his lover's spill even on his marvelous chest - Jaskier can already tell his sex life will be fantastic if this witcher is open to do all kinds of things.
His hand guides his cock slowly, carefully, giving Geralt time to get used to having his mouth full. His groan drags out during the process, his whole body shivering at the warm and wet feeling around his dick, his eyes fighting the urge to close just to keep admiring those lovely lips stretched around his girth and those beautiful golden eyes fixated on his face.
There's no stopping them from closing any longer, though, when Geralt squeezes his ass and licks the slit of his cock - Jaskier throws his head back and moans, loud and filthy, his hips thrusting a little harder than he intends to. It's been a while, so he's a little overwhelmed at that moment.
"Fuck, sorry."
Jaskier fixes his position before trying again, his back bending over as a hand grabs the headboard of the bed for support, the other going to pet Geralt's hair again. Hips are moved gently, sensually, with the same smoothness he would put into a dance. Every thrust makes his skin more flushed, his panting quicker and more frequent, the forming of sentences hard to achieve.
"Yes, that's it... you're so good for me, love..."
Because of course not even at moments like this he can keep his mouth shut, and how could he? His whole body is heating up with pleasure, waves of it rolling through him every time Geralt flicks his tongue - there's no thinking being done here, only losing himself in the sensations, and so Jaskier forgets everything about witchering noses and ears. As far as he knows, he is having a wonderful time and he needs to let his lover know.
The expression on Jaskier's face, the shudders that run through his body and the tilt of his head-- it looks blissful, like the act of putting his cock in Geralt's mouth is the greatest pleasure that he's been blessed with on this earth. He has certainly had more skilled people in his bed than Geralt, because even though he's walked and fucked across the Continent for decades, his repertoire has been limited in scope. This must just be how Jaskier always is in bed, acting like every lay is the best one of his life. It's a courteous habit, Geralt supposes; some would be offended to know that their skills aren't up to par.
The bard's hips press in a little faster and harder than he's expecting, the head of his cock dragging against Geralt's soft palate; he's choked down far worse things than an impolite dick, though, and manages to avoid gagging. It's uncomfortable, but only for a moment, as Jaskier considerately restrains his hips. He puts a hand into Geralt's hand as though in apology, and the witcher hums at the touch. The sight of Jaskier's body bent over him and grabbing onto the headboard makes that hum turn into a groan.
Jaskier's hips move again, but smoothly and kindly, restrained to a pace that Geralt can easily accommodate. It's not necessary-- he doesn't need restraint, he offered Jaskier whatever he wants and he means it here, too. The bard talks to him all throughout, sweet nothings about how good Geralt is, and that praise makes him feel warm, fills his own slow cock a little more even though--
It doesn't matter. He'll give Jaskier what he wants, whatever he wants from this body. There's nothing that Jaskier can ask of him that he couldn't give. Nothing that he wouldn't give willingly. And it's not unappealing, the idea of giving everything over to Jaskier.
Geralt tightens his grip on the bard's ass and pulls him in harder; it ruins the lovely sweet rhythm that he'd had going, forces more of his cock into Geralt's mouth. He keeps his jaw loose and his teeth out of the way and accommodates his girth, feels it stretch at the corners of his mouth. His nose is full of his scent, spicy-sharp and pleasured and good, and Geralt would choke on his fucking cock if it would make that scent stay so sweet, make it sweeter. He pulls him in that hard rhythm, takes it from Jaskier like only a witcher can take punishment-- with only low grunts around the hot length pushing into him.
That groan vibrates all around Jaskier's cock, making him go from soft sweet nothings to moaning Geralt's name rather loudly, his hand pulling at white hair without meaning to. He's about to apologize again but looking down, it doesn't seem Geralt minds it. In fact...
"You like that, my wolf?"
His grip on Geralt's hair tightens - it's not too strong to really hurt, only tight enough for that delicious friction that some tugging can cause. Jaskier knows, he likes hands on his hair when he gives oral as well. Hopefully Geralt won't hesitate to grab him when he finally puts his mouth on that mighty cock later.
It doesn't end there, though - it seems Geralt likes it a bit rougher, because he's now pulling in harder. After another moaned fuck, Jaskier gets the message and starts moving faster, his hips giving quick and short thrusts as any last attempts of control he had are lost to pleasure. Words stop forming sentences, Jaskier just runs through a cycle of yes, fuck, so good and Geralt's name in between groans.
He had told Geralt that two decades of pining and not having an orgasm for weeks (not counting that sad wank) have left him more sensitive than usual, and he meant it. His speed picks up because his desperation is finally allowed to run wild, chasing that sweet little death that has been avoiding him. He can already feel his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead and his thighs shaking as they try to keep supporting his body, which is quickly coming undone under Geralt's warm mouth. Every muscle, every bone, every pore of his skin is already tingling, and Jaskier knows he can't hold it any longer.
"Geralt... 'M close..."
Ah, but they agreed on spilling in his mouth, right? And Jaskier loves coming inside, something not every lover of his had been up to.
The witcher's name leaves his lips as he thrusts his hips one last time and stays buried as he comes, hand pushing Geralt's head to keep him in place as he spills into that lovely throat. To the surprise of absolutely nobody, Jaskier is loud when he orgasms as well, groaning as he feels that powerful wave of pure bliss reach every corner of his body, making his toes curl and his mind go completely blank for a few seconds. Head thrown back and eyes closed, everything around him stops existing for a moment except for that wonderful, peaceful feeling of raw satisfaction.
The bard has long, clever fingers, and they push into Geralt's hair and tangle up in the strands of it and tug, tipping his head back a little from the pull. It stings a little and Geralt makes a noise that he wouldn't have thought that his throat could make, something pitched high that he would refuse to call a whine. It's... good. He likes it. Jaskier could pull his head whichever way pleased him, had control of it, and Geralt likes it.
That is an... interesting discovery. Something for him to examine later, when he doesn't have his mouth full of cock and his dick twitching whenever Jaskier tugs on his hair.
With the encouragement from Geralt's hands, Jaskier fucks harder into his mouth, picking up the pace and taking his pleasure. There is an appealing roughness that comes to his voice when he's getting his cock wet just right, his vocabulary narrowing to little more than curses and Geralt's name. This feels like an accomplishment, making the normally verbose bard lose his words, one that's worth the times when his cock goes a little too deep, a little too hard and makes his throat spasm and his eyes narrow with the effort of ignoring the urge to gag. It's worth it for the arch of Jaskier's body above him and the fluid movement of his hips, the flush that colors him from face to chest. He looks blissful and Geralt feels a brief thrum of pride for making him so, in the same way that he'd feel pride in a good hunt. A job well done.
Almost done, anyway. Close, he says. There's still more work for him to do.
Geralt runs his hands over Jaskier's quivering thighs, over his pistoning hips, his warm sides. Up to his chest, surging with his heavy breaths, coarse hair rough on Geralt's calloused palms; up to his nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Is it odd, to be fond of a man's chest? Perhaps not, since Jaskier has expressed as such for Geralt's, but Geralt also doesn't have a pelt that you could easily turn into a rug. Nor did he expect that he would find such a thing attractive, but he takes a certain pleasure in running his nails lightly over his chest and feeling the scratch of it. For all his foppishness, Jaskier is undeniably masculine underneath his frivolous clothes, soft-skinned but broad-shouldered and lean muscled. His weight indents the mattress on either side of Geralt's chest, and it's not an inconsiderable mass.
Jaskier's thrusts become more erratic the closer he gets to the edge, and that is another thing that Geralt discovers that he enjoys-- being able to throw the bard off of his rhythm. It doesn't take long-- the whole thing doesn't take long, really, Jaskier was quite wound up-- before his thrusts stutter to a stop and he grips Geralt's head like a lifeline, holding it steady as his cock pulses. Geralt is faced with two choices, either swallow or choke, and he chooses the former even though the taste is unpleasantly bitter. It's far more appealing to watch Jaskier in the throes of his orgasm, his body shuddering in pleasure and his face sweet, as loud as ever even in ecstasy. If any of the other witchers are anywhere near his room, they'd surely be able to hear Jaskier's professionally-trained voice soaring and know exactly what it means.
