Jaskier trembles in his arms and smells like lust and his fingers tangle in Geralt's long hair, yanking on it hard enough that his head tilts back a little. The sting of it pulls a noise from his throat that, had this been any other situation, would've been intensely embarrassing-- a needy, wanting sound. But Geralt isn't the only one here who's weak and wanting, Jaskier makes the same kind of pitiful noise when Geralt calls him good. His scent even shifts with it, goes somehow headier and happier as though he'd stumbled on some hidden pleasure.
A need for praise? Well, Jaskier had always thrived on attention, on the approval of an audience. Perhaps he's no different in the bedroom, and of course he values words above all-- something that is not exactly Geralt's forte. It's something to consider later and integrate into his tactics for pleasuring his bard.
The bard starts moving then, slowly lifting himself up so that the drag of his insides over Geralt's cock is as tight and sweet and maddening as possible. He rises up as high as he can without letting the witcher slip out of him entirely, keeping just the head inside of him-- Geralt curses against his mouth, an inadequate answer to the question that he asked. It's hard to remember something like language when the bard clamps down on his cock like a vice, though.
Then he drives back down, spearing himself on Geralt's prick and the only reason that Geralt doesn't hear the noises that come out of his own mouth is because Jaskier shouts even louder. His hands grip Geralt's shoulders as he uses them for leverage, a solid surface to pull on while he rides him like a prize stallion. Fucks himself on his witcher with a rhythm so steady that he could sing a tune to it, if he had the breath for it. Geralt can feel the muscles moving in his legs with each bounce, the strength in his thighs, and he's discovering that he likes the strength that Jaskier hides under his pretty silks, like a secret. And all the while, he's pinning Geralt with those cornflower blue eyes, and the intensity of his stare should make him uncomfortable. No one meets a witcher's eyes for very long.
But Jaskier's always been different, hasn't he?
Tell me.
"Jask," he groans, bringing his hands forward to grab onto the bard's hips. On one of Jaskier's downstrokes, he thrusts up to meet him, sheathing himself in slick heat with the slap of flesh on flesh; pleasure sears his nerves and he does it again, and again. Being balls-deep in his bard is the best fucking feeling that he's had since he started walking this godsforsaken Continent, and now that he's had a taste of it, how could he give it up? How could he go back to the impersonal attentions of a whore when he'd felt Jaskier's loving touch, felt his nails digging into his back like a benediction that he'd never be worthy of?
"You're fucking tight," he says, the first thing that comes to his mind; he's unaccustomed to being asked to narrate while he's fucking. And it is, currently, the foremost thing that he's thinking of-- how fucking tight Jaskier is around him, like he's been made just to take Geralt's cock. He takes it beautifully, too, and keeps coming back for more, and gods they could've been doing this for ten years or more if Geralt hadn't been an idiot.
He keeps fucking into Jaskier sure and steady, hands gripping his hips and letting the bard set the pace. He has a tenuous grasp on restraint-- just enough to keep his fingers from bruising, to keep himself from driving too hard into his willing body. Minding his teeth at Jaskier's throat, where the skin is so thin and delicate. Enough to ease the pace down when the bard starts to get too wound up, though the reasons for that are purely selfish; Geralt is still slow to finish, and if Jaskier brings himself to completion too soon, he'll have to pull out of him to chase his own orgasm. And while he could do that and still find satisfaction, he wants to spill inside his bard, to paint his insides so well that it marks him for days. So he needs the bard to last with him for a while, to stave off his own satisfaction so that it'll be better in the end. And Jaskier is a giving man that way, isn't he? A generous lover, even to witchers.
"Easy, easy," the feverish rush of his heart and the honeyed sweetness of his scent are biological tells about his impeding orgasm; Geralt gentles him as he slows them. He noses back to the space behind Jaskier's ear, where his scent is strong, and there's... something in it that he doesn't immediately recognize but has smelled on the bard before. He just has no frame of reference for what it means, other than that it's good. Maybe it's just part of his orgasm-scent, some as-of-yet unnamed emotion that he feels in the heat of it.
no subject
A need for praise? Well, Jaskier had always thrived on attention, on the approval of an audience. Perhaps he's no different in the bedroom, and of course he values words above all-- something that is not exactly Geralt's forte. It's something to consider later and integrate into his tactics for pleasuring his bard.
The bard starts moving then, slowly lifting himself up so that the drag of his insides over Geralt's cock is as tight and sweet and maddening as possible. He rises up as high as he can without letting the witcher slip out of him entirely, keeping just the head inside of him-- Geralt curses against his mouth, an inadequate answer to the question that he asked. It's hard to remember something like language when the bard clamps down on his cock like a vice, though.
Then he drives back down, spearing himself on Geralt's prick and the only reason that Geralt doesn't hear the noises that come out of his own mouth is because Jaskier shouts even louder. His hands grip Geralt's shoulders as he uses them for leverage, a solid surface to pull on while he rides him like a prize stallion. Fucks himself on his witcher with a rhythm so steady that he could sing a tune to it, if he had the breath for it. Geralt can feel the muscles moving in his legs with each bounce, the strength in his thighs, and he's discovering that he likes the strength that Jaskier hides under his pretty silks, like a secret. And all the while, he's pinning Geralt with those cornflower blue eyes, and the intensity of his stare should make him uncomfortable. No one meets a witcher's eyes for very long.
But Jaskier's always been different, hasn't he?
Tell me.
"Jask," he groans, bringing his hands forward to grab onto the bard's hips. On one of Jaskier's downstrokes, he thrusts up to meet him, sheathing himself in slick heat with the slap of flesh on flesh; pleasure sears his nerves and he does it again, and again. Being balls-deep in his bard is the best fucking feeling that he's had since he started walking this godsforsaken Continent, and now that he's had a taste of it, how could he give it up? How could he go back to the impersonal attentions of a whore when he'd felt Jaskier's loving touch, felt his nails digging into his back like a benediction that he'd never be worthy of?
"You're fucking tight," he says, the first thing that comes to his mind; he's unaccustomed to being asked to narrate while he's fucking. And it is, currently, the foremost thing that he's thinking of-- how fucking tight Jaskier is around him, like he's been made just to take Geralt's cock. He takes it beautifully, too, and keeps coming back for more, and gods they could've been doing this for ten years or more if Geralt hadn't been an idiot.
He keeps fucking into Jaskier sure and steady, hands gripping his hips and letting the bard set the pace. He has a tenuous grasp on restraint-- just enough to keep his fingers from bruising, to keep himself from driving too hard into his willing body. Minding his teeth at Jaskier's throat, where the skin is so thin and delicate. Enough to ease the pace down when the bard starts to get too wound up, though the reasons for that are purely selfish; Geralt is still slow to finish, and if Jaskier brings himself to completion too soon, he'll have to pull out of him to chase his own orgasm. And while he could do that and still find satisfaction, he wants to spill inside his bard, to paint his insides so well that it marks him for days. So he needs the bard to last with him for a while, to stave off his own satisfaction so that it'll be better in the end. And Jaskier is a giving man that way, isn't he? A generous lover, even to witchers.
"Easy, easy," the feverish rush of his heart and the honeyed sweetness of his scent are biological tells about his impeding orgasm; Geralt gentles him as he slows them. He noses back to the space behind Jaskier's ear, where his scent is strong, and there's... something in it that he doesn't immediately recognize but has smelled on the bard before. He just has no frame of reference for what it means, other than that it's good. Maybe it's just part of his orgasm-scent, some as-of-yet unnamed emotion that he feels in the heat of it.
"Not yet."