"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.
Jaskier, while usually a lover of foreplay, is starting to get as desperate to be fucked as Geralt wants to fuck him - the feeling of the witcher's hard cock against the cleft of his ass is maddening, to say the least. But he wants their first time to be good -no, great- and that shouldn't include sore muscles in Geralt's memory of the night. Besides, his dick needs the intermission.
Seeing Geralt quiver under him and get restless under all the praise make the wait one hundred percent worth it. His dear witcher truly needs this - the kindness, the pretty words, the reminder that he matters, that he isn't a monster. Jaskier is having an effect on him, that request to shut up barely able to be taken seriously when he shortens his name like that.
This is what you need, my love, and I'll remind you as many times as it takes.
When Geralt accuses him of being a tease, Jaskier puts up his best innocent face and rolls his hips, biting his lower lip at the sensation of that hardness being rubbed all over his buttcheeks. His own cock is slowly awakening, and Jaskier whimpers at the tingling in his groin that can't quite enjoy the party yet.
"I thought you wanted me to shut up." He keeps on teasing, hands groping Geralt's chest again to check on grunts (and because he simply likes doing so). "Fuck, Geralt. It's been two decades of pining and fantasies. Where should I even start?"
Jaskier takes one of Geralt's hands, not because he minds it on his thigh (the opposite in fact, he wants those bruises, wants proof on his body of how much Geralt wants him) but because he wants to play with it. He makes it rest on his stomach then makes it go up slowly, carving a path on his upper body as he speaks.
"Kneeling in front of you in the tub was the sweetest torture - so close yet so far! I only wanted to climb in with you, ride you until I could feel you for days. I wanted you to ruin me for any other man ever again." When the hand makes it to his neck and face, Jaskier kisses the fingers before nuzzling it. "Massaging your back and shoulders allowed my imagination to run wild. What if it wasn't my hands on them? What if it was my legs, as you bent me over to pound me with the same power and skill you stab a monster?"
Geralt's left hand is taken to rest on Jaskier's ass, then he takes the right one to repeat the process: up his body, nuzzling and kisses.
"Rubbing chamomile on your lovely bottom had me wondering - had anybody been there before? I wanted to check. I wanted to bury my face between your cheeks and stretch you open with my tongue. I wanted to feel you tight around me, to leave my spend inside you, to see you struggle to ride Roach on the road later. I wanted to show you things that no woman ever could."
The witcher's right hand isn't taken to his ass like the left one, at least not yet. Jaskier changes the chamomile oil for the clear one, and starts covering Geralt's fingers with it.
"Every time you would pick me to drag me away from another spat with rude, bigoted tavern goers, I dreamed about your hands. I wanted - want. I want your fingers inside me. I want the strength and proficiency you use to swiftly wield a sword to slowly and efficiently drive me to ecstasy." With a hand going to rest on the mattress next to Geralt's head, Jaskier bends over, medallion pressed between their chests and ass wiggling in the air as Geralt's now oiled fingers are guided to his entrance. "You know what to do, right, my dear?"
His voice is husky, his eyes are hooded, and blue matches golden in pure and raw want.
Geralt grunts at the friction of Jaskier's rolling hips, rubbing his hard cock along the soft curve of his ass. It's torture, and though Geralt is very good at handling pain, apparently the way to break a witcher is with pleasure instead. Pleasure and sweet words from his bard are enough to crack the white wolf's resolve.
He holds onto his willpower by a thread. As much as he wants to flip the bard over and give him what he's asking for, he'd told Jaskier to talk. He couldn't just cut him off like that, could he? Not even if it means prolonging his own slow, sweet torment.
But surely that isn't indicative of anything.
Jaskier talks about twenty years of pining and fantasies, grasping one of the witcher's hands and guiding it up along his body. His palm smooths over Jaskier's stomach, feels the breath billowing in and out of him; gently makes its way up his torso and towards his chest, as though the bard wants him to map every inch of skin with his fingers. And Geralt wants to-- wants to map every curve and crevice of him with hands and mouth and anything else that Jaskier would allow.
Words have always been Jaskier's purview, his weapon of choice. He's no less devastating with them now, telling Geralt about all the fantasies that he'd never thought would ever come true. The ways he would want to be fucked, the ways he would want to introduce Geralt to the fine art of taking a cock. It's something that the witcher had thought about in abstracts, not something that he had been too enthusiastic about attempting. But the way that it sounds in Jaskier's voice, the promises of opening him up, filling him up, riding him hard and putting him away wet--
It's said that, along with all the other things, that witchers can't blush. This isn't true; blood can move to a witcher's cock, so it can move to his skin, too, it's just slow about it. Blood's already moved to his cock, and now there's a faint hint of pink to his face, a little down his chest.
His fingers are coated in oil, his hand guided back to Jaskier's hole. He cannot wrench his eyes away from the bard's face, hovering over him with his own medallion against his chest.
"Yes," he says, and his fingers, at least, remember what to do by muscle-memory. He traces them around his tight rim, spreading the slick fluid a little before slowly trying to work one into him. He's tight and hot and absolutely perfect.
"We'll start with this and then work through the rest."
All those fantasies and then some, if he can.
He leans up to kiss him, to swallow his noises as though he can't get enough. Witcher discipline doesn't fail him, though, and even with a naked, wriggling bard on top of him, he keeps his composure; works him open first with one finger, then another when he feels loose enough. Stays patient, distracting him with kisses until he can get three stuffed inside, the slick sound of them thrusting into his body almost obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room.
