Jaskier is noisy in every aspect of life and sex isn't the exception - his lovers deserve to know how good they make him feel, his pleasure deserves to be expressed. He doesn't expect Geralt to return the favor, knowing the witcher too well... or maybe not, because Geralt adds quite a few noises of his own and Jaskier's ears fucking tingle, his whole body shivering when his name is said just right.
He swears to the gods he could come just from it - one day, he thinks. One day, when he's learned Geralt's likes and tells in bed like he knows his own, he'll ask the witcher to guide him through his orgasm with just his deep, sexy voice. And it shall be marvelous.
His hands are marvelous as well, something Jaskier has know for a while merely through observation but is pleased to relearn in practice. They're big, thick and strong, just like the rest of Geralt, yet they are kind when they stroke his dick, making Jaskier bite his neck a little harder than he intended. He licks the bite mark as apology as his hips continue to thrust into Geralt's fingers, moaning more for him and relishing the fact the White Wolf himself is touching him like this, gently, softly, controlling the strength that can decapitate enemies just for him.
Nobody makes him feel as seen as Geralt, which is an irony, because the man used to make him feels as ignored as well. Ah, Destiny, you crazy bitch.
The grunt calls his attention, recognizing it as not a very comfortable one - years of learning to speak Geraltese do that to you. Jaskier pauses he ministrations instantly: hands stop groping to rest tenderly on Geralt's chest instead, his head is pulled back (cheeks flushed, lips red and glistening with saliva, hair tousled and pupils wide with arousal) to look at his witcher with worry. Did he do something wrong? The question dies in his lips, however, when Geralt speaks up, once again being a romantic bastard without even meaning to.
I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire. Fuck if that doesn't deserve to be a line in a poem!
"I'm not in the habit of making my lover waaa-AAH, FUCK." The cupping of his balls makes Jaskier go his loudest so far, and the rolling of his hips becomes more frantic, his cock twitching at the loss of contact. He slows down a bit, however, at the question. His record is six, and he remembers that night fondly, however...
He isn't eighteen anymore.
It isn't just one, at least, that he knows well, and he hopes his dick won't fail him tonight- it simply can't, he thinks, not when they're finally fucking the person that has kept it up the most. If someone could help him have orgasms as if he was young again, that's definitely Geralt.
(One day he won't be able to do this anymore, and Geralt will need whores again. Jaskier won't stop him from leaving then.)
"A-a few. It depends." He starts kissing Geralt's shoulders as he speaks. "But I told you before, didn't I? I like foreplay. I like touching you. I don't mind waiting for you."
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He swears to the gods he could come just from it - one day, he thinks. One day, when he's learned Geralt's likes and tells in bed like he knows his own, he'll ask the witcher to guide him through his orgasm with just his deep, sexy voice. And it shall be marvelous.
His hands are marvelous as well, something Jaskier has know for a while merely through observation but is pleased to relearn in practice. They're big, thick and strong, just like the rest of Geralt, yet they are kind when they stroke his dick, making Jaskier bite his neck a little harder than he intended. He licks the bite mark as apology as his hips continue to thrust into Geralt's fingers, moaning more for him and relishing the fact the White Wolf himself is touching him like this, gently, softly, controlling the strength that can decapitate enemies just for him.
Nobody makes him feel as seen as Geralt, which is an irony, because the man used to make him feels as ignored as well. Ah, Destiny, you crazy bitch.
The grunt calls his attention, recognizing it as not a very comfortable one - years of learning to speak Geraltese do that to you. Jaskier pauses he ministrations instantly: hands stop groping to rest tenderly on Geralt's chest instead, his head is pulled back (cheeks flushed, lips red and glistening with saliva, hair tousled and pupils wide with arousal) to look at his witcher with worry. Did he do something wrong? The question dies in his lips, however, when Geralt speaks up, once again being a romantic bastard without even meaning to.
I don't see any reason to be disappointed by your desire. Fuck if that doesn't deserve to be a line in a poem!
"I'm not in the habit of making my lover waaa-AAH, FUCK." The cupping of his balls makes Jaskier go his loudest so far, and the rolling of his hips becomes more frantic, his cock twitching at the loss of contact. He slows down a bit, however, at the question. His record is six, and he remembers that night fondly, however...
He isn't eighteen anymore.
It isn't just one, at least, that he knows well, and he hopes his dick won't fail him tonight- it simply can't, he thinks, not when they're finally fucking the person that has kept it up the most. If someone could help him have orgasms as if he was young again, that's definitely Geralt.
(One day he won't be able to do this anymore, and Geralt will need whores again. Jaskier won't stop him from leaving then.)
"A-a few. It depends." He starts kissing Geralt's shoulders as he speaks. "But I told you before, didn't I? I like foreplay. I like touching you. I don't mind waiting for you."