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.
"Fuck yes," he exclaims when Geralt starts meeting him with thrusts of his own, and his whole body flutters. He's barely aware of his knees on the mattress anymore, Jaskier feels like he's floating - and it's Geralt's mighty cock meeting him half way that keeps him drifting, his mind hazy with pleasure. They're dancing together now, two lovers in sync, to the music of their flesh coming together...
If you ask Jaskier, he would call it art. The art of love making. And he would pay good coin to be able to watch himself and his lover going at it.
Geralt calls him tight, and Jaskier can't help laughing just a little bit. It's not the kind of praise he craves for, but he can tell Geralt is trying, and well- it's cute, really. Besides, having the witcher groaning his nickname like that is already a huge compliment by itself.
"And you, ah- you are fucking thick, love." Unlike Geralt, Jaskier is capable to do some narrating while fucking. Because of course he is, damn bards and their tongues. "I've never -fuck- never been so full. Every thrust of yours stretches me more and it's simply wondrous."
Those hands shouldn't be on his hips, they should be on his dick, but Jaskier doesn't express that thought. He can tell Geralt wants to keep things slow - he hasn't made the connection to the little witcher issue yet, but that's still fine by Jaskier, who does agree on having a nice, slow first time together. Let them enjoy each other, learn what they want, build up to one hell of an orgasm. It's incredibly hard, though, pun intended. It's not only the years of pining and the fact he hadn't had sex in weeks that have him riding Geralt like a stolen horse - no, it's also those teeth grazing his skin, taunting him with the possibilities those fangs could offer; it's the nose searching for his scent; for there's no greater flattery that your lover being high on your natural smell...
It's those witcher muscles, flexing under his hand and legs, it's being allowed to cling to them and touch every scar and weak spot, being held by those strong hands without breaking, it's those golden eyes with pupils widening at the sight of their bard...
It's Geralt and every detail of his persona driving him crazy.
So yes, while Jaskier's goal is to make his lover lose it, he's also thankful (for a change) for that witcher control that reminds him to take it easy and savor the moment.
Jaskier hums his agreement and bottoms out once again, allowing his legs to rest for a short moment as he offers mores of his neck for Geralt to nose and nip-but-not-really.
"You know..." He comments as he rolls his hips not to lose their rhythm and lets his hands wander to explore Geralt's body again, their skin smoothly travelling through glistening muscles, groping at pecs and stroking biceps. He could worship his witcher's body all night long. "No need to mind your teeth so much, my dear. I don't mind a little biting."
His tone comes out a little needier than he intends it to, but oh well, to hell with it. It's not like he needs to hide his wants any longer, even if he will have to take his time with some stuff not to put pressure on Geralt (or scare him off, if that's a possibility).
When Jaskier starts riding him again, it's with a slower, more sensual than frantic rhythm. Like he did at the beginning, he raises until only the tip is still inside him, but this time he lowers himself unhurriedly, basking in the feeling of each inch of Geralt's prick filling him in little by little, making his stretched hole tingle deliciously and his insides tighten around it. It's the sweetest of tortures, having his whole body almost aching with filthy delight, his dick twitching against Geralt's hard stomach completely unattended and knowing that just a fingertip brushing it could be enough to make it end right now.
Jaskier slows, calms his breakneck pace and drops back down on Geralt's cock, rolls his hips like he's sitting a canter. Gives his poor legs a break, too, while Geralt is distracted with his neck. It's hard not to be distracted by it, not when his scent is so goddamn sweet and his skin tastes almost as good as he smells, when his teeth itch with the urge to bite down. He forces that desire down and stays gentle; a dog that's learned to have a soft mouth.
Geralt makes a noise against his throat when Jaskier encourages him to bite, part discontent and part longing-- the bard is a bad influence on his self-control. As much as the idea of getting his teeth into Jaskier's neck-- leaving an unmistakable mark on his skin, something that will last even after the pretty bruises have faded-- appeals, his body is already littered with scars that are the result of Geralt's negligence. How could he even consider putting more on him? And for such a selfish reason as satisfying his own desires?