Once prepared, though-- Geralt's experience fades a little. Whores preferred it if he fucked them from behind, so as not to look at him more than they had to, or on top of them if they were tired. Yen would mount him and take her pleasure at her own leisure. He doesn't know how Jaskier prefers to be taken, and needs some kind of indication as to what he likes best. What Geralt needs to do to give him everything he needs.
He is. Geralt is blushing, all down to his chest. It's such a lovely sight, Jaskier wants to drink it for hours, ego stroked once again for being the one able to make a witcher blush. He didn't even know it was possible! His words did this! Which means Geralt likes what he's hearing, right?
Jaskier smiles widely as he's about to tease Geralt for it but the witcher chooses that exact moment to start moving his fingers against his ass, so he only ends up letting out a heartfelt fuck instead, in answer to the touch and the promise that follows. Work through the rest confirms that Geralt has, indeed, liked what he heard and is willing to try it out.
Is his very loud and filthy moan coming from the finger being worked into him or the chance of fucking Geralt's lovely bottom becoming a real possibility in their future?
The answer is, of course, both.
Sex hasn't been a thing since his capture - but taking a cock? It's been even longer. So Jaskier is definitely tight, but honestly, that only makes it better. Geralt's fingers make him feel so fucking full, and that can only mean his wonderful thick cock will make even a better job. The witcher is gentle yet methodical, concentrated on his task at hand with his usual discipline, and Jaskier loves every single second of it. One day he wants to come to only those strong fingers.
His hands land on Geralt's shoulders, fingers digging into those lovely muscles as he wiggles and pants, feeling as if his entire body is on fire with every push and stretch of that deft hand. The kissing is welcome and returned but quite clumsily, because every wiggle makes his once again very hard erection brush Geralt's stomach - the combination of both his cock and his ass being teased is driving him mad, and by the time the third fingers is in, he's already impaling himself against them. He whimpers and curses against the witcher's lips, groaning in a mix of pleasure and frustration when those fingers leave him with the most obscene of noises.
And then... nothing.
Jaskier raises his head to tilt it at Geralt, finding hesitation on that handsome face, and his heart melts. Hopefully this is Geralt only being nervous and not him actually having a change of heart, which Jaskier will of course respect if it comes down to it, but it'd still be incredibly disappointing.
"I'm open and ready for you, my dear." He comments with a soft voice as he brushes some hair off Geralt's face and follows it with a quick peck to the corner of his mouth. "Where do you want me?"
And while Geralt decides how he wants to do this, Jaskier proceeds to grab the oil again and get some on his own hand to slick Geralt up, stroking the witcher's dick almost lazily. It's on purpose, of course, a mix of wanting to savor this little chance to play with it and to tease his lover into making the choice they need to finally get to the main course of the night.
Jaskier writhes and pants and moans on his fingers prettier than even the most expensive whore, arches his back and pushes into the three calloused digits that Geralt has pressed up inside him like they're the best thing he's ever felt. His scent is all lust and anticipation and desire and it's honest, something that's impossible to fake. When he kisses Geralt back, he's sloppy about it, too distracted to get his limbs properly coordinated, and there is something deeply satisfying about his clumsiness. Jaskier, whose prowess in the bedroom is known from one end of the Continent to the other, has been reduced to a helpless, panting wreck by his witcher's fingers.
If this is what he's like with just Geralt's hand, he'll love his cock.
Or, that's the goal, anyway. But Geralt's prick is bigger than even three of his fingers, and it took time and patience and a fair amount of slick to get him loose enough for those. If there's anything that he wouldn't be able to abide, it would be the bard's discomfort, the way it would sour the sweetness of his scent.
Jaskier pushes hair out of his face and kisses him, reassuring him even though he does not-- should not-- need any such thing just to fuck a man. He's fucked men before. Geralt was fucking men before Jaskier was even born, there's no reason for him to hesitate now.
(Except that Jaskier matters in ways that the men he fucked before never did. That was purely transactional-- this is... this.)
The bard asks him where he wants him, and Geralt is about to reply-- everywhere-- when he grasps Geralt in a slick, tight fist and gives his cock a few long, slow pulls. Anything that he was about to say is swallowed up in a low groan, his hips pushing up into the touch regardless of Jaskier's weight on him.
"Fuck," he curses and grabs onto Jaskier's waist, his one slick hand smearing oil across his skin. His skin is smooth and warm and Geralt wants to dig his fingers in and never let go.
"Up," he says, gives him a squeeze. The solidity of him is attractive-- for all that his clothes are cut to make him look slim and rakish, he is not a small man. There's substance to him, a reassuring heft to his body. He will not break. "You've wanted a ride for twenty years. Have one."
And aside from the fact that it is a desperately appealing idea to have Jaskier bouncing himself on his prick, it also gives most of the control to him, as well. Geralt is not small and this position would allow the bard to decide the depth and speed at which he took the witcher's cock, let him get used to taking a thick intrusion again on his own terms.
Oh, isn't that groan pure music? Geralt may not be as talkative or loud as he is, but he reacts so beautifully to his every move, his every touch. The witcher is still keeping some of his usual control, of course, Jaskier can tell - but that thrust of his hips, that cursing, that way of grabbing his waist... oh, he's slowly losing it, alright, and Jaskier won't stop until he undoes his lover completely.
Geralt is already doing it to him, after all - fuck, does Jaskier love to feel the witcher's strength digging into his skin, and it isn't even all of his mighty power.
