[ Geralt shouldn't be surprised this is the kind of reaction he gets from Jaskier, but in part it is. It all winds back to the first day they met. No matter how much he growls and sneers like a poorly trained guard dog, Jaskier still reaches out to him with confident hands. At times it's suffocating, psychologically overstimulating after so many years of villagers spitting at his heels. Women reclining from him in horror. There are those who fawn and preen him over the bard's stories, but there's something too shallow in it to feel real.
But this is real, this is tangible. The earnest moans whining out of Jaskier's mouth, the thick scent of his lust. Not afraid, in fact turned on by the state of the witcher. Who only still feels on the fringes of being monstrous, it's all too easy to sink into his touch with a pleasurable growl. Feed into all that want that exists for him. Geralt's hips coerced upward into Jaskier's hand as he slaps the ruined remains of Jaskier's clothes somewhere across the floor. His own shirt yanked off with it joins the pile. The tediousness isn't lost on him, but it's damn cathartic.
The deep lean he means to chase the bard's fondling fingers brings a knee to the wall astride his leg. His hands coming down to snare Jaskier's up again to push them back flush against the wall above his head as he lets his weight push them flush chest to chest, nose to nose. Geralt can't help but grind at him deep, like feeding an itch that draws in a deep breath.]
Still want to ride me until I beg? [ He asks, the rawness of his voice is undercut by the choke of a breath in his throat. Though by the tone of his voice, he's not in any mood to do any begging. From what he's learned, he knows what Jaskier is tedious to get a taste for. His hands aren't holding him down with any significant force. There's no anger, but there's weight. There's pressure of his thumbs pressed flush along his wrists. Feeling his heart race as he continues to look into the deep pools reflecting back at him.] Or shall I fuck you across something until your knees buckle? And you beg?
[ They were both stubborn men and Jaskier was determined to slowly chip away at Geralt's armored exterior and burrow snugly underneath. He could understand the Wicher's reticence, far too used to unkind words and rocks thrown at him cowardly. If anything, the worse people got the more was the bard determined to try and make it better. Sometimes it worked, others it frustrated Geralt more than anything, but here and now, they're both caught with their want and needs.
And oh, does Jaskier want desperately. Geralt moves against him and he makes a noise as stripped raw as he feels. It turns into an appreciative rumble born at the back of his throat when Geralt's shirt is no longer depriving him of the view of the Witcher's chest. Scarred, yes, but Jaskier never minded about those, rarely asks about a scar unless it's fresh and he's trying to decide if Geralt is doing a poor job at cleaning the wound and needs help with it. He doesn't get the chance to touch the man's chest or to smooth his fingers over that spot just under the head of Geralt's dick that might get him to groan because Geralt is grabbing at his wrists, lifting them without issue.
Jaskier's cock gives an interested twitch. He has to struggle for a second not to buck up into the sensation too hard because, damn, it's nice. Geralt's mouth is moving, so he's talking, a rarity on the best of days, and the brunette tries to focus on what it's being said. A moment later he almost regrets it, he knows already he will make a fool of himself.
The second offer is what gets Jaskier to tremble, to let out a ragged, drawn-out whimper and close his eyes, grinding against Geralt with a slow roll of his hips. Something fast, good and rough might just be what they need to take some of the edge of. His cock is already straining and when he opens his eyes to answer to Geralt he can only keep them half-lidded, hazy with need. ]
W-why don't we do both? [ Always an overachiever, his bard. A groan wrenches out of him before he can go on, and choked-off moans follow, filling the air between them. ] There's, aaah, a small vial in my pocket...
[ He's gotten used to carrying oil around in part because his lute strings need tending and in part because...well he does not have another good excuse but the fact he needs tending too and he had hoped that Geralt would pay him attention. Jaskier has the decency to blush after that, a light shade of pink staining his cheekbones as he avoids Geralt's eyes for the first time. It wouldn't take him long to beg, he would happily do so now if it means the Witcher will keep touching him, holding him up, pressing their hardness together.