I don't mind a little biting.
He'd mind when he had fangs in his muscle. Geralt's teeth have grown out too much now to even consider biting him. He had been too busy in the past few months with Ciri and Jaskier's safety to have time to keep up with filing them down, a tedious and uncomfortable task. It had only ever been for appearance's sake, anyway, to remove an obvious strangeness that made humans nervous. Not a necessity. But if Jaskier is going to insist that he set his teeth to him, it may become one.
"Later," he rasps, distracted by Jaskier's wandering hands and the desire in his voice. It's hard to deny him when he asks like that, with his voice all sweet and lusty, and if Geralt had been a man of less self-control, he might have just given him whatever he wanted. But-- later, once he'd had time to find his iron file and grind his teeth down into the same blunt shape as a human's. Then he could do as Jaskier asks and have some confidence that he wouldn't do any more harm than a normal lovebite.
The way Jaskier moves over him then, the slow, almost languid rise and fall of his hips, is too gentle and indulgent to really be fucking-- it's something that Geralt's mind doesn't want to touch, words that he doesn't want to say. It makes him ache anyway, his hands gripping onto Jaskier's hips and guiding them in their movements, the wet sound of their coupling filthy and so, so good. He shifts his hips to make the angle sweeter and he can feel the bard's cock twitch against his stomach as he does. He groans, mouth pressed to Jaskier's hairy chest, at the spurt of pre-cum that leaks out of the bard's prick and drips slick and warm down his abs.
They keep that pace, letting the heat and pleasure build until Geralt is panting and sweat-soaked despite the winter chill and Jaskier's legs can no longer bear the exertion. Geralt is closer to his orgasm than he usually can ever get while still being inside someone; Jaskier has tolerated his overly-long attentions admirably, borne the delay as though it hadn't been a hardship at all. The witcher has mercy on him, pulls him off of his cock and hisses at the feeling of cool air hitting his prick after it's been encased in tight heat for so long, then pushes the bard down to the mattress on his back. He doesn't leave Jaskier bereft for more than a few moments, crawling back on top of him once he's settled and distracting him with a kiss while one hand gropes for the bottle of oil. More oil for his prick and he pushes in again, fills him back up with cock and it's so easy this time-- no resistance, just a nerve-searing slide into the depths of him.
He groans the bard's name. His hair has long since worked its way out of whatever tie it had been kept in, falling around their faces in a messy white curtain. Jaskier's eyes are the bluest thing he's ever seen when he lifts his gaze to look at them.
"A little more," he says, reassuring him that there will be an end to this as he hitches Jaskier's legs up onto his waist, then snaps his hips in and sets the pace.
Later, Geralt says, and it's on occasions like this when Jaskier's bratty side comes out. The desire in his voice disappears for a moment and gives room to what can only be described as-- well... whining.
"Come onnnnnnn! My neck is on your mouth right now!"
Luckily for Geralt, the complaining quickly goes away too. Hard to stay focused on such a detail when he's being fucked so good. The new angle is hitting that sweet spot just right and Jaskier can swear he can see the stars. The blow job had been a good idea after all, it's helping him last longer - or what he'd usually last anyway. That first orgasm has gotten rid of all that sexual tension he had accumulated the past few months, thank Melitele, and that means he can keep building his pleasure without fear of finishing before Geralt spills inside him - which is something he definitely wants to happen before the night is over, no objections allowed.
The only hardship here is the one pounding into him - nothing else matters. There's no pain and no winter cold, there's only sweaty skin and a wet dick, strong warm hands on his hips and pretty starlight hair in his own fingers, the sound of their voices in sync with their flesh filthily slapping against each other. It's only wave after wave of pure elation running through his veins, hitting every bone and making his toes curl.
So imagine Jaskier's surprise when all of this suddenly fucking stops.
