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    Summary

    Geralt has gone to knees in front of Jaskier, arms held behind him and chin raised high.  He’s sitting on his heels, shoulders back.  His posture is better than any submissive Jaskier has ever seen; like he has been waiting a long, long time.

    Like it is all that he needs.

    “Geralt,” Jaskier starts, but there are no more words in him right then. 

    Geralt’s eyes are still pitch black, and he is bleeding sluggishly from a dozen different wounds, whining low at the sound of his name.  The potions help him in a fight, but they’re hard on his body, and he’s taken far too many of them if his eyes haven’t shifted back yet.  He tilts his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat, and something sings through Jaskier that he cannot even begin to quell.  Geralt is on his knees.

    Geralt is on his knees for Jaskier.

    “Oh, darling,” Jaskier says, reaching down to cup his cheek, watching the way his head lolls into the touch.  His breathing starts to even out as Jaskier brushes the hair back from his face with his other hand, running gentle fingers over his brow.  “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

    Language:
    English
    Words:
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