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It was mid-January during his first winter at Kaer Morhen when Jaskier first noticed that the stays on his breeches were, well, a little strained around his middle. Frowning at the length of the offending ties hadn’t bent reality into something more flattering and, with a little ‘harumph’ and a sucked in breath, his pants were fastened the rightly way.
Jaskier hadn’t anticipated how lonely it would be during the daylight hours on the mountain, with every witcher (and exactly one bard) occupied with utilizing the daylight hours. If Lambert or Eskel spared him more than a glance during the day, that was almost counted as company. Also unexpected was the change in pace. Yes, he was busy at least 6 or so hours a day, whether actually at work or keeping his hands busy on minor things. Who knew there was so much silverware to polish and benches to sand and reseal?
Ultimately, however, days on end of stately walking (he refused to call it trotting) after a witcher for the better part of ten or more miles a day had a way of boosting one’s metabolism. And so, with a fresh prickle of heat in his face, Jaskier tugged daily at his clothing that was fitting entirely too snugly.
He blamed Vesemir for at least half the situation. In his head, Jaskier mimicked the old witchers’ voice: ‘Come taste this dark malt bread, Bard’ ‘ I added honey and cherry preserves to this scone, Bard’ ‘Have a little taste of this hare wrapped in bacon, Bard’.
And one did not simply pass on such delicacies, pressed on them by the daunting patriarch of the wolf witchers. For their own preservation, a guest in the super secret witcherly hideout eagerly ate and praised the culinary talents of said witcher.
Almost two weeks passed before the whole figure issue came to a head. Vesemir declared it washing week after taking a whiff of his ‘pups’ and declaring them all odious and unworthy of gracing his dining room.
Mostly it was Aidan’s fault, having doused Lambert’s toiletries with a fresh batch of cat piss (where did he find such a thing, Jaskier mused, imagining the witcher wrangling a ornery snow leopard). Well, it was a well-deserved prank after Lambert metaphorically pulled Aiden’s tail one too many times.
And how was Jaskier to know that the hot water of the springs were going to take all the stretch from his comfortable, broken in, and perfectly conformed breeches and turn them into the iron vise from hell?
This time, no amount of actual or imagined reality could convince his stays to, well, stay. Pouting in his bedroom, faced with the small bump of pudge protruding from under his doublet, there was no avoiding it. So, in the manner of all great actors who had come before him, Jaskier flopped dramatically backwards on his bed, and sucked in his ribs as the breath whooshed from his lungs. And with no small effort the offending clothing was tied, cinched, and stays knotted quicker than a woman into her corset.
Was Jaskier vain? Yes, yes he was. And it was worth it as he hobbled to dinner.
Three, possibly four mugs of spiced mulled wine later, Jaskier was dying. Sweat glistened on his brow, and in his discomfort he did not notice Lambert elbowing Aiden. And Vesemir eyeing him like a village’s herb-hag ready to dose him with a cure both odious and expensive. He really should have noticed Geralt most of all, who was unblinkingly tracking the pained squirming of one veritably buzzed bard.
Finally focusing on the source of his great discomfort, with fingers almost numb from the wine, Jaskier unconsciously fumbled at those corset-tight stays at his waist. Then, with the pained focus of the almost-drunk, he peered down and picked at the knots - who tied these gods cursed knots!? Almost five minutes after starting, he finally sighed and slumped back, breeches loosened and that small bulge in his abdomen poking out proudly.
His eyes were closed as Geralt traced this new development with burning interest. An audible hush fell across the room, broken only by the hiss of the fire eating into the resinous pockets of the wood.
Some prey instinct abruptly brought a wash of sobriety and Jaskier jerked upright, pulling vainly down on his shirt and vest. Blue eyes met golden on his left and the hunger in Geralt’s eyes put any snow leopard’s gaze to shame.
Face burning, Jaskier softly murmured, "Fuck" his hands unconsciously trying to hide and protect his tender belly. He processed for a moment longer, and then the bard's smile got lazy and sharp. Almost leering, Jaskier provoked Geralt in a fashion not fit for most decent company. “Got a bit of a provider kink, don’t you?” he lolled, eyes briefly squinting, almost a wink, as they met their golden match.
The crystalline bite of Geralt’s gaze and the low whistling and whooping from Aiden, Lambert and Eskel made it absolutely clear he had hit the mark. A touch of pink actually graced the witcher’s face and he looked away to glare daggers at his compatriots.