His hands drop down to Jaskier's sides, patting his flank like he's praising a horse who's just been ridden hard. With the bard's hands still gripping his hair, he just leaves his cock where it is, kept warm in his mouth even as it begins to soften. That's fine-- he is content to lay here and watch Jaskier come down from his high and listen to his heart slow from its feverish pace. He smells like pleasure and satisfaction, and the scent of his orgasm might just be the best damn thing that Geralt's ever had in his nose. If he hadn't already been hard from watching, the smell of him alone might have gotten him there.
Geralt's touch is the final push he needs to go over the edge, his body quivering under all the attention. It's not only the fact he's being touched at all -although that, of course, is the main pusher- but also by whom. And how. It's Geralt, the love of his fucking life. And also Geralt, a witcher, running trained, strong fingers all over his body with the warmest care, not letting his fangs even graze an inch of his skin but Jaskier getting aroused by their presence near his cock anyway.
It's true, Geralt doesn't exactly have technique, but it doesn't matter. He brings to this orgasm things nobody else ever has: a twenty year old bond, their shared trust and love, the thrill of fucking a witcher on a witcher's bed at the witcher's keep, the honor of being the only one that can get Geralt like this...
It's a lot, and it's important. And that alone makes this orgasm fucking astounding.
Blissful is indeed how Jaskier feels right now, and part of him doesn't want to come down of this marvelous high. He stays there for a moment, panting as he tries to recover his breath and letting that euphoric feeling called post-coital bliss flow through his veins and sweeten his scent. His smile is soft, satisfied, and his blue eyes look down at Geralt with all the adoration of the world.
"Bravo, Master Witcher." He murmurs as he finally pulls out, his hand petting Geralt's head again as he does so. "Standing ovation."
He rolls off Geralt and on the bed with a happy little sigh, and only a couple of seconds pass before he's turning on his side and pressing his body against Geralt's to cuddle. An arm goes around the witcher's waist and he leans in to kiss him sweetly, the medallion sweaty between their chests.
"You taste like me." He says with a grin - it seems this isn't the first time he's tasted himself on other people. "And how is your heart do- oh." He glances down and his smile grows, looking like a cat that got the cream. "Enjoyed that, love?"
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?"
This, without a doubt, is what true heaven is like. Geralt doesn't only accept Jaskier's need for afterglow cuddling, he also returns the affection. Not only he's putting an arm around him and indulges the kiss, he even laughs - huffed or not, it's a wonderful sound, one Jaskier will never get enough of.
Watching you is foreplay enough.
His whole body shivers - if he hadn't just orgasmed, his dick would be twitching at the words.
"Fuck, Geralt." He says with a little whimper as his face turns to nuzzle the hand on his cheek, drop a little kiss on it too. "You sure know how to compliment an artist."
And by an artist he means an attention whore - things that go hand in hand, to be fair, one and the same when it comes to Jaskier. This bard likes attention and praise, likes his ego to be rubbed just right, and being able to speed up a witcher's usually slow erection is as ego-inflating as it can be. His performance as a lover did that! Without magic or toys, just being essentially him. Once again, Geralt makes him feel like a king - empowered, loved, wanted, needed.
The most delicious pear he's ever had.
"Give a bard a rest, my dear, I'm not eighteen anymore." And even then it would take him more than five minutes to get it going again, come on. Jaskier leans in once again to drop some open-mouthed kisses on Geralt's sharp jaw and thick neck, both hands coming to rest on his chest as he presses his body even closer, one leg landing between the witcher's, grin wide at the feeling of that hardness against his thigh. Gotta remove those smallclothes asap, he thinks, but first- "And what do you mean 'it's not important'?" Indignant huff! "Your pleasure is always important to me. Speaking of..." He playfully pokes Geralt's side. "A not so pleasing grunt escaped you earlier when I was groping your magnificent chest. Did I do something you didn't enjoy?"
Geralt hums, pleased at the array of kisses that Jaskier drops along his jaw and neck. If the bard was happily surprised that his witcher allowed so much physical affection, it would overjoy him to know that he could’ve gotten away with so much more, that Geralt would have gladly pulled him so close that there was no space between them. Or perhaps he’d be upset that Geralt isn’t speaking all of his desires— but give him time. He’s like a man set before a feast that he’d always been denied, and now has been told he can touch. There’s too much to choose.
“You’ve written so much poetry about my anatomy, does the sight of my third sword no longer move you?”
Teasing, of course— though he says it with his usual measured deadpan. It’s hard to maintain that deadpan, though, when Jaskier’s thigh slips between his own and pressed up against that third sword. He rocks his hips against it to get a little friction, which would be all the sweeter if he was fully nude. He’s tempted to divest himself of his smalls, but... it would be far preferable if the bard did it for him.
He grunts at the poke to his side. Geralt isn’t ticklish— blame the mutagens for that— but the sudden jab surprises a noise out of him.
“It’s nothing,” he says at first. Jaskier has been very insistent about clarity, though, demanding that Geralt explain things even when he doesn’t think that more words are required. “The western wall is badly damaged. It’s hard work.”
And hard work makes for a sore witcher. There’s nothing wrong with anything that Jaskier’s done; in fact, on any other day, he would’ve appreciated the touch. Still would appreciate it, if there’s more oil and and rubbing involved.
It can be incredibly easy to make Jaskier pout some times, he takes words as seriously as he shoots them - especially when it comes to insulting his skills as a bard or a lover. This time, however, he's still in an excellent post-orgasm mood and, most importantly, Geralt is so obviously teasing. Jaskier can tell the difference between this and the old insults and jabs he used to get, and he's delighted to hear Geralt joke around, deadpan as he may be.
"I could stop touching you right now, my dear-" He says between chuckles. "And write at least ten different sonnets about your anatomy and your generosity as a lover. I'm feeling light and content and simply blissful. Worry not, my mind has definitely been moved."
Geralt quickly reacts to the leg between his and oh, he's already rocking against him as well. Wonderful. Jaskier presses his thigh a little harder against Geralt's groin, delighted to be causing the witcher to lose the control of his usual deadpan, feeling drunk with fondness, lust and influence.
It's that 'nothing' that makes him pause his affection, ready to scold Geralt for it, but luckily the witcher is learning quickly and he clarifies what he means. You should've told me sooner, he almost says, but then Jaskier remembers why he didn't get the chance to hear about it - they hadn't exactly been on speaking terms before Eskel pushed them together. (They really owe Eskel one. Or three or five.)
"Thank you for telling me." He replies as he kisses Geralt's cheek - positive reinforcement and all that jazz. A small step, but it shows how Geralt is already trying and getting better at communicating. Jaskier wants him to know how proud he's of him for that. "And I have just the thing you need."
He pecks Geralt's lips before climbing off the bed and going to his grooming kit once more, this time to retrieve a different oil: good old chamomile. How many times has he massaged Geralt's sore muscles in twenty years? Too many to count - and now they're lovers, it can only serve as more foreplay. Jaskier can finally allow his hands to have the fun he's always wanted.
When he returns to the bed, however, he doesn't climb back on top of Geralt - he sits by his hips instead, a mischievous grin on his face, the light of the fireplace reflecting on his sweaty skin and the medallion on his chest. Jaskier crosses his legs, trying to look casual but still sticking to his usual perfect posture that has been taught into him since young.
"Tell me, darling. What do you think would be more fun for you while I massage you?" His blue eyes never leave gold as he speaks, and a playful hand lands on Geralt's clothed crotch to start stroking. "Should I sit on your small clothes, leave your very impressive cock imprisoned as an extra tease? Or should I finish undressing you right now so you are finally free to rub yourself against my own lovely bottom?" He licks his lips at the thought. "Would it be a sweet kind of torture?"