"Wha--"
He is no stranger to changes of position, although they usually come more often in the form of tumbling into them while still linked. To be fair, however, he's simply too gone in his own bliss so the sudden movement -the sudden feeling of emptiness- can only come as a shock. He catches on pretty quickly though, and soon Jaskier is laughing, delighted by this turn of events. Variety in sex is good, being pounded into the mattress is good, Geralt taking initiative and getting what he wants is great.
The smile doesn't disappear from his lips when Geralt kisses him - he just kisses back as he puts his arms around those amazing shoulders again and raises his ass to receive that mighty cock that makes him dig his heels in the furs and arch his body, head thrown back as he hisses a yessss.
And those blue eyes? Well, they look up at Geralt with absolute adoration when he hears those words.
"Oh, my dear witcher." He quickly pecks the corner of Geralt's mouth. "I'm not going anywhere - I'm here for you all night long." Geralt's hands grab Jaskier's legs and his grin widens, because that's what he had already been planning to do anyway - he wastes no time and crosses his ankles around his lover's waist before thrusting his hips as an invitation, whimpering when his dick gets trapped between their bellies. "Now fuck me, your gorgeous thing."
Jaskier laughs during sex, or, at least, he laughs when Geralt pushes him onto his back. It's a bright and delighted sound, and Geralt hasn't slept with anyone before who would do that in the middle of fucking him. It's... different, but the sound's one of pleasure so there's no reason not to like it.
The bard's arms are draped around his shoulders and his legs are hitched around his waist, heels pressing into Geralt's back just above his kidneys. He squeezes them tight around his solid sides whenever he rolls his hips, digs those heels in to the muscles in Geralt's lower back like he's spurring on a horse. He grunts at the pressure but doesn't make any move to readjust him, and at his command-- fuck me, you gorgeous thing-- braces both hands against the mattress and fulfills his desires.
He fucks into Jaskier with as much strength as he'd dare to use, chasing after an orgasm that's finally starting to loom on the horizon. Jaskier can't be far off from his own, either-- when Geralt looks down at him, he's a glorious wreck. His hair is mussed from being tossed against the furs, sticking to his forehead in graceless clumps; his skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, pupils dilated in those true blue eyes. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and Geralt has the strange, irrational urge to kiss them when he does. He's a beautiful creature, more so than even the carefully curated beauty of sorceresses, and Geralt--
Geralt buries his face into the bard's neck, breathing in the scent of lust and pleasure and that sweet, unknown thing, and along with each heady, intoxicating breath of that mixture, there's him. Geralt's scent mixed in with Jaskier's own, pressed into his skin in a manner that no witcher in this keep would mistake. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he groans against the soft skin of Jaskier's throat. Just like that he finds himself close, his hips stuttering as he starts to lose his rhythm.
He wraps an arm underneath Jaskier and around to his shoulder, holding him in place as his hips pump harder and faster, keeping him from being pushed up the bed with every heavy thrust. His other hand buries itself into the bedding and holds on, and Jaskier is so hot and tight and perfect around him, and Geralt murmurs some nonsense into his ear about how good he is, punctuated with curses. He's too drunk on the pleasure of it to keep track of what his mouth is saying, anyway, too preoccupied with chasing down his finish.
"Jask--"
His name comes out on a groan and the tension in Geralt's guts finally breaks. The nerve-searing pleasure of it is almost a relief after the long build up, and his hips twitch, prick fully sheathed in Jaskier's body, as he spills inside him. It feels like it goes on for ages, makes even Geralt's strong body tremble from the force of it. He doesn't even bother pulling out once he's spent, just slowly collapses down onto Jaskier; exhausted, sweat-soaked, and more sated than he ever remembers being.
Jaskier is in heaven right now - not only because he's getting deliciously fucked by the man he's been fantasizing about and loving since he was 18, but also because said man is surrounding him. The outside world is forgotten, out of sight and reach - he's in a cage of mighty muscle, warmth, sweat and raw power, and he loves it. There isn't a more erotic sight than this beast of a man fucking into him, allowing his walls to go down at least for a few hours to share this with Jaskier (with him, with him, with only him), making him feel the center of the universe...
