[In this moment, there isn't much that matters to Jaskier outside the cock his hands are on and the heavier breaths from the Witcher that tells him exactly how he's doing this. Which, as he knows, is exceptionally well.
(What a contrast to Yennefer, speaking of whoms. Yennefer, who treated him like a conquest, but of no consequence. Who dragged words out of him like pieces of a soul. Who used him, bruised and spent.
He doesn't know where he sits with her, even now. But here, he knows his place.)
Geralt's fingers press harder, and Jaskier swears he can feel the pressure pop underneath his skin. Marking him, bruising him, turning those pinpoints sore. Combined with the scrape of teeth, the moan that slips out is unintentional, and quite real.
There's nothing like being fucked by men who can kill you. Especially kill you without trying. It's -- it's like an added spice to a magnificent feast. An addictive sort of spice. Oh, no. It was a sure bet that next time he was alone, in bed or in their tub, and his fingers were tracing those bruises -- he knew where his mind would be.]
Fuck. [It slips out, almost whispered, as he tightens his grip in the next jerk of his hands. Jaskier knew he was good at estimating, but not this good. He'd pegged Geralt down immediately. Rough, but gentle. Where it counted.] Bit harder. Just a bit.
[He could bet Geralt was good at following requests, too.]
no subject
(What a contrast to Yennefer, speaking of whoms. Yennefer, who treated him like a conquest, but of no consequence. Who dragged words out of him like pieces of a soul. Who used him, bruised and spent.
He doesn't know where he sits with her, even now. But here, he knows his place.)
Geralt's fingers press harder, and Jaskier swears he can feel the pressure pop underneath his skin. Marking him, bruising him, turning those pinpoints sore. Combined with the scrape of teeth, the moan that slips out is unintentional, and quite real.
There's nothing like being fucked by men who can kill you. Especially kill you without trying. It's -- it's like an added spice to a magnificent feast. An addictive sort of spice. Oh, no. It was a sure bet that next time he was alone, in bed or in their tub, and his fingers were tracing those bruises -- he knew where his mind would be.]
Fuck. [It slips out, almost whispered, as he tightens his grip in the next jerk of his hands. Jaskier knew he was good at estimating, but not this good. He'd pegged Geralt down immediately. Rough, but gentle. Where it counted.] Bit harder. Just a bit.
[He could bet Geralt was good at following requests, too.]