"You want your bard to give you a show, don't you, my wolf?" Chuckling at the ride pun, he pecks Geralt's lips before sitting up. "Then a show you get."
Some more oil is applied because indeed, Geralt is not small. And while Jaskier has been wanting this prick inside him for two decades now, he isn't (that) dumb to try to impale himself on it without care and proper lubrication. There's no teasing this time, though - Jaskier quickly takes care of it before raising on his knees and guiding Geralt's cock to his asshole.
He takes a deep breath as the head breaches him, which isn't so bad, even if it's been a while - some things your body doesn't forget. Taking a little more is when the challenge begins. Geralt isn't just long, he's also very thick, thicker than three fingers. Jaskier bites his lips so his whimper isn't very noticeable and closes his eyes as he slowly lowers himself, only taking a couple of inches at the time and pausing in between them to breathe and make his body relax, because he's on fucking fire from head to toes. It stings just a little bit, but it's slowly going away, and even that small burn feels so fucking good. He pants and curses during the whole process, singing Geralt's name as well - never before he's felt so stretched, so full...
So connected.
His hands fall on Geralt's stomach, nails digging as he drags out a groan and he finally bottoms out. Blue eyes are opened then, messy bangs hanging above them and dropping a couple of sweat drops on the witcher's abs and Jaskier's own erection, which also sits on the witcher's abs now, dropping pre-cum on those firm muscles.
"Fuck, Geralt. When I wrote third sword I was selling you short." Grinning, he pokes Geralt's side. "Come up here and kiss me, my dear. I want you to look me in the eye while I ride you into oblivion."
Not a lie, but with how big Geralt is, he could also do with having those broad shoulders to hold onto as he does his bouncing.
A show. It certainly is a show when Jaskier pours oil onto his cock, getting it nice and slick. It's a show when he rises up onto his knees, when his slippery hand guides Geralt's cock back, the head of it sliding back behind his balls, between his cheeks, until it catches on his hole. Geralt makes a little strangled noise at the sensation, which deepens into a full groan as Jaskier bears down on him, working his cock into the impossibly tight and hot clench of his body.
Jaskier makes a soft, desperate little noise as he sinks further, and Geralt's hands tighten on his waist to stop him from taking any more, holding him there. Too fast, he thinks. Too much, too soon. His nostrils flare as he breathes in, scenting the bard for even a hint of distress or pain. If it's too much, if any part of it isn't pleasurable for him, Geralt would stop without complaint, regardless of how intoxicatingly good it feels to have his body squeezing around him. He wouldn't be upset if Jaskier needed more time or had to work up to taking the entirety of his cock. He wouldn't be the first.
Jaskier still smells sweet, though, like lust and pleasure and want, untainted by discomfort. And it's that sweetness that relaxes Geralt's grip on him, lets him continue to work the witcher's cock into his body; a process that pulls more noises from the witcher's throat. He runs his hands over Jaskier's sides like he's gentling a horse, over his hips and along the firm muscle of his thighs, and while he's doing it partly to soothe, he also might go out of his mind if he doesn't get his hands on as much skin as he can. Jaskier's gorgeous above him, and Geralt watches him with his pupils blown so wide that there's just a thin rim of yellow around the black. His breathing is still steady, but that's purely a product of witcher mutagens and extensive training.
When the bard finally bottoms out, ass flush to Geralt's hips and his cock leaking all over his stomach, he barely feels the bite of Jaskier's nails into his skin. Barely feels anything over the way his insides clutch at him, searing hot and better than anything Geralt's ever deserved. Kiss me, he says, and Geralt sits up to do so as though the request is a command that he can't resist, as though he's been ensorcelled and is helpless to do anything but comply. He takes Jaskier's face in his hands and kisses him soundly and thoroughly, drinks him in like he's dying of thirst and Jaskier is water. His shoulders are easily within the bard's reach and sturdy enough to bear whatever weight he wants to put on them.
"Fuck, Jask," he mumbles against his mouth, reluctant to put any distance between them. His hips twitch with the effort of keeping them still, ignoring every instinct that tells him to grab the bard by the hips and move him on his prick, like he's a toy for his pleasure.
Geralt's face drops down to his throat, and he breathes there for a moment, collecting himself, before running his teeth over the tender skin. Careful as always, keeping his sharp canines in check so that he doesn't accidentally puncture him, make him bleed. He lets his hands roam downward again, tracing over his sides and hips and down to his ass; pulls his cheeks apart and runs his fingers along his tender rim, where it's stretched over his girth. He makes a noise deep in his chest that sounds like he's been gutted.
Geralt's nostrils flare, and Jaskier can't help wondering why - is he checking his scent for any hints of pain? Or is he absorbing how bloody aroused his lover is feeling right now? He's probably a lust bomb at the moment, he imagines - is it too overwhelming for a witcher nose? Geralt obviously likes it, judging by his reactions. It doesn't really matter if it's A or B, though, both options are incredibly sweet, and they make him love the man under him even more.
Together with every groan, they also make his cock twitch.
Jaskier squeezes his butt every time he hears those lovely sounds, wanting to elicit more from him, wanting the witcher to lose that carefully maintained control. Which is a bit ironic, because he's also very grateful for Geralt's masterful witcher control, for giving him time to get used to the feeling, for not pounding into him without a thought (even if it would be hot as fuck). The gentle caresses of those strong hands (gentle for him, for him!) are an anchor that both keeps him grounded -helping him ease into the feeling easier- and makes his mind floaty at the same time, cloudy with warmth and bliss.
