#he’s holding his ribbon! he’s wearing underclothes! the light and darkness!

[duohensheng]

a private moment with the incense burner: xiyao edition

alt title: dream confessions from the cloud recesses

this one! ow!!! drew it then couldn’t not make it sad. these two 💔

[idabbleincrazy]

Commonality

Fandom: Angel (Buffyverse)

Rating: E

Pairing: Spangel, past Fanged Four polycule

Characters: Spike, Angel, mentions of Fanged Four, others

Word Count: 2870

Warnings: smut, subby Angel, lingerie, d/s undertones, biting, foreplay, sensual touching, dirty talk, frottage, aftercare, some angst and fluff, cuddling, coming on command, touch starved vampires

Summary: Spike is floundering, and Angel hasn’t completely let go of the past.

A/N: written for @julybreakbingo for the squares 'physical touch/intimacy and sensuality/need for physical touch' and 'lingerie/garters/crotchless panties/corset/stockings/only a large shirt'. Hope you guys like my first attempt at Angel in lingerie!

Spike looked across the boardroom at Angel as the rest of the team filed past him for the meeting, and promptly walked back out. Let the brunette be mad and bite his head off for it later, but he couldn't stay in that room and just pretend.

Bastard! Did he think I wouldn't know? That I couldn't see that scrap of fabric flashing from beneath his shirt every time he shifted? Bloody well doing it on purpose, I just know it.

It had been two months since he was re-corporealized and for the last couple of weeks, he was slowly being driven out of his head with need. By him.

Every time he bothered to come to one of Angel's meetings, every time he was called into the Great Forehead's office, he smelt it. A scent that hadn't assailed his senses in over a century. The heady combination of musky, male arousal, sweet, clean satin, and soft, enticing lace. He knew, hidden beneath his oh-so-expensive and new designer suits, Angel was wearing them again. Whether they were the originals, or if Angel had had them remade from memory, or if he had just bought new pieces of the latest fashion, he was unsure, but there was no doubt in his mind that he had misplaced those aromas. And it was all he could do not to tackle the big lug to the carpet and tear off his poncey suit to reveal the cock-hardening beauty that hid beneath.

For over two weeks he'd put up with it, scarpering off to the nearest empty room the first chance he'd got, and barely taking himself out before coming in waves of useless seed and unsatisfied lust. But, no more. One way or the other, he had to put a stop to it.

Knowing he had about half an hour until Angel wrapped up the meeting, Spike made his way to the CEO's office, sneaking past Harmony while she was occupied on a call. He took the private elevator up to Angel's penthouse apartment and shed his duster, tossing it onto the couch without a care for the mess.

Stalking into Angel's bedroom, he headed straight for the closet. In the corner sat a large steamer trunk, which Spike dragged out and, after thirty seconds, picked the lock. Hefting open the lid, Spike let out a quiet groan at the colorful trove he discovered.

A mixture of old and new, dark and light, satin, silk, lace, and cotton, a few dozen articles of underclothing lay neatly folded within the steamer. Spike's cock, already half-hard from just the thought of what was hidden under Angel's clothes at this very moment, filled to the point of pressing painfully against his zipper as he reached into the trunk to pull out one of the folded bundles.

It was one of the originals, the first one he'd seen Angelus wearing, in fact. A cream colored chemise and drawers combination, with light blue ribbons accenting the waist and leg ruffles. Delicate stitching lined around the bust, and Spike recalled with total clarity the way it perfectly framed Angelus' broad chest. Holding it to his nose, he was disappointed to find it smelling like laundry detergent instead of the musky scent of his sire. He could smell the faintest tendrils of scents that tugged his memory, Dru, Darla, Angelus, himself, all there, sunk into the cedar; but he knew none of the soft, delicate clothes retained a trace of anything other than the spring fresh soap.

Still staring down into the pile of shimmering satins and soft cotton, Spike remained unaware of Angel's approach until the elder vampire cleared his throat from the doorway. He hopped up and spun around to face the brunette, half embarrassed at being caught out, half angry at catching Angel out, still fully horny and aching to lay the man bare.