Making him feel precious.
The most delightful of ironies, that is. Because Geralt is fucking him with quite an amount of strength, and that's another detail that is making this fuck simply amazing: to be on the receiving end of Geralt's prowess. Yet at the same time, it speaks of Geralt's care and gentleness. Because Jaskier knows how far witcher strength can go, and he can tell how hard Geralt is trying in order not to hurt him, even when control is hard to keep with a mind high with pleasure. Precious and important indeed.
Every thrust is met with raising and bucking hips, ankles and nails digging on scarred skin deeper and deeper as Jaskier also chases his own orgasm. His head is thrown back to moan and mumble nonsense (fuck yes, gods, right there, harder, more, Geralt) but also to offer his neck, because the witcher being intoxicated by his very natural scent is an intoxicating feeling in itself. Geralt's starting to lose his rhythm, and Jaskier guesses he must be close, yet he doesn't move his hands to touch himself. He doesn't need it, he realizes, he's on fucking fire and he's going to burn on the witcher's incredible dick and his abs brushing against his cock.
He decides to bury a hand on Geralt's hair instead, pushing him close and making him sure to keep him right where he is, with his nose on his neck and those lovely words on his ear. And holy crap, those words! That's what he's been wanted since he's asked for praise! Having Mr Blessed Silence telling him all these things is the final push Jaskier needs, and he finally lets go when his lover says his name in the sweetest song and spills inside him.
"Yesyesyesyes fill me, fuck, Geralt-"
His whole body arches once more as he comes all over their stomachs, head fully thrown back as he sees the stars. His toes curl and his legs shake, barely being able to stay around Geralt, the moan that leaves his lips echoing in the darkness of the keep without a care over being heard. Because this is one fucking good orgasm and it deserves to be celebrated, to be written and sung about. Jaskier doesn't want it to end, he wants to stop time right here and experience this wave of pleasure for hours, a kind of pleasure that he has never felt - it's never felt this deep, this intimate. It leaves him breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
A cute little oof escapes him when Geralt lands on top of him, but he isn't complaining. Smiling from ear to ear, smelling of satisfaction and happiness and- well, jizz, Jaskier lets his trembling legs fall on the furs, but leaves his arms around Geralt's back. They're less clingy now, more of a lazy kind of draping, yet one hand still gently rubs the witcher's wide back as his nose nuzzles his lover's neck.
"...the airborne vibes of euphoria." He mumbles, the words of an old poem coming to his mind as the perfect description of this magnificent moment: euphoria. A kiss for Geralt's neck comes next. "I love you."
His scent celebrates those words, and never has his heart and soul felt so light.
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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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If you ask Jaskier, he would call it art. The art of love making. And he would pay good coin to be able to watch himself and his lover going at it.
Geralt calls him tight, and Jaskier can't help laughing just a little bit. It's not the kind of praise he craves for, but he can tell Geralt is trying, and well- it's cute, really. Besides, having the witcher groaning his nickname like that is already a huge compliment by itself.
"And you, ah- you are fucking thick, love." Unlike Geralt, Jaskier is capable to do some narrating while fucking. Because of course he is, damn bards and their tongues. "I've never -fuck- never been so full. Every thrust of yours stretches me more and it's simply wondrous."
Those hands shouldn't be on his hips, they should be on his dick, but Jaskier doesn't express that thought. He can tell Geralt wants to keep things slow - he hasn't made the connection to the little witcher issue yet, but that's still fine by Jaskier, who does agree on having a nice, slow first time together. Let them enjoy each other, learn what they want, build up to one hell of an orgasm. It's incredibly hard, though, pun intended. It's not only the years of pining and the fact he hadn't had sex in weeks that have him riding Geralt like a stolen horse - no, it's also those teeth grazing his skin, taunting him with the possibilities those fangs could offer; it's the nose searching for his scent; for there's no greater flattery that your lover being high on your natural smell...