“The hungry White Wolf would like to sink his teeth into that soft belly,” Lambert practically squealed, laughing so hard he was making foghorn sounds like a dying bull.
Vesemir, bless his wizened witcherly heart, cuffed Lambert where the young witcher was almost falling from the bench. He stretched exaggeratedly as he rose, Lambert’s ear turning a stinging pink to the left of his elbow from the blow.
"Quite enough wine for us all tonight,” he stated in a no-nonsense tone. “And you three louts haven’t finished washing all the spare linens, let alone finished your own laundry, so I expect all of yeh’ to be pruney by the time I break my fast.” He glared at the trio, who bobbed little nods, visibly and unsuccessfully still holding their laughter in. The trio of witchers stumbled together in the direction of what was, without doubt, going to turn from drunken pawing into outright rutting in their suite of shared rooms.
With a curt nod and goodnight, Vesemir swept out of the dining hall after the miscreants.
Jaskier blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and rolled his now only slightly buzzed gaze to his companion. Geralt was intensely studying the dregs of his mug, white hair falling forward on either side of his face, almost like a veil between him and Jaskier.
”You took care of me on the Path for years,” Jaskier began softly, reaching out to brush at Geralt’s hair. “I didn’t realize how deeply your affinity ran. I didn’t mean to shame you…” His voice trailed off, studying Geralt’s face, what he could see of it now, registering the undeniable flush on the witcher’s face.
Golden eyes edged his way, and Geralt let loose a barely-there ‘hmphh’, and ever so slightly inclined his head towards Jaskier’s hand, which was now vacantly petting silvery strands and twisting them gently between his fingers.
"You know, they aren’t the only ones allowed to have a bit of companionship,” Jaskier mused. “You’ve taken really, really good care of me Geralt, provided for me.” He swore a full body shiver wracked the other man with those words, combined with a gentle tug on a silvery lock. “I’ll be heading to my room now, and if you’d like to see how well provided-for I am…” His voice trailed off. Blue eyes fixed on the witcher, Jaskier rose in exaggerated form, rolling his spine up out of the chair one bone at a time.
"My room," Geralt amended from behind with a growl as Jaskier sauntered in the direction of the sleeping quarters.
The soft shush of boots behind him told Jaskier that his shadow was following, and he boldly entered Geralt's quarters, flinging open the door as if he had done it a dozen times. In truth, he's never dared entered the other's quarters, and seeing the witcher's things strewn about, but his bed was neatly made, did something to the pressure differential in his chest, which he dared not interpret, not right now. Jaskier paused in his grand entrance, breathing in the air that smelled vaguely of burnt sage, trying to find his breath in his chest.
A pair of warm, strong arms wrapped around his torso in a bear hug from behind, and strands of white hair swept across his vision. They both stood for a long minute, just breathing in their mixed air. With a great sigh Geralt ran his hands down the front of Jaskier’s doublet and gently rested on the little belly he’d accumulated.
Clearing his throat against the sudden tightness, "I need words, Geralt,” Jaskier prompted softly after a few moments. He continued, slowly, measuring the pace of his words to match the gravity of their meaning. “I, better than any, know your strong silent shtick, but if I’m going to take you to bed," Here he paused again, inhaling deeply and clasping his hands over where Geralt's laid on his body. "Then I need to know this is what you truly want.” The silence rang in the room.
The moment stretched, and Jaskier patiently counted Roaches…One surly Roach biting a stable boy…two surly Roaches biting a stable boy….three surly Roaches…He’d made it to seven, when Geralt’s voice rumbled from behind, the words drawing out, weighty in the same measure. “Jas', You were, and are, independent. I know you didn’t need me to make your coin. I provided,” here his voice became strained just for a second around that word, paused and continued, “some measure of protection." Geralt paused, another silent moment stretching between them. "Go on," Jaskier prompted, almost too quiet to hear, brushing his fingertips over the top of Geralt's knuckles. Regaining some momentum, Geralt continued. "But here, in my home, seeing you contented and warm and well fed...” The words trailed off, but the soft kiss Geralt placed on Jaskier's neck was all the ending that was required.
Jaskier could feel the strain leaving his witcher as the words warmed the space between them. Broad hands tightened around his belly, practically spanning the bard's waist, and Jaskier felt a frisson of pleasure sweep down his low back and gather in a pool between his legs. And the kiss had sent an entirely different feeling to pool in his chest.