"That just sounds as though you like sonnets," he replies. A man writes a sonnet for you, he's fond of you-- if a man writes a dozen sonnets for you, he's fond of sonnets. In this case, it may be a little bit of both, but Geralt would prefer just the fondness, no poetry required. He's not really the type to appreciate it how Jaskier would want it to be appreciated. Or perhaps he would, considering that he'd gladly fuck Jaskier to stop him from reciting poetry.
Geralt grunts when Jaskier's thigh presses against his cock a little harder. His hips twitch almost entirely of their own volition, sending a hot jolt up his spine at the friction, and there's an interesting answering spike in the bard's scent at his reaction. There's lust, of course, Jaskier practically reeks of it, but it's tempered by a warm, fond softness, like Geralt's rutting is an endearing thing.
Jaskier kisses him after he clarifies, and the bard seems satisfied with that answer-- and it is the truth, Geralt is sore after a few days of a witcher's idea of hard labor. And that quick peck is a nice reward for his reply, except that it immediately precedes Jaskier leaving the bed, leaving him bereft of touch. He rumbles low in his throat at the loss, a disgruntled noise, and props himself up a little more comfortably on the pillows, stretched long and languid across the furs as he watches the bard dig out his grooming kit. He does get a nice view when Jaskier bends over, and the low firelight cuts his figure into stark highlights and shadows, like those paintings they hang in Oxenfurt by old masters. Chiaroscuro.
He returns to Geralt's side with chamomile oil, and his sensitive nose can already smell it before the cork is even pulled. One of Geralt's big hands comes to rest on Jaskier's knee, thumb stroking along the curve of it purely for the sake of touching him, something that he can finally do without pretense. His grip tightens when Jaskier's hand makes its way to his clothed cock, a confident touch that makes it twitch in its confines. He breathes slow and watches Jaskier through hooded eyes and wants.
There's appeal to both options that Jaskier presents to him, and Geralt would have been satisfied with either one, especially if the bard had picked. But it's being given to him as a choice, and the witcher suspects that this is part of Jaskier's ongoing campaign to make him express his desires verbally rather than letting them lay dormant or actively repressing them. So he has to choose, and even if he tried to turn it around on him, Geralt doesn't for a moment think that Jaskier wouldn't sit there all night long, stubbornly waiting for him to do so.
"...Undress me," he replies. Just the request in and of itself feels odd-- the passiveness of it, of asking that someone else take care of something that he could easily do himself. He would expect it from Jaskier, could easily picture the bard pillow queening on some luxurious bed and demanding to be indulged. But himself? He's more at home fulfilling demands than making them.
Every little gesture from Geralt makes Jaskier even more drunk with this wonderful connection between them, both sexual and emotional, a twenty year bond showing itself in the smallest ways. If he had fucked Geralt when he was 18, he realizes now, it wouldn't have been anywhere this good. He wouldn't have been able to fully appreciate the way the usual stoic man grunts and twitches under his thigh, the very sweet way he rumbles at the loss of his lover by his side, wouldn't have gotten inebriated with the attention those golden eyes put on him as he moves around the room. He probably wouldn't have had Geralt's hand on his knee, touching him as if he was the most precious thing in the world, he wouldn't have been watched with so much want that makes his heart beat twenty times faster and his scent burn with lust.
(Twenty-two years is a little too much though, what the fuck, Destiny.)
Jaskier beams when he hears the request. A want! From Geralt! Hooray!
"Your wish is my command, my dear."
The chamomile bottle is left on the mattress before Jaskier climbs back between Geralt's legs, bending over to drop kisses on those majestic abs, a tongue playfully poking at Geralt's belly-button before Jaskier pulls back to finally free his prize. Blue eyes lock on golden as he slowly lowers the small clothes, revealing pubic hair as white as Geralt's mane (such a silly detail that he loves) and that thick, marvelous that have him licking his lips.
It's hard for him and the sight is slowly helping his own blood travel south again.
Not wanting to leave Geralt's side again like he did with the pants, he bends gently the witcher's legs to get ride of the small clothes, and the fact Geralt allows him to handle him like this, so easily, makes his chest swell.
"You're magnificent." He murmurs before kissing the scars on Geralt's thighs, including the one he isn't allowed to sing about, the one he doesn't know the story behind but can take a guess on why. "I could spend all night worshiping your body - you taste like breakfast after starvation. You're thunder - dangerous yet gorgeous. I want to get drunk between your thighs..." Not being able to resist the temptation any longer, he closes a hand around Geralt's cock and gives it a couple of strokes, basking in the feeling of the witcher's prick finally in his hands, hard and wet and waiting for him. Jaskier wants to fucking choke on it but if Geralt is only having one orgasm tonight, then it isn't his mouth the hole he'll be filling. "Ah, but I promised a massage, did I not?"
He'll have to show Geralt exactly how talented his mouth is another day - he doesn't want their first time to end without him having at least tasted it, though, and so Jaskier licks the pre-cum that is already forming at the tip before reluctantly moving to sit on Geralt's stomach, making sure to wiggle back a little bit to let his ass rest against the witcher's dick like the teasing little shit he is.
What follows is actually very familiar for them: Jaskier dropping oil on Geralt's skin and his own hands, taking care of sore muscles. But it's never been like this before - Jaskier's hands take their sweet time now, lingering on every scar and every muscles, caressing tenderly but also sensually, allowing themselves to occasionally brush those perky nipples.
"Always wanted to do that." He confesses with a mischievous grin.
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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How could Geralt refuse such a command? It's the sweetest one that he's ever been given, though he has no doubts that Jaskier will give him more, and sweeter, ones in time.
He gets his hands underneath the bard's ass and lifts him, carrying him those few feet to the bed before dropping him onto it. It's not the Oxenfurt bed-- and, gods, he still regrets not getting the chance to fuck Jaskier in that bed, with its soft feather mattress and bountiful covers, big enough to fit the two of them and another person besides-- but it'll do. And there is something that Geralt finds very appealing about Jaskier, the bard who loves his finery and luxuries, in a bed piled high with furs and lit only in guttering firelight.
Geralt pursues him, climbing onto the bed after him and grabbing him by the thighs, manhandling him closer. It's easy, both because the bard doesn't resist his grasp and because witcher's strength makes even a grown man's weight insignificant. He pulls the bard's long legs apart and makes space for himself in between them.
The buttons holding the bard's doublet together are small and made of some shiny golden metal, probably bronze, and quite pretty in shape; Geralt thumbs at the one that sits right at the hollow of Jaskier's throat. A shame, then, that he was going to lose so many of them, as Geralt grabs the fabric on either side, bunching it up in his fists, and yanks. The fabric tears in one long stroke, buttons flying off into the dark corners of the room. Geralt makes a low, pleased noise at the results of his efforts, and keeps going-- pulling the silk off of his shoulders and down his arms, eventually tossing the thing away in more than one piece.
"It looks better on my floor," he rumbles, his eyes sweeping over the revealed chemise. He would be tempted to tear that asunder, too, and it would be easier than heavy silk, but he knows that Jaskier likes this one. It's got the silk lace at the cuffs and collar, and little buttercups embroidered on it. So this garment is spared, simply because of the bard's fondness, and Geralt actually takes the time to undo the buttons at his throat before leaning in to leave marks. He hadn't been subtle with his marks in Oxenfurt and he isn't subtle about them now-- he sucks wide, aching bruises into Jaskier's neck, too high up to ever conceal with a collar.
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His blood may be traveling south pretty quickly, but his ego is hitting the fucking roof. And Geralt wanted him to believed he was only capable of 'echos' while bringing him to his most intimate, private space? Hah.
