Try, Please Try For Me

Proof Of Concept

"Your. Turn."

Jaskier can feel the powerful rumble of those words shake his whole body.

He's trembling with anticipation as the witcher pulls him into another bruising kiss, quite literally sweeping him off his feet in the process and throws him onto the bed.

Yes. Gods above, yes.

Jaskier lands with a bounce and scrambles to support himself on his elbows while Geralt blankets himself over top of him, water dripping off his form, soaking the front of his shirt even more. Calloused hands trail up his sides and the witcher growls, leaning down and practically devouring his mouth.

Droplets of water splash onto Jaskier's face, cold and startling against his warm skin. One of Geralt's hands palms him through his breeches and he gasps arching into the touch.

"Geralt-- Geralt wait."

The witcher pulls back in an instant, pupils blown wide, a mixture of confusion and fear in his face. "I-- I thought you--"

Panic sets in Jaskier's chest. Oh shit, that came out wrong. "No, no, dear, I do--" he assures, hastily. "Just let me grab a towel. You're dripping wet and I'm not much better and I'd like to avoid sleeping in a puddle later if that's alright with you."

"Oh," Geralt climbs off of him, "yes, of course."

Jaskier quickly bounds across the room and snatches the towel from where it's folded neatly on the table, then returns to the bed, spreading it out over the sheets and flops back down overtop of it. "There," he says, stretching his arms out to Geralt and making a grabbing motion with his hands. "Now, I believe you were in the business of ravishing me."

Geralt grins, wolfish and predatory, and crawls back on top of him, resuming his task of claiming Jaskier's mouth. The bard pulls him closer, eager to let him take whatever he wishes.

Geralt is a fantastic kisser, and Jaskier has kissed many people, so he's well versed in determining skill. It's almost unfair that he can be so good at what he does. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to get enough of the other man.

"Hng, fuck," he breathes once Geralt breaks the kiss for some much needed air. "How are you so good at that?"

The witcher laughs and buries his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck, inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of arousal, lime, and honey. "Years of practice," he rumbles, tongue darting out to taste Jaskier's skin. The bard tilts his head back, giving him all the real estate he wants and Geralt hums, pressing open mouthed kisses.

He takes his time now, and Jaskier's senses are consumed by Geralt. Geralt kissing him, his rough hands gliding over his body in soft touches, his knee hiking up to settle between Jaskier's legs, teasing him with subtle pressure where he needs it most. The scent of soap and chamomile is heavy in the air. Geralt unbuttons his shirt, splays a hand across his chest, and the other travels down, down, until it's palming at his erection once again.

Jaskier moans breathlessly, the sound muffled when Geralt kisses him again, sliding his tongue past the bard's lips.

"Geralt-- please."

"Don't worry, lark. You'll get what you need."

The hand slides beneath the waistband of his pants, under his small clothes-- and Jaskier can hardly control the cry he makes when Geralt finally takes him in hand. "So beautiful," Geralt whispers against his mouth. Hip lips ghost across Jaskier's jaw, to the base of his throat, just above the curve of his collar bone. "My sweet, songbird. So good to me."

Normally Jaskier would say something at the appearance of the new name, content to tease the witcher who can be disturbingly well spoken when he wants to, but the only sounds that come from him are unintelligible. He'll need to step up his word play, if he wants to beat Geralt in the competition of making each other blush from sweet nothings.