Geralt's holding up his wrist sends a thrill down his body, makes his blood run hotter and that while knowing he can probably get out of the hold if he really wanted to. Geralt’s touch is strong but he wouldn't hold him down against his will. The bard has no intentions to move, there's nowhere he would rather be, and Geralt is holding him just so right. ]
[ The bard is chipping away at something, that's for certain. If the older man was more honest with himself, he'd say it's been happening for a long time. It's been a field test in constant patience, spanning decades. And though he'd never say it, Jaskier is one of the truest friends he has. And where or how the lines continue to get muddled in the process, he's lost track. Or he doesn't care. Because it's simple, it's unhinged, it's convenient. Somehow, it feels right.
A part of it must be the innate desire that trembles off Jaskier in waves. As though he's not ever noticed it before, even before the prior night they'd fucked, but pushed it aside. It's difficult telling even now how much of it is just feeding into his pure wanon hunger and what's his own. Only that it's intoxicating, it's delicious feeling his writhing and the quivering in his throat when he moans. Acting like he's never been touched before. Geralt knows he has, often not by him, as history dictates.
Geralt doesn't provide him a confirmation, but a telling hum finds some charm in Jaskier's over-eagerness to be fucked five more ways before sunrise again. The sentiment lost on an avoided gaze that might tell Geralt just exactly how over-eager he is. So, he does think about it. The witcher is briefly caught wondering how often. The threat of fatigue is higher that night, although he doesn't reveal it. Once the potion finally weans, he'll crash. He always does.
Without a word, at his direction he releases one of Jaskier's wrists to search the pocket he feels the vial just gently presenting between their thighs. Without lifting away, still nose to nose, soaking in the look of him. The feel of his thigh sits warm against the fabric brushed against the backs of his knuckles. He wishes he could better see color under the condition of this elixir. The complete flush of his face is apparent. It comes off in waves of the breaths that mingle between them. However, Geralt could only see the darkness touching his otherwise pale face.
Geraly tucks the vial under his thumb once retrieved, immediately searching for the sideline of buttons of Jaskier's trousers. There's a bit of warning that slips from him, as his hand traces up the bard's wrist to lace their fingers with a firm grip. Simple and feigning intimacy that isn't meant to be profound, but possibly uncharacteristic. Just as he tugs away at the trouser buttons with another delightful snapping of threads. The motion feels gruffer than the first, with more force needed to snap less delicate fastenings. His hand delves in without hesitation, seeking to gather just a touch of his cock and the look melting across his face before he has to turn him around. ]
[ In the past, Jaskier used to bring up the F word into their conversations. He does it less nowadays, not because he doesn't believe it truth but because Geralt's refusals sting more than before. He's settled for leaving things unsaid between them, telling himself that definitions don't matter so much. Some days it works, others don't, but the days go on regardless. The only problem is that, unlike Geralt, time isn't on Jaskier's side. It's another reason why he never wants to waste it. He prefers to regret the things he's done that the things he never dared to try.
What he has with Geralt now, whatever it is, It's uncharted territory. The bard wanted it for a long time and it went from a smoldering kind of need to something all-consuming after seeing Geralt's eyes black as a moonless night. He couldn't put it in words even if he tried, can't explain why he wants Geralt so badly even at his most unnatural. It's still Geralt and Jaskier loves him more for all his oddities, no less. It's still Geralt, the one person who can make him pant and moan with only a fleeting touch and the smallest hint of attention like this is his first time.
Despise his words, Jaskier will welcome anything Geralt can give him, one time or twenty, and still be satisfied. He's easy like that where Geralt is concerned and he's embarrassingly aware of it. And the bard will still be here once Geralt crashes, will try his best to care for the man and put him back together if the Witcher allows it. The bruised knuckles still need to be taken care off but it's a little difficult to focus on them when Geralt's hand is getting all his attention instead, wandering and retrieving the vial. Jaskier doesn't move his hand once one of the wrists is free and once he glances back at Geralt, he can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from him. They're so close he can feel the warmth of his breath brushing his own lips, and the younger man whines softly in the back of his throat when Geralt lace their fingers together. It's oddly sweet, unexpected and practical all at once. It gives Jaskier something to hold onto and he desperately needs it by the time Geralt's other hand tears off the rest of his clothes. ]
Fuck, aah... [ The muscles in his stomach jump and quiver and Jaskier bites his bottom lips, fighting to remain upright and not arch and grind down onto Geralt’s fingers.