He can't help the little gasp that escapes his lips when Geralt responds to his request without hesitation (so easily, so ready, so eager for him) and now he has him closer, he notices the way those golden irises he loves so much have almost becoma invisible under all the black (forhimforhimforhimFORHIM). Crazy, this witcher is going to drive him fucking crazy. Bursting with lust and love, Jaskier meets Geralt half way to crash their lips together, giving back as much neediness and desperation as his lover is pouring into him. His arms quickly surround Geralt's neck, a hand burying in white locks to pull gently yet firmly and explore a little more of that little discovery from earlier. He's dying to put his legs around Geralt too, latch onto him and never let go, but he promised a ride and a show, and Jaskier's keeping his word.
"I believe that's what we are trying to do here, my dear." He teases with a chuckle, looking incredibly smug at Geralt's little curse and the twitch of his hips. Oh, the witcher is slowly getting there, barely able to keep that control going, Jaskier needs to push just a bit more...
But Geralt takes a moment to pull himself together, and fuck, Jaskier can't bring himself to complain. How can he, when it's his bloody scent that his lover is seeking, the taste of his very skin? Jaskier absorbs all this wonderful attention, lets it shape their pear, lets it burn his body and turn his stomach and make his heart beat so fast, not even an arrow could go faster. It's his turn to curse when Geralt runs his finger along his ring, which is incredible sensitive at the moment - it sends a shock of pleasure through his whole body, making his legs shake and his hand pull at the witcher's hair a little harder than intended.
And as if that wasn't enough, Geralt then says the magic words.
You're so fucking good to me.
The effect is instant: Jaskier's eyes widen, pupils expanding and body shivering as his scent spikes with both pleasure and glee, expressed through the neediest of whimpers.
Fucking witcher! Talk about hitting him in his weak spot!
"Am-- am I?" He replies as he recovers his voice just barely, whispering the words against Geralt's mouth as his body raises on his knees very slowly, intending to tease the cock between his cheeks as it slips out, only keeping the head inside. Jaskier squeezes his ass once more--
"How good am I? Tell me."
--before sinking down in one go, the wolf medallion getting stuck between their chests, the moan that leaves his mouth filthy and loud. So, so loud. The bard's calloused fingers fall on Geralt's back and anchor themselves there as support as Jaskier raises again, not all the way this time, but enough to make it worth it. His eyes never stop staring right into Geralt's as Jaskier starts riding him with as much grace, sensuality and rhythm as he usually puts into dance. He may be no witcher, but he still knows his body and how to use it, how to roll his hips just right to find the perfect angle that hits that sweet spot inside and allow his cock to rub itself against his lover's amazing abs. Geralt is thick and long and just perfect, never has Jaskier felt so full - there isn't an inch inside him that goes unattended, no part of his persona that isn't being hit with wave after wave of passion and raw wantonness.
Jaskier trembles in his arms and smells like lust and his fingers tangle in Geralt's long hair, yanking on it hard enough that his head tilts back a little. The sting of it pulls a noise from his throat that, had this been any other situation, would've been intensely embarrassing-- a needy, wanting sound. But Geralt isn't the only one here who's weak and wanting, Jaskier makes the same kind of pitiful noise when Geralt calls him good. His scent even shifts with it, goes somehow headier and happier as though he'd stumbled on some hidden pleasure.
A need for praise? Well, Jaskier had always thrived on attention, on the approval of an audience. Perhaps he's no different in the bedroom, and of course he values words above all-- something that is not exactly Geralt's forte. It's something to consider later and integrate into his tactics for pleasuring his bard.
The bard starts moving then, slowly lifting himself up so that the drag of his insides over Geralt's cock is as tight and sweet and maddening as possible. He rises up as high as he can without letting the witcher slip out of him entirely, keeping just the head inside of him-- Geralt curses against his mouth, an inadequate answer to the question that he asked. It's hard to remember something like language when the bard clamps down on his cock like a vice, though.
Then he drives back down, spearing himself on Geralt's prick and the only reason that Geralt doesn't hear the noises that come out of his own mouth is because Jaskier shouts even louder. His hands grip Geralt's shoulders as he uses them for leverage, a solid surface to pull on while he rides him like a prize stallion. Fucks himself on his witcher with a rhythm so steady that he could sing a tune to it, if he had the breath for it. Geralt can feel the muscles moving in his legs with each bounce, the strength in his thighs, and he's discovering that he likes the strength that Jaskier hides under his pretty silks, like a secret. And all the while, he's pinning Geralt with those cornflower blue eyes, and the intensity of his stare should make him uncomfortable. No one meets a witcher's eyes for very long.
But Jaskier's always been different, hasn't he?
Tell me.
"Jask," he groans, bringing his hands forward to grab onto the bard's hips. On one of Jaskier's downstrokes, he thrusts up to meet him, sheathing himself in slick heat with the slap of flesh on flesh; pleasure sears his nerves and he does it again, and again. Being balls-deep in his bard is the best fucking feeling that he's had since he started walking this godsforsaken Continent, and now that he's had a taste of it, how could he give it up? How could he go back to the impersonal attentions of a whore when he'd felt Jaskier's loving touch, felt his nails digging into his back like a benediction that he'd never be worthy of?
"You're fucking tight," he says, the first thing that comes to his mind; he's unaccustomed to being asked to narrate while he's fucking. And it is, currently, the foremost thing that he's thinking of-- how fucking tight Jaskier is around him, like he's been made just to take Geralt's cock. He takes it beautifully, too, and keeps coming back for more, and gods they could've been doing this for ten years or more if Geralt hadn't been an idiot.