It's those witcher muscles, flexing under his hand and legs, it's being allowed to cling to them and touch every scar and weak spot, being held by those strong hands without breaking, it's those golden eyes with pupils widening at the sight of their bard...
It's Geralt and every detail of his persona driving him crazy.
So yes, while Jaskier's goal is to make his lover lose it, he's also thankful (for a change) for that witcher control that reminds him to take it easy and savor the moment.
Jaskier hums his agreement and bottoms out once again, allowing his legs to rest for a short moment as he offers mores of his neck for Geralt to nose and nip-but-not-really.
"You know..." He comments as he rolls his hips not to lose their rhythm and lets his hands wander to explore Geralt's body again, their skin smoothly travelling through glistening muscles, groping at pecs and stroking biceps. He could worship his witcher's body all night long. "No need to mind your teeth so much, my dear. I don't mind a little biting."
His tone comes out a little needier than he intends it to, but oh well, to hell with it. It's not like he needs to hide his wants any longer, even if he will have to take his time with some stuff not to put pressure on Geralt (or scare him off, if that's a possibility).
When Jaskier starts riding him again, it's with a slower, more sensual than frantic rhythm. Like he did at the beginning, he raises until only the tip is still inside him, but this time he lowers himself unhurriedly, basking in the feeling of each inch of Geralt's prick filling him in little by little, making his stretched hole tingle deliciously and his insides tighten around it. It's the sweetest of tortures, having his whole body almost aching with filthy delight, his dick twitching against Geralt's hard stomach completely unattended and knowing that just a fingertip brushing it could be enough to make it end right now.
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Geralt makes a noise against his throat when Jaskier encourages him to bite, part discontent and part longing-- the bard is a bad influence on his self-control. As much as the idea of getting his teeth into Jaskier's neck-- leaving an unmistakable mark on his skin, something that will last even after the pretty bruises have faded-- appeals, his body is already littered with scars that are the result of Geralt's negligence. How could he even consider putting more on him? And for such a selfish reason as satisfying his own desires?
I don't mind a little biting.
He'd mind when he had fangs in his muscle. Geralt's teeth have grown out too much now to even consider biting him. He had been too busy in the past few months with Ciri and Jaskier's safety to have time to keep up with filing them down, a tedious and uncomfortable task. It had only ever been for appearance's sake, anyway, to remove an obvious strangeness that made humans nervous. Not a necessity. But if Jaskier is going to insist that he set his teeth to him, it may become one.
"Later," he rasps, distracted by Jaskier's wandering hands and the desire in his voice. It's hard to deny him when he asks like that, with his voice all sweet and lusty, and if Geralt had been a man of less self-control, he might have just given him whatever he wanted. But-- later, once he'd had time to find his iron file and grind his teeth down into the same blunt shape as a human's. Then he could do as Jaskier asks and have some confidence that he wouldn't do any more harm than a normal lovebite.
The way Jaskier moves over him then, the slow, almost languid rise and fall of his hips, is too gentle and indulgent to really be fucking-- it's something that Geralt's mind doesn't want to touch, words that he doesn't want to say. It makes him ache anyway, his hands gripping onto Jaskier's hips and guiding them in their movements, the wet sound of their coupling filthy and so, so good. He shifts his hips to make the angle sweeter and he can feel the bard's cock twitch against his stomach as he does. He groans, mouth pressed to Jaskier's hairy chest, at the spurt of pre-cum that leaks out of the bard's prick and drips slick and warm down his abs.
