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"This is a bad idea," says Geralt.

"Terrible idea," Jaskier agrees. He kisses up Geralt’s neck, his tongue wicked on Geralt’s ear. "Really bad."

"We should stop," Geralt says, stripping Jaskier’s jacket from his shoulders. He tugs Jaskier's shirt free from where it’s neatly tucked. Jaskier puts his arms up obligingly and the shirt comes off. Geralt's fingers range pale skin. "We agreed last time was the last of it."

"We absolutely said that," Jaskier confirms. His hand is craftier than his tongue, palming Geralt's cock through leather, finding him already hard, and giving an encouraging squeeze. "Stopping would be most prudent."

Geralt crowds him back against the bed, then a push sends Jaskier to sprawl upon it. Jaskier sprawls. The smile that turns his lips is sun-bright. He lifts his hips and scrabbles at the ties of his trousers. Geralt, not to be outdone or outraced, has shed all of his layers by the time Jaskier kicks free of encumbering fabric.

In the candlelight, Jaskier looks at Geralt through his lashes. His legs do not fall open—they are spread with slow, purposeful, deliberate intent. His cock is a hard flushed curve that invites Geralt's hand and Geralt's mouth.

"Fuck it," says Geralt, kneeling above the bard. "We'll stop after this."

"An admirable plan of action," Jaskier says, and gasps as Geralt fists his cock. "Oh, Gods. Get down here. Please."

Geralt lets go and pitches forward, lands heavily over Jaskier. Jaskier's hands come up and tangle in his hair, reel him in, and then they're kissing, hot and hungry about it. Quick-flash tongues and too much teeth—it's been too long, they really did try to call an end to—whatever this is.

Bed-sharing is just fine with a temporary companion, but Jaskier, despite Geralt's grumbling, has become far more regular than that, and the regularity with which they’ve taken to fucking whenever their paths cross can’t lead anywhere good.

People who share Geralt's bed either fast desert the post when they realize what his life is like, or they don't live long enough to find out. Jaskier is unique, in that he knows in great detail what Geralt's life is like, and persists in staying alive—and in that he always seems ready to indulge like this with Geralt upon a convenient flat surface. Sometimes, lacking that, they turn to walls and trees for support.

Jaskier is unique, too, in his enthusiasm. Geralt is used to being desired, but the sense of being wanted for who he is as much as for his body has proven heady. Jaskier wants him, not just his cock, and that's—well. It's a bad idea to see through as often as they have.

Resigned to his poor decision-making for the evening, Geralt breaks away from where he's sucked a bruise into the soft skin of Jaskier's neck. Jaskier is moving against him like a ship on an unruly sea, increasingly impatient and unmoored.

"Tell me," Jaskier insists. He scratches lines down Geralt's back, then grabs Geralt's ass to haul him closer. "Geralt. Tell me."

This is also different: Jaskier likes to hear him talk, prefers to hear, above all else, Geralt's intent. Jaskier's need for words is limitless, unquenchable—Geralt has made him come all but untouched by whispering into Jaskier's ear the things that he'd do, given the time. It's really quite extraordinary. Which is perhaps why Geralt entertains the request, despite not being exactly given over to loquaciousness himself.

So be it. "Going to fuck you," Geralt says. "First like this. Then on your hands and knees. If you're good, I'll let you ride me in the morning."

"I'm always good," says Jaskier, eyes alight. "You'll let me? You'll be begging me, more like."

He slides his hands back into Geralt's hair, grasps handfuls there, pulls none-too-gently. Geralt grunts, and his cock goes hard as steel. Yet another feature that makes Jaskier appealing as a bedmate: he gives as good as he gets, and is fearless in the pursuit. His endurance is commendable for a man who never bothered to learn how to hold a sword. Jaskier's fingers, which move down now to cup Geralt's cheek, are calloused from other pursuits, toughened on lute-strings. Geralt turns his head and lets two of those fine fingers push into his mouth.

Jaskier sighs. "Look at you. The most lamentable tragedy of my life is that my best songs are for private consumption."