It's hard to read Geralt in this state and Jaskier wonders if he's enjoying this as much as he is. Or perhaps he's waiting for something, he did mention that he wanted to hear him beg. After another long pause the bard keens, fingers tugging against Geralt’s. It's ineffectual, the Witcher's hands are bigger, fingers longer than his own, keeping him anchored where he is. He's not trying to get away as he is fidgeting like a pinned butterfly, tight with tension and all too fleeting rippling pleasure. ]
[ Witcher's don't express, or they don't express very well. Even under the affects of cloudy black eyes, it's understandably more nuanced. It's well and truly a lie that Geralt doesn't feel. He may not whimper and mewl at every little thing that sends a shiver up his spine, but there is its own level of enjoyment in watching him do it. Keening into his hand, warm and damp as his cock begins to harden. He's not waiting for him to beg, but hearing his name snaps him out of the brief fascination.
The witcher's hand withdraws along the same as his fingers untangle themselves from the last of Jaskier's hands, gathering him back at the waist as he peels him off the wall and turns him astride to face an adjacent table. It's as he's bending him over to place Jaskier's hands down upon it, he wonders how much of it Jaskier wants or if it's just a ploy to satisfy Geralt's needs. Stark to the contrast of their last encounter spent rutting both fast and slow. It's not necessarily a situation where Geralt is asking to be taken care of - - no the gesture reeks to him of preening and tenderness. Neither of which tonight he needs or deserves. There's no denying the bard craves a bit of the roughness, that much he can tell, but finds it difficult when the other man acts so soft and pliable in his hands.
Geralt takes the vial to his teeth to bite off the stopper and spit it off to the side, rumbling around somewhere under a dresser. Slicking a pool of it across his fingers before discarding it. His mouth dips in to find refuge along the warm skin of Jaskier's shoulder. Tasting the remnant of linen and musk as he brushes aside the hem of his open trousers so that they no longer cling to his hips and crumple halfway down the bard's thighs. ]
Your smell, when you're turned on - [ Geralt breathes across his neck, voice little more than a whisper. Pausing to bite down into the curve of his neck as he eases a finger inside of him. Wondering how long it'll take this time, perhaps better if he can distract him. ] Is sweet and spiced.
[ He could smell it in the tavern, he's swam in it the last night they spent together. And every little time before that may have been lost and disregarded. Jaskier's lust has been haunting him for years, even if he never made quite a mood before. Geralt knew, he could always smell it. And now he can enjoy it face deep, tinted sweat along the nape of his neck where he plies his mouth again. Swirling his tongue and biting down. ]
[ It if weren't because the Witcher's touch returns soon enough, holding his hips and maneuvering him around, Jaskier would have whimpered loudly at the loss. As it is, he only lets out a soft gasp at the way heat is settling in his gut, a heady anticipation of what is to come after he rests his upper body on the table.
He turns his head towards Geralt, looking at him over his shoulder, eyes soft and yet heavy with yearning, an all-consuming need that would be embarrassing if Jaskier wasn't beyond the point of caring. He misses kissing the Witcher, Jaskier could easily get lost in the sensation of Geralt’s tongue, warm and wet against his own, but it's almost impossible at this angle. Luckily, the man's mouth is on his skin soon enough, keeping the wanting at bay. It makes the bard more pliant but not wordless, small mewling sounds keep falling from his parted lips. Moans, gasps, and Geralt's name mingling together.
