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A Right Nightmare

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On anyone else, it would come off as gruff. "You're a nightmare." But between light kisses to Jaskier's neck, and with the benefit of years upon years, Geralt's words are playful now beneath the rough timbre, a tease as much as his lips barely brushing against Jaskier's fevered skin are.

They met on the landing of the stairs half an hour past, neither surprised to see the other given how Jaskier's been enjoying a bath in the room their coin paid for and Geralt soon to return to it after reaping the generosity of the townfolk by enjoying their best ale. In fact, he probably deserves his rest after days on the road monster hunting. Instead, Jaskier lingered on the stairs, going as far as to back away up a step and then another, beckoning softly, "I seem to have forgotten to drag you off to the rather nice bed our fine landlord provided us."

Now, Jaskier's head tilts back, his throat rolling as he swallows around his own dry mouth, the stretched skin tingling when a hot tongue laves at it. He wishes he could swallow something else. But Geralt's cock always stretches his lips to the limit, however smoothly he takes it. His throat throbs around it, aching to take more of it down, and tonight he needs his voice crystal.

"Got a new tune detailing your newest exploits," he gasps when Geralt bites and nips at the side of his neck.

He can't be sure, but he suspects Geralt might be rolling his eyes. However, a small smile plays at his lips where they're pressed to the spot beneath his jaw eternally tender with Geralt's constant ministrations. This, Jaskier only sort of minds. Doesn't mind at all when Geralt sucks the blood there to the surface yet again, a fresh bruise soon to follow. It always stings just right, his prick leaking in his britches Geralt has yet to take off him.

"The public awaits," he tries, breathless and squirming. Never mind he's the one whose thighs are stretched over Geralt's lap deliciously wide.

This time, Geralt does grunt out, "Your fault," although it's accompanied by an amused snort, and Jaskier means to deny it like a boldfaced liar, only Geralt's palms are at his hips, moving to unlace his trousers and dip one warm palm inside.

It's too dry by half, but all protests and snark die before reaching his lips. Can't muster up anything coherent when Geralt nibbles at the hinge of his jaw, his other hand groping at the underside of his arse, the best tease.

He strokes him with rough, efficient movements, the way Jaskier likes it, the way Geralt knows he can't get enough of. He whimpers and keens, hands scrambling at his shoulders, using them to brace himself however useless that may be. He groans, finally, Geralt carefully mouthing at his cheek as his palm collects the mess, Jaskier shivering when his thumb teases one last time at his now tender cockhead.

Face flushed and hair undoubtedly disheveled, he shivers through the last of the aftershocks. Still has enough wherewithal to mutter, "You're the absolute worst."

To which Geralt merely laughs.