He keeps fucking into Jaskier sure and steady, hands gripping his hips and letting the bard set the pace. He has a tenuous grasp on restraint-- just enough to keep his fingers from bruising, to keep himself from driving too hard into his willing body. Minding his teeth at Jaskier's throat, where the skin is so thin and delicate. Enough to ease the pace down when the bard starts to get too wound up, though the reasons for that are purely selfish; Geralt is still slow to finish, and if Jaskier brings himself to completion too soon, he'll have to pull out of him to chase his own orgasm. And while he could do that and still find satisfaction, he wants to spill inside his bard, to paint his insides so well that it marks him for days. So he needs the bard to last with him for a while, to stave off his own satisfaction so that it'll be better in the end. And Jaskier is a giving man that way, isn't he? A generous lover, even to witchers.
"Easy, easy," the feverish rush of his heart and the honeyed sweetness of his scent are biological tells about his impeding orgasm; Geralt gentles him as he slows them. He noses back to the space behind Jaskier's ear, where his scent is strong, and there's... something in it that he doesn't immediately recognize but has smelled on the bard before. He just has no frame of reference for what it means, other than that it's good. Maybe it's just part of his orgasm-scent, some as-of-yet unnamed emotion that he feels in the heat of it.
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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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Seeing Geralt quiver under him and get restless under all the praise make the wait one hundred percent worth it. His dear witcher truly needs this - the kindness, the pretty words, the reminder that he matters, that he isn't a monster. Jaskier is having an effect on him, that request to shut up barely able to be taken seriously when he shortens his name like that.
This is what you need, my love, and I'll remind you as many times as it takes.
When Geralt accuses him of being a tease, Jaskier puts up his best innocent face and rolls his hips, biting his lower lip at the sensation of that hardness being rubbed all over his buttcheeks. His own cock is slowly awakening, and Jaskier whimpers at the tingling in his groin that can't quite enjoy the party yet.
"I thought you wanted me to shut up." He keeps on teasing, hands groping Geralt's chest again to check on grunts (and because he simply likes doing so). "Fuck, Geralt. It's been two decades of pining and fantasies. Where should I even start?"
Jaskier takes one of Geralt's hands, not because he minds it on his thigh (the opposite in fact, he wants those bruises, wants proof on his body of how much Geralt wants him) but because he wants to play with it. He makes it rest on his stomach then makes it go up slowly, carving a path on his upper body as he speaks.
"Kneeling in front of you in the tub was the sweetest torture - so close yet so far! I only wanted to climb in with you, ride you until I could feel you for days. I wanted you to ruin me for any other man ever again." When the hand makes it to his neck and face, Jaskier kisses the fingers before nuzzling it. "Massaging your back and shoulders allowed my imagination to run wild. What if it wasn't my hands on them? What if it was my legs, as you bent me over to pound me with the same power and skill you stab a monster?"
Geralt's left hand is taken to rest on Jaskier's ass, then he takes the right one to repeat the process: up his body, nuzzling and kisses.
"Rubbing chamomile on your lovely bottom had me wondering - had anybody been there before? I wanted to check. I wanted to bury my face between your cheeks and stretch you open with my tongue. I wanted to feel you tight around me, to leave my spend inside you, to see you struggle to ride Roach on the road later. I wanted to show you things that no woman ever could."
The witcher's right hand isn't taken to his ass like the left one, at least not yet. Jaskier changes the chamomile oil for the clear one, and starts covering Geralt's fingers with it.
"Every time you would pick me to drag me away from another spat with rude, bigoted tavern goers, I dreamed about your hands. I wanted - want. I want your fingers inside me. I want the strength and proficiency you use to swiftly wield a sword to slowly and efficiently drive me to ecstasy." With a hand going to rest on the mattress next to Geralt's head, Jaskier bends over, medallion pressed between their chests and ass wiggling in the air as Geralt's now oiled fingers are guided to his entrance. "You know what to do, right, my dear?"
His voice is husky, his eyes are hooded, and blue matches golden in pure and raw want.
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He holds onto his willpower by a thread. As much as he wants to flip the bard over and give him what he's asking for, he'd told Jaskier to talk. He couldn't just cut him off like that, could he? Not even if it means prolonging his own slow, sweet torment.
But surely that isn't indicative of anything.
Jaskier talks about twenty years of pining and fantasies, grasping one of the witcher's hands and guiding it up along his body. His palm smooths over Jaskier's stomach, feels the breath billowing in and out of him; gently makes its way up his torso and towards his chest, as though the bard wants him to map every inch of skin with his fingers. And Geralt wants to-- wants to map every curve and crevice of him with hands and mouth and anything else that Jaskier would allow.
Words have always been Jaskier's purview, his weapon of choice. He's no less devastating with them now, telling Geralt about all the fantasies that he'd never thought would ever come true. The ways he would want to be fucked, the ways he would want to introduce Geralt to the fine art of taking a cock. It's something that the witcher had thought about in abstracts, not something that he had been too enthusiastic about attempting. But the way that it sounds in Jaskier's voice, the promises of opening him up, filling him up, riding him hard and putting him away wet--
It's said that, along with all the other things, that witchers can't blush. This isn't true; blood can move to a witcher's cock, so it can move to his skin, too, it's just slow about it. Blood's already moved to his cock, and now there's a faint hint of pink to his face, a little down his chest.