They keep that pace, letting the heat and pleasure build until Geralt is panting and sweat-soaked despite the winter chill and Jaskier's legs can no longer bear the exertion. Geralt is closer to his orgasm than he usually can ever get while still being inside someone; Jaskier has tolerated his overly-long attentions admirably, borne the delay as though it hadn't been a hardship at all. The witcher has mercy on him, pulls him off of his cock and hisses at the feeling of cool air hitting his prick after it's been encased in tight heat for so long, then pushes the bard down to the mattress on his back. He doesn't leave Jaskier bereft for more than a few moments, crawling back on top of him once he's settled and distracting him with a kiss while one hand gropes for the bottle of oil. More oil for his prick and he pushes in again, fills him back up with cock and it's so easy this time-- no resistance, just a nerve-searing slide into the depths of him.
He groans the bard's name. His hair has long since worked its way out of whatever tie it had been kept in, falling around their faces in a messy white curtain. Jaskier's eyes are the bluest thing he's ever seen when he lifts his gaze to look at them.
"A little more," he says, reassuring him that there will be an end to this as he hitches Jaskier's legs up onto his waist, then snaps his hips in and sets the pace.
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"Come onnnnnnn! My neck is on your mouth right now!"
Luckily for Geralt, the complaining quickly goes away too. Hard to stay focused on such a detail when he's being fucked so good. The new angle is hitting that sweet spot just right and Jaskier can swear he can see the stars. The blow job had been a good idea after all, it's helping him last longer - or what he'd usually last anyway. That first orgasm has gotten rid of all that sexual tension he had accumulated the past few months, thank Melitele, and that means he can keep building his pleasure without fear of finishing before Geralt spills inside him - which is something he definitely wants to happen before the night is over, no objections allowed.
The only hardship here is the one pounding into him - nothing else matters. There's no pain and no winter cold, there's only sweaty skin and a wet dick, strong warm hands on his hips and pretty starlight hair in his own fingers, the sound of their voices in sync with their flesh filthily slapping against each other. It's only wave after wave of pure elation running through his veins, hitting every bone and making his toes curl.
So imagine Jaskier's surprise when all of this suddenly fucking stops.
"Wha--"
He is no stranger to changes of position, although they usually come more often in the form of tumbling into them while still linked. To be fair, however, he's simply too gone in his own bliss so the sudden movement -the sudden feeling of emptiness- can only come as a shock. He catches on pretty quickly though, and soon Jaskier is laughing, delighted by this turn of events. Variety in sex is good, being pounded into the mattress is good, Geralt taking initiative and getting what he wants is great.
The smile doesn't disappear from his lips when Geralt kisses him - he just kisses back as he puts his arms around those amazing shoulders again and raises his ass to receive that mighty cock that makes him dig his heels in the furs and arch his body, head thrown back as he hisses a yessss.
And those blue eyes? Well, they look up at Geralt with absolute adoration when he hears those words.
"Oh, my dear witcher." He quickly pecks the corner of Geralt's mouth. "I'm not going anywhere - I'm here for you all night long." Geralt's hands grab Jaskier's legs and his grin widens, because that's what he had already been planning to do anyway - he wastes no time and crosses his ankles around his lover's waist before thrusting his hips as an invitation, whimpering when his dick gets trapped between their bellies. "Now fuck me, your gorgeous thing."
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The bard's arms are draped around his shoulders and his legs are hitched around his waist, heels pressing into Geralt's back just above his kidneys. He squeezes them tight around his solid sides whenever he rolls his hips, digs those heels in to the muscles in Geralt's lower back like he's spurring on a horse. He grunts at the pressure but doesn't make any move to readjust him, and at his command-- fuck me, you gorgeous thing-- braces both hands against the mattress and fulfills his desires.
He fucks into Jaskier with as much strength as he'd dare to use, chasing after an orgasm that's finally starting to loom on the horizon. Jaskier can't be far off from his own, either-- when Geralt looks down at him, he's a glorious wreck. His hair is mussed from being tossed against the furs, sticking to his forehead in graceless clumps; his skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, pupils dilated in those true blue eyes. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and Geralt has the strange, irrational urge to kiss them when he does. He's a beautiful creature, more so than even the carefully curated beauty of sorceresses, and Geralt--
Geralt buries his face into the bard's neck, breathing in the scent of lust and pleasure and that sweet, unknown thing, and along with each heady, intoxicating breath of that mixture, there's him. Geralt's scent mixed in with Jaskier's own, pressed into his skin in a manner that no witcher in this keep would mistake. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he groans against the soft skin of Jaskier's throat. Just like that he finds himself close, his hips stuttering as he starts to lose his rhythm.
