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Gods, he loves Witchers. He loves his Witcher specifically, with everything that he is. At first, he supposes, it might have been the idea of him. A Witcher, a hunter of monsters and defender of the Continent and its people. Someone frozen in time and who had seen more of the Continent than Jaskier could ever dream of. After that, he got to know him, Geralt, not the Butcher or the White Wolf, but Geralt; who gives the bard a bigger portion of stew or the last haunch of roasted rabbit, who refused pay from a whore after killing a man assaulting half of the brothels in Novigrad.
He loves his Witcher. It’s terrifying how much his heart and body and soul belongs to the man, and how much of Geralt’s sits quite comfortably in the palm of his hand. They’re so familiar. There’s no telling where one of them ends and the other begins. All he knows now is the familiar rumble of Geralt’s laugh as Jaskier tells him stories from Oxenfurt – he’s sure he’s told half of them before, but the Witcher never points it out – and the sure way his hands map out Jaskier’s shoulders and chest and back, over the arch of his hips and the swell of his thighs. How could he not be addicted to the Witcher? Adore him with everything he has and more?
Jaskier’s lips stretch around a silent moan. He shifts and writhes, clutching at the bedsheets soaked in the combined scent of them. Days have already been lost to lounging in bed and forgetting about the Continent. It can exist without them for a season.
He reaches down, carding his fingers through freshly washed white hair. A low hum is buried against him, luring more desperate sounds out of the bard.
“Fuck, Geralt!” he gasps, caught between letting his head fall back and lounging in every wash of pleasure lapping over him, and looking down at the Witcher prowled over him and pulling him apart with his mouth.
The Witcher likes to take his time. He likes watching the bard tremble and gasp and bed. And Jaskier is more than willing to tremble and gasp and beg for him, as long as he keeps his mouth on him.
Bundled away from the Continent in Kaer Morhen, with a season of nothing else to do, Jaskier has already made his peace with the fact that Geralt will confine him to this bed and wring him dry.
The Witcher’s mouth is hot and wet and swallowing him down to the root. He can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse; the day he found out that Witchers could hold their breath for minutes at a time. Gods help him.
He’s hard and aching and wants to flood Geralt’s mouth so badly, but the man doesn’t move. He holds himself around Jaskier’s cock, letting the length sit against his tongue and reach to the back of his throat. Geralt’s cheeks hollow, sucking around him and luring him closer and closer to the edge.
Jaskier’s grip on the man’s hair tightens. “Geralt,” he whimpers, hips twitching and begging to lift up, to fuck himself into the addictive and drowning heat around him. When he looks down, whatever breath had been in him lurches out as he meets familiar golden eyes staring back up at him. Jaskier’s skin flushes. “Please,” he gasps. “Please, darling.”
He doesn’t know what he’s begging for. More of the man’s touches, maybe. Geralt’s broad and calloused hands rest on his hips, keeping him pinned to the bed and at the Witcher’s mercy. By gods does he want to fuck Geralt’s throat. He has such a pretty mouth. Beautiful lips stretched around him and a throat quivering around his length and taking him so well. Jaskier knew by the way that the Witcher kissed that those lips and that mouth would be something wonderful.
Geralt regards him for a moment. He swallows around the length resting in his mouth, pulling back and hollowing his cheeks until the head is caught between his lips. Jaskier’s hold on his hair tightens, almost white-knuckled.
The Witcher moans around him, and it takes everything Jaskier has not to spill there and then. Geralt’s eyes find and hold his again, as his lips quick and he sinks back down on to Jaskier’s cock.
Jaskier’s throat is already red and ruined from moaning and calling out the Witcher’s name. Every noise lured out of him is tight and crackling, and he whimpers at every spark lilting his skin. Gods know how long Geralt has been playing with him, luring him towards the edge of release, only to yank him back from it again and keep him teetering.
The familiar thrum of pleasure coiled tight in his core swells. He needs to come. He’s been teetering on the edge of release for what feels like hours. He wants to fill the man’s mouth, to bring him into a deep kiss and taste himself on Geralt’s tongue.
Jaskier’s head falls back, among a mess of pillows and cushions stacked against the headboard. His fingers slip from Geralt’s hair, falling to his side to knit into the ruined, rumpled bedding. “Darling,” he says towards the ceiling, “my dear, please. You’ve proved your point. Please, my love, let me cum.”
The Witcher’s lips quirk into a smile around him. Pulling back slowly, letting his cheeks hollow and suck around Jaskier one last time before letting him fall away. As soon as Geralt’s mouth is off of him, a chill nipping at his spit-slickened flesh, he whimpers. Geralt pulls in a steady breath, letting it fill his lungs.
“You wanted to see what a Witcher could really do,” he rasps, voice lower and ruined and Jaskier has to catch a moan from slipping out of him.
