Jaskier slows, calms his breakneck pace and drops back down on Geralt's cock, rolls his hips like he's sitting a canter. Gives his poor legs a break, too, while Geralt is distracted with his neck. It's hard not to be distracted by it, not when his scent is so goddamn sweet and his skin tastes almost as good as he smells, when his teeth itch with the urge to bite down. He forces that desire down and stays gentle; a dog that's learned to have a soft mouth.
Geralt makes a noise against his throat when Jaskier encourages him to bite, part discontent and part longing-- the bard is a bad influence on his self-control. As much as the idea of getting his teeth into Jaskier's neck-- leaving an unmistakable mark on his skin, something that will last even after the pretty bruises have faded-- appeals, his body is already littered with scars that are the result of Geralt's negligence. How could he even consider putting more on him? And for such a selfish reason as satisfying his own desires?
I don't mind a little biting.
He'd mind when he had fangs in his muscle. Geralt's teeth have grown out too much now to even consider biting him. He had been too busy in the past few months with Ciri and Jaskier's safety to have time to keep up with filing them down, a tedious and uncomfortable task. It had only ever been for appearance's sake, anyway, to remove an obvious strangeness that made humans nervous. Not a necessity. But if Jaskier is going to insist that he set his teeth to him, it may become one.
"Later," he rasps, distracted by Jaskier's wandering hands and the desire in his voice. It's hard to deny him when he asks like that, with his voice all sweet and lusty, and if Geralt had been a man of less self-control, he might have just given him whatever he wanted. But-- later, once he'd had time to find his iron file and grind his teeth down into the same blunt shape as a human's. Then he could do as Jaskier asks and have some confidence that he wouldn't do any more harm than a normal lovebite.
The way Jaskier moves over him then, the slow, almost languid rise and fall of his hips, is too gentle and indulgent to really be fucking-- it's something that Geralt's mind doesn't want to touch, words that he doesn't want to say. It makes him ache anyway, his hands gripping onto Jaskier's hips and guiding them in their movements, the wet sound of their coupling filthy and so, so good. He shifts his hips to make the angle sweeter and he can feel the bard's cock twitch against his stomach as he does. He groans, mouth pressed to Jaskier's hairy chest, at the spurt of pre-cum that leaks out of the bard's prick and drips slick and warm down his abs.
They keep that pace, letting the heat and pleasure build until Geralt is panting and sweat-soaked despite the winter chill and Jaskier's legs can no longer bear the exertion. Geralt is closer to his orgasm than he usually can ever get while still being inside someone; Jaskier has tolerated his overly-long attentions admirably, borne the delay as though it hadn't been a hardship at all. The witcher has mercy on him, pulls him off of his cock and hisses at the feeling of cool air hitting his prick after it's been encased in tight heat for so long, then pushes the bard down to the mattress on his back. He doesn't leave Jaskier bereft for more than a few moments, crawling back on top of him once he's settled and distracting him with a kiss while one hand gropes for the bottle of oil. More oil for his prick and he pushes in again, fills him back up with cock and it's so easy this time-- no resistance, just a nerve-searing slide into the depths of him.
He groans the bard's name. His hair has long since worked its way out of whatever tie it had been kept in, falling around their faces in a messy white curtain. Jaskier's eyes are the bluest thing he's ever seen when he lifts his gaze to look at them.
"A little more," he says, reassuring him that there will be an end to this as he hitches Jaskier's legs up onto his waist, then snaps his hips in and sets the pace.
no subject
Geralt makes a noise against his throat when Jaskier encourages him to bite, part discontent and part longing-- the bard is a bad influence on his self-control. As much as the idea of getting his teeth into Jaskier's neck-- leaving an unmistakable mark on his skin, something that will last even after the pretty bruises have faded-- appeals, his body is already littered with scars that are the result of Geralt's negligence. How could he even consider putting more on him? And for such a selfish reason as satisfying his own desires?
I don't mind a little biting.
He'd mind when he had fangs in his muscle. Geralt's teeth have grown out too much now to even consider biting him. He had been too busy in the past few months with Ciri and Jaskier's safety to have time to keep up with filing them down, a tedious and uncomfortable task. It had only ever been for appearance's sake, anyway, to remove an obvious strangeness that made humans nervous. Not a necessity. But if Jaskier is going to insist that he set his teeth to him, it may become one.
"Later," he rasps, distracted by Jaskier's wandering hands and the desire in his voice. It's hard to deny him when he asks like that, with his voice all sweet and lusty, and if Geralt had been a man of less self-control, he might have just given him whatever he wanted. But-- later, once he'd had time to find his iron file and grind his teeth down into the same blunt shape as a human's. Then he could do as Jaskier asks and have some confidence that he wouldn't do any more harm than a normal lovebite.
The way Jaskier moves over him then, the slow, almost languid rise and fall of his hips, is too gentle and indulgent to really be fucking-- it's something that Geralt's mind doesn't want to touch, words that he doesn't want to say. It makes him ache anyway, his hands gripping onto Jaskier's hips and guiding them in their movements, the wet sound of their coupling filthy and so, so good. He shifts his hips to make the angle sweeter and he can feel the bard's cock twitch against his stomach as he does. He groans, mouth pressed to Jaskier's hairy chest, at the spurt of pre-cum that leaks out of the bard's prick and drips slick and warm down his abs.
They keep that pace, letting the heat and pleasure build until Geralt is panting and sweat-soaked despite the winter chill and Jaskier's legs can no longer bear the exertion. Geralt is closer to his orgasm than he usually can ever get while still being inside someone; Jaskier has tolerated his overly-long attentions admirably, borne the delay as though it hadn't been a hardship at all. The witcher has mercy on him, pulls him off of his cock and hisses at the feeling of cool air hitting his prick after it's been encased in tight heat for so long, then pushes the bard down to the mattress on his back. He doesn't leave Jaskier bereft for more than a few moments, crawling back on top of him once he's settled and distracting him with a kiss while one hand gropes for the bottle of oil. More oil for his prick and he pushes in again, fills him back up with cock and it's so easy this time-- no resistance, just a nerve-searing slide into the depths of him.
He groans the bard's name. His hair has long since worked its way out of whatever tie it had been kept in, falling around their faces in a messy white curtain. Jaskier's eyes are the bluest thing he's ever seen when he lifts his gaze to look at them.
"A little more," he says, reassuring him that there will be an end to this as he hitches Jaskier's legs up onto his waist, then snaps his hips in and sets the pace.