"Thought I'd never find out, did you, Angel?"

Angel looked between him and the open trunk, his face twisted in a look somewhere between shame and fury, with a tint of desperation and pleading flashing behind his eyes as he turned the accusations back on Spike.

"Why the hell are you in my room, Spike!? Nosing through my things like you have any fucking right!"

"No right? No right?!" Spike crossed the few feet between them with the speed of justified rage, the hand still holding the combination rising to poke the larger vampire square in the chest. "You've spent weeks driving me round the bloody bend, wearing these under your clothes, acting all innocent. Christ, Angel! I've been hard almost constantly, can't get you outta my head long enough to think about anything other than making it to the sodding supply closet without coming in my pants, and you wanna talk to me about rights? About fucking privacy?!"

Angel was looking down at the finger still pressing into his chest, and the already obvious scent of arousal in the air thickened, causing both vampires to hiss out a low groan. Spike felt his cock pulse out a spurt of pre-come as he watched Angel's eyes darken, warm brown irises thinning as the black of his pupils overtook them. He smirked at the larger vampire, nearly twenty years of intimate knowledge of the all brunette's proclivities working in his favor.

"Spike-"

"Uh-uh, no, Angel. You're not gonna worm your way outta this one, mate, oh, no. You know exactly what you've been doing since I got my body back; hell, probably even before I re-corporealized, just hoping I'd catch a glimpse of your frilly knickers and not be able to do a damn thing about it. Well, I can do something about it now, pet."

Angel stifled a moan as Spike tossed the combination aside and pushed him over to the bed, stripping his suit jacket off and hurriedly working at the buttons of his shirt. Impatience quickly got the better of him and he ripped the expensive shirt open, revealing a sight that made a growl rumble in his chest.

Under the dark blue silk of Angel's ruined shirt, a vibrant red satin and lace bra covered the broad expanse of his chest, subtly cupping his pecs in a way that made Spike's mouth water. Memories of loose chemises and bone-crushingly tight corsets flashed through his mind, and he found himself appreciating this modern half-step between the two. Not that he would mind lacing Angel into a corset again, but the formless combinations he could maybe do without.

"Christ, but you are still a pretty slut, aren't you, Angel?"

Angel moaned softly and Spike could see the slightest tremor run through him. His hands itched to reach out and feel that solid body beneath his fingers. All these weeks and he just wanted to feel. To touch and be touched, and know he was still there, still real. The months he'd spent stuck only half-existing had left him starved for it. And he had more than an inkling that Angel longed for the same thing. He'd spent endless hours watching him, after all, saw how little the others actually touched him, how alone he really was. He wasn’t sure if it was a vampire trait, something unique to the Aurelian line of demon, or simply something that the four of them had happened to have in common; he remembered how much his little family had depended upon the tactile, hands always resting on one or the other, twined in Darla’s hair or twisted up in Drusilla’s skirts, fisting around Angelus’ vest or gripping tight at his waist. They were hardly ever not touching each other back then. Reminding themselves and each other they weren’t yet truly dead.

“Spike, please.”

Angel’s voice cut through his pondering, and his eyes snapped up to the brunette’s, unsurprised at the growing desperation in them.

“Don’t worry, pet, gonna give ya what we both want. What we’ve both been needin’ for too long now.”

Brushing his fingers lightly over one strap of the bra, he removed what was left of Angel’s shirt, letting the shreds of fabric flutter to the floor as he moved on to the buckle of Angel’s belt. Angel let out a nearly quiet hiss of anticipation as Spike undid the button of his slacks and slid the zipper down. He pushed the trousers down Angel’s legs, urging him to step out of them and remove his socks and shoes. Angel complied and stood before him, slightly trembling and naked, save for the bra and the matching pair of lace and satin panties barely covering his rampant erection.

