#you ever accidentally write a novel about a camboy and an assassin? no? just me?

[kingofdirtandnothing]

polyfacetious asked: radio Prompt Meme: (Accepting)

radio