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Leave a Mark

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“Oh!” Jaskier gasps, quick and breathy, when Geralt sinks his teeth into the juncture of his shoulder and neck.

“Too much?” Geralt laps at the bite mark already reddening on his skin as an apology. “Did I hurt you?”

The delightful rosy blush dusting Jaskier’s cheeks darkens a shade. “No…” He swallows thickly. “Well, yes, a bit, but I rather liked it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt noses at the spot he’s particularly fond of just behind Jaskier’s ear. He smells like musk and sweat and lavender, a combination which never fails to set his pulse racing, and he teases a line back down his neck with his mouth.

With each drag of teeth, Jaskier squirms in his lap. He’s so unashamedly tactile, so responsive, so open. Even now, he bends his head to bare his throat to Geralt, giving tacit permission to do as he will.

That kind of power is heady, and Geralt has always loved Jaskier’s neck. There were more times than he could count when he’d been distracted by the sweep of skin visible over a shirt collar, or the fascinating outline of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he performed. This intimate place, where Jaskier breathes and talks and sings, given over to him like a gift. He is truly rich beyond comprehension.

He bites down into the soft skin again, feeling the firm cords of muscle beneath. Jaskier inhales sharply, his pulse racing, and he can almost feel the blood pounding through his veins, so close to the surface, so vulnerable. He sucks at the skin there, lips and tongue exploring, seeing how he can make Jaskier moan and twitch.

“You’re going to leave a mark,” Jaskier breathes. He presses back into Geralt and grinds against him, the friction sending sparkles of pleasure through his body.

He inspects the red blemishes already blooming along his neck, climbing up far past what would be covered by a doublet. “Is that a problem?” he asks, voice raspy.

“Not for me.” Jaskier bites his lip and lets his head rest on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt goes back to worrying at the skin with his teeth, seeing what colours and patterns he can make bloom. The knowledge that Jaskier will be marked with his imprint for days in shades of crimson and purple has him hard as iron.

“There.” He eyes his work with satisfaction and laves over the marks one last time, soothing and inflaming at once. “Now everyone will know who you belong to.”