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Don't Need to Wait

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Shouldering open the tavern's backdoor, Jaskier mutters a quick, "Leave it."

He means Geralt's mead, barely touched at their secluded little table. He means it as an invitation. Outside. Now. Everything else can wait. Not as if anyone would dare touch a witcher's hard-earned drink after said witcher returned victorious after coming to the aid of yet another defenseless town. Even his bard might be deserving of some measure of respect on an evening like this.

Thus, Geralt follows his lead easily.

The backdoor swings shut behind them, leaving them in a twilight-darkness, a yellowish moon above, enough light that even Jaskier himself probably has little trouble discerning their surroundings.

Fingers warm from hours inside a crowded room slide up to touch at his neck, to brush at the skin there with something tentative Geralt rarely sees in anything Jaskier does; the sort of tentativeness which occurs, as far as Geralt has observed, only when it's the two of them, no audience, and even then it's rare enough Geralt registers it with the utmost curiosity.

He doesn't dwell on it for long, though. Can't when he's busying himself with lifting his hands to push at Jaskier's shoulders until they touch the wall behind him. He moves in close, one leg forward, Jaskier easily parting his legs to accommodate his thigh, both arms circling his neck to rest partway down his back, palms fanning out like wings. Kissing comes naturally.

It's not tentative. That, where Jaskier is concerned, has gone. On the wind blowing gently around then, or perhaps the moment Jaskier first touched his skin. What's left is his lips moving against Geralt's, mouth swiftly parting for Geralt's tongue in no time at all, allowing it to fuck his way in, a bit rougher than Geralt meant at the start, too much so very soon, but Jaskier takes it well. He always takes it well. Perhaps that is why they find themselves here once more.

But kissing is not nearly enough, and they disengage with a final hard press Geralt feels down his spine, which tingles once Jaskier's fingers leave him completely.

It's not difficult, after, for him to see into the darkness and watch Jaskier drop to his knees and slowly raise his head to lock eyes with him. His own hands nimbly work his trousers open, enough to allow his cock to greet the air, bobbing eagerly between them, Jaskier watching with parted lips. Waiting. Patient, as if about to receive a treat.

Closing his eyes as he leans in, one warm palm rising to hold him at the root, the pads of his fingers tickling at his balls, while the tip of Jaskier's nose brushes up against the column of his cock. He can't help a sharp intake of breath, especially as Jaskier's nose draws up the length of him, breath warm, lighting him up. Suddenly parched, missing his barely touched mead, he swallows and inhales deeply to let it out evenly. Jaskier's nose stops right beneath the head, giving way to his mouth to softly drag his lips along the glans before backing off to allow Geralt's own hand to grip at his cock. Jaskier's eyes open to watch transfixed, chewing on his lips, palms dragging up Geralt's legs and tickling at his calves.

Too easily Jaskier's mouth falls open as Geralt brings his cock closer to it. His other hand grabs onto Jaskier's hair, fingers tightening in the strands when he moves forward to slowly slide the tip into his mouth, bringing it to rest against the inside of his cheek. He tongues at what he can reach, a parched dog at a bowl of fresh water, before swallowing him right down.

Shifting his hips in several half-motions, Geralt lets out a heavy breath. The muscles at his hips tense when Jaskier's lips tighten at about the midway point on his cock. He inches closer to where Geralt's palm is still gripping himself and where his other hand has joined it to fondle at his own balls, but he lets off once Geralt's cockhead nears the opening of his throat. He sticks to sloppily sucking on the head, his hands having reached Geralt's hip bones. He gains some balance clutching them, but his cheeks are ruddy and his throat works to get Geralt's cock farther down after mere moments of respite.

"Too much?" Geralt manages to ask, head heavy and balls tight, sight swimming at the view down his body to Jaskier's stretched-out mouth.

A minute head shake accompanies Jaskier's next attempt to slurp him down to the root. He reaches as far as an inch away from Geralt's fingers, pauses, then tips his head to allow his throat to visibly open up until Geralt's hard cock is completely engulfed.

It starts out at a devastatingly slow pace. It's not new territory, but Geralt feels as if he should bring some measure of gentleness to this as to not overwhelm. His hands rush to clasp at the sides of Jaskier's face to guide him in an unhurried rhythm. But, when his grip at Geralt's hips rocks him forward at a quicker pace, he gives in swiftly and truly fucks in, careful to keep it on this side of rough. The side which has Jaskier moaning around him, the vibrations causing Geralt to gasp and set his jaw against any other involuntary noises.

Between his own legs, Jaskier is furiously stripping his own cock, which is beaded heavily with pre-come at the tip and threatening to stickily drip onto the cobblestones beneath them. When exactly he managed to fully unbutton himself, Geralt isn't quite sure. It doesn't matter. All that matters is the way his cock sinks into Jaskier's throat and the way Geralt is now holding himself there for longer and longer as this goes on, Jaskier's moans rising in pitch, a desperation he can't adequately muffle flaring like a beacon in the night air. Geralt can taste it on his tongue, sweeter than any wine.

Pushing gently at Jaskier's forehead, Geralt only has a few inches of distance to help breach between the back of Jaskier's head and the wall behind him. With it at Jaskier's back, Geralt feels more confident to let go in order to set his palms to the stone, his footing even, and then, finally, starting to rock his hips in the way Jaskier has been motioning him to.

Like this, he has the leverage to fuck his mouth as he would Jaskier's hole when he allows it. The rhythm turns punishing, and Geralt peeks sluggishly between Jaskier's knees to notice his prick is a deep red, a small puddle of pre-come already staining the stone at their feet.

Soon enough it's too much for Jaskier, and he makes a pained sound before coming in white streaks all over his knuckles and the ground. His come looks sleek under the moonlight. Geralt's eyes focus in on it desperately as his hips now thrust in a fragmented, disjointed sort of way, balls tightening in warning before he finally spills down Jaskier's throat, who pulls away until only the tip of Geralt's cock lingers inside his mouth to neatly swallow everything he has.

It's a matter of minutes for them to regain their breath and tidy their clothes. Jaskier's stance is weak, but he smiles in response to Geralt's concerned expression.

"After you," he hoarsely mutters, his arm outstretched towards the door back inside the tavern, a smile dancing at his lips.

The night air is crisp and welcome where Geralt's overheated lungs are concerned. Their evening has merely begun.