As soon as Geralt's hands touch his legs, Jaskier is opening them himself in a silent invitation, lips being licked at the sight of Geralt climbing on top of him... which causes him to accidentally bite his tongue when he whimpers as his doublet is ripped as easily as it had been paper.
He'll spend the whole day tomorrow searching for those buttons.
Worth it.
"Fuck." It's deep, heartfelt, somehow managing to pronounce every letter naughtily. "I love how strong you are." Jaskier's fully hard now, and his hips thrust up when Geralt descends on him to mark his neck. "Do I look better on your bed as well, my wolf?" He asks as deft fingers start working on the buttons of Geralt's pants. "Do I--ah, yes, mmh, keep doing that-- do I smell of you yet? I want to, so badly-- mmh, fuck-- I want every single witcher in this keep to smell what you've done to me as soon as I leave this room."
Buttons undone, Jaskier slips a hand inside, starting to stroke Geralt's bulge through his small clothes. Usually he wouldn't jump so soon on it, but he remembers the little witcher biology lesson Geralt gave him in the cabin, so he wants to help. Besides, after having to wait for so long, he's simply dying to hold such a powerful cock in his hand and have his way with it all night long.
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The bard smells fucking amazing. Honey sweet, the spicy sharp edge of his arousal, warm and open and so very willing-- good enough to eat. The taste of his skin is almost as good, sweet with a salt tang from his sweat, and Geralt could map every inch of his body with mouth and tongue and still not be satisfied. Maybe he'd never be satisfied, maybe he could glut himself on Jaskier from now until the day he died and it wouldn't ever be enough.
Geralt can smell how hard Jaskier is already without even having to feel his cock. Jaskier's always eager for a tumble but this is quick even for him-- already standing to attention even though the witcher hadn't done much at all. He's almost a little envious of him for that. The bard's fingers get to work on Geralt's trousers as well, his dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons. Bless his irrepressible horniness for giving him the manual dexterity to undo even the fiddliest buttons without looking.
"You'd look better without all these fucking clothes," Geralt growls in reply, and, now that he's marked Jaskier's throat, there's the whole rest of him that demands his attention. He tugs the chemise up from where it's tucked into Jaskier's trousers, then drags it up over his head and throws it aside.
With the chemise gone, Jaskier's hairy chest is bared to him, and there is surprising appeal to running his hands over it, the coarse drag of hair against the callouses on his palms. Geralt thumbs at the bard's nipples, watching how they peak under his touch, then leans in to get at them with his mouth. Teases them and scrapes his teeth over them, moving from one and then to the other. Jaskier manages to wriggle a hand into his open pants and palms his cock, and Geralt makes a low noise against his hairy pectoral-- why is he so hairy, and why does he like it?
"Fuck," he says, eloquently, and bucks his hips into the bard's hand. His heart rate had been up high enough from their argument that his cock is filling a little faster than usual-- still far slower than a normal man, but not quite the glacial pace from when they were in the cabin.
"Fuck, Jaskier," he groans, his nose pressed to Jaskier's chest and filled with the scent of horny bard. "You're going to smell of nothing but me by the time I'm done with you."
His hand gropes for a moment at the front of Jaskier's trousers before he realizes that the damn things don't open in the front and has to run his hand around to his back. The fucking things laced at the small of it, an absurd way to close his godsdamned pants that meant there was this little fucking bow right above his ass, drawing attention to it. He tugs on it now-- which he has wanted to do many, many times before in various contexts-- yanking the bow until it comes undone.
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(How most people wouldn't even consider it a privilege.)
"Then do some--" His cheeky remark is interrupted when his chemise is tugged up but hey, he isn't complaining. The exact opposite in fact, it strokes his ego just right that Geralt is as eager for this as he is, desperate for more contact. Geralt bucks into his hand as Jaskier's body arches under the witcher's mouth, whimpering when teeth play with his nipples, smiling at the fact Geralt doesn't mind either his chest hair or his new scars.
Am I still pretty? he wants to ask, and he knows it's a very stupid question, because Geralt obviously still wants to fuck him, and he shouldn't feel self conscious about them when the witcher has carried his own for a century. So he keeps it to himself.
"Fuck." He says as well, his turn to thrust his hips against Geralt's hand, which is sadly gone too soon. It had barely been one second of touching his groin and he can already feel his whole body on fire, only made worse (or shall we say better) by Geralt tugging at his pants above his ass, so teasingly close yet not touching enough. (Mental note: the bow is a deliciously torture success.) "And you will smell of me, right? A constant reminder of whom snatched the White Wolf from their pack right under their sensitive noses..."
He mainly means Vesemir, obviously, but the idea in general is inherently erotic - carrying the brooch on his chest is one thing. But for Geralt to go out smelling of claim as well, the mighty wolf showing he belongs to a mere human bard... fuck. Jaskier may be lucky not to have a witcher's sense of smell after all, or he'd be hard all day long.
Speaking of hard, Geralt is getting there faster than he had in the cabin, but there's still some work to be done - he's the one needing the attention next. Jaskier lightly pushes and is surprised at the fact Geralt moves along, allowing them to flip their positions. Not something he would have trouble achieving with the ladies or fellow twinks, but his boyfriend is a fucking brick wall. It's this kind of trust that drives him crazy, how can he not be so strongly aroused already?
"You complain about my clothes." He comments as he moves to the edge of the bed. "But you're overdressed as well, love. What do you think is harder to take off, mmh? Some innocent buttons? Or the pants you wear like a bloody second skin?"
Grinning, he pulls at the black leather then throws it on the floor, making it land near his doublet to make a point. He's dying to take off Geralt's smallclothes as well, but he waits for that one, unsure if the witcher's self-esteem wants his dick exposed while not fully hard yet - not something to be embarrassed of, but he knows how Geralt's mind works.
Jaskier hops off the bed then, and since Geralt has already undone the bow, he only has to wiggle his hips to let his pants fall to the floor, which he does while looking directly at golden eyes and licking his lips - there's already a pre-come stain on his own smallclothes.
"Would you take your tunic off for me, my dear? Let me see you flex those marvelous muscles." His eyes are still on Geralt as he walks towards his grooming kit, only taking them off that god-like body to retrieve the one vial of oil that has nothing to do with baths. Said vial is thrown on the mattress on his way back, but before jumping back on the bed, Jaskier turns around and very slowly pulls down his smallclothes, bending over just right as he wiggles his ass and strokes his legs for Geralt.
(His fingers brush the whip marks on the back of his legs and he hopes Geralt's dumb brain aren't thinking too hard about them. Like he is.)
"Like what you see?" He asks with a flirty and fake-shy tone as he climbs on Geralt's lap to straddle him, his erection hard and proud for the witcher, making him hiss when it brushes Geralt's body as he sits down on his groin to roll his hips and press his ass against that slow raising boner. Jaskier bends over to undo Geralt's hair tie and it's then that the idea hits him - he's surprised yet again when he takes the medallion off that thick neck without protest from his lover and gods, isn't that another amazing fuck you at witcher 'tradition'? He puts it around his own neck before tilting his head and asking with the same bawdy voice from before. "How about now?"
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"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.
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He wants to be devoured.
Geralt's hands are back on him and every spot of skin he touches is on fire, making Jaskier hum with pleasure as well, his ass answering by pressing harder against Geralt's groin. His thighs are being touched, scars and all, and isn't that a wonderful-- wait. What?
"Oi! Ladies like me because of my charm, my generosity as a lover, my sweet words and my gentle touch." Humble bard right here, ladies and gentlemen. "Not only because of my--" And then what Geralt is saying really hits him. His pouting becomes bright smile. "...you like my dick." He can't help it, he freaking giggles. "Thanks."
It seems wearing the medallion is an excellent idea after all - Jaskier stays quiet for a second, letting Geralt admire the view, letting the meaning sink in. The brooch carries a message as well, of course, but wearing the medallion is a hundred times more powerful, and Jaskier can feel the heavy weight of that meaning on his chest, on the cold metal that touches his blushed skin. If this right here isn't love, trust, a pear, then he doesn't know what it is.
