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"aw, my poor wolf," jaskier sighs, out of breath from his own release. "you're almost there sweetheart. come on, come on."
geralt's rhythm falters. he's so close he can almost taste it; jaskier's sated smell and the spend cooling on his chest only fueling his desire, but he just—can't. geralt lets out a whine not unlike a kicked dog, pitiful.
jaskier presses a kiss against his sweaty cheek, humming contentedly and clenching around his prick. "or perhaps," he whispers into geralt's ear, their temples resting together. he brings up a hand to hold his nape and tugs on a fist of sweaty hair. geralt sucks in a breath and stops his rutting, listening at attention. "perhaps we should leave you like this. perhaps you're too tired cum at all, hmm?" he asks, his voice sweet and thick.
"no," geralt pants. he wants to cum; he needs to. he's so desperate for release his balls are drawn tight, his heart beating twice his usual pace, almost matching jaskier's slowly settling one. "no, no…" he hides his face in jaskier's neck, breathing in the bard's delicious satisfied scent. gods, it's making his mouth water. he moans as his hips start rutting again, deep and short thrusts that couldn't possibly get any deeper. he's so close, he's so close…
jaskier starts lazily scraping his nails in geralt's scalp and moves his head to the side to give him more room, humming in pleasure. geralt noses under his ear and swallows the saliva that’s pooled in his mouth, his gums tingling. he wants… he needs…
“you’re nibbling,” jaskier says. geralt stops and draws back, eyeing the mess he’s made of jaskier’s throat in alarm. he hadn’t realized he was doing that. his hands tighten where they rest on either side of jaskier’s head and his left reaches up to caress the bruises that his bard’s doublet will in no way hide come morning. he can feel his pupils dilate at the sight, his mouth watering once more.
he swallows thickly and opens his mouth to apologize when jaskier’s hand finds his and pulls it to his lips, kissing it firmly and lacing their fingers together.
“is that what you want?” jaskier asks, his lips moving against his skin. the witcher’s heart beats impossibly harder; geralt can faintly see his own pulse thrumming under his hand in jaskier’s hold. “is that what you need ?” he asks pointedly, lifting his hips and clenching tight around geralt’s fat cock, punching the breath out of him and making him lean forward again, his face finding the column of jaskier’s neck once more.
the pressure on his prick is so exquisite that he can’t hold back a small whine, not even capable of words anymore. jaskier keeps talking to him, his thumb rubbing over geralt’s knuckles where they’re trapped between their flush chests, his other hand back to a fist in his hair.
“you could do it, you know. you already have me so bruised it’s not like i’d be able to hide it,” he comments offhandedly. “hmm, i can already picture it. tomorrow will be hot, i don’t know how i’ll keep my chemise laced all day.”
gods, geralt can see it: jaskier flushed and sweaty pulling at his collar, removing his doublet, his chest hair peeking out when he undoes the fastenings. the bruises wouldn’t fade for days… he’d run a hand absentmindedly along his throat full of marks that match the suspiciously sharp set of teeth of the witcher walking beside him. geralt groans at the surge of heat that runs down his spine.
“wouldn’t you like that? having me all marked up for the town to see?” fuck. fuck, he’s so close. he nods, and keeps thursting into jaskier, frantic. “if you bit me i’d get to feel like this all the time,” jaskier pants. “desired, possessed,” he tightens his hold on geralt’s hair and leans in to whisper, hot and needy, “ wrecked. ”
at this geralt groans like a wounded beast. he feels like he’s drowning in jaskier; his words, his scent, his taste .
“come on, geralt.” fuck. “mark me.” fuck! “let everyone know how you ruined me.”
geralt hits home one last time and bites down hard into jaskier’s skin, right where his shoulder and neck meet. he spills into jaskier with a muffled yowl that would worry him if he were conscious enough for any sort of awareness beyond the taste of sweat and blood on his tongue and the ecstasy that threatens to knock him out cold.
he keeps coming in hot spurts that feel like they go on forever. he can vaguely hear jaskier mumbling something, but from the cotton he feels he has stuffed inside his ears he can’t make out anything specific. whilst his cock is still sheathed inside jaskier, geralt relaxes his jaw and smooches jaskier’s now wounded neck, backing up a little to assess the damage.
oh damn, that’s—
“that’s definitely gonna scar,” jaskier hums, delighted. he runs his fingers along the tender flesh, his half-lidded blues meeting geralt’s ambers. “good boy.”
that definitely shouldn’t pull more cum out of his quickly softening dick—how does he even have any left?—but oh wow. geralt whimpers at the overstimulation but still doesn’t pull out, some part of his brain telling him to stay.
underneath him jaskier arches his back, content like a cat in the afternoon sun. he stretches his arms over his head until they hear a ‘pop’, and then brings them back down to hug geralt close. geralt maneuvers them a little so they lay on their sides and he doesn’t run the risk of squishing jaskier.
geralt feels content. sated. he starts nuzzling jaskier’s neck and face with what he suspects is a dopey grin on his tired face, jaskier not wasting time in returning the gesture and petting geralt’s hair.
they stay dozing like that for a while until jaskier kisses him on the cheek and breaks the silence.
“hey,” he says, his voice warm and thick like coming out of a deep sleep. “let’s get cleaned up? i don’t want to deal with all the mess in the morning.”
geralt hums, not really wanting to get up but not keen on making jaskier feel sticky and disgusting either. he pulls out gently and gets up from the bed to retrieve a towel and some warm water. he hears a gasp and some shuffling behind him.
“gods, geralt you really came, huh,” jaskier chuckles tiredly. the witcher turns to him and finds him in an odd position with his legs and ass in the air, his hands holding his hips up, trying to prevent more cum from slipping from his hole and onto the sheets; there’s only one bed after all.
this, for some reason, is what makes geralt blush the hardest, his slow beating heart skipping several beats before going into overdrive. it’s so absurd, but the sight of jaskier overflowing with his cum is… is… oh boy.
he turns his back on jaskier before the bard can spot his flushed face and goes on to finding the towel. towels. he’ll need several.
he casts a quick igni on the water basin to heat it up and brings both next to the bed where jaskier is still holding his ridiculous—but necessary—pose. geralt gets him cleaned up, gently but efficiently, going through extra care to dab the bite mark on his neck with clean water and a new towel before going back to his pack and retrieving some healing salve, spreading it liberally on the wound.
once he’s satisfied he goes to put everything back again, although before he can, jaskier snatches a towel and starts cleaning him with the same firm touch geralt had used. he keeps forgetting jaskier gives as good as he takes and he wouldn’t have wanted geralt to feel gross in the morning either. he’s not used to people caring much for him in the bedroom other than to make him cum, so this is… surprising. pleasant.
when jaskier’s finished he kisses the corner of geralt’s mouth and takes the rest of the items from him, settling them down on the floor beside the bed not even bothering to get up. he then lays him down and covers both of them with the blanket before settling down with his head on geralt’s chest with a long, deep sigh.
geralt feels like he’s floating. it’s his turn now to run his fingers through jaskier’s hair, eliciting a happy hum from the bard. “my handsome wolf,” he says sleepily, planting a kiss down on geralt’s tit then softly biting it. geralt hums, delighted. “my good, wonderful, lovely witcher.” he lays his head down again, his whole body melting against geralt’s, ready for sleep.
“my charming bard,” geralt rumbles, on the edge of sleep himself. “sweet. smashing. nice as pie,” he says as he kisses the crown of jaskier’s head with the last of his strength.
the last thing geralt feels are the warm puffs of jaskier’s tired laugh on his chest, and then he’s drifting away in a tangled embrace with his bard.