“Well said, dearest witcher,” he replied when his wits finally regained full capacity, reaching back and twining a hand around the side of Geralt’s neck, encouraging him to bury his face deeper into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Sharp teeth nibbled at tendons, and Jaskier had the distinct sense he was being scented and found delectable. Twisting around in Geralt’s embrace to face him, the younger man ran his hands over the older man’s face, running his thumb over a day’s worth of stubble and over winter-dry lips. They came together in a sudden rush with no grace, knocking their lips together, like eager whelps on their first hunt. Jaskier had the sudden image of Geralt as an actual puppyish white wolf, and a grin actually pressed the corners of his lips up in a smile.
They broke apart at that, Jaskier grinning like a fool, their foreheads resting together. “Is it trite to ask why it took us so long to do this?” the bard whispered, looking up and pressing a second, chaste, kiss to Geralt’s lips. An almost smile graced the other’s face as well, causing a tiny squint to his golden eyes. They returned to kissing, chasing the hardness of the other's lips and teeth against the swell of their own. Their hands roamed, and Geralt cupped his hands beneath swell of Jaskier’s buttocks and squeezed, before smoothing his hands down the lean backs of his thighs then returning to the gentle swell at the younger's waist, giving that a squeeze as well.
Playfully Jaskier broke off the kiss, grinning, and then leaned his hips forward and bumped his half hard member against Geralt’s thigh, and, hissing in pleasure at the pressure, promptly decided to grind against his thigh instead. It was lighthearted and playful in a way he hadn’t felt since his first few romps ‘in the hay’ as it were. Closer to 35 years now than 25, Jaskier had tumbled his fair share of both the fair sexes, but the ease of a decade of friendship - that was entirely new. And wonderful. And humbling.
The witcher purred out a 'hmmmn', watching him take his pleasure. Lacing broad hands under the bard’s buttocks, Geralt lifted him off his feet and shuffled them to the bed, the younger man practically giggling and wrapping his ankles around Geralt’s hips, hanging onto the witcher's shoulders for dear life.
Geralt harrumphed a little laugh of his own, depositing the other gently on the bed. Jaskier left his legs locked around the man’s hips and watched as hands, scrawled with a myriad interlacing scars, carefully smoothed over Jaskier’s chest, his abdomen, and then ran his thumbs over the hard press of his flesh under the other's unlaced breeches. A gasp left Jaskier involuntarily as sparks of pleasure traced through his skin, his balls drawing up, and his penis hardening on this side of painful. Geralt traced the place where his precum was starting to leech through his small clothes and a bare trace of dampness was making its way through the cloth of his breeches. Suddenly sobering and drawing a serious breath, Jaskier relaxed back into the bed, and made grabby hands at Geralt’s shoulders. The other understood and leaned over, and then bodily pushed them up further onto the bed, a strong arm lifting under the small of Jaskier's back. Even that small show of strength sent made Jaskier's muscles clench with delight and he let out a small gasp. Geralt’s shoulders caged over Jaskier’s, and that muscled thigh (which he swore was going to prominently feature in his next ballad) continued pressing gently between his own.
The next kiss was more gentle than the first, but no less passionate for it. Jaskier moaned (in a manly way, mind you) and the answering hum, almost a purr, melted him. Practically romanticism from the taciturn witcher, he mused. They spent indeterminable minutes kissing, and Jaskier unashamedly pawed at the shoulders and collarbones he could get at through Geralt's partly open shirt. He’d never been able to touch enough before and fine ridges of healed scars were traced by callused fingers; traced as gently as the finest strings on a lute. The moments stretched on, almost painfully sweet.
Geralt must have felt the tension building. Finally releasing the other man's swollen lips, golden eyes burning, Geralt switched up the pace, placing kisses on every exposed bit of neck and ear, and briefly drawing back Jaskier’s sleeve to kiss his wrist. He relentlessly returned time after time to worry the helix of Jaskier's ear between his teeth. His ears warmed and each nibble felt more intense as the skin became sensitive and swollen. It was shockingly erotic, and a little metaphorical, if the bard squinted hard enough. For all the times he'd 'tortured' Geralt's sensitive ears with his singing...