A yesssss is murmured when Geralt sits up, and Jaskier meets his kiss mid-way to crash their mouths together and let their tongues meet each other (eager, desperate to explore) as his hands are finally close enough to go all out. He strokes every muscle, from arms to shoulders to that amazing thick neck, claws at those defined abs and gropes those firm pecs, nails digging in a little bit when Geralt pinches his nipple. Jaskier doesn't stop being noisy even while being kissed, pleasantly humming and whimpering against Geralt's mouth, but he has to break their making out to throw his head back and groan when a big hand finally touches his dick.
"Geralt." Each letter of his lover's name is filthy with need, and his hips can't help thrusting against those fingers (calloused as his own, because of the sword and not the lute, but it's still such a lovely connection to have). He hasn't been touched in so long, and he's only had that one orgasm in Oxenfurt recently, he doesn't know how long he'll last if Geralt goes for a full hand job. Which would be embarrassing as hell, because he prides himself of being an excellent lover, and that doesn't include coming too soon.
"Easy, my wolf." He teases as he buries his face in Geralt's neck to do some biting and kissing of his own, deft fingers massaging Geralt's pecs still. "My body craves for your touch with the rawest of needs, years of pining and weeks without company have me more sensitive than usual. I wouldn't want to let you down by reaching ecstasy with the timing of a virgin."
Something he definitely is not!
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"Jaskier," he replies, his voice teasing and carrying an undercurrent of lust.
The bard's hips jerk against his fingers and that's... appealing, in many ways. He's sensitive and reacts to every little thing that Geralt does, twitches when he switches from rubbing the crown to thumbing underneath the frenulum, tracing his fingers along the thick veins of his shaft. He'd rarely had the time to really acquaint himself with any individual's member, since his only dalliances with men were in brothels and his time with them was paid for by the hour. Jaskier's cock, despite being fully erect, is surprisingly soft skinned-- steel wrapped in silk. Geralt thinks that he might like to put it in his mouth, if that would be something that Jaskier would be inclined towards.
He hums at the feeling of Jaskier's teeth in his neck, his hands still enthralled with his chest. And that's... interesting, he can understand why Jaskier would be drawn towards a woman's soft breasts, but it's odd that he would have that kind of regard for the witcher's own firm pectorals. Jaskier digs his fingers into a sore spot-- he'd overworked his muscles a little when he was repairing the western wall-- and Geralt grunts. He almost wishes that the bard had grabbed the chamomile oil, he could've used a massage.
"I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire," he says, and his hand slides further down until he's cupping Jaskier's balls, gently rolling them in his palm. "Come whenever it pleases you. I can wait until you're ready again."
Geralt himself is at about half-mast by now. Even if Jaskier came before he was ready, there would be some time before he was fully hard anyway, and he could be patient. He could wait and tease the bard until he's back to full hardness again and then continue their play.
"How many times are you able to come in a night?"
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He swears to the gods he could come just from it - one day, he thinks. One day, when he's learned Geralt's likes and tells in bed like he knows his own, he'll ask the witcher to guide him through his orgasm with just his deep, sexy voice. And it shall be marvelous.
His hands are marvelous as well, something Jaskier has know for a while merely through observation but is pleased to relearn in practice. They're big, thick and strong, just like the rest of Geralt, yet they are kind when they stroke his dick, making Jaskier bite his neck a little harder than he intended. He licks the bite mark as apology as his hips continue to thrust into Geralt's fingers, moaning more for him and relishing the fact the White Wolf himself is touching him like this, gently, softly, controlling the strength that can decapitate enemies just for him.
Nobody makes him feel as seen as Geralt, which is an irony, because the man used to make him feels as ignored as well. Ah, Destiny, you crazy bitch.
The grunt calls his attention, recognizing it as not a very comfortable one - years of learning to speak Geraltese do that to you. Jaskier pauses he ministrations instantly: hands stop groping to rest tenderly on Geralt's chest instead, his head is pulled back (cheeks flushed, lips red and glistening with saliva, hair tousled and pupils wide with arousal) to look at his witcher with worry. Did he do something wrong? The question dies in his lips, however, when Geralt speaks up, once again being a romantic bastard without even meaning to.
I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire. Fuck if that doesn't deserve to be a line in a poem!
"I'm not in the habit of making my lover waaa-AAH, FUCK." The cupping of his balls makes Jaskier go his loudest so far, and the rolling of his hips becomes more frantic, his cock twitching at the loss of contact. He slows down a bit, however, at the question. His record is six, and he remembers that night fondly, however...
He isn't eighteen anymore.
It isn't just one, at least, that he knows well, and he hopes his dick won't fail him tonight- it simply can't, he thinks, not when they're finally fucking the person that has kept it up the most. If someone could help him have orgasms as if he was young again, that's definitely Geralt.
(One day he won't be able to do this anymore, and Geralt will need whores again. Jaskier won't stop him from leaving then.)
"A-a few. It depends." He starts kissing Geralt's shoulders as he speaks. "But I told you before, didn't I? I like foreplay. I like touching you. I don't mind waiting for you."
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He would like to taste all of Jaskier, really. As much as the bard will allow him. And if he has more than one orgasm in him for a night, well, there's no reason why Jaskier couldn't have one or two of them while Geralt's cock is still trying to catch up.
There's a quiver to the bard's voice when he speaks, and it's a more pleasing sound than all of his white wolf ballads, and one that Geralt selfishly wants to keep for himself. His lips press against Geralt's scarred shoulder and he knows that they're soft and warm despite not being able to directly feel it, as the scar that he presses them to has nothing but deadened nerves. Claw marks from a beast that had gotten a lucky strike in, back before he had a bard to take care of his injuries for him. While he lays kisses to unfeeling skin, Geralt slides his hand to the back of Jaskier's neck, running his thumb across the nape of it, right along his hairline.
Jaskier's skin is very fine there, at the nape of his neck. Delicate, and Geralt is acutely aware of how easy it would be to hurt him. He keeps his grip loose, forces his touch into unaccustomed gentleness.
"A few is fine," he says. "You can spill down my throat on the first, come on my fingers for the second, and I'll fuck you for the third."
It's a good plan. A solid plan. And Geralt always performs best when he has clear, well-defined goals to strive for, and he is, if nothing else, an efficient tool. He can be as efficient in giving pleasure as he is with killing monsters, and he's far more comfortable with giving pleasure than receiving it. It's possibly an ideal situation-- a set of tasks for Geralt to complete with all the single-minded focus of a witcher, and with the only death at the end of it a few very pleasant little deaths.
"Watching you come will be foreplay enough."
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The humming becomes a groan, however, when Geralt speaks again. Jaskier's hips give an extra hard thrust as he drops his forehead on Geralt's shoulder, his mind overwhelming him with the mental images, his ego and his heart full of love for this man both growing ten times bigger at the idea of Geralt finding him coming foreplay enough.
"Fuck, Geralt. Destroying this poor bard with his own weapon, aren't you?" Words, he means.
Usually he wouldn't be hesitating this much - multiple orgasms isn't anything particularly kinky, in fact, he would call at least two his standard. Side-effects of fucking a witcher, he supposes, especially after the talk they just had. And especially because he knows how Geralt's mind works. He isn't second guessing the idea, he's just worried about the why behind it.
Speaking of their recent conversation... he should be trusting Geralt in return, shouldn't he? But he can't help it, it feels like witcher logic is a shadow that haunts them. Which isn't Geralt's fault. Once again, Jaskier pulls his head back to look at his lover eye to eye as both his hands cup the witcher's face. Blue eyes search gold (his favorite color, oh how lucky he is) for any kind of silly thoughts, he ends up licking his lips and whimpering a bit when he finds raw lust in them. For him.