“Bloody hell, Angel. Do you know what a gorgeous sight you make like this, pet? Think this even outdoes that piece you had made in Venice. Remember how much fun we had that night? Even the girls couldn’t stop cooing over you; Darla claimed she reckoned you’d have made us a good little fortune if we rented you out to the whorehouses for a night or two.” Spike chuckled softly at the memory, and nearly missed the moan Angel released. “Got a little carried away after that, though, didn’t I? Think it was the thought of anyone beyond the three of us putting their hands on you. ‘S a shame it was useless after that, it was a pretty corset. Now, time to see how carried away I get tonight…”

Before Angel could react, Spike pushed him onto the bed, climbing onto the mattress after him. Straddling his waist, he stared down at the brunette, relishing the feel of the sturdy, solid body between his thighs as he decided where he wanted to touch first. Angel bucked up slightly, rubbing his satin-clad cock against Spike’s jeans, and he hissed at the friction on his own aching erection.

He ground back down against Angel, feeling the tacky dampness of pre-come beginning to seep through the denim, and braced his hands against Angel's chest, groaning at the feel of cool, firm flesh beneath his fingertips. Angel's hands fisted the comforter as Spike rocked against him, and Spike knew he was waiting.

"Touch me, Angel."

Angel's hands immediately flew up to his hips, fingers tugging at his t-shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of his jeans to bare a strip of pale skin. Reluctantly pushing back off Angel's chest, Spike quickly yanked his shirt over his head, allowing better access to his eager touch.

As Angel's hands roamed over his stomach and around to his back, Spike stretched himself out over the brunette's body, his head burrowing briefly between the two small mounds the bra managed to create; nothing substantial enough to be noticed beneath the added layer of clothing, but just the merest illusion breasts to titillate the imagination, sparking memories in the back of Spike's mind. He mouthed over one satin-cupped pectoral, his tongue flicking out to soak the fabric over the nipple, and Angel arched up into it with a whimper, his nails scratching along his back, fingers gripping him closer. His legs now lay between Angel’s thighs, the older vampire’s heels hooked around him, digging into the back of his knees. Having been given permission to touch, he seemed desperate to touch everything available to him all at once, not wanting to allow the merest gap of space between them.

Spike groaned against Angel’s nipple, his cock made impossibly harder at the realization that Angel was as desperate for this lost connection as he was. This was what he’d been needing since he got his body back, this frenzied, mindless grasping, two beings pressing together so tight a human would go numb from the lack of circulation, pressing closer still, as though trying to meld into one entity, never to be separated and alone again. This was what he’d failed to find in that botched rekindling with Harmony, what he’d searched for in every hug from Fred and friendly clap on the back or clasp of hands from Charlie, but still lacked the proper substantiality. He finally, truly, felt real, solid. Able to touch, to feel, to affect the world around him, no longer useless, a wispy spectral image of nothingness. He finally believed he was back.

He hadn’t really planned on ruining this set of underclothes, he really did like the way they looked on Angel, but he couldn’t hold back the need as his fangs dropped, sharp points slicing easily through the thin fabric, piercing the taut bud of flesh. A cry of pleasure-pain sounded in his ears as he bit through the nipple, a shudder rippling through the broad form beneath him. He knew neither were going to last much longer, even though they’d barely even done anything; the need for release was too urgent, sought after for too long to hold it back. He retracted his fangs from the cool flesh and lapped away the blood as it stained the shiny material around it a darker red.

“Fuck, Angel, take me out.”

Spike felt him snake a hand between their entwined bodies, and grunted out in relief as the pressure against his throbbing cock was eased, his jeans pushed down around his thighs. Angel’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and he pushed himself up onto his knees to watch those thick fingers working him to completion. He thrust forward into Angel’s grip, his hands digging into his thighs to keep his legs wrapped around him. The tip of Angel’s cock now peeked out over the lacy edge of his panties, ruddy and weeping thick drops of pre-come steadily. Spike reached out and pulled the underwear back over the plummy head, nostrils flaring as the drops of dead seed were sucked up quickly by the flimsy fabric.

