Work Text:
Jaskier’s pretty sure he’s going to die.
He’s going to die in this bed with Geralt’s mouth on his throat and Geralt’s cock in his ass. His face is covered in tears and sweat and his throat’s raw. He can’t tell if it’s because he sucked Geralt’s cock earlier or if it’s because he’s been moaning, panting, and screaming for the better part of the evening.
He’s in a place between pain and pleasure; he’s come three times now and he can tell by Geralt’s pace that the witcher is trying to push him to four. If he’d been told about the idea of coming four times in one evening before this, Jaskier would have laughed it off, boasted about his stamina, and gone about his day.
He’s not laughing now.
His body is aching. Geralt’s been at this, on him and in him, for hours. They’d stumbled in from the lord’s party and started against the door, Jaskier’s legs around his witcher’s waist as they rutted together desperately. Jaskier hasn’t come in his pants since he was barely a man. A record broken and pleasantly so.
Then, after Jaskier was done panting, he had reached down and undone Geralt’s laces, marveled a bit at his girth, and started stroking, kissing Geralt because the man was very kissable, but Geralt didn’t peak, just growled into Jaskier’s mouth. In their enthusiasm, they didn’t quite make it to the bed, instead moved to the floor where Jaskier’s clothes were still laying and where he discovered the miracle that was Geralt’s mouth. He’d put Jaskier on his hands and knees and fucked him open with his tongue, eating him out while Jaskier had bitten his lip bloody, trying to stifle his cries. There are scratches on the floor from his nails, trying to get a grip on anything to thrust back helplessly.
He had come again like that, writhing against Geralt’s mouth, and when he had come down, Geralt had been standing, pulled Jaskier up to his knees and run his thumb across Jaskier’s bottom lip. “Still with me?” The man had looked genuinely concerned, but his cock had been right there and Jaskier had put his cheek against it, nodded, and swallowed him down.
Jaskier had peaked twice and Geralt hadn’t come once. It was unfair and, purely in the interest of being fair, Jaskier tried. Melitele, he tried. He sucked Geralt’s cock, used every trick he had used against him, and then some and it resulted in Geralt’s hand in Jaskier’s hair, but Geralt didn’t come, had thrust and growled some more, and used that massive hand to haul him to his feet.
They’d moved to the bed after that where Geralt spent the better part of an hour fucking Jaskier with his fingers. It’d taken half that time for Jaskier to get hard again and had gotten the sheets messy with precome and tears as he had begged shamelessly. For what, he doesn’t remember. He had tried burying his face into the bed because he couldn’t control what he was saying or the volume at which he was saying it. Geralt had just rumbled and flipped Jaskier over onto his back and finally slicked his cock up and slid in, making Jaskier wail and try to cover his mouth.
Geralt had kept moving his hips slowly at first and had pinned Jaskier’s hands above his head, practically folding him in half. “Don’t hide, Jaskier. I want to hear it. I want them to hear it.” Geralt had smiled, looking down at him like prey. “I want all of your lords and ladies to hear how well you take my cock, songbird.” It’d been the words that pushed Jaskier over his third orgasm of the night and he had shouted, heard the banging on the walls, as he trembled through it.
Now here they are. Geralt’s still rutting into him, his hands bruising Jaskier’s waist with his grip. Jaskier’s digging his nails into Geralt’s back, keeping him close, and the friction against his cock is almost painful; he’s oversensitive, but he’s desperate for his witcher. Each snap of Geralt’s hips is driving punched out sounds from his throat, chanting “fuck, Geralt, don’t stop”.
He’s been repeating it and variations of it for a while now when Geralt doesn’t deliberately slow and kiss him, which seems to be his way of staving off his own orgasm. But Geralt’s thrusts seemed wilder now, a little harder, faster and straying off rhythm now. Jaskier wants to cry in relief, but Geralt seems even more determined to drive him over one last time.
“One more, Jaskier. Give me one more, darling, please.” Geralt kisses him then and reaches for his cock; Jaskier groans as he comes, and he can’t believe he’s saying this, for hopefully the last time this evening.
It’s almost as painful as it is pleasurable. “Fuck, Geralt, I love you.” He doesn’t mean to say it and is sure he’s said it before, but it seems to drive Geralt to his own peak, stilling and spilling inside of Jaskier with a rumbling sigh.
Geralt collapses next to him, on his back. Jaskier stares up at the ceiling for a moment, waiting for his vision to return to normal. It takes a few moments before he can roll over to look at Geralt, who still has his eyes closed, and it takes a few more moments after that before he can say anything.
“Say something nice at my funeral.” Geralt rolls over to face him and cracks an eye open with a huff. “I didn’t know one could be fucked to death.”
“I’ll send flowers.” Jaskier reaches out and pushes some hair out of Geralt’s face. “You talk a lot for a dead man. Maybe I need to try harder next time.”
“Absolutely not.” He’s sore just thinking about it. “I’m going to need at least a week to recover from tonight.” Geralt smiles, one of his small ones he reserves only for Jaskier, and Jaskier’s heart stutters for a moment. Or he might actually be dying. It’s a possibility.
“Shame.” Geralt sighs and closes his eyes again. “Had some ideas about us having a bath.” It’s more of a mumble and he’s asleep right after, but it makes Jaskier bite his lip as he closes his eyes.
Maybe he doesn’t need the whole week.