"Fiiiiine. Fine! It's not something I would've ever thought I would have to think about twice - I mean, who would? Multiple orgasms! Being the center of your attention! An instant yes, really! I should be ashamed of myself right now!" He shakes his head, mostly at himself, but then he pecks Geralt's lips. "I just want you to be reassured that this is for our fun and pleasure, my dear, and not because I mind waiting for you. Understood?"
Remember to trust me, his tone says. He kisses Geralt again then, intending to start a good and proper make-out, but as his hands leave the witcher's face to make their way down, he realizes something. If he's going to come more than once tonight, well... he would like to keep his orgasms varied, then. Do all the things he's dreamed about doing for so long. Okay, not all of them, that will take all winter. But at least a few.
Would it be too soon to ask, he wonders as he breaks the kiss to worry his lower lip for a second. It's not like it's something super kinky but... oh, to hell with it. Obviously Geralt is talking dirty to him - may as well take the chance and do the dirty too.
"I spill in your mouth, you spill in my ass. I like the sound of that, love." Another term of endearment, said with a low tone full of promise and need. His calloused fingers find Geralt's nipples and start playing with them as he makes his request. "As for the third one-- would you allow me to spill on your gorgeous chest?"
He pinches both nipples then, showing exactly how much he likes them. Which is a lot.
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He speaks-- of course he speaks, Jaskier rarely does anything else-- and the brief, chaste press of his lips to Geralt's isn't even close to enough. This is for our fun and pleasure, he reminds his witcher, as though he could have forgotten that being in bed with Jaskier is a pleasure. It would be a pleasure even if Jaskier had made him sit on the other side of the room and watch him bring himself to orgasm and not allowed him to touch at all.
Geralt is kissed again before he can respond, which is just as well. He presses into it and would gladly make it as filthy and deep as Jaskier likes, except that the bard pulls back again and he makes an annoyed noise at the break. Are they to talk all night? Had Jaskier not gotten his fill of blue balls in the past few weeks? If they're prevented from fucking again by the bard's own inability to shut up, Geralt will have Vesemir check him for curses, awkwardness of explaining this to the old witcher be damned.
When Jaskier speaks, it's confirming part of the course of action that Geralt intended to take, with the addition of an endearment that's... still hard to hear. It's still difficult, every time Jaskier calls him love or mentions loving him, from the sheer inequality of their feelings. He makes up for it with the pinches to Geralt's chest, and he'll soon discover that though the witcher's cock is slow to rise, his nipples require far less blood flow and perk up much quicker.
Geralt groans, both at the tug of bard's fingers and his words. Jaskier could come on whatever part of Geralt pleases him.
"Yes."
His objectives have been modified, but it's desirable, attainable. A monster that Geralt both knows how to slay and is eager to. There's no reason to waste more time with speaking-- anything that needs to be said, has been. Geralt shifts the both of them back a little, so that when he lays down again, his head is resting against the pillows. He could have chosen a different position, perhaps flipped the bard onto the bed and held his hips down, but this-- well, Jaskier had said to trust him. And there's little that he could do that would actually hurt Geralt, even if the bard is in control.
"Come," he says, with a little tap to the bard's ass. Scoot up, Jaskier, there's a witcher's mouth waiting to be full of your cock.
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Geralt makes him feel like he's the center of his whole world.
They're both suffering of blue balls at the moment, so Jaskier saves the knowledge of those desperate sounds for a later occasion, wanting to experiment and see how much he could tease his lover, drive him mad in return, see if he can make Mr Mighty Witcher lose control. For now, he's perfectly happy to feel how well those nipples respond to his fingers, ears tingling at that wonderful groan - he's learning to play Geralt, and the music he's getting out of him is glorious.
His proposal is accepted, which definitely pleases him, but he isn't ready to see what comes next: Geralt lying down, baring himself open and vulnerable for him, giving him full control of the situation. His dick twitches at the glorious sight, his heart swells at this unfiltered demonstration of trust. It's at times like this when he wonders how could they doubt each other and argue about things when it's so fucking obvious how much they need and love (pear!) each other.
"Bloody hell, Geralt."
His voice comes out a little hoarse, throat almost dry at this turn of events. It's the tap on his ass that snaps him out of his staring, and once again he can't help giggling. Oh, this shall be a marvelous night worthy of a thousand ballads!
Jaskier raises on his knees and does start moving closer, but at a slow pace - his hands falls on Geralt's abs and they stroke their way up across every scar and muscle, blue eyes devouring every inch of skin with their staring, a whimper occasionally escaping whenever his dick brushes the witcher's body.
"What a gorgeous sight you make, my wolf. Sharper than a serpent's tooth, stronger than a whole army, more sensual than the curviest whore."
It should be reciting yet it almost comes out as begging thanks to the amount of raw need in his words. Jaskier's knees finally land against Geralt's armpits, and his hand reaches out to run his fingers through white hair before grabbing the witcher's chin, allowing a calloused thumb to brush those lips.
"You're the most erotic thing I've ever had the pleasure of bedding." He never stops looking right into golden eyes with the heaviest intensity, absolutely enthralled by this new side of Geralt, one that is getting engraved in his mind forever. His thumb sneaks between the witcher's lips as his free hand grabs his own erection to guide it to Geralt's mouth, the contact causing him to hiss. "Be a dear and open up for me, love. And if at any moment you need to stop, just pinch my thigh, understood?"
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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.
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"True, I wouldn't. But you may want to stop for other reasons, my dear, and your comfort is important to me." Sex is only fun if both parties are having a good time after all.
It's not Jaskier's first time in this position, but it is the first time he finds a male lover on the other side of it. Men in general aren't often interested in sucking his cock, unlike women - part of keeping the illusion up, Jaskier knows, of trying to pretend they aren't actually one of those queers. It's usually his ass and mouth they seek. Geralt, once again, proves to be different, willing to take his lover's spill even on his marvelous chest - Jaskier can already tell his sex life will be fantastic if this witcher is open to do all kinds of things.
His hand guides his cock slowly, carefully, giving Geralt time to get used to having his mouth full. His groan drags out during the process, his whole body shivering at the warm and wet feeling around his dick, his eyes fighting the urge to close just to keep admiring those lovely lips stretched around his girth and those beautiful golden eyes fixated on his face.
There's no stopping them from closing any longer, though, when Geralt squeezes his ass and licks the slit of his cock - Jaskier throws his head back and moans, loud and filthy, his hips thrusting a little harder than he intends to. It's been a while, so he's a little overwhelmed at that moment.
"Fuck, sorry."
Jaskier fixes his position before trying again, his back bending over as a hand grabs the headboard of the bed for support, the other going to pet Geralt's hair again. Hips are moved gently, sensually, with the same smoothness he would put into a dance. Every thrust makes his skin more flushed, his panting quicker and more frequent, the forming of sentences hard to achieve.
"Yes, that's it... you're so good for me, love..."
Because of course not even at moments like this he can keep his mouth shut, and how could he? His whole body is heating up with pleasure, waves of it rolling through him every time Geralt flicks his tongue - there's no thinking being done here, only losing himself in the sensations, and so Jaskier forgets everything about witchering noses and ears. As far as he knows, he is having a wonderful time and he needs to let his lover know.
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The bard's hips press in a little faster and harder than he's expecting, the head of his cock dragging against Geralt's soft palate; he's choked down far worse things than an impolite dick, though, and manages to avoid gagging. It's uncomfortable, but only for a moment, as Jaskier considerately restrains his hips. He puts a hand into Geralt's hand as though in apology, and the witcher hums at the touch. The sight of Jaskier's body bent over him and grabbing onto the headboard makes that hum turn into a groan.