His fingers are coated in oil, his hand guided back to Jaskier's hole. He cannot wrench his eyes away from the bard's face, hovering over him with his own medallion against his chest.
"Yes," he says, and his fingers, at least, remember what to do by muscle-memory. He traces them around his tight rim, spreading the slick fluid a little before slowly trying to work one into him. He's tight and hot and absolutely perfect.
"We'll start with this and then work through the rest."
All those fantasies and then some, if he can.
He leans up to kiss him, to swallow his noises as though he can't get enough. Witcher discipline doesn't fail him, though, and even with a naked, wriggling bard on top of him, he keeps his composure; works him open first with one finger, then another when he feels loose enough. Stays patient, distracting him with kisses until he can get three stuffed inside, the slick sound of them thrusting into his body almost obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet room.
Once prepared, though-- Geralt's experience fades a little. Whores preferred it if he fucked them from behind, so as not to look at him more than they had to, or on top of them if they were tired. Yen would mount him and take her pleasure at her own leisure. He doesn't know how Jaskier prefers to be taken, and needs some kind of indication as to what he likes best. What Geralt needs to do to give him everything he needs.
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Is that Geralt bloody blushing?
He is. Geralt is blushing, all down to his chest. It's such a lovely sight, Jaskier wants to drink it for hours, ego stroked once again for being the one able to make a witcher blush. He didn't even know it was possible! His words did this! Which means Geralt likes what he's hearing, right?
Jaskier smiles widely as he's about to tease Geralt for it but the witcher chooses that exact moment to start moving his fingers against his ass, so he only ends up letting out a heartfelt fuck instead, in answer to the touch and the promise that follows. Work through the rest confirms that Geralt has, indeed, liked what he heard and is willing to try it out.
Is his very loud and filthy moan coming from the finger being worked into him or the chance of fucking Geralt's lovely bottom becoming a real possibility in their future?
The answer is, of course, both.
Sex hasn't been a thing since his capture - but taking a cock? It's been even longer. So Jaskier is definitely tight, but honestly, that only makes it better. Geralt's fingers make him feel so fucking full, and that can only mean his wonderful thick cock will make even a better job. The witcher is gentle yet methodical, concentrated on his task at hand with his usual discipline, and Jaskier loves every single second of it. One day he wants to come to only those strong fingers.
His hands land on Geralt's shoulders, fingers digging into those lovely muscles as he wiggles and pants, feeling as if his entire body is on fire with every push and stretch of that deft hand. The kissing is welcome and returned but quite clumsily, because every wiggle makes his once again very hard erection brush Geralt's stomach - the combination of both his cock and his ass being teased is driving him mad, and by the time the third fingers is in, he's already impaling himself against them. He whimpers and curses against the witcher's lips, groaning in a mix of pleasure and frustration when those fingers leave him with the most obscene of noises.
And then... nothing.
Jaskier raises his head to tilt it at Geralt, finding hesitation on that handsome face, and his heart melts. Hopefully this is Geralt only being nervous and not him actually having a change of heart, which Jaskier will of course respect if it comes down to it, but it'd still be incredibly disappointing.
"I'm open and ready for you, my dear." He comments with a soft voice as he brushes some hair off Geralt's face and follows it with a quick peck to the corner of his mouth. "Where do you want me?"
And while Geralt decides how he wants to do this, Jaskier proceeds to grab the oil again and get some on his own hand to slick Geralt up, stroking the witcher's dick almost lazily. It's on purpose, of course, a mix of wanting to savor this little chance to play with it and to tease his lover into making the choice they need to finally get to the main course of the night.
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If this is what he's like with just Geralt's hand, he'll love his cock.
Or, that's the goal, anyway. But Geralt's prick is bigger than even three of his fingers, and it took time and patience and a fair amount of slick to get him loose enough for those. If there's anything that he wouldn't be able to abide, it would be the bard's discomfort, the way it would sour the sweetness of his scent.
Jaskier pushes hair out of his face and kisses him, reassuring him even though he does not-- should not-- need any such thing just to fuck a man. He's fucked men before. Geralt was fucking men before Jaskier was even born, there's no reason for him to hesitate now.
(Except that Jaskier matters in ways that the men he fucked before never did. That was purely transactional-- this is... this.)
The bard asks him where he wants him, and Geralt is about to reply-- everywhere-- when he grasps Geralt in a slick, tight fist and gives his cock a few long, slow pulls. Anything that he was about to say is swallowed up in a low groan, his hips pushing up into the touch regardless of Jaskier's weight on him.
"Fuck," he curses and grabs onto Jaskier's waist, his one slick hand smearing oil across his skin. His skin is smooth and warm and Geralt wants to dig his fingers in and never let go.
"Up," he says, gives him a squeeze. The solidity of him is attractive-- for all that his clothes are cut to make him look slim and rakish, he is not a small man. There's substance to him, a reassuring heft to his body. He will not break. "You've wanted a ride for twenty years. Have one."
And aside from the fact that it is a desperately appealing idea to have Jaskier bouncing himself on his prick, it also gives most of the control to him, as well. Geralt is not small and this position would allow the bard to decide the depth and speed at which he took the witcher's cock, let him get used to taking a thick intrusion again on his own terms.
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Geralt is already doing it to him, after all - fuck, does Jaskier love to feel the witcher's strength digging into his skin, and it isn't even all of his mighty power.
"You want your bard to give you a show, don't you, my wolf?" Chuckling at the ride pun, he pecks Geralt's lips before sitting up. "Then a show you get."