Angel was as submissive as he'd ever seen him, silent except for the pleading whimpers and moans as he worked the brunette towards his climax, and he knew just what buttons to press to get him there. Pushing his hand away from his desperate erection, he fell back upon him, crushing their cocks together and burying his nose into the crook of his neck as he bucked forward against him.

"Christ, luv, ain't gonna last to be inside you jus' now." Spike's voice was strained and husky as he growled the words out against Angel’s throat. “But we’ve time for that yet. Gonna have you put on a li’l show, see all the new pieces you’ve added to your collection. Right now, I wanna feel you come for me. C’mon, pet, dirty up those pretty panties of yours. Remember how I’d make you soil your knickers and Dru would suck you clean again? Or Darla would have you keep ‘em on while she rode you, and then I’d lick away the combined taste of you? C’mon, Angelus, lemme feel you. Come for me, Angel.”

Angel clutched him close and cried out his release, trembling against him as he rode out his orgasm. Spike could feel his come soaking the satin, wetting his own cock as it seeped through. As Angel came down from the intense climax, he made his first proactive movement of the evening and tugged Spike's head away from his neck, crushing their mouths together in a passionate kiss. As his tongue slid past Spike's lips, tangling with his own, the blonde gave in to the overwhelming whirl of sensations and came, powerful spurts of come drenching the panties from the other side, mingling with Angel's.

Once the final spasms of his climax ran through him, Spike disentangled himself from Angel’s embrace and helped him further up the bed. There was a look on Angel’s face that, if he hadn’t known him quite so well, would’ve had him reaching for the nearest stake. It wasn’t complete happiness, but a look of inner peace, and Spike understood it. He himself hadn’t felt anything close to it since Dru had left him. At this very moment, soul and demon were both content, no longer warring with each other, tugging him in two directions.

Spike climbed off the bed and eased the ruined lingerie off a purring, half-asleep Angel. He regretted the ruination of the bra, but had a feeling it would quickly be replaced. The panties, he stuffed into his pocket with a smirk before kicking off his boots and shimmying out of his jeans. He fetched a damp towel from the bathroom and gave himself a brief wipe down before doing the same with Angel. Tossing the washcloth aside, he maneuvered Angel under the sheets and joined him, turning off the bedside lamp.

It was Friday, and the edifice of evil had closed up shop for the weekend; they had plenty of time for Angel to give him a little fashion show, and a century of touching to make up for. After a well deserved rest. Spike draped himself over Angel and let out a soft sigh of contentment when he felt Angel’s arm wrap around him, holding him closer.

“Thank you.”

The whisper was so quiet, he barely made it out over the rumble that had started in his own chest. His lips quirked into a sleepy smile and he snuggled deeper into Angel’s embrace, returning the possessive hold.

“No, luv, thank you.”

*****

All Things Spike: @leatafandom

Bottom Angel: @toutes-les-routes

[jaskierswolf]

He Had It Coming

Also on AO3

Geraskier - Chicago inspired Fanfic. Rating: E. Word Count: 2165

Warnings: implied weapon kink, masturbation, general spiciness

_________

Geralt scowled as he peered up at the building in front of him. On the outside it just looked like an ordinary house but the rumours about town said something different. Brothels weren’t unusual in a town like this, but for some reason that Geralt couldn’t quite work out, this one was talked about in hushed tones, whispers in ears, and flushed faces. He hummed and tugged at the strap holding his scabbard in place on his back. His medallion was still on his chest but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling of danger. 

He sighed and shook his head. The rumours said that a certain bard had taken up residence at this address. Geralt had been chasing Jaskier around the Continent for months, heading south from the mountains, weaving across the map getting ever closer to Cintra and to the looming threat of Nilfgaard. Geralt’s heart felt tight in his chest, worrying about the bard that he’d tossed aside. He had a remarkable talent for getting in trouble, but this time Geralt wasn’t around to protect him. 

With one last sigh he knocked on the door.