Jaskier's hips move again, but smoothly and kindly, restrained to a pace that Geralt can easily accommodate. It's not necessary-- he doesn't need restraint, he offered Jaskier whatever he wants and he means it here, too. The bard talks to him all throughout, sweet nothings about how good Geralt is, and that praise makes him feel warm, fills his own slow cock a little more even though--
It doesn't matter. He'll give Jaskier what he wants, whatever he wants from this body. There's nothing that Jaskier can ask of him that he couldn't give. Nothing that he wouldn't give willingly. And it's not unappealing, the idea of giving everything over to Jaskier.
Geralt tightens his grip on the bard's ass and pulls him in harder; it ruins the lovely sweet rhythm that he'd had going, forces more of his cock into Geralt's mouth. He keeps his jaw loose and his teeth out of the way and accommodates his girth, feels it stretch at the corners of his mouth. His nose is full of his scent, spicy-sharp and pleasured and good, and Geralt would choke on his fucking cock if it would make that scent stay so sweet, make it sweeter. He pulls him in that hard rhythm, takes it from Jaskier like only a witcher can take punishment-- with only low grunts around the hot length pushing into him.
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"You like that, my wolf?"
His grip on Geralt's hair tightens - it's not too strong to really hurt, only tight enough for that delicious friction that some tugging can cause. Jaskier knows, he likes hands on his hair when he gives oral as well. Hopefully Geralt won't hesitate to grab him when he finally puts his mouth on that mighty cock later.
It doesn't end there, though - it seems Geralt likes it a bit rougher, because he's now pulling in harder. After another moaned fuck, Jaskier gets the message and starts moving faster, his hips giving quick and short thrusts as any last attempts of control he had are lost to pleasure. Words stop forming sentences, Jaskier just runs through a cycle of yes, fuck, so good and Geralt's name in between groans.
He had told Geralt that two decades of pining and not having an orgasm for weeks (not counting that sad wank) have left him more sensitive than usual, and he meant it. His speed picks up because his desperation is finally allowed to run wild, chasing that sweet little death that has been avoiding him. He can already feel his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead and his thighs shaking as they try to keep supporting his body, which is quickly coming undone under Geralt's warm mouth. Every muscle, every bone, every pore of his skin is already tingling, and Jaskier knows he can't hold it any longer.
"Geralt... 'M close..."
Ah, but they agreed on spilling in his mouth, right? And Jaskier loves coming inside, something not every lover of his had been up to.
The witcher's name leaves his lips as he thrusts his hips one last time and stays buried as he comes, hand pushing Geralt's head to keep him in place as he spills into that lovely throat. To the surprise of absolutely nobody, Jaskier is loud when he orgasms as well, groaning as he feels that powerful wave of pure bliss reach every corner of his body, making his toes curl and his mind go completely blank for a few seconds. Head thrown back and eyes closed, everything around him stops existing for a moment except for that wonderful, peaceful feeling of raw satisfaction.
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That is an... interesting discovery. Something for him to examine later, when he doesn't have his mouth full of cock and his dick twitching whenever Jaskier tugs on his hair.
With the encouragement from Geralt's hands, Jaskier fucks harder into his mouth, picking up the pace and taking his pleasure. There is an appealing roughness that comes to his voice when he's getting his cock wet just right, his vocabulary narrowing to little more than curses and Geralt's name. This feels like an accomplishment, making the normally verbose bard lose his words, one that's worth the times when his cock goes a little too deep, a little too hard and makes his throat spasm and his eyes narrow with the effort of ignoring the urge to gag. It's worth it for the arch of Jaskier's body above him and the fluid movement of his hips, the flush that colors him from face to chest. He looks blissful and Geralt feels a brief thrum of pride for making him so, in the same way that he'd feel pride in a good hunt. A job well done.
Almost done, anyway. Close, he says. There's still more work for him to do.
Geralt runs his hands over Jaskier's quivering thighs, over his pistoning hips, his warm sides. Up to his chest, surging with his heavy breaths, coarse hair rough on Geralt's calloused palms; up to his nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Is it odd, to be fond of a man's chest? Perhaps not, since Jaskier has expressed as such for Geralt's, but Geralt also doesn't have a pelt that you could easily turn into a rug. Nor did he expect that he would find such a thing attractive, but he takes a certain pleasure in running his nails lightly over his chest and feeling the scratch of it. For all his foppishness, Jaskier is undeniably masculine underneath his frivolous clothes, soft-skinned but broad-shouldered and lean muscled. His weight indents the mattress on either side of Geralt's chest, and it's not an inconsiderable mass.
Jaskier's thrusts become more erratic the closer he gets to the edge, and that is another thing that Geralt discovers that he enjoys-- being able to throw the bard off of his rhythm. It doesn't take long-- the whole thing doesn't take long, really, Jaskier was quite wound up-- before his thrusts stutter to a stop and he grips Geralt's head like a lifeline, holding it steady as his cock pulses. Geralt is faced with two choices, either swallow or choke, and he chooses the former even though the taste is unpleasantly bitter. It's far more appealing to watch Jaskier in the throes of his orgasm, his body shuddering in pleasure and his face sweet, as loud as ever even in ecstasy. If any of the other witchers are anywhere near his room, they'd surely be able to hear Jaskier's professionally-trained voice soaring and know exactly what it means.
His hands drop down to Jaskier's sides, patting his flank like he's praising a horse who's just been ridden hard. With the bard's hands still gripping his hair, he just leaves his cock where it is, kept warm in his mouth even as it begins to soften. That's fine-- he is content to lay here and watch Jaskier come down from his high and listen to his heart slow from its feverish pace. He smells like pleasure and satisfaction, and the scent of his orgasm might just be the best damn thing that Geralt's ever had in his nose. If he hadn't already been hard from watching, the smell of him alone might have gotten him there.
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It's true, Geralt doesn't exactly have technique, but it doesn't matter. He brings to this orgasm things nobody else ever has: a twenty year old bond, their shared trust and love, the thrill of fucking a witcher on a witcher's bed at the witcher's keep, the honor of being the only one that can get Geralt like this...
It's a lot, and it's important. And that alone makes this orgasm fucking astounding.
Blissful is indeed how Jaskier feels right now, and part of him doesn't want to come down of this marvelous high. He stays there for a moment, panting as he tries to recover his breath and letting that euphoric feeling called post-coital bliss flow through his veins and sweeten his scent. His smile is soft, satisfied, and his blue eyes look down at Geralt with all the adoration of the world.
"Bravo, Master Witcher." He murmurs as he finally pulls out, his hand petting Geralt's head again as he does so. "Standing ovation."
He rolls off Geralt and on the bed with a happy little sigh, and only a couple of seconds pass before he's turning on his side and pressing his body against Geralt's to cuddle. An arm goes around the witcher's waist and he leans in to kiss him sweetly, the medallion sweaty between their chests.
"You taste like me." He says with a grin - it seems this isn't the first time he's tasted himself on other people. "And how is your heart do- oh." He glances down and his smile grows, looking like a cat that got the cream. "Enjoyed that, love?"
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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?"
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Watching you is foreplay enough.
His whole body shivers - if he hadn't just orgasmed, his dick would be twitching at the words.
"Fuck, Geralt." He says with a little whimper as his face turns to nuzzle the hand on his cheek, drop a little kiss on it too. "You sure know how to compliment an artist."
And by an artist he means an attention whore - things that go hand in hand, to be fair, one and the same when it comes to Jaskier. This bard likes attention and praise, likes his ego to be rubbed just right, and being able to speed up a witcher's usually slow erection is as ego-inflating as it can be. His performance as a lover did that! Without magic or toys, just being essentially him. Once again, Geralt makes him feel like a king - empowered, loved, wanted, needed.
The most delicious pear he's ever had.