Gods—“I know!” Jaskier whimpers, swatting half-heartedly at his shoulder. At the Witcher’s low chuckle, he lifts his head up from the pillows and glowers down at him. “But you don’t have to be so smug about it.”
Geralt shakes with a quiet laugh, eventually leaning down to dust feather-light kisses along the V of his hips. Bastard.
He’s going to die here. He’s going to die in a ruined, Witcher-stronghold keep atop of a frozen mountain, out of view and mind of the Continent, all because of Geralt and his mouth. And, honestly, he can’t be mad about it. If this is how the gods intended him to go, then who is he to go against their wishes?
But it would be nice to see one release before his heart gives out. That just might be the thing to kill him, and Geralt delights in it.
The Witcher is a comfortable and familiar weight against him, keeping him pinned to the bed by his legs and hips. He knows that, if he truly wanted to move or squirm away from the man, or call for a reprieve, Geralt would back off. He likes playing with his little bird, but he knows how to read the bard and softens his teeth and claws when it calls for it.
Golden eyes regard him for a moment. He’s not above begging for a release, but he’s nowhere near squirming away from Geralt’s touch. He’s addicted to it and needs more.
Jaskier reaches down, threading his fingers back through Geralt’s hair and curling white strands between his knuckles. Any last remnant of gold within the Witcher’s eyes is swallowed by his pupils expanding. Just as Geralt knows how to play with him, Jaskier knows the Witcher’s spots too.
His hips twitch, firmly held in place by Geralt’s strong hands, but desperate to find that hot wet mouth again. His cock aches, beading precum at the tip. A whimper catches in his throat. Geralt knows. He knows how close he is and what he needs to get to the edge of release. And he knows what to do to leave Jaskier’s teetering, not quite there enough to fall over the cliff.
Geralt hums, nosing along the base of Jaskier’s cock and licking any stretch of skin he can find. Damn him. Damn Geralt of Rivia to every circle of hell that the gods can drag him down to.
What falls out of his parted and kiss-numbed lips isn’t a threat on the man’s life, but a thin and wispy whine.
“I just want to show you the same amount of care and adoration you always show me when we lie together,” Geralt rumbles, something low and thunderous and sinks past Jaskier’s skin and settles into his bones. He struggles not to tremble. He loves Geralt’s voice. Luring more and more words out of the man, until one day, the gruff and silent Witcher was actually having a conversation with him, it was the best day of his life. He loves to listen to Geralt speak. And he loves the words that tumble out of his mouth too, especially when they’re in bed together.
Though, these words, combined with a barely-concealed smirk he’s trying his best to hide against Jaskier’s hipbone, well—
Jaskier huffs. “Yes, well, that’s lovely of you dear, dear. It really is. But I’m dying. I suspect I’m at death’s door right now, and you’re the reaper. Please, my love. If you have any love for me, please—”
Three sharp, thunderous knocks shock him silent. His eyes widen as they blink to the door on the far side of the room. For a moment, everything is silent and still, and the lit hearth elsewhere within their room crackles and spits, and the winds still howl outside. Jaskier’s breath catches in his chest.
Until Geralt sighs against his hip and lifts his head up. “What?!” he shouts back to the door.
“Would you two shut the fuck up?!” Lambert growls through the door. He can’t see the Wolf, but Jaskier imagines that the scowl always etched into his brow is deeper-set than usual. He can’t breathe. Whatever breath had been in him is gone, and he can’t will himself to take another one, expecting the Young Wolf to burst through the door and find them quite compromised. Though, if he’s to go on the stories that he’s lured out of Geralt over the months and years of them travelling together, he supposes that none of the Wolves are too shy to be bared around another.
Geralt rumbles something under his breath. It could be a fuck off or some comment about going back to Aiden and his own bed for the night, but he doesn’t dignify the young pup with a reply.
Instead, he sets one final, firm kiss to Jaskier’s abdomen. Golden eyes flicker up to him. “Make as much noise as you want, darling,” Geralt hums, before taking Jaskier’s cock in his hand and sinking his mouth back onto it.
Fuck. It might lurch out of his throat. He’s pretty sure that something does. Whether it’s a swear or Geralt’s name or a gasp or moan, he’s not sure at all. But he does manage to hear Lambert scoffing through the door. “Oh, real mature, arsehole!”
He doesn’t hear the Wolf storming away, back to his own chambers down the hall where a Cat is presumably waiting for him. He doesn’t care. All he can focus on is the wet heat surrounding him and swallowing him down the root.
He squirms, clutching at Geralt’s hair, the back of his head, his shoulders, the bedding underneath him. Anything he can get his hands on and ride out the waves of pleasure washing through him. Any breath he takes is lost as a moaned attempt at Geralt’s name, or begging him to do something. What ends up tumbling out past his kiss-numbed lips is a mystery to him. Gods only know what he’s saying.