His head turns to the other side as if he's trying to hide and he bits his bottom lip, shuddering at the intrusion even as he wills his body to relax around Geralt's finger. This is always the most inconvenient part of sex, no matter how much he wants it. But It doesn't take Jaskier much this time, it's not like the first time they did this together. The Witcher's finger is bluntly thick inside him, sliding in and out easily, offering a perfect stretch that leaves the younger man wanting for more. And then Geralt starts talking, voice grave but soft, and Jaskier's skin feels like it’s on fire, burning from the inside out. ]
I...always...always wanted you. [ One of Jaskier's hands leaves the table to reach out and bury itself on Geralt's hair, giving it a tug. The other is digging its nails on the wood, knuckles white. ] I...fuck aah...Knew it from the moment I saw your face in that tavern.
[ He shifts his legs, first moving them closer so the clothes fall to the floor and he can step out of his breeches, and then arching his back and spreading his legs. His hips rock back in small jerks, ass pushing back onto Geralt's finger when he's ready for another. ] More. Geralt, more.
[ He's aching into the contact, pulse thundering in his ears and cock harder than he's ever known. Jaskier needs more of their skin pressed together, wants to feel Geralt fully inside him, and he knows he's never going to be able to forget this. ]
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givingexposition) wrote2020-01-03 11:55 pm
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But this is real, this is tangible. The earnest moans whining out of Jaskier's mouth, the thick scent of his lust. Not afraid, in fact turned on by the state of the witcher. Who only still feels on the fringes of being monstrous, it's all too easy to sink into his touch with a pleasurable growl. Feed into all that want that exists for him. Geralt's hips coerced upward into Jaskier's hand as he slaps the ruined remains of Jaskier's clothes somewhere across the floor. His own shirt yanked off with it joins the pile. The tediousness isn't lost on him, but it's damn cathartic.
The deep lean he means to chase the bard's fondling fingers brings a knee to the wall astride his leg. His hands coming down to snare Jaskier's up again to push them back flush against the wall above his head as he lets his weight push them flush chest to chest, nose to nose. Geralt can't help but grind at him deep, like feeding an itch that draws in a deep breath.]
Still want to ride me until I beg? [ He asks, the rawness of his voice is undercut by the choke of a breath in his throat. Though by the tone of his voice, he's not in any mood to do any begging. From what he's learned, he knows what Jaskier is tedious to get a taste for. His hands aren't holding him down with any significant force. There's no anger, but there's weight. There's pressure of his thumbs pressed flush along his wrists. Feeling his heart race as he continues to look into the deep pools reflecting back at him.] Or shall I fuck you across something until your knees buckle? And you beg?
no subject
And oh, does Jaskier want desperately. Geralt moves against him and he makes a noise as stripped raw as he feels. It turns into an appreciative rumble born at the back of his throat when Geralt's shirt is no longer depriving him of the view of the Witcher's chest. Scarred, yes, but Jaskier never minded about those, rarely asks about a scar unless it's fresh and he's trying to decide if Geralt is doing a poor job at cleaning the wound and needs help with it. He doesn't get the chance to touch the man's chest or to smooth his fingers over that spot just under the head of Geralt's dick that might get him to groan because Geralt is grabbing at his wrists, lifting them without issue.
Jaskier's cock gives an interested twitch. He has to struggle for a second not to buck up into the sensation too hard because, damn, it's nice. Geralt's mouth is moving, so he's talking, a rarity on the best of days, and the brunette tries to focus on what it's being said. A moment later he almost regrets it, he knows already he will make a fool of himself.
The second offer is what gets Jaskier to tremble, to let out a ragged, drawn-out whimper and close his eyes, grinding against Geralt with a slow roll of his hips. Something fast, good and rough might just be what they need to take some of the edge of. His cock is already straining and when he opens his eyes to answer to Geralt he can only keep them half-lidded, hazy with need. ]
W-why don't we do both? [ Always an overachiever, his bard. A groan wrenches out of him before he can go on, and choked-off moans follow, filling the air between them. ] There's, aaah, a small vial in my pocket...