A lady answered, the door ajar, but even through the small gap Geralt could smell the scent of sweat and sex, barely masked by the familiar incense of a brothel. She had short dark hair cropped above her ears, dark skin with thick muscles, more than he would have expected from a whore or a madam. She had silky black bands wrapped around her biceps, a lacy black corset and her skirt, if you could call it that, was shredded. It wasn’t completely unusual for a whore but… there was a dangerous glint in her eyes that put Geralt on edge.

“Yes, witcher?”

Geralt frowned. “I’m looking for Jaskier.”

“Funny place to come looking for a flower,” she narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t close the door. 

“I’ve been told he’s here.”

“The interesting thing about buttercups, witcher, is that despite their pretty appearance… they’re toxic,” she hissed, dark brown eyes challenging and strong. 

“I know, I’ve come to apologise.”

She laughed and pushed the door open. “Well don’t say I didn’t warn you, Geralt of Rivia. He said you’d come for him.”

Geralt hummed but moved inside. It was dark inside too, barely lit with candles. The air was thick with incense and he grimaced. He’d never enjoyed the stronger perfumes preferred by whores in places such as this. Now he was inside he could see why his sense had been alerted him to danger. Every one of the whores had daggers sheathed in holders on their thighs. They were all draped in lace and silk, some corseted some not, and high heels that could easily be used as a weapon in the right hands. 

Geralt swallowed, looking around the room for his colourful bard amongst all the black lace, but Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. 

“He’s getting ready for his performance. Take a seat near the back, witcher, and don’t touch my darlings, they bite.”

Geralt did as he was told, watching her as she glided through the room with enviable grace. The whores, if that was what they were, were of all different races and gender. He noted a pretty blond elf sat in the lap of a client on the opposite side of the room. He had fishnets covering his arms and long hair covered a sheer chiffon chemise, embroidered with flowers, his underclothes were tight and leather, barely covering the man’s cock as he moved sensually in the client’s lap. Geralt tore his gaze away, he wasn’t here for sex, he was here for Jaskier. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think of anything that could distract him from the heat pooling at his core. 

He was so deep in thought that didn’t notice Jaskier appearing on the stage, not until he started to talk. Geralt’s eyes snapped up, Jaskier was partially hidden in the dim light by a set of prison bars. He gripped the bars, one long leg stretched out above his head…

Geralt’s breath hitched. Jaskier was wearing long high heeled boots, and like the elf, he had fishnets covering his arms. Geralt had seen Jaskier shirtless countless times but this… this was something else. His forearms looked like they would rip the netting apart as he gripped the bars. Thick, dark chest hair disappeared into a silky black corset, tied at the front. Geralt adjusted his eyes so he could see better in the darkness of the brothel, and he was not disappointed. There were buttercups shimmering on the black fabric and the corset cinched in his waist. His hair had grown out, now just tickling his chin and he looked… he looked like a nightmare; Dark, dangerous…. perfect.  

“My witcher, Geralt and I had this double act,” Jaskier’s soothing tenor took command of the room in an instant. The background hustle and bustle faded to silence, and Geralt heard a steady rhythmic beat of heels, tapping against the floor. The performance had begun. There was a quiet soft chanting in the background, from the performers all around the room; he had it coming. 

Jaskier’s leg slid down the bars and he sauntered out from behind his cage, hips swaying, blue eyes lined with dark kohl. Geralt’s cursed under his breath as Jaskier’s eyes met his in across the room, and the bard winked, licking blood red lips that took Geralt’s breath away. 

My witcher

Geralt hardly deserved that title anymore. He wasn’t anyone’s witcher, he was alone… as he deserved to be. 

“And this sorceress, Yennefer, traveled round with us,” Jaskier’s blue eyes watched his audience carefully as he strutted around the stage. It was only then that Geralt noticed the holsters strapped around Jaskier’s thighs, twin daggers sharp and lethal, jewelled hilts glittering in the candle light. 

“Now, for the last contract together,” Jaskier tilted his head and smirked as two performers joined him on the stage, the blond elf and a pretty young girl with long raven hair, a silk ribbon tied around her neck. 