Geralt, intent on making Jaskier's fingers good and wet, can say nothing to that. When Jaskier slips them free, Geralt leans back on his haunches to enjoy the show of Jaskier beginning to open himself up. Too often when they're like this it's in the dark of night camped out in the woods, and there's little enough to see. The room taken for the night at the inn, sparsely furnished though it may be, feels luxurious as a king's chamber. The bed beneath Geralt's knees is soft, and there are candles enough to illuminate Jaskier and the able movement of his hand.

Geralt's mouth feels empty, so he ducks down and swallows Jaskier's cock. It's a very nice cock, longer and thicker than the bard's other proportions would suggest, and likely the source of a good deal of Jaskier's swaggering about. It fits well in Geralt's throat, fills him up just so, and the noises from Jaskier when Geralt takes enough of him to press his lips to Jaskier's belly makes the maneuver worth it. Geralt never chokes, but it's crossed his mind that if Jaskier didn't stop to stare at him every time this happens, and gave his mouth a proper fucking, he just might. It's worth mentioning, perhaps. Except for the part where they're not going to do this again after this time.

"Geralt," Jaskier pants, eyes wide and watching him work. "Fuck. I should've been a painter."

Geralt smiles around Jaskier's cock. He tongues and sucks with an abandon that's one more appealing element about taking Jaskier to bed: with other partners, Geralt's guard is up, primed for the chance someone will use that moment of naked vulnerability to slip a knife between his ribs or wrap their hands around his throat. He fucks well enough in those circumstances, considering, but they do not receive his undivided attention. With Jaskier he knows he's not about to be attacked, is not being deceived. Jaskier wants to bed him because they're both quite good at it and they enjoy it—has no other motivation that Geralt has been able to discern than that.

Jaskier may be an impulsive fool without an ounce of self-preservation or foresight, but after so much time, and against all instincts, Geralt trusts him—as much as he can trust anyone. Jaskier won't try and injure him, not on purpose. If for no other reason than it's Geralt's stories that he tells, Geralt's adventures that make his purse fat with coins and Jaskier's name lauded in the courts of kings and queens. The fact of the matter is that Jaskier needs him, and—

"Need you," Jaskier whispers. It's so uncanny that Geralt pulls off of his cock and looks him dead in the eye. No sign that Jaskier's gained the skill of mind-reading overnight; no, Jaskier is twisted up with desire, his lip bitten, his fingers sunk deep. "A little help, Witcher?"

Geralt shakes himself from his reverie, soaks in the sight before him, and nods. He leans over the side of the bed to grope after his discarded garments. In the pouch on his belt is the vial of oil he tucked there as a precaution, even though he and Jaskier had agreed that they wouldn't be doing this again. It was better if they didn't—smarter, uncomplicated, less inviting of disaster.

Anyone in their right mind would stop bedding the only person who called themselves their friend in a friendless world. This road can only end in conflagration.

"Here," says Geralt, who has never been accused of being in his right mind. In the close confines of the room his voice sounds low and coaxing. "Let me."

Geralt finishes what Jaskier began, opens him up until Jaskier is spread on three of his fingers. Jaskier's head is thrown back and his thighs are trembling. Geralt bites his way up the inside of one and down the other.

"Geralt, if your intention is to have me die of old age, I'm halfway there. I feel my grip on this mortal coil wavering."

Geralt laughs. "You're too tight," he says. "Take another finger for me." He tucks in a fourth finger, presses forward. Jaskier gasps, hips twitching. One of his hands clutches at the bed-cover, opening and closing helplessly.

"Yes," says Geralt. "That's better."

"Haven't, ah," says Jaskier, staring straight up at the timber-beams on the ceiling above. "Haven't done this since the last time. The last last time, that is."

"No?" Geralt crooks his fingers, and Jaskier keens. He's surprised by the rush of gratification that arrives in the wake of Jaskier's words. Geralt has no claim on him, that much they've been clear about, yet tonight the thought of Jaskier laid out for someone else sends a flare of warning up Geralt's spine. It's like the threat of danger he feels right before a fight, his body readying to strike.