[ He's gotten used to carrying oil around in part because his lute strings need tending and in part because...well he does not have another good excuse but the fact he needs tending too and he had hoped that Geralt would pay him attention. Jaskier has the decency to blush after that, a light shade of pink staining his cheekbones as he avoids Geralt's eyes for the first time. It wouldn't take him long to beg, he would happily do so now if it means the Witcher will keep touching him, holding him up, pressing their hardness together.
Geralt's holding up his wrist sends a thrill down his body, makes his blood run hotter and that while knowing he can probably get out of the hold if he really wanted to. Geralt’s touch is strong but he wouldn't hold him down against his will. The bard has no intentions to move, there's nowhere he would rather be, and Geralt is holding him just so right. ]
no subject
A part of it must be the innate desire that trembles off Jaskier in waves. As though he's not ever noticed it before, even before the prior night they'd fucked, but pushed it aside. It's difficult telling even now how much of it is just feeding into his pure wanon hunger and what's his own. Only that it's intoxicating, it's delicious feeling his writhing and the quivering in his throat when he moans. Acting like he's never been touched before. Geralt knows he has, often not by him, as history dictates.
Geralt doesn't provide him a confirmation, but a telling hum finds some charm in Jaskier's over-eagerness to be fucked five more ways before sunrise again. The sentiment lost on an avoided gaze that might tell Geralt just exactly how over-eager he is. So, he does think about it. The witcher is briefly caught wondering how often. The threat of fatigue is higher that night, although he doesn't reveal it. Once the potion finally weans, he'll crash. He always does.
Without a word, at his direction he releases one of Jaskier's wrists to search the pocket he feels the vial just gently presenting between their thighs. Without lifting away, still nose to nose, soaking in the look of him. The feel of his thigh sits warm against the fabric brushed against the backs of his knuckles. He wishes he could better see color under the condition of this elixir. The complete flush of his face is apparent. It comes off in waves of the breaths that mingle between them. However, Geralt could only see the darkness touching his otherwise pale face.
Geraly tucks the vial under his thumb once retrieved, immediately searching for the sideline of buttons of Jaskier's trousers. There's a bit of warning that slips from him, as his hand traces up the bard's wrist to lace their fingers with a firm grip. Simple and feigning intimacy that isn't meant to be profound, but possibly uncharacteristic. Just as he tugs away at the trouser buttons with another delightful snapping of threads. The motion feels gruffer than the first, with more force needed to snap less delicate fastenings. His hand delves in without hesitation, seeking to gather just a touch of his cock and the look melting across his face before he has to turn him around. ]
no subject
What he has with Geralt now, whatever it is, It's uncharted territory. The bard wanted it for a long time and it went from a smoldering kind of need to something all-consuming after seeing Geralt's eyes black as a moonless night. He couldn't put it in words even if he tried, can't explain why he wants Geralt so badly even at his most unnatural. It's still Geralt and Jaskier loves him more for all his oddities, no less. It's still Geralt, the one person who can make him pant and moan with only a fleeting touch and the smallest hint of attention like this is his first time.
Despise his words, Jaskier will welcome anything Geralt can give him, one time or twenty, and still be satisfied. He's easy like that where Geralt is concerned and he's embarrassingly aware of it. And the bard will still be here once Geralt crashes, will try his best to care for the man and put him back together if the Witcher allows it. The bruised knuckles still need to be taken care off but it's a little difficult to focus on them when Geralt's hand is getting all his attention instead, wandering and retrieving the vial. Jaskier doesn't move his hand once one of the wrists is free and once he glances back at Geralt, he can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from him. They're so close he can feel the warmth of his breath brushing his own lips, and the younger man whines softly in the back of his throat when Geralt lace their fingers together. It's oddly sweet, unexpected and practical all at once. It gives Jaskier something to hold onto and he desperately needs it by the time Geralt's other hand tears off the rest of his clothes. ]
Fuck, aah... [ The muscles in his stomach jump and quiver and Jaskier bites his bottom lips, fighting to remain upright and not arch and grind down onto Geralt’s fingers.