“We were summoned to join a terrible hunt. There were knights,” Jaskier put his hand on the blond’s shoulder, “dwarves,” one hand landed on Jaskier’s waist, “Reavers,” legs interlinked,”monsters,” the fake Yen put her hand on her hips “dragons,” the elf’s hand linked with Jaskier’s above his head, and the bard’s eyes closed, his head tilting back, bearing his neck… and it took every ounce of Geralt’s self control not to fight his way to the front of stage to claim Jaskier as his own. 

“sword fights, Hirikkas, mages, one right after the other,” Jaskier turned back and smirked at Geralt. 

Jaskier gently pushed the two dancers away and strolled casually to the edge of the stage, hands sliding down the inside of his thighs as he dropped seductively, shimmying back up again, fingers toying with the hilt of a dagger. Geralt couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away, this was Jaskier; his bard. There was no use fighting the arousal anymore, he was hard in his pants, and his growled as he palmed himself through his trousers, never taking his eyes off Jaskier.

“So this one night before the hunt we were sitting around the campfire, the three of us, drinking, having a few laughs, until it was time for bed, so.. I settle down on my bedroll,” Jaskier slowly ran his hand through his hair, lips parted, he pulled one dagger from its holster flipping it expertly in his hand. “When I woke up, I went to Yen’s tent…”

He crossed the stage, the flat of the dagger pressed against his cheek carelessly, the elf and the raven haired beauty were in shadows behind him but Geralt could see they were close, his heart dropped. He knew what was coming… knew by his own memories and the ice in the bard’s eyes. 

“And there’s Yennefer and Geralt, in each other’s arms, fucking around!” Jaskier’s voice was like thunder; harsh and unforgiving. 

Geralt winced, looking away from the stage, guilt surging through him. He’d known Jaskier loved him, the bard hadn’t been subtle, and yet… he hadn’t allowed himself the chance to be happy with Jaskier, choosing the icy embrace of the Djinn wish instead of listening to his heart. 

The dagger in Jaskier’s hands brushed the bard’s throat in a clear threat. “Well, I was in such a state of shock, I completely blacked out, I can't remember a thing,” the dagger returned to its holster and Jaskier turned around, as a dancer crossed his path, when he faced Geralt once more his fists were clenched. “It wasn't until later, when I was washing the blood off my hands, I even knew they were dead.”

Red ribbons fell from Jaskier’s hands, a sinister grin on his face. The chanting got louder and Jaskier joined the song. “They had it coming!” He growled as he sang, and fuck it shouldn’t have been so hot. Geralt knew he should feel bad but all he wanted was to drag the bard from the stage and fuck him until neither of them could remember their own names. 

The dance routine was like fire in his blood, hands were all over Jaskier’s body, in his hair, on his arse, hips, thighs… It wasn’t fair. It should be Geralt, but he’d missed his window. All he could do now was stroke his own cock to the sight of his bard dressed like sin, confident, calculating, deadly. He bit his own hand as he came, the candles in the brothel extinguishing as Jaskier returned to his ‘cell’. 

“Fuck,” Geralt growled as he wiped his hand on his trousers, grimacing at the mess. This was not why he’d come to the house… how could he face Jaskier now?

“Oh dear, witcher…” Jaskier’s voice whispered, light and teasing, in his ear. He shivered and closed his eyes. 

“Jaskier.”

“Why are you here, Geralt? In case you hadn’t noticed… you aren’t exactly welcome.”

Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Not dead either,” he groused. 

“Hmm, true… but that’s hardly a good story,” Jaskier chuckled, his hands brushing along Geralt’s shoulders before he straddled Geralt’s lap. “You never answered my question, witcher.”

Geralt swallowed, unprepared for the lapful of bard. He’d expected Jaskier to keep his distance, but this was more torturous, to have what he wanted so tantalisingly close, and yet out of reach. “I came for you.”

Jaskier laughed. “I can see that, Geralt, but why are you here?”

Geralt snorted. “To apologise, I, I miss you.”

“Go on then,” Jaskier cooed, his hands wrapping around Geralt’s neck. “apologise.”