"No," Jaskier says, and the ringing in Geralt's ears fades to the thrum of his pulse. "Been busy. Lots of feted performances. Multi-kingdom acclaim. No dearth of adoring admirers, to be sure—fuck, Geralt—but I simply haven't had the time."

"Perhaps I shouldn't be tying you up like this," says Geralt, and isn't that an idea for later, "—are you sure you haven't more pressing business?"

"Quite sure," says Jaskier, "that I can just about fit you in."

"That was awful," says Geralt, but he's grinning. Pulling free his fingers. Moving into place. "A new low, even for you."

"You set me up for it," Jaskier says. He grabs hold of Geralt's cock and shifts to take the head inside. "Oh. Oh. Fuck. Your fucking cock."

Geralt lifts an eyebrow as he sinks in by increments. "That's the general idea."

"Stop smiling like that, Witcher. I always forget how big you are. Make myself forget. Selective amnesia. It's such a nice surprise that way."

"You're mad," Geralt says. And tight and slick with oil and hot inside, eager for all that Geralt will give him. Geralt hitches Jaskier higher, thrusts deeper. He leans down and kisses the maddening angle of Jaskier's stubborn jaw, kisses right along it, and then he's kissing Jaskier's mouth as he rocks in. Jaskier makes a surprised, pleased sound and cinches his legs around Geralt's waist, his arms slipped around Geralt's neck.

It's all suddenly a bit much, and not anywhere close to enough. Geralt pulls back and slams in hard. He yanks Jaskier's hands free from his neck and pins them to the bed, and then, as Jaskier, his eyes gleaming, starts to struggle and test Geralt's hold, he gathers them together over Jaskier's head and keeps his wrists caught one-handed. It's a show-offy move, but Geralt doesn't much care, not with Jaskier fighting against him while his hips rise to meet Geralt’s cock thrust for thrust.

"Yes, yes," Jaskier says. "Fuck me. Gods, yes, just like that."

Fucking just like this uses a great many of the tools in Geralt's arsenal. His muscles flex as he keeps Jaskier pinned; Jaskier is no match for his strength, but he's sneaky, slippery, and has been known to break free. Jaskier enjoys being fucked a great many ways, but when they're like this, it means hard and fast and deep, a pace Geralt would worry was brutal if Jaskier didn't plead so persuasively for it. This kind of fucking also takes reserves of Geralt's stamina he's happy to sacrifice for a more enjoyable cause than killing.

And finally, there's his ability to balance multiple tasks, to hold Jaskier down and fuck him hard and still be able to reach between them, to wrap his free hand around Jaskier's straining cock and feel the throb of it in his palm. To coax still greater heights from Jaskier, while the face Geralt watches throughout glazes over with pleasure, and Jaskier's breath emerges in heated, breathy gasps.

"Geralt," Jaskier groans. "Geralt, please."

Ask Jaskier what he's asking for now and you'll get no intelligible reply, so Geralt quiets him with his tongue in Jaskier's mouth. That's when Jaskier tightens up on his cock and spills between them, hot and wet, the whole of his body arcing up to take Geralt deep as he can.

Geralt could come with him, come at the feel of him, the tension in Jaskier's jaw going slack with release, the desperate way he pushes back in Geralt's hold to draw out his pleasure. Geralt could, but it still isn't enough. He hasn't had enough.

He draws them apart instead, so close to the edge he can taste it on the back of his tongue. His cock is rock-hard and glistening, and Jaskier's thighs are shaking. The bard lies beneath him, blissed out, not bothering to separate his wrists when Geralt lets him go. His limbs look loose, liquid.

But Jaskier lifts his head a fraction of an inch. Frowns, his eyebrows knit together. "You didn't come."

"Not done with you yet," says Geralt. He tracks the little shiver of delight that washes over Jaskier's skin. "I told you how I'd be fucking you tonight."

"Hands and knees, right," says Jaskier. "Just the one problem, as I see it. I couldn't possibly turn over, not after that. My body's refusing all commands. I'm not entirely sure that I have a body."

