The bard has long, clever fingers, and they push into Geralt's hair and tangle up in the strands of it and tug, tipping his head back a little from the pull. It stings a little and Geralt makes a noise that he wouldn't have thought that his throat could make, something pitched high that he would refuse to call a whine. It's... good. He likes it. Jaskier could pull his head whichever way pleased him, had control of it, and Geralt likes it.
That is an... interesting discovery. Something for him to examine later, when he doesn't have his mouth full of cock and his dick twitching whenever Jaskier tugs on his hair.
With the encouragement from Geralt's hands, Jaskier fucks harder into his mouth, picking up the pace and taking his pleasure. There is an appealing roughness that comes to his voice when he's getting his cock wet just right, his vocabulary narrowing to little more than curses and Geralt's name. This feels like an accomplishment, making the normally verbose bard lose his words, one that's worth the times when his cock goes a little too deep, a little too hard and makes his throat spasm and his eyes narrow with the effort of ignoring the urge to gag. It's worth it for the arch of Jaskier's body above him and the fluid movement of his hips, the flush that colors him from face to chest. He looks blissful and Geralt feels a brief thrum of pride for making him so, in the same way that he'd feel pride in a good hunt. A job well done.
Almost done, anyway. Close, he says. There's still more work for him to do.
Geralt runs his hands over Jaskier's quivering thighs, over his pistoning hips, his warm sides. Up to his chest, surging with his heavy breaths, coarse hair rough on Geralt's calloused palms; up to his nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Is it odd, to be fond of a man's chest? Perhaps not, since Jaskier has expressed as such for Geralt's, but Geralt also doesn't have a pelt that you could easily turn into a rug. Nor did he expect that he would find such a thing attractive, but he takes a certain pleasure in running his nails lightly over his chest and feeling the scratch of it. For all his foppishness, Jaskier is undeniably masculine underneath his frivolous clothes, soft-skinned but broad-shouldered and lean muscled. His weight indents the mattress on either side of Geralt's chest, and it's not an inconsiderable mass.
Jaskier's thrusts become more erratic the closer he gets to the edge, and that is another thing that Geralt discovers that he enjoys-- being able to throw the bard off of his rhythm. It doesn't take long-- the whole thing doesn't take long, really, Jaskier was quite wound up-- before his thrusts stutter to a stop and he grips Geralt's head like a lifeline, holding it steady as his cock pulses. Geralt is faced with two choices, either swallow or choke, and he chooses the former even though the taste is unpleasantly bitter. It's far more appealing to watch Jaskier in the throes of his orgasm, his body shuddering in pleasure and his face sweet, as loud as ever even in ecstasy. If any of the other witchers are anywhere near his room, they'd surely be able to hear Jaskier's professionally-trained voice soaring and know exactly what it means.
His hands drop down to Jaskier's sides, patting his flank like he's praising a horse who's just been ridden hard. With the bard's hands still gripping his hair, he just leaves his cock where it is, kept warm in his mouth even as it begins to soften. That's fine-- he is content to lay here and watch Jaskier come down from his high and listen to his heart slow from its feverish pace. He smells like pleasure and satisfaction, and the scent of his orgasm might just be the best damn thing that Geralt's ever had in his nose. If he hadn't already been hard from watching, the smell of him alone might have gotten him there.
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That is an... interesting discovery. Something for him to examine later, when he doesn't have his mouth full of cock and his dick twitching whenever Jaskier tugs on his hair.
With the encouragement from Geralt's hands, Jaskier fucks harder into his mouth, picking up the pace and taking his pleasure. There is an appealing roughness that comes to his voice when he's getting his cock wet just right, his vocabulary narrowing to little more than curses and Geralt's name. This feels like an accomplishment, making the normally verbose bard lose his words, one that's worth the times when his cock goes a little too deep, a little too hard and makes his throat spasm and his eyes narrow with the effort of ignoring the urge to gag. It's worth it for the arch of Jaskier's body above him and the fluid movement of his hips, the flush that colors him from face to chest. He looks blissful and Geralt feels a brief thrum of pride for making him so, in the same way that he'd feel pride in a good hunt. A job well done.
Almost done, anyway. Close, he says. There's still more work for him to do.
Geralt runs his hands over Jaskier's quivering thighs, over his pistoning hips, his warm sides. Up to his chest, surging with his heavy breaths, coarse hair rough on Geralt's calloused palms; up to his nipples, pinching and rolling them between his fingers. Is it odd, to be fond of a man's chest? Perhaps not, since Jaskier has expressed as such for Geralt's, but Geralt also doesn't have a pelt that you could easily turn into a rug. Nor did he expect that he would find such a thing attractive, but he takes a certain pleasure in running his nails lightly over his chest and feeling the scratch of it. For all his foppishness, Jaskier is undeniably masculine underneath his frivolous clothes, soft-skinned but broad-shouldered and lean muscled. His weight indents the mattress on either side of Geralt's chest, and it's not an inconsiderable mass.
Jaskier's thrusts become more erratic the closer he gets to the edge, and that is another thing that Geralt discovers that he enjoys-- being able to throw the bard off of his rhythm. It doesn't take long-- the whole thing doesn't take long, really, Jaskier was quite wound up-- before his thrusts stutter to a stop and he grips Geralt's head like a lifeline, holding it steady as his cock pulses. Geralt is faced with two choices, either swallow or choke, and he chooses the former even though the taste is unpleasantly bitter. It's far more appealing to watch Jaskier in the throes of his orgasm, his body shuddering in pleasure and his face sweet, as loud as ever even in ecstasy. If any of the other witchers are anywhere near his room, they'd surely be able to hear Jaskier's professionally-trained voice soaring and know exactly what it means.
His hands drop down to Jaskier's sides, patting his flank like he's praising a horse who's just been ridden hard. With the bard's hands still gripping his hair, he just leaves his cock where it is, kept warm in his mouth even as it begins to soften. That's fine-- he is content to lay here and watch Jaskier come down from his high and listen to his heart slow from its feverish pace. He smells like pleasure and satisfaction, and the scent of his orgasm might just be the best damn thing that Geralt's ever had in his nose. If he hadn't already been hard from watching, the smell of him alone might have gotten him there.