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.
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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."