Some more oil is applied because indeed, Geralt is not small. And while Jaskier has been wanting this prick inside him for two decades now, he isn't (that) dumb to try to impale himself on it without care and proper lubrication. There's no teasing this time, though - Jaskier quickly takes care of it before raising on his knees and guiding Geralt's cock to his asshole.
He takes a deep breath as the head breaches him, which isn't so bad, even if it's been a while - some things your body doesn't forget. Taking a little more is when the challenge begins. Geralt isn't just long, he's also very thick, thicker than three fingers. Jaskier bites his lips so his whimper isn't very noticeable and closes his eyes as he slowly lowers himself, only taking a couple of inches at the time and pausing in between them to breathe and make his body relax, because he's on fucking fire from head to toes. It stings just a little bit, but it's slowly going away, and even that small burn feels so fucking good. He pants and curses during the whole process, singing Geralt's name as well - never before he's felt so stretched, so full...
So connected.
His hands fall on Geralt's stomach, nails digging as he drags out a groan and he finally bottoms out. Blue eyes are opened then, messy bangs hanging above them and dropping a couple of sweat drops on the witcher's abs and Jaskier's own erection, which also sits on the witcher's abs now, dropping pre-cum on those firm muscles.
"Fuck, Geralt. When I wrote third sword I was selling you short." Grinning, he pokes Geralt's side. "Come up here and kiss me, my dear. I want you to look me in the eye while I ride you into oblivion."
Not a lie, but with how big Geralt is, he could also do with having those broad shoulders to hold onto as he does his bouncing.
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Jaskier makes a soft, desperate little noise as he sinks further, and Geralt's hands tighten on his waist to stop him from taking any more, holding him there. Too fast, he thinks. Too much, too soon. His nostrils flare as he breathes in, scenting the bard for even a hint of distress or pain. If it's too much, if any part of it isn't pleasurable for him, Geralt would stop without complaint, regardless of how intoxicatingly good it feels to have his body squeezing around him. He wouldn't be upset if Jaskier needed more time or had to work up to taking the entirety of his cock. He wouldn't be the first.
Jaskier still smells sweet, though, like lust and pleasure and want, untainted by discomfort. And it's that sweetness that relaxes Geralt's grip on him, lets him continue to work the witcher's cock into his body; a process that pulls more noises from the witcher's throat. He runs his hands over Jaskier's sides like he's gentling a horse, over his hips and along the firm muscle of his thighs, and while he's doing it partly to soothe, he also might go out of his mind if he doesn't get his hands on as much skin as he can. Jaskier's gorgeous above him, and Geralt watches him with his pupils blown so wide that there's just a thin rim of yellow around the black. His breathing is still steady, but that's purely a product of witcher mutagens and extensive training.
When the bard finally bottoms out, ass flush to Geralt's hips and his cock leaking all over his stomach, he barely feels the bite of Jaskier's nails into his skin. Barely feels anything over the way his insides clutch at him, searing hot and better than anything Geralt's ever deserved. Kiss me, he says, and Geralt sits up to do so as though the request is a command that he can't resist, as though he's been ensorcelled and is helpless to do anything but comply. He takes Jaskier's face in his hands and kisses him soundly and thoroughly, drinks him in like he's dying of thirst and Jaskier is water. His shoulders are easily within the bard's reach and sturdy enough to bear whatever weight he wants to put on them.
"Fuck, Jask," he mumbles against his mouth, reluctant to put any distance between them. His hips twitch with the effort of keeping them still, ignoring every instinct that tells him to grab the bard by the hips and move him on his prick, like he's a toy for his pleasure.
Geralt's face drops down to his throat, and he breathes there for a moment, collecting himself, before running his teeth over the tender skin. Careful as always, keeping his sharp canines in check so that he doesn't accidentally puncture him, make him bleed. He lets his hands roam downward again, tracing over his sides and hips and down to his ass; pulls his cheeks apart and runs his fingers along his tender rim, where it's stretched over his girth. He makes a noise deep in his chest that sounds like he's been gutted.
"You're so fucking good to me."
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Together with every groan, they also make his cock twitch.
Jaskier squeezes his butt every time he hears those lovely sounds, wanting to elicit more from him, wanting the witcher to lose that carefully maintained control. Which is a bit ironic, because he's also very grateful for Geralt's masterful witcher control, for giving him time to get used to the feeling, for not pounding into him without a thought (even if it would be hot as fuck). The gentle caresses of those strong hands (gentle for him, for him!) are an anchor that both keeps him grounded -helping him ease into the feeling easier- and makes his mind floaty at the same time, cloudy with warmth and bliss.
He can't help the little gasp that escapes his lips when Geralt responds to his request without hesitation (so easily, so ready, so eager for him) and now he has him closer, he notices the way those golden irises he loves so much have almost becoma invisible under all the black (forhimforhimforhimFORHIM). Crazy, this witcher is going to drive him fucking crazy. Bursting with lust and love, Jaskier meets Geralt half way to crash their lips together, giving back as much neediness and desperation as his lover is pouring into him. His arms quickly surround Geralt's neck, a hand burying in white locks to pull gently yet firmly and explore a little more of that little discovery from earlier. He's dying to put his legs around Geralt too, latch onto him and never let go, but he promised a ride and a show, and Jaskier's keeping his word.
"I believe that's what we are trying to do here, my dear." He teases with a chuckle, looking incredibly smug at Geralt's little curse and the twitch of his hips. Oh, the witcher is slowly getting there, barely able to keep that control going, Jaskier needs to push just a bit more...