"No matter," says Geralt, who finds he cannot wait another moment. He lies down next to Jaskier and turns him sideways in his arms. Jaskier's with him fast enough, manages to pull up one leg, just in time for Geralt to thrust back inside him. The angle is deeper like this, with Geralt's front pressed to Jaskier's back, Geralt's body wrapped around him. He holds Jaskier close for leverage, and Jaskier swears feelingly.

Geralt's pulse is racing past his ear, a drumbeat of blood that threatens to drown out all else, but he somehow manages to slow at the stream of invective from Jaskier.

"Fuck—shit—no, don't stop, you overgrown idiot," Jaskier bites out. "It's good. It's so good, Witcher, and I can't come again. My life's terrifically unfair."

"Poor you," sympathizes Geralt, and he quickens his speed again. Plastered against Jaskier, he can feel every curve and bone of Jaskier's body, feel the reverberating impact of his cock as it drives into him. It's easy to kiss the slope of Jaskier's shoulder, which is right there for the kissing, and to skim his hand up and down Jaskier's side before settling on his hip. It's a jolt when Jaskier lifts his hand and rests it over Geralt's, threads up their fingers, but it doesn't break his rhythm.

Instead it hurtles Geralt to the precipice, and he goes over without much say in the matter, his body exulting, his brain blinking out to nothing but ecstatic relief, his cock pulsing and spilling seed as he clings to Jaskier's thigh hard enough to bruise.

His teeth are a sharp graze on Jaskier's shoulder, and his arm must be a heavy weight; still Geralt keeps Jaskier against him and gives him more, more, all that he has. Jaskier will be wet to dripping when Geralt pulls out, ready to be fucked and filled anew. Geralt's cock twitches with interest, and Jaskier laughs.

"Don't even think about it. I require rest, wine, and wooing, in that order, if you intend to do that again."

"Wooing?" Geralt repeats.

"Well, in your case, that means asking nicely, if you're capable of it, and—hmm, yes. Oh, Geralt, that feels—all right, I’ll accept massage in lieu of wooing."

"Jaskier," says Geralt, fingers digging into the knots formed where Jaskier has bent too many times over his lute, “this should really be the last time we do this."

"You're right, of course," Jaskier hums. "A bit higher, if you please."

"Easier for both of us in the long-run," says Geralt. "Can't see what we'd do otherwise."

"Exactly so. Best to desist before it becomes inconvenient."

"I'm glad we agree," says Geralt.

"Only," considers Jaskier, "did you mean that should be the last time, or should it encompass the morning? You did mention earlier that I was meant to ride you."

"I said I'd let you," says Geralt, thinking about it. "If you were good."

“I was very good,” Jaskier points out.

“Huh,” says Geralt, who must concur.

"And I said you'd beg me," Jaskier reminds. "Which remains to be seen. Perhaps, since we already agreed to that condition, the last time means tomorrow."

"We do have the room until midday," Geralt says.

"Right, then, it's settled. After tomorrow, we're finished with it." Satisfied, Jaskier relaxes against him, and Geralt tucks Jaskier in under his arm, since such closeness hardly matters if they're decided upon a later date.

A thought occurs to Geralt. "What about the rest of the night?"

"I'd think that was covered," Jaskier says. "Why? What did you have in mind?"

"Rest a bit first," says Geralt, "and then I'll pour us some wine, and tell you about it, and ask nicely."

"Dear Geralt," says Jaskier. "You listened. I wasn't sure that was possible for you."

"On rare occasion," Geralt says. "I'm capable of a great many things, you know."

"I do know that, in theory," Jaskier allows. "It's a bit of a shame that we won't get to explore your capacity in further depth, but it would be a bad idea to keep carrying on as we have."

"A really bad idea," says Geralt, and moves to settle back over him.

Jaskier rakes fingers through Geralt's hair. Geralt kisses him, presses his palm to Jaskier's cheek and frames his face one-handed. Jaskier smiles against Geralt's mouth before he licks his way in.

Thus sworn that they are completely, unequivocally done with such behavior after the morrow, they set out to prove their resolve.

After all, the time after this is sure to be the last. Best to make it count.