Geralt tried, he really did, but Jaskier was rocking against him, soft moans falling from his lips. Geralt groaned and buried his face in Jaskier’s neck, hands gripping the bards arse. He could already feel himself getting hard again as Jaskier moved so delightfully in his lap. “Jask,” he hissed. 

“Yes, darling?”

“I need you,” he panted “I need you in my life… but right now, fuck. Have you got a room?”

Jaskier laughed and brushed his lips along Geralt’s jaw. “I do, do you deserve an invitation?”

Geralt moaned and shook his head. “No, gods, I fucked up, Jask. I don’t deserve you, want you though, need you.” 

Jaskier’s lips ghosted over his, never quite kissing him. He smirked and pulled away with a tilt of his head, sliding from Geralt’s lap and extending a hand. “Come along, witcher. We will talk about this properly in the morning, I want a full apology or else we’re done. Is that clear?”

Geralt nodded as he was pulled from his seat.

“But, I have been dreaming about this since I was eighteen, so I’m allowing myself one final night of self-indulgence,” he winked. “then it’s judgement day, witcher.”

“One night?”

Jaskier laughed, fingers wrapping around one of the daggers strapped to his thighs. “We’ll see, darling, depends how good your apology is,” the teasing glimmer fell from his eyes. “I loved you, you know that?”

Geralt nodded glumly. “I knew yeah.”

“Good, I wanted you to know,” Jaskier shook his head. “bit masochistic of me, but I needed you to know someone loved you, without destiny or magic, without any expectations.”

Geralt hummed, unable to say the words that were stuck in his throat. So instead he pulled his bard into a kiss, pouring his love into it, hoping Jaskier would hear the words hidden behind his actions. Jaskier seemed startled but soon kissed back, moaning as the kiss deepened, pulling Geralt towards the stairs without letting them break apart. A warmth spread in Geralt’s chest. Jaskier had said he loved Geralt, but he knew now that he still did. It wasn’t too late, it should have been but someone somewhere thought that Geralt deserved a second chance, and it would try his hardest not to fuck it up this time.

________

Tag list (18+): @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @slythnerd @hailhailsatan @thecomfortofoldstorries @gelos @moonysourenza @00qtee @honeysuckletook @elliestormfound @sleepy-thief @artistsfuneral  @kittynannygaming @stinastar @fontegagrilledcheese @baka-yu @anythinggoesfandoms @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @kueble @love-more-today-than-yesterday @kozkaboi @wherethewordsare

[augment-techs]

SENTENCE STARTERS: “they might live in a nice palace with a blood red bathroom but it's always cold in there” + The palace of horrors, (aka Drakkon’s palace) + The Coinless

"...After a while I got tired of waking up with them ruined or missing, so I haven't bothered in years." Skull answered with such a lack of inflection or self-pity that the teasing smile Zack had been wearing when he asked the question of the other's nudity under his own bedcovers dropped quickly from his face. About as quickly as Skull left the absolutely massive bathroom that only Skull, a couple other high ranking sentries, and now the Coinless leaders used; heading for his bedroom just around the corner from Kim's (and Bulk's nowadays, Zack was fully aware) with just a towel around his waist.

