Geralt's fingers pushed into linens, creasing them under his palms as hips raised with a groan for Jaskier's mouth on him. He was happy enough to let go of the fighting and bickering and semantics and just-- do this. So his eyes were closed, chin tilted up to put his head back, to create a line of pressure down his spine. To let his balls draw up in time to the slow rhythm of his pulse they ached to. His thigh muscles twitched as his cock sank into softly resisting muscles--
A question spilled into the air and his eyes opened, staring at the low-beamed ceiling.
Jaskier was talking.
He was asking a fucking question while Geralt's cock sat hard and cooling in the room's air.
It was absolutely nothing to get a knee under Jaskier's stomach and jerk the man far enough forward that Geralt's arms could help follow through with the rest: the bard was tossed up onto the bed like a sack of grain in just a few quick, efficient uses of muscle. His face ended up down in a pillow, his arms locked high behind his back, and Geralt's knees pressed into the back of his, holding him down beyond any ability he might have other than death to get away. That Geralt's still-hard cock was pushed against Jaskier's ass seemed neither here nor there in that moment-- the insistent pressure was less present than the rough breath against the bard's ear.
"Why," Geralt growled, "do you need to know?" Each syllable rode the edge of danger. By all means, it implied with hissing sarcasm, let us continue this conversation.
no subject
A question spilled into the air and his eyes opened, staring at the low-beamed ceiling.
Jaskier was talking.
He was asking a fucking question while Geralt's cock sat hard and cooling in the room's air.
It was absolutely nothing to get a knee under Jaskier's stomach and jerk the man far enough forward that Geralt's arms could help follow through with the rest: the bard was tossed up onto the bed like a sack of grain in just a few quick, efficient uses of muscle. His face ended up down in a pillow, his arms locked high behind his back, and Geralt's knees pressed into the back of his, holding him down beyond any ability he might have other than death to get away. That Geralt's still-hard cock was pushed against Jaskier's ass seemed neither here nor there in that moment-- the insistent pressure was less present than the rough breath against the bard's ear.
"Why," Geralt growled, "do you need to know?" Each syllable rode the edge of danger. By all means, it implied with hissing sarcasm, let us continue this conversation.