It's hard to read Geralt in this state and Jaskier wonders if he's enjoying this as much as he is. Or perhaps he's waiting for something, he did mention that he wanted to hear him beg. After another long pause the bard keens, fingers tugging against Geralt’s. It's ineffectual, the Witcher's hands are bigger, fingers longer than his own, keeping him anchored where he is. He's not trying to get away as he is fidgeting like a pinned butterfly, tight with tension and all too fleeting rippling pleasure. ]
Please, Geralt.
no subject
The witcher's hand withdraws along the same as his fingers untangle themselves from the last of Jaskier's hands, gathering him back at the waist as he peels him off the wall and turns him astride to face an adjacent table. It's as he's bending him over to place Jaskier's hands down upon it, he wonders how much of it Jaskier wants or if it's just a ploy to satisfy Geralt's needs. Stark to the contrast of their last encounter spent rutting both fast and slow. It's not necessarily a situation where Geralt is asking to be taken care of - - no the gesture reeks to him of preening and tenderness. Neither of which tonight he needs or deserves. There's no denying the bard craves a bit of the roughness, that much he can tell, but finds it difficult when the other man acts so soft and pliable in his hands.
Geralt takes the vial to his teeth to bite off the stopper and spit it off to the side, rumbling around somewhere under a dresser. Slicking a pool of it across his fingers before discarding it. His mouth dips in to find refuge along the warm skin of Jaskier's shoulder. Tasting the remnant of linen and musk as he brushes aside the hem of his open trousers so that they no longer cling to his hips and crumple halfway down the bard's thighs. ]
Your smell, when you're turned on - [ Geralt breathes across his neck, voice little more than a whisper. Pausing to bite down into the curve of his neck as he eases a finger inside of him. Wondering how long it'll take this time, perhaps better if he can distract him. ] Is sweet and spiced.
[ He could smell it in the tavern, he's swam in it the last night they spent together. And every little time before that may have been lost and disregarded. Jaskier's lust has been haunting him for years, even if he never made quite a mood before. Geralt knew, he could always smell it. And now he can enjoy it face deep, tinted sweat along the nape of his neck where he plies his mouth again. Swirling his tongue and biting down. ]
no subject
He turns his head towards Geralt, looking at him over his shoulder, eyes soft and yet heavy with yearning, an all-consuming need that would be embarrassing if Jaskier wasn't beyond the point of caring. He misses kissing the Witcher, Jaskier could easily get lost in the sensation of Geralt’s tongue, warm and wet against his own, but it's almost impossible at this angle. Luckily, the man's mouth is on his skin soon enough, keeping the wanting at bay. It makes the bard more pliant but not wordless, small mewling sounds keep falling from his parted lips. Moans, gasps, and Geralt's name mingling together.
His head turns to the other side as if he's trying to hide and he bits his bottom lip, shuddering at the intrusion even as he wills his body to relax around Geralt's finger. This is always the most inconvenient part of sex, no matter how much he wants it. But It doesn't take Jaskier much this time, it's not like the first time they did this together. The Witcher's finger is bluntly thick inside him, sliding in and out easily, offering a perfect stretch that leaves the younger man wanting for more. And then Geralt starts talking, voice grave but soft, and Jaskier's skin feels like it’s on fire, burning from the inside out. ]
I...always...always wanted you. [ One of Jaskier's hands leaves the table to reach out and bury itself on Geralt's hair, giving it a tug. The other is digging its nails on the wood, knuckles white. ] I...fuck aah...Knew it from the moment I saw your face in that tavern.
[ He shifts his legs, first moving them closer so the clothes fall to the floor and he can step out of his breeches, and then arching his back and spreading his legs. His hips rock back in small jerks, ass pushing back onto Geralt's finger when he's ready for another. ] More. Geralt, more.
[ He's aching into the contact, pulse thundering in his ears and cock harder than he's ever known. Jaskier needs more of their skin pressed together, wants to feel Geralt fully inside him, and he knows he's never going to be able to forget this. ]