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“I haven’t even touched you and you’re already so wet.”
Geralt whines, his knuckles white on the sheets. It would’ve been easier to resist touching himself, to resist reaching out for Jaskier, if Jaskier had tied him up—but Jaskier’s clearly not interested in making anything easier for Geralt, tonight.
“You’re doing… that.” Geralt grits out. Jaskier’s stroking his thick, ridiculously pretty cock where he kneels at the foot of the bed, his heated gaze darting between Geralt’s splayed, slick-drenched thighs. He’s putting on a show and Geralt knows it. Squeezing himself, taking his time with each stroke of his shaft, thumbing his slit where he knows Geralt loves to lick.
Jaskier gives a cheeky grin, his hair falling in his eyes.
“Like this, do you?”
Geralt frowns, swallowing hard. It’s taking every ounce of restraint not to beg to suck him off, to keep his hips from rising in open, obscene invitation. His cunt is so needy he wouldn’t be surprised if Jaskier can smell it. He can feel his slick trickling to his ass.
Jaskier bites his lip, staring piercingly into Geralt’s eyes.
“You’re going to wait, aren’t you?” he asks. His voice is soft, but there’s a stern edge to it that makes Geralt’s cunt clench. “You’re not going to come until I let you. You’re going to be good for me.”
Geralt shivers.
“Yes.”
Jaskier leaves off touching himself, kneeing his way toward Geralt on the bed. Geralt’s breath hitches. He smells so fucking intoxicating when he’s hard like this, and it’s all for Geralt.
“Yes what?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s close. He could kiss Geralt if he wanted. Geralt growls, his heart throbbing in his cunt.
“Yes, Jaskier.” Geralt can feel himself trembling. “I’ll…I’ll be good for you.”
Jaskier grins, and Geralt goes weak at the knees. It’s not his usual, crowd-pleasing grin, it’s something hotter, rougher, somehow vulnerable and powerful at once.
“Good,” he whispers. He brings his pretty, parted mouth to Geralt’s just for a moment, just enough for Geralt to strain into it—and then he pulls away and settles between Geralt’s legs instead.
“Fuck.”
Jaskier laughs, burying his face in Geralt’s cunt.
Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. The rest of the world fades away, all his anxieties, nothing seems to matter so much against the excruciatingly exquisite decadence of Jaskier’s attention.
Jaskier opens his mouth against Geralt’s pussy. It always feels like he’s mapping him, reading him like a story or perhaps a song. Returning to the movements that make Geralt squirm and slicken, searching for where Geralt’s most sensitive tonight.
“Gods, you taste good,” Jaskier sighs. He sucks Geralt’s labia into his mouth, tonguing him until Geralt feels like candlewax held to the sun. He spreads Geralt with his fingers, gazing into him, and then, slow and hard, he rubs the flat of his tongue up Geralt’s slick, dripping slit. His pretty lips, that damnable tongue, the merest, expertly wielded graze of teeth—
“Fuck,” Geralt whines. He struggles not to arch up into Jaskier’s mouth. He has to be good.
And then Jaskier seals those plush, perfect lips over Geralt’s clit, and Geralt knows he’s close. Gently, gently, Jaskier strokes him with the tip of his tongue, and it’s all hot wet pressure exactly where Geralt needs it, pleasure sparkling up his spine, and—
“Not yet,” Jaskier says quietly, pulling away.
Geralt snarls, writhing in frustration. He feels raw, fraying, frantic with want.
He never lets himself get so vulnerable. Not with anyone else.
“Jaskier,” he says, his voice hoarse.
Jaskier smiles. His mouth is shiny from Geralt’s cunt, his hair rakishly disheveled.
“The only way you’re getting off tonight, witcher,” he says, clear and low, “is on my thigh.”
Geralt stares at him, trying to put his thoughts together as if through thick honey.
“I… fuck.”
Jaskier’s grin broadens, as he settles himself onto the pillows. He pulls Geralt in for a searing kiss, taking Geralt’s lower lip between his teeth and tugging.
Geralt nearly comes right then. He groans into Jaskier’s mouth as Jaskier drags him into his lap, his slippery cunt meeting his lover’s muscled, hairy thigh.
“Go on, pretty thing,” Jaskier whispers. Geralt shakes his head, almost on instinct.
“How you can call me pretty,” he says, jerkily, “when you look like that—”
“None of that, hey,” Jaskier murmurs. His hands travel Geralt’s body, caressing his muscles, his scars. He touches Geralt with reverence, he always does, and Geralt’s still learning that he might deserve it. He settles his palms on Geralt’s hips, guiding the pace, letting Geralt grind against him. “You know how stunning you are. I know you do.”
“Fuck,” Geralt growls, swallowing hard. He had been so close. It’s harder to get his body back to where the clever, specific twist of Jaskier’s tongue took it, with only the blunt pressure of Jaskier’s thigh. But Jaskier’s watching him starry-eyed through that lovely sweep of hair, his hard cock bobbing on his stomach. When Jaskier looks at him like that, it’s almost easy to believe Geralt can do anything at all.
Geralt hitches himself on his knees. He braces himself on Jaskier’s shoulders, strong enough to hold him. And he starts to properly move, dragging his desperate clit in little circles against Jaskier’s thigh.
“That’s it,” Jaskier whispers, going breathless behind his grin. He bites his lip, watching Geralt take his pleasure. “Oh, yes, there you go, gorgeous. Handsome, perfect witcher. My love. You’re being so good.”
“Jask,” Geralt gasps, his voice cracking. Jaskier’s hands are so warm, his body so sturdy beneath him. It’s as if there’s no end to the ways they can love each other, the ways trust cracks open new realms of pleasure and tenderness, and fuck, Geralt’s close again. “Please.”
“Yes,” Jaskier hisses. “Yes. Come for me, Geralt.”
Geralt grinds on him faster and faster, his pussy making obscene sounds in the quiet. Jaskier tilts his thigh up, giving Geralt even more of a surface to rut against, and Geralt uses every bit he can get, rubbing on him, making them both messy. Jaskier’s so hard he’s dripping, Geralt can smell it.
He cries out when he comes. Buries his face in Jaskier’s shoulder and sobs, his back bowing, as blinding pleasure shatters through him. He fumbles for a kiss at the tail end of it, and he finds Jaskier a wreck, stroking himself at last.
“Love,” Jaskier moans into Geralt’s lips, “oh, love—oh!”
With the last waves of his orgasm still shuddering through him, Geralt eagerly clambers to take Jaskier into his mouth. He groans around the thickness of Jaskier’s hot, familiar length, and it only takes a few moments before Jaskier’s spend floods his throat, his hips jerking needfully, his hands gentle in Geralt’s hair.
Geralt goes a bit hazy in the wake of orgasm, savoring Jaskier’s taste. He’s still licking at him until Jaskier coaxes him up into his arms.
“Gods, you’re perfect,” Jaskier whispers, “c’mere.”
Geralt melts into Jaskier. The air is warm with sex and sweetness, and Geralt sinks into that bone-deep relaxation he never gets anywhere else.
“You did so good,” Jaskier says softly, squeezing him. “How did it feel?”
Geralt shakes his head.
“Don’t have the words,” he murmurs. He tilts his head up to look at his lover. “But I loved it, Jask. Every minute. I always do.” Jaskier’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Geralt presses a kiss there, before pressing another to Jaskier’s mouth. “I love you.”
“I love you too, darling.”