[Ah. Fuck. He didn't actually expect any requests.
Fortunately, Geralt's request is a very good one. (A demand, more like. A growl, a snarl. Truly he fucks with that line between monster and man so frightfully well, Jaskier cannot help but fantasize about what he could have next. Geralt's hands around his wrists, holding him down. Forcing him to kiss whatever scar he can reach.)
Next time. There may never be one, and as much as he shall mourn it, he can take what he wants now. Savor the tremble in his own voice and the darkness in Geralt's. The heat of it all. The sweat.
Jaskier is all too human, all too distracted, he doesn't notice a thing. Not much could drag him out of this, not even an interruption. (Why not put on a show at that point?)] Fine. [As if he's put upon by the request, his mouth traveling over Geralt's back. The scars are horrid, and he can so easily recall the tackiness of the Witcher's blood as he tried to heal him. As he watched Sam sew them up. The threads have long been removed, the skin knitted together. He finds a particularly rough mound of pale skin and bites it as his hips jerk sharply. Moving across the canvas, he gives them each a nip followed by a kiss, or only a kiss and a stroke of his tongue, until the twist inside him is painfully tight. Jaskier moans against his skin, fucks him harder, until the twist is snapped as easily as muscle under a blade.
He spills in him, his hand slipping on the wet of his back until he's collapsed against the Witcher.
And he sort of. Lingers there.] I have two hands to spare. If you still need them.
no subject
Fortunately, Geralt's request is a very good one. (A demand, more like. A growl, a snarl. Truly he fucks with that line between monster and man so frightfully well, Jaskier cannot help but fantasize about what he could have next. Geralt's hands around his wrists, holding him down. Forcing him to kiss whatever scar he can reach.)
Next time. There may never be one, and as much as he shall mourn it, he can take what he wants now. Savor the tremble in his own voice and the darkness in Geralt's. The heat of it all. The sweat.
Jaskier is all too human, all too distracted, he doesn't notice a thing. Not much could drag him out of this, not even an interruption. (Why not put on a show at that point?)] Fine. [As if he's put upon by the request, his mouth traveling over Geralt's back. The scars are horrid, and he can so easily recall the tackiness of the Witcher's blood as he tried to heal him. As he watched Sam sew them up. The threads have long been removed, the skin knitted together. He finds a particularly rough mound of pale skin and bites it as his hips jerk sharply. Moving across the canvas, he gives them each a nip followed by a kiss, or only a kiss and a stroke of his tongue, until the twist inside him is painfully tight. Jaskier moans against his skin, fucks him harder, until the twist is snapped as easily as muscle under a blade.
He spills in him, his hand slipping on the wet of his back until he's collapsed against the Witcher.
And he sort of. Lingers there.] I have two hands to spare. If you still need them.
[One to grip each of the devil's horns.]