* The steam from the hot water and his own body trailed after Skull down the hallway from the blood red bathroom; ribbons of white vapor that accentuated the human teeth marks all over him from a few other sentries, but mostly Drakkon when Skull was half-conscious or outright drugged for the night at the tyrant's bidding. His skin pebbled from the slightly raised heat in his room, so different from the chill of the halls that Bulk and Trini were trying constantly to fix, but could never seem to get just right--one of the perks to being Drakkon's favorite toy; the bastard preferred to be comfortable while being insidious and that tended to roll over into the rooms nearest him getting proper heating. Not really something Skull bothered to think about lately. He'd done enough of that in his early twenties and was well and truly over any self-hatred that might have come from seeing his scars in a mirror or looking someone in the eye who had also faced the unimaginable at Drakkon's leisure (about 90% of the sentries that had ever been stationed in the palace or as Drakkon's personal guards and assistants had been between Skull's, and Adam's, and Kelsey Winslow's legs before being stationed somewhere else, or killed, or fleeing in the night almost never to be seen again except by the Coinless). He patted himself down, water from his hair always the last to go before he tossed his towel into his clothes hamper, glancing over at his suit and underclothes he'd put in their usual place for the next day. The red of the suit and the polished shine of the helmet were always something his eyes were instinctively drawn to while he took his sleep aid--little white pills at maximum strength that tasted like the worst approximation of cherry before he swallowed them dry--and while he shut off his lights and while he got comfortable in his bed. His eyes were always on the color and the visor while he waited in the dark for the tell-tale click of his door; the sedative needed at least an hour to take hold and if he didn't invite someone in, he'd do nothing but stare at his gear and imagine them in different shapes and a different shade. Skull really was grateful for the man that walked through the door like a ghost (oh, bad metaphor) and always took his hand, waiting for a squeeze from him, before they proceeded with their night activities. Zack was too much of a gentleman to leave his room in nothing less than his jeans and boots, undershirt and jacket, and so watching him undress every time had become something of a soothing routine--one he would sometimes assist him with, but not often--that had Skull's eyes trailing Zack's movements in the removal and the folding; usually he paid close attention to his hands, all nine fingers swift with shoelaces and buttons and not making a sound. Hands were followed by arms, by wide shoulders and strong back, and sturdy legs leading up to a lovely ass, and a hard--perhaps too thin--stomach, and a friendly cock with the most hair Zack had trailing up to his bellybutton. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Zack started off with his usual, "Is this okay?"  Skull's answer was to open his covers in invitation, the "Of course," just for the sake of being polite. If Skull didn't want Zack in his bed, there were knives along the sides of the mattress and the lock in Skull's door was actually pretty strong when he bothered to use it since Kim took over. Zack slipped under the covers, pulling them over the both of them as he got into position, got the both of them comfortable in the waiting interim before relaxation, before sleep, before hoping that nightmares and memory better left alone did not come in the night. Constantly, Skull was the one with his back to the wall and Zack with his back to the outside of the bed as the former Mastodon Ranger entangled their legs and brought his arms around Skull, weaving fingers into his hair while he felt Skull trace the lines of his neck and chest, breath warm and steady against pulse points, breathing in Zack's lingering musk that held on

even after a shower. There wasn't much of his own smell left, too scrubbed down raw in the showers, any natural scent covered up with honey soap or Skull's own blood in his hair or along his arms when he scrubbed too hard, but Zack could pick up just the barest traces of something like warm sunlight at the very top of the crown of black hair, taking a deep breath to steady himself before their little ritual met its middle ground. Zack always started first, smoothing the hand missing his middle finger along the grooves of Skull's neck where he'd been twisted in a blink and killed, other hand still winding through black hair. "Ms. Appleby." Skull hesitated, as always, but pressed a light kiss where he knew Zack had received his own killing blow, just to the right of his heart, pressing his forehead and cheek to the skin in his answer. "Ernie." And so they continued their list of their missing. It wasn't the best form of therapy, but their form of grieving could never be considered in a million years by actual mental health professionals. It was was they had and it worked as well as it would ever. "Angela." "Brady." "My parents." "David." "Zordon and Alpha." "My brother." "Jason." And here they paused, both always needing a moment, the sharp end of their memory causing each of them to tighten hands and arms and legs against each other in the dark. Here the flow always broke down, because Zack was a little stronger in his admittance. Because it's not like it was a secret he carried around most of his life like Skull. Just a regret. "...Violet." Skull swallowed, the vibrations of his shaking breaking Zack's heart as he breathed in and out and there was wet on Zack's skin, hot and salty and he always had to focus to hear Skull's answer, so small and quiet and tender. "...Billy. Billy, Billy, Billy. Billy--" Zack's own tears were small, warm, almost clear as they fell into Skull's hair as Zack rocked Skull very gently, kissing that swatch of sunlight scent, promising the both of them that they'd still be there in the morning. This was the way they often fell into that goodnight.