"Give a bard a rest, my dear, I'm not eighteen anymore." And even then it would take him more than five minutes to get it going again, come on. Jaskier leans in once again to drop some open-mouthed kisses on Geralt's sharp jaw and thick neck, both hands coming to rest on his chest as he presses his body even closer, one leg landing between the witcher's, grin wide at the feeling of that hardness against his thigh. Gotta remove those smallclothes asap, he thinks, but first- "And what do you mean 'it's not important'?" Indignant huff! "Your pleasure is always important to me. Speaking of..." He playfully pokes Geralt's side. "A not so pleasing grunt escaped you earlier when I was groping your magnificent chest. Did I do something you didn't enjoy?"
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“You’ve written so much poetry about my anatomy, does the sight of my third sword no longer move you?”
Teasing, of course— though he says it with his usual measured deadpan. It’s hard to maintain that deadpan, though, when Jaskier’s thigh slips between his own and pressed up against that third sword. He rocks his hips against it to get a little friction, which would be all the sweeter if he was fully nude. He’s tempted to divest himself of his smalls, but... it would be far preferable if the bard did it for him.
He grunts at the poke to his side. Geralt isn’t ticklish— blame the mutagens for that— but the sudden jab surprises a noise out of him.
“It’s nothing,” he says at first. Jaskier has been very insistent about clarity, though, demanding that Geralt explain things even when he doesn’t think that more words are required. “The western wall is badly damaged. It’s hard work.”
And hard work makes for a sore witcher. There’s nothing wrong with anything that Jaskier’s done; in fact, on any other day, he would’ve appreciated the touch. Still would appreciate it, if there’s more oil and and rubbing involved.
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"I could stop touching you right now, my dear-" He says between chuckles. "And write at least ten different sonnets about your anatomy and your generosity as a lover. I'm feeling light and content and simply blissful. Worry not, my mind has definitely been moved."
Geralt quickly reacts to the leg between his and oh, he's already rocking against him as well. Wonderful. Jaskier presses his thigh a little harder against Geralt's groin, delighted to be causing the witcher to lose the control of his usual deadpan, feeling drunk with fondness, lust and influence.
It's that 'nothing' that makes him pause his affection, ready to scold Geralt for it, but luckily the witcher is learning quickly and he clarifies what he means. You should've told me sooner, he almost says, but then Jaskier remembers why he didn't get the chance to hear about it - they hadn't exactly been on speaking terms before Eskel pushed them together. (They really owe Eskel one. Or three or five.)
"Thank you for telling me." He replies as he kisses Geralt's cheek - positive reinforcement and all that jazz. A small step, but it shows how Geralt is already trying and getting better at communicating. Jaskier wants him to know how proud he's of him for that. "And I have just the thing you need."
He pecks Geralt's lips before climbing off the bed and going to his grooming kit once more, this time to retrieve a different oil: good old chamomile. How many times has he massaged Geralt's sore muscles in twenty years? Too many to count - and now they're lovers, it can only serve as more foreplay. Jaskier can finally allow his hands to have the fun he's always wanted.
When he returns to the bed, however, he doesn't climb back on top of Geralt - he sits by his hips instead, a mischievous grin on his face, the light of the fireplace reflecting on his sweaty skin and the medallion on his chest. Jaskier crosses his legs, trying to look casual but still sticking to his usual perfect posture that has been taught into him since young.
"Tell me, darling. What do you think would be more fun for you while I massage you?" His blue eyes never leave gold as he speaks, and a playful hand lands on Geralt's clothed crotch to start stroking. "Should I sit on your small clothes, leave your very impressive cock imprisoned as an extra tease? Or should I finish undressing you right now so you are finally free to rub yourself against my own lovely bottom?" He licks his lips at the thought. "Would it be a sweet kind of torture?"
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Geralt grunts when Jaskier's thigh presses against his cock a little harder. His hips twitch almost entirely of their own volition, sending a hot jolt up his spine at the friction, and there's an interesting answering spike in the bard's scent at his reaction. There's lust, of course, Jaskier practically reeks of it, but it's tempered by a warm, fond softness, like Geralt's rutting is an endearing thing.
Jaskier kisses him after he clarifies, and the bard seems satisfied with that answer-- and it is the truth, Geralt is sore after a few days of a witcher's idea of hard labor. And that quick peck is a nice reward for his reply, except that it immediately precedes Jaskier leaving the bed, leaving him bereft of touch. He rumbles low in his throat at the loss, a disgruntled noise, and props himself up a little more comfortably on the pillows, stretched long and languid across the furs as he watches the bard dig out his grooming kit. He does get a nice view when Jaskier bends over, and the low firelight cuts his figure into stark highlights and shadows, like those paintings they hang in Oxenfurt by old masters. Chiaroscuro.
He returns to Geralt's side with chamomile oil, and his sensitive nose can already smell it before the cork is even pulled. One of Geralt's big hands comes to rest on Jaskier's knee, thumb stroking along the curve of it purely for the sake of touching him, something that he can finally do without pretense. His grip tightens when Jaskier's hand makes its way to his clothed cock, a confident touch that makes it twitch in its confines. He breathes slow and watches Jaskier through hooded eyes and wants.
There's appeal to both options that Jaskier presents to him, and Geralt would have been satisfied with either one, especially if the bard had picked. But it's being given to him as a choice, and the witcher suspects that this is part of Jaskier's ongoing campaign to make him express his desires verbally rather than letting them lay dormant or actively repressing them. So he has to choose, and even if he tried to turn it around on him, Geralt doesn't for a moment think that Jaskier wouldn't sit there all night long, stubbornly waiting for him to do so.
"...Undress me," he replies. Just the request in and of itself feels odd-- the passiveness of it, of asking that someone else take care of something that he could easily do himself. He would expect it from Jaskier, could easily picture the bard pillow queening on some luxurious bed and demanding to be indulged. But himself? He's more at home fulfilling demands than making them.
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(Twenty-two years is a little too much though, what the fuck, Destiny.)
Jaskier beams when he hears the request. A want! From Geralt! Hooray!
"Your wish is my command, my dear."
The chamomile bottle is left on the mattress before Jaskier climbs back between Geralt's legs, bending over to drop kisses on those majestic abs, a tongue playfully poking at Geralt's belly-button before Jaskier pulls back to finally free his prize. Blue eyes lock on golden as he slowly lowers the small clothes, revealing pubic hair as white as Geralt's mane (such a silly detail that he loves) and that thick, marvelous that have him licking his lips.
It's hard for him and the sight is slowly helping his own blood travel south again.
Not wanting to leave Geralt's side again like he did with the pants, he bends gently the witcher's legs to get ride of the small clothes, and the fact Geralt allows him to handle him like this, so easily, makes his chest swell.
"You're magnificent." He murmurs before kissing the scars on Geralt's thighs, including the one he isn't allowed to sing about, the one he doesn't know the story behind but can take a guess on why. "I could spend all night worshiping your body - you taste like breakfast after starvation. You're thunder - dangerous yet gorgeous. I want to get drunk between your thighs..." Not being able to resist the temptation any longer, he closes a hand around Geralt's cock and gives it a couple of strokes, basking in the feeling of the witcher's prick finally in his hands, hard and wet and waiting for him. Jaskier wants to fucking choke on it but if Geralt is only having one orgasm tonight, then it isn't his mouth the hole he'll be filling. "Ah, but I promised a massage, did I not?"
He'll have to show Geralt exactly how talented his mouth is another day - he doesn't want their first time to end without him having at least tasted it, though, and so Jaskier licks the pre-cum that is already forming at the tip before reluctantly moving to sit on Geralt's stomach, making sure to wiggle back a little bit to let his ass rest against the witcher's dick like the teasing little shit he is.
What follows is actually very familiar for them: Jaskier dropping oil on Geralt's skin and his own hands, taking care of sore muscles. But it's never been like this before - Jaskier's hands take their sweet time now, lingering on every scar and every muscles, caressing tenderly but also sensually, allowing themselves to occasionally brush those perky nipples.
"Always wanted to do that." He confesses with a mischievous grin.
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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.
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