But Geralt takes a moment to pull himself together, and fuck, Jaskier can't bring himself to complain. How can he, when it's his bloody scent that his lover is seeking, the taste of his very skin? Jaskier absorbs all this wonderful attention, lets it shape their pear, lets it burn his body and turn his stomach and make his heart beat so fast, not even an arrow could go faster. It's his turn to curse when Geralt runs his finger along his ring, which is incredible sensitive at the moment - it sends a shock of pleasure through his whole body, making his legs shake and his hand pull at the witcher's hair a little harder than intended.
And as if that wasn't enough, Geralt then says the magic words.
You're so fucking good to me.
The effect is instant: Jaskier's eyes widen, pupils expanding and body shivering as his scent spikes with both pleasure and glee, expressed through the neediest of whimpers.
Fucking witcher! Talk about hitting him in his weak spot!
"Am-- am I?" He replies as he recovers his voice just barely, whispering the words against Geralt's mouth as his body raises on his knees very slowly, intending to tease the cock between his cheeks as it slips out, only keeping the head inside. Jaskier squeezes his ass once more--
"How good am I? Tell me."
--before sinking down in one go, the wolf medallion getting stuck between their chests, the moan that leaves his mouth filthy and loud. So, so loud. The bard's calloused fingers fall on Geralt's back and anchor themselves there as support as Jaskier raises again, not all the way this time, but enough to make it worth it. His eyes never stop staring right into Geralt's as Jaskier starts riding him with as much grace, sensuality and rhythm as he usually puts into dance. He may be no witcher, but he still knows his body and how to use it, how to roll his hips just right to find the perfect angle that hits that sweet spot inside and allow his cock to rub itself against his lover's amazing abs. Geralt is thick and long and just perfect, never has Jaskier felt so full - there isn't an inch inside him that goes unattended, no part of his persona that isn't being hit with wave after wave of passion and raw wantonness.
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A need for praise? Well, Jaskier had always thrived on attention, on the approval of an audience. Perhaps he's no different in the bedroom, and of course he values words above all-- something that is not exactly Geralt's forte. It's something to consider later and integrate into his tactics for pleasuring his bard.
The bard starts moving then, slowly lifting himself up so that the drag of his insides over Geralt's cock is as tight and sweet and maddening as possible. He rises up as high as he can without letting the witcher slip out of him entirely, keeping just the head inside of him-- Geralt curses against his mouth, an inadequate answer to the question that he asked. It's hard to remember something like language when the bard clamps down on his cock like a vice, though.
Then he drives back down, spearing himself on Geralt's prick and the only reason that Geralt doesn't hear the noises that come out of his own mouth is because Jaskier shouts even louder. His hands grip Geralt's shoulders as he uses them for leverage, a solid surface to pull on while he rides him like a prize stallion. Fucks himself on his witcher with a rhythm so steady that he could sing a tune to it, if he had the breath for it. Geralt can feel the muscles moving in his legs with each bounce, the strength in his thighs, and he's discovering that he likes the strength that Jaskier hides under his pretty silks, like a secret. And all the while, he's pinning Geralt with those cornflower blue eyes, and the intensity of his stare should make him uncomfortable. No one meets a witcher's eyes for very long.
But Jaskier's always been different, hasn't he?
Tell me.
"Jask," he groans, bringing his hands forward to grab onto the bard's hips. On one of Jaskier's downstrokes, he thrusts up to meet him, sheathing himself in slick heat with the slap of flesh on flesh; pleasure sears his nerves and he does it again, and again. Being balls-deep in his bard is the best fucking feeling that he's had since he started walking this godsforsaken Continent, and now that he's had a taste of it, how could he give it up? How could he go back to the impersonal attentions of a whore when he'd felt Jaskier's loving touch, felt his nails digging into his back like a benediction that he'd never be worthy of?
"You're fucking tight," he says, the first thing that comes to his mind; he's unaccustomed to being asked to narrate while he's fucking. And it is, currently, the foremost thing that he's thinking of-- how fucking tight Jaskier is around him, like he's been made just to take Geralt's cock. He takes it beautifully, too, and keeps coming back for more, and gods they could've been doing this for ten years or more if Geralt hadn't been an idiot.
He keeps fucking into Jaskier sure and steady, hands gripping his hips and letting the bard set the pace. He has a tenuous grasp on restraint-- just enough to keep his fingers from bruising, to keep himself from driving too hard into his willing body. Minding his teeth at Jaskier's throat, where the skin is so thin and delicate. Enough to ease the pace down when the bard starts to get too wound up, though the reasons for that are purely selfish; Geralt is still slow to finish, and if Jaskier brings himself to completion too soon, he'll have to pull out of him to chase his own orgasm. And while he could do that and still find satisfaction, he wants to spill inside his bard, to paint his insides so well that it marks him for days. So he needs the bard to last with him for a while, to stave off his own satisfaction so that it'll be better in the end. And Jaskier is a giving man that way, isn't he? A generous lover, even to witchers.
"Easy, easy," the feverish rush of his heart and the honeyed sweetness of his scent are biological tells about his impeding orgasm; Geralt gentles him as he slows them. He noses back to the space behind Jaskier's ear, where his scent is strong, and there's... something in it that he doesn't immediately recognize but has smelled on the bard before. He just has no frame of reference for what it means, other than that it's good. Maybe it's just part of his orgasm-scent, some as-of-yet unnamed emotion that he feels in the heat of it.
"Not yet."
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