Jaskier is in heaven right now - not only because he's getting deliciously fucked by the man he's been fantasizing about and loving since he was 18, but also because said man is surrounding him. The outside world is forgotten, out of sight and reach - he's in a cage of mighty muscle, warmth, sweat and raw power, and he loves it. There isn't a more erotic sight than this beast of a man fucking into him, allowing his walls to go down at least for a few hours to share this with Jaskier (with him, with him, with only him), making him feel the center of the universe...
Making him feel precious.
The most delightful of ironies, that is. Because Geralt is fucking him with quite an amount of strength, and that's another detail that is making this fuck simply amazing: to be on the receiving end of Geralt's prowess. Yet at the same time, it speaks of Geralt's care and gentleness. Because Jaskier knows how far witcher strength can go, and he can tell how hard Geralt is trying in order not to hurt him, even when control is hard to keep with a mind high with pleasure. Precious and important indeed.
Every thrust is met with raising and bucking hips, ankles and nails digging on scarred skin deeper and deeper as Jaskier also chases his own orgasm. His head is thrown back to moan and mumble nonsense (fuck yes, gods, right there, harder, more, Geralt) but also to offer his neck, because the witcher being intoxicated by his very natural scent is an intoxicating feeling in itself. Geralt's starting to lose his rhythm, and Jaskier guesses he must be close, yet he doesn't move his hands to touch himself. He doesn't need it, he realizes, he's on fucking fire and he's going to burn on the witcher's incredible dick and his abs brushing against his cock.
He decides to bury a hand on Geralt's hair instead, pushing him close and making him sure to keep him right where he is, with his nose on his neck and those lovely words on his ear. And holy crap, those words! That's what he's been wanted since he's asked for praise! Having Mr Blessed Silence telling him all these things is the final push Jaskier needs, and he finally lets go when his lover says his name in the sweetest song and spills inside him.
"Yesyesyesyes fill me, fuck, Geralt-"
His whole body arches once more as he comes all over their stomachs, head fully thrown back as he sees the stars. His toes curl and his legs shake, barely being able to stay around Geralt, the moan that leaves his lips echoing in the darkness of the keep without a care over being heard. Because this is one fucking good orgasm and it deserves to be celebrated, to be written and sung about. Jaskier doesn't want it to end, he wants to stop time right here and experience this wave of pleasure for hours, a kind of pleasure that he has never felt - it's never felt this deep, this intimate. It leaves him breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
A cute little oof escapes him when Geralt lands on top of him, but he isn't complaining. Smiling from ear to ear, smelling of satisfaction and happiness and- well, jizz, Jaskier lets his trembling legs fall on the furs, but leaves his arms around Geralt's back. They're less clingy now, more of a lazy kind of draping, yet one hand still gently rubs the witcher's wide back as his nose nuzzles his lover's neck.
"...the airborne vibes of euphoria." He mumbles, the words of an old poem coming to his mind as the perfect description of this magnificent moment: euphoria. A kiss for Geralt's neck comes next. "I love you."
His scent celebrates those words, and never has his heart and soul felt so light.
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Making him feel precious.
The most delightful of ironies, that is. Because Geralt is fucking him with quite an amount of strength, and that's another detail that is making this fuck simply amazing: to be on the receiving end of Geralt's prowess. Yet at the same time, it speaks of Geralt's care and gentleness. Because Jaskier knows how far witcher strength can go, and he can tell how hard Geralt is trying in order not to hurt him, even when control is hard to keep with a mind high with pleasure. Precious and important indeed.
Every thrust is met with raising and bucking hips, ankles and nails digging on scarred skin deeper and deeper as Jaskier also chases his own orgasm. His head is thrown back to moan and mumble nonsense (fuck yes, gods, right there, harder, more, Geralt) but also to offer his neck, because the witcher being intoxicated by his very natural scent is an intoxicating feeling in itself. Geralt's starting to lose his rhythm, and Jaskier guesses he must be close, yet he doesn't move his hands to touch himself. He doesn't need it, he realizes, he's on fucking fire and he's going to burn on the witcher's incredible dick and his abs brushing against his cock.
He decides to bury a hand on Geralt's hair instead, pushing him close and making him sure to keep him right where he is, with his nose on his neck and those lovely words on his ear. And holy crap, those words! That's what he's been wanted since he's asked for praise! Having Mr Blessed Silence telling him all these things is the final push Jaskier needs, and he finally lets go when his lover says his name in the sweetest song and spills inside him.
"Yesyesyesyes fill me, fuck, Geralt-"
His whole body arches once more as he comes all over their stomachs, head fully thrown back as he sees the stars. His toes curl and his legs shake, barely being able to stay around Geralt, the moan that leaves his lips echoing in the darkness of the keep without a care over being heard. Because this is one fucking good orgasm and it deserves to be celebrated, to be written and sung about. Jaskier doesn't want it to end, he wants to stop time right here and experience this wave of pleasure for hours, a kind of pleasure that he has never felt - it's never felt this deep, this intimate. It leaves him breathless in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.
A cute little oof escapes him when Geralt lands on top of him, but he isn't complaining. Smiling from ear to ear, smelling of satisfaction and happiness and- well, jizz, Jaskier lets his trembling legs fall on the furs, but leaves his arms around Geralt's back. They're less clingy now, more of a lazy kind of draping, yet one hand still gently rubs the witcher's wide back as his nose nuzzles his lover's neck.
"...the airborne vibes of euphoria." He mumbles, the words of an old poem coming to his mind as the perfect description of this magnificent moment: euphoria. A kiss for Geralt's neck comes next. "I love you."
His scent celebrates those words, and never has his heart and soul felt so light.