Ears burning, from combined lust and sheer delightful shame, Jaskier was quite literally squirming, twisting the fabric of Geralt's shirt in his hands before the man seemed satisfied that Jaskier was completely ruined for all other lovers by his little ear nibbling trick. "By all that is divine," the bard breathed, his face bright red. The cool smirk he was blessed with by the witcher did nothing to cool his blood. "Haven't your pretty ladies and lads known how to please you?" Geralt teased, bracing himself with one hand on the bed, and gently running his other hand over Jaskier's abdomen. Jaskier rolled his eyes, and then opened them again, very wide, as Geralt finally, finally, seemed inclined to worship the lower portion of his body.
White hair trailed across the bare skin on his abdomen where his shirt had rucked up and his breeches dipped low. The witcher nibbled the matching set of hip bones and kissed the little paunch that had started this whole thing. Pushing up the younger man’s shirt further, he circled Jaskier’s belly button with his tongue and then nipped his soft belly to either side. His hands worked to unbutton the blue doublet, pushed the linen tunic up, and then over Jaskier’s head with some wrangling. The witcher fell to tonguing his pale fawn-colored nipples, unconsciously rolling the little mounds of flesh at Jaskier's hips with rough palms.
Jas whined and whimpered, wound and unwound his hands through locks of winter-white. Why had he ever bothered with the strings of lovely lads and ladies over the past decades? What a patently horrible waste of time, he considered, holding his breath and then compulsively remembering to breathe again, his penis throbbing and throbbing between his legs. Jaskier's hips lifted unconsciously as he chased friction and heat, and that Melitele blessed thigh was still there, and he ground up without shame, grinding and thrusting his groin against the wonderful but-not-enough pressure.
However, a particularly unexpected bite right to the meat of his shoulder and the increased pressure of Geralt’s thigh pressing on his member ripped an unexpected orgasm out of Jaskier, and with a gasp like he’d been punched, he ground up into the pressure and rode out the receding waves of his orgasm. Geralt bit again, more softly, then palmed the wet spot between Jaskier’s thighs, a picture of smug witcherly-ness. “No fucking fair,” Jaskier panted, as the volleying waves of pleasure subsided into his bones. “You aren't the only one who can play an audience,” Geralt smirked. Jaskier met that comment with an eye roll, then closed his eyes contentedly as Geralt lay down next to him, idly tracing circles around Jaskier's belly button. “Well, you are still entirely dressed and I refuse to call this a night, soaking in a puddle of my own spunk.” Jaskier cracked open a blue eye in time to see Geralt light up a little at the word ‘spunk’ and to see the rather fixed way he focused on Jaskier’s crotch.
Grinning, a little evilly if he could say so himself, Jaskier pronounced in his best tavern-commanding tones, “Undress and bathe me witcher, then take me back into your embrace! The night is yet young.” The short speech was concluded with more shit-eating grinning on Jaskier's part.
It was Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes at this half-sarcastic proclamation, accompanied with a particularly put-on 'hmmnph.' All the same, he encouraged Jaskier to wiggle his hips while making an utter distraction of trying to suck a bruise right above the man's belly button. Jaskier squirmed and whined and finally relieve himself of the cum-soaked breeches and small clothes.
There was a small argument over who would fetch the washing rag. It ended with Jaskier playfully pushing his foot up into Geralt's shoulder and giving him a shove with it. Which did absolutely nothing to move the witcher, who seemed delighted to capture Jaskier's foot by the ankle. It was absolutely unsporting to tickle a bedpartner so, but it seemed to pay the price.
The witcher, such a delightfully thoughtful lover-to-be, tossed an equally delightful cold rag at Jaskier from across the bedroom. It slapped onto his tender belly and he gasped, then glared at the witcher, blue eyes squinting. Said witcher pointedly did not make eye contact and occupied himself with stripping off his clothes. Cringing at the ghastly temperature of the cloth, Jaskier quickly scrubbed the cum out of his pubic hair and and even saved a clean corner to reach back behind his balls and wiping clear up to his sacrum. He knew his body was already squeaky clean from head to arsehole after spending nearly all of the last two days waist deep in laundry and hot springs, but a fresh swipe couldn't hurt.
He tried to watch Geralt strip out of the corner of his eye. Not a terribly uncommon sight, but usually done with a great deal more blood, mud, and hurry followed by cursing and bandages. Never with clean skin and a half-hard member. Geralt caught his gaze and grinned for a split second then palmed his erection as he strode back to the bed, almost making a show of it, Jaskier had to admit. Perhaps his thespian skills had actually rubbed off on the witcher (rubbed off…hah).