Geralt hums around him, sinking down to the base of Jaskier’s cock and letting the length sit against his tongue for a moment. As he draws back up, he hollows his cheeks and sucks, letting his tongue gently lave along the underside of Jaskier’s cock.
That’s it, then. He’s going to die here. His soul is going to leave him through his dick and he’ll be left to haunt the halls of Kaer Morhen forever, being an eternal nuisance to Vesemir year-round, and to the other Wolves for only a season. Geralt might give the keep a miss for the winter, knowing what he’s done and who waits for him.
Geralt makes the most wonderful sounds. He’s not quite choking around the bard, but every noise is wet and addictive and Jaskier wants to hear more of it. He tries to shake off the blood rushing through his ears so he can listen to every moan smothered around him.
He’s close. He’s being lured towards the edge again and his throat is raw from moaning. “Oh fuck, that’s it, darling,” Jaskier reels, letting his head fall back onto the pillows again and let himself scream at the ceiling. Tough shit if others hear them. He’s sure that it wouldn’t be the first time.
“’S good,” Jaskier whimpers, lips stretched around moans and whines. “So fucking good, love, gods.”
Geralt hums around him. He curls his fingers around the base of Jaskier’s cock, tightening his grip slightly and fitting whatever’s left into his mouth. It’s hot and wet and addictive. Gods, he has a whole season left in this damn keep, in Geralt’s bed. And then a whole three seasons out on the Continent until they return again.
He’s dizzy. The world around him shifts and turns on its axis as he can feel himself getting closer and closer.
He’s not going to last. “Geralt,” he whimpers, “Geralt, please darling, I need to cum.”
Geralt hums around him. He hollows his cheeks and sucks, tightening the fingers around the base of Jaskier’s cock. He’s close. He’s nearing the edge and he reaches down, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair and pulling. Geralt moans. It’s smothered around his length, but trembles rumble through him and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as Geralt’s hand trails around his hips. Strong and nimble fingers set into the plush muscle of his ass and help lift his hips. Finally.
Jaskier groans as he fucks up into the Witcher’s mouth. Choked, wet sounds slip out of Geralt. He has enough control over the bard’s movements to make sure he doesn’t choke himself, but gods, the thought of it—
Jaskier looks down. Pleasure-hazed eyes make out Geralt still prowled over him, white hand fanned over his shoulders and dusting the tops of Jaskier’s thigh. Another sensation that sends sparks through him.
His grip on the man’s hair tightens. He needs to cum. He’s so desperate for it and he’s so close—
Golden eyes lift up and meet his. Geralt tightens his fingers around the base of his cock, hollowing his cheeks.
Oh fuck—
“Want me to finish in you, darling?” Jaskier gasps, voice lowering with every word and rasping. “Gonna flood your mouth. Look so good, Geralt. ‘S good for me. There, darling, that’s it. Oh. Shit, Geralt—”
He arches off of the bed as he tumbles over the edge, hips pitching up as Geralt swallows him down to the root. Fuck. He has just enough awareness, through the haze of pleasure washing over him, to look down at the Witcher pinning him to the bed. A pitiful whined moan slips out of him as he sees Geralt’s nose buried against his pubic bone, holding the bard’s length in his mouth before drawing slowly back up.
Nothing is left behind. Jaskier’s breath hitches as Geralt’s mouth falls away from him. The Witcher doesn’t wander too far from him. Thank the gods. He can’t be without Geralt. Not now, when the hum of release is just starting to fade from him.
Winds howl outside, with new storms of rain lashing against the windows. It’s a world away from them now. Jaskier is boneless. He sinks down into the plush mattress and scent-ruined sheets of Geralt’s bed – their bed. It shifts as Geralt prowls up towards him. Jaskier sighs as a familiar weight joins his side.
“Still with me?” Geralt rumbles, voice ruined and rasping. A fresh shiver threatens to shake through Jaskier’s body at the low sound of it.
The bard hums. “Just about,” he manages, letting his head roll to the side. Geralt lies close to him, bundled against his side. Just through the haze, Jaskier feels Geralt’s hard, neglected cock pressing against the outside of his thigh. He makes a quiet sound. “Give me a minute, darling, and I’ll see to you.”
The Witcher’s lips press against Jaskier’s bare shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “Rest.”
It’s not an order, but he can feel sleep starting to embed its claws into him and drag him under. He really shouldn’t. Geralt is pressed against him and he wants the Witcher to have his own release. He had been so good for him and deserves a reward. But Geralt slings an arm across his waist, hugging him close, as he tumbles down to sleep. It’s difficult not to go. As the Witcher slackens against him, Geralt just might be following him.
A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.