Look we all know Jaskier is basically the same size as Geralt, and very much made of muscle. He'd have to be because Geralt gets hurt more times than Jaskier is pleased or comfortable with, and well someone has to pick Geralt up off the ground and carry him to Roach/Camp/Town.
Geralt knows this of course, he just forgets because Jaskier tailors his clothes to hide the muscle.
But... but his brothers don't know.
Geralt takes extreme pleasure in watching a very reluctant Jaskier tossing Lambert with barely any effort...
Geralt expected a lot of things when he reunited with his bard.
He expected tears, or anger, or any amount of yelling. Perhaps Jaskier wouldn’t even give him the time of day; would just turn around the instant he laid eyes on him and walk away.
In the end, he’s still surprised.
One moment he is looking into blue, blue eyes, and the next he is staring up at the blue, blue sky.
A sharp sting erupts in his jaw.
Geralt crumpled to the ground and gazed up at his bard in shock and awe; Jaskier’s fist is a bright angry red, but not broken like it ought to have been. By the gods, his bard had a strong right hook. Geralt lost his breath as Jaskier’s blue eyes narrowed, and the bard sneered at the witcher.
How would you feel about a uh *ahem* "date cut short" ficlet for that photographer/journalist au you hit us with earlier today?
This just went straight horny. We didn’t even make it to the date.
tw: horny
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Jaskier grips the backs of Geralt’s thighs firmly and lifts, hauling the slightly taller man up and slamming his back against the wall for added support. Geralt’s arms go around his shoulders on instinct and Jaskier hikes his boyfriend up even higher. Geralt can’t tell if it’s a show of strength or just for ease of movement, but it’s sexy as hell either way. He is a large man; it’s not often that someone else is doing the grand romantic gestures like this.
Apparently Jaskier has found the perfect height to nose against his neck. To nibble little pink love-marks along the edge of his collarbone and along the top of both shoulders. The journalist takes his time to suck, bite, and lick a dark purple hickey into the pale column of Geralt’s long and lovely throat. The photographer is a moaning, desperate mess in about forty-five seconds and Jaskier is rather proud of himself.
“You’re so fucking hot, you know that?” the journalist pants. “How the fuck am I supposed to get you all the way to a restaurant when you come out of your room looking like this.”
“I didn’t know skinny jeans and v-necks were such a lethal combo, babe.”
“They are for me. They are when you put your hair in that ridiculously complicated braided topknot and line your pretty golden eyes like that. Fuck, Geralt,” he groans, hefting the photographer even higher to bite at whatever bits of his chest are exposed by the shirt’s low neckline. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Wanna take the jeans off?”
“Yeah.”
Geralt thinks Jaskier is going to set him down but the journalist has no such intentions. He turns away from the wall, adjusts Geralt in his arms, and beats a quick path towards his boyfriend’s full-sized mattress.