Petulantly, Jaskier volleyed the wet washcloth back to Geralt, but a deft catch kept him from the same damp slap that Jaskier had been subjected to. A smug grin spread on the witcher’s face. “Cleaned yourself extra well, didn’t yah’,” he rumbled, breathing in deeply. Now that comment did NOT deserve to be as titillating as Jaskier’s cock believed it to be, fattening up at the base.
“I’ll let you know that I am thoroughly cleaned and hygienic,” Jaskier sniffed in a pronounced tone of offense, letting a bit of noble brattiness seep into the vocals. To emphasize his put-upon-ness, the man started to crawl up a bit on the bed, moving towards the middle and towards the headboard. A particularly wooly bit of, well, wool brushed against his nether regions however, setting him shuddering. “Don’t know why you have so many damn sheepskins, it’s practically a fucking flock,” he bitched melodramatically, now on his knees flinging furs around like, well, unsheared sheep. Talk about unhygienic. Wads of curly wool getting sodden with bodily fluids and sticking to unmentionably places. Not at all conducive to romps in the bedchamber. And he really shouldn't have gotten so singularly focused on the offending hides.
Strong hands suddenly gripped his thighs from behind, and so intent on his performance Jaskier had been, he’d forgotten for a moment that being naked with his back to his amorous partner, chubby prick swaying between his thighs, and that little belly on profile. Well, it was like tying a bleating lamb in front of a dragon. One wasn’t surprised when the dragon grabbed the lamb by its withers and pulled it close and licked its tailbone then bit the little lamb’s buttocks. The metaphor could only stretch so far, but indeed Jaskier did make a noise much like a bleating lamb as Geralt attempted to devour his nethers with nips and licks that sent wave after wave of sparkling fire up and down his spine.
Jaskier froze, then swore under the onslaught. “By Melitele’s sweet, ample tits, do not dare stop witcher.” He breathed but it was a close thing, burying his face into Geralt’s pillow, which smelled faintly of sage smoke and witcher. Geralt continued his assault on the other man’s spine, pressing kisses and sucking bruises up and down his back, and then finally venturing below the sacrum where he licked and ate out Jaskier’s asshole until Jaskier finally called a stop, squirming from the witcher’s loosened grasp on his thighs.
Eyes glazed and definitely not focusing like they should, Jaskier twisted on his side and contemplated Geralt’s visage. The witcher’s lips were pink and a little swollen, and his hair was pushed over his shoulder to one side. He looked as fairly wrecked as the bard felt, and his dick looked so hard and eager it was mouth watering. Jaskier sighed with a hint of melancholy and Geralt quirked an eyebrow in question. “Well love,” the younger man began theatrically, “I don’t think in either of our conditions that we will get much past just the tip, as it were. Despite what some uneducated louts think, it will take more than a pinch of oil and a few minutes of hard pressing to get me ready to take that giant loin snake.”
At the words ‘giant loin snake’ Geralt pressed his lips together in mock pain at the terrible pun. Jaskier continued hurriedly, and cheerfully. “But just the tip would do it for me, as roused as I am, and I suspect you wouldn’t last long either.”
“You are far less romantic in bed than in your songs,” Geralt observed in tight tones, although his body had relaxed some.
Perhaps he had also been feeling the pressure of performance and performing as much as Jaskier had. Compulsively, Geralt returned to smoothing his hands over muscular thighs and thumbed the crease between hips and groin. Jaskier moaned, feeling his dick throb and insanely grateful Geralt wasn’t pushing him to a second orgasm already.
“Turn back over,” the older man instructed, already prodding Jaskier to twist back on his stomach completely. There was oil at hand, as it turned out, and more than just a pinch.
In fact, as Jaskier sighed and melted into on the bed, ready to be ravished some more, Geralt did something very clever. After working a gasping Jaskier open with one finger, he oiled the small, narrow, neck of the glass bottle and inserted it into the little clenching ring. Jaskier had loosened some from the fingering, and didn't seem to notice the smaller sized penetration. Gravity had pulled nearly half the bottle of cypress oil from the glass vial into the warm cavity before Jaskier stirred, wondering what the holdup was. Twisting around to see, his blue eyes widened and this time with a deep groan he reached under himself and gripped the base of his member hard, so hard to stave off the impending orgasm.