He wraps an arm underneath Jaskier and around to his shoulder, holding him in place as his hips pump harder and faster, keeping him from being pushed up the bed with every heavy thrust. His other hand buries itself into the bedding and holds on, and Jaskier is so hot and tight and perfect around him, and Geralt murmurs some nonsense into his ear about how good he is, punctuated with curses. He's too drunk on the pleasure of it to keep track of what his mouth is saying, anyway, too preoccupied with chasing down his finish.
"Jask--"
His name comes out on a groan and the tension in Geralt's guts finally breaks. The nerve-searing pleasure of it is almost a relief after the long build up, and his hips twitch, prick fully sheathed in Jaskier's body, as he spills inside him. It feels like it goes on for ages, makes even Geralt's strong body tremble from the force of it. He doesn't even bother pulling out once he's spent, just slowly collapses down onto Jaskier; exhausted, sweat-soaked, and more sated than he ever remembers being.
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Making him feel precious.
The most delightful of ironies, that is. Because Geralt is fucking him with quite an amount of strength, and that's another detail that is making this fuck simply amazing: to be on the receiving end of Geralt's prowess. Yet at the same time, it speaks of Geralt's care and gentleness. Because Jaskier knows how far witcher strength can go, and he can tell how hard Geralt is trying in order not to hurt him, even when control is hard to keep with a mind high with pleasure. Precious and important indeed.
Every thrust is met with raising and bucking hips, ankles and nails digging on scarred skin deeper and deeper as Jaskier also chases his own orgasm. His head is thrown back to moan and mumble nonsense (fuck yes, gods, right there, harder, more, Geralt) but also to offer his neck, because the witcher being intoxicated by his very natural scent is an intoxicating feeling in itself. Geralt's starting to lose his rhythm, and Jaskier guesses he must be close, yet he doesn't move his hands to touch himself. He doesn't need it, he realizes, he's on fucking fire and he's going to burn on the witcher's incredible dick and his abs brushing against his cock.
He decides to bury a hand on Geralt's hair instead, pushing him close and making him sure to keep him right where he is, with his nose on his neck and those lovely words on his ear. And holy crap, those words! That's what he's been wanted since he's asked for praise! Having Mr Blessed Silence telling him all these things is the final push Jaskier needs, and he finally lets go when his lover says his name in the sweetest song and spills inside him.
"Yesyesyesyes fill me, fuck, Geralt-"
His whole body arches once more as he comes all over their stomachs, head fully thrown back as he sees the stars. His toes curl and his legs shake, barely being able to stay around Geralt, the moan that leaves his lips echoing in the darkness of the keep without a care over being heard. Because this is one fucking good orgasm and it deserves to be celebrated, to be written and sung about. Jaskier doesn't want it to end, he wants to stop time right here and experience this wave of pleasure for hours, a kind of pleasure that he has never felt - it's never felt this deep, this intimate. It leaves him breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
A cute little oof escapes him when Geralt lands on top of him, but he isn't complaining. Smiling from ear to ear, smelling of satisfaction and happiness and- well, jizz, Jaskier lets his trembling legs fall on the furs, but leaves his arms around Geralt's back. They're less clingy now, more of a lazy kind of draping, yet one hand still gently rubs the witcher's wide back as his nose nuzzles his lover's neck.
"...the airborne vibes of euphoria." He mumbles, the words of an old poem coming to his mind as the perfect description of this magnificent moment: euphoria. A kiss for Geralt's neck comes next. "I love you."
His scent celebrates those words, and never has his heart and soul felt so light.
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