Jaskier laughs during sex, or, at least, he laughs when Geralt pushes him onto his back. It's a bright and delighted sound, and Geralt hasn't slept with anyone before who would do that in the middle of fucking him. It's... different, but the sound's one of pleasure so there's no reason not to like it.
The bard's arms are draped around his shoulders and his legs are hitched around his waist, heels pressing into Geralt's back just above his kidneys. He squeezes them tight around his solid sides whenever he rolls his hips, digs those heels in to the muscles in Geralt's lower back like he's spurring on a horse. He grunts at the pressure but doesn't make any move to readjust him, and at his command-- fuck me, you gorgeous thing-- braces both hands against the mattress and fulfills his desires.
He fucks into Jaskier with as much strength as he'd dare to use, chasing after an orgasm that's finally starting to loom on the horizon. Jaskier can't be far off from his own, either-- when Geralt looks down at him, he's a glorious wreck. His hair is mussed from being tossed against the furs, sticking to his forehead in graceless clumps; his skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, pupils dilated in those true blue eyes. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and Geralt has the strange, irrational urge to kiss them when he does. He's a beautiful creature, more so than even the carefully curated beauty of sorceresses, and Geralt--
Geralt buries his face into the bard's neck, breathing in the scent of lust and pleasure and that sweet, unknown thing, and along with each heady, intoxicating breath of that mixture, there's him. Geralt's scent mixed in with Jaskier's own, pressed into his skin in a manner that no witcher in this keep would mistake. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he groans against the soft skin of Jaskier's throat. Just like that he finds himself close, his hips stuttering as he starts to lose his rhythm.
He wraps an arm underneath Jaskier and around to his shoulder, holding him in place as his hips pump harder and faster, keeping him from being pushed up the bed with every heavy thrust. His other hand buries itself into the bedding and holds on, and Jaskier is so hot and tight and perfect around him, and Geralt murmurs some nonsense into his ear about how good he is, punctuated with curses. He's too drunk on the pleasure of it to keep track of what his mouth is saying, anyway, too preoccupied with chasing down his finish.
"Jask--"
His name comes out on a groan and the tension in Geralt's guts finally breaks. The nerve-searing pleasure of it is almost a relief after the long build up, and his hips twitch, prick fully sheathed in Jaskier's body, as he spills inside him. It feels like it goes on for ages, makes even Geralt's strong body tremble from the force of it. He doesn't even bother pulling out once he's spent, just slowly collapses down onto Jaskier; exhausted, sweat-soaked, and more sated than he ever remembers being.
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The bard's arms are draped around his shoulders and his legs are hitched around his waist, heels pressing into Geralt's back just above his kidneys. He squeezes them tight around his solid sides whenever he rolls his hips, digs those heels in to the muscles in Geralt's lower back like he's spurring on a horse. He grunts at the pressure but doesn't make any move to readjust him, and at his command-- fuck me, you gorgeous thing-- braces both hands against the mattress and fulfills his desires.
He fucks into Jaskier with as much strength as he'd dare to use, chasing after an orgasm that's finally starting to loom on the horizon. Jaskier can't be far off from his own, either-- when Geralt looks down at him, he's a glorious wreck. His hair is mussed from being tossed against the furs, sticking to his forehead in graceless clumps; his skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, pupils dilated in those true blue eyes. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs and Geralt has the strange, irrational urge to kiss them when he does. He's a beautiful creature, more so than even the carefully curated beauty of sorceresses, and Geralt--
Geralt buries his face into the bard's neck, breathing in the scent of lust and pleasure and that sweet, unknown thing, and along with each heady, intoxicating breath of that mixture, there's him. Geralt's scent mixed in with Jaskier's own, pressed into his skin in a manner that no witcher in this keep would mistake. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he groans against the soft skin of Jaskier's throat. Just like that he finds himself close, his hips stuttering as he starts to lose his rhythm.
He wraps an arm underneath Jaskier and around to his shoulder, holding him in place as his hips pump harder and faster, keeping him from being pushed up the bed with every heavy thrust. His other hand buries itself into the bedding and holds on, and Jaskier is so hot and tight and perfect around him, and Geralt murmurs some nonsense into his ear about how good he is, punctuated with curses. He's too drunk on the pleasure of it to keep track of what his mouth is saying, anyway, too preoccupied with chasing down his finish.
"Jask--"
His name comes out on a groan and the tension in Geralt's guts finally breaks. The nerve-searing pleasure of it is almost a relief after the long build up, and his hips twitch, prick fully sheathed in Jaskier's body, as he spills inside him. It feels like it goes on for ages, makes even Geralt's strong body tremble from the force of it. He doesn't even bother pulling out once he's spent, just slowly collapses down onto Jaskier; exhausted, sweat-soaked, and more sated than he ever remembers being.