“You can’t just do things like that Geralt,” he growled through clenched teeth, still twisted to see the little bottle held by the clench of his ass. “I truly will die of unwilling and breathtaking orgasms.”
“Doesn’t sound like a complaint to me,” the white-haired man replied, carefully withdrawing the neck of the bottle and re-corking it. This time his finger, and its companion, slipped in without negotiation. “Your uncouth louts with their fingers and pinch of oil did you wrong.” Geralt focused on pulling Jaskier apart at this point. “Cypress oil soothes the inner membranes. I don’t think we will have to suffer ‘just the tip’ tonight.” Jaskier could practically hear the air quotes around his earlier declaration. Not that witchers, especially imposing stoic white-haired witchers, would ever actually deign to use their fingers for such mundane activities as 'air quotes.'
Jaskier’s response consisted of barely intelligible moans and when a third finger joined the two, he could not even tell the difference. Despite this, Geralt continued to hold him open, inspecting the pinkish skin stretched around his fingers and scenting for any hint of blood. Jaskier’s thighs were quivering by the time the witcher was satisfied. Voice rumbling low, he asked, “Are you ready sweet thing? Would you like to have all of me?”
It was a satisfying check for consent, and the questions wrapped Jaskier’s heart in bright bands of happiness. “Gods yes,” he replied, lifting up onto his knees and bumping his buttocks against Geralt’s groin.
Gripping the base of his cock to hold off any surging needs, the witcher oiled his cock, the faintly evergreen scent of cypress filling the air, then the blunt head was being carefully pushed against the ring of Jaskier’s asshole. Even in the short minute from being opened by three fingers to being pressed by a hard dick, his muscles had contracted and there was a brief flare of pain as the head of Geralt’s cock slipped in.
Callused hands smoothed down Jaskier’s flanks, and it was apparent the witcher was very aware of the discomfort he was bearing. Slowly, Geralt withdrew his cock almost completely, then slid it back in barely a half inch more than his first intrusion. The flare of pain subsided and Jaskier was able to enjoy the next few slow thrusts. Confident the discomfort was passed for now, the younger man pushed back his hips at the next thrust, seating Geralt deeper. A hiss of breath and Geralt froze. Jaskier knew he was fighting down the wave of pleasure threatening to end him.
After a little bit, Geralt moved gingerly again, thrusting in and out with patience, and Jaskier pushing back with increasing wantonness. There was another moment of flaring pain as Geralt’s dick plumbed the depths of his bowels deeper that his body would like, but Jaskier bit back his instincts to shy away from the intruder, and instead pushed through it, albeit slowly.
“Jas’.” The word had the bard shaking from his reverie. “I’m close now.” The long pause told Jaskier everything. “Take your pleasure wolf, I won’t break.” With quick snaps of his hips, Geralt plundered Jaskier’s over and over, before grunting just a little then freezing as his balls emptied into the other man’s guts. He was never going to be able to smell a pine tree again, Jaskier whined piteously in his head, without getting an entirely inappropriate erection.
The witcher withdrew his still half-hard dick, then flopped onto the bed. “You didn’t come,” Geralt noted, perilously close to a whine. Jaskier grinned from where he lay next to Geralt. “Well, despite what some think, actually stimulating a prostate successfully is fairly difficult during coitus. And while I like a bit of pain, that sort can set me back a smidge, not complaining mind you, but yes, I am still nursing a bit of an erection here.” Lazily he stroked the offending appendage, and Geralt glared at it as he might a forktail. Apparently it was too much an affront to his love-making skills, and he knocked away Jaskier’s lazy stroke. Reaching between Jaskier’s thighs back to where oil and spend were seeping out of his warm, slightly dilated entrance, Geralt wiggled in two fingers, twirling them gently and gathering oil on them. The feeling had Jaskier gasping and writhing, then those clever hands and attached fingers were stroking the length of him, pressing as his perineum, stroking his balls, returning to his perineum then worrying the edge of his fluttering entrance. The next few strokes pushed Jaskier over the cliff, and he spurted cum over his tense abdomen.
Willing his eyes open, he was rewarded with the sight of a feral hungry Geralt eyeing that darn pudge as his waist, now decorated with semen like icing on a noble’s wedding cake. “Have at it,” Jaskier said, waving his hand in a lazy wave at his stomach. And it was a very contented witcher indeed who got to lick his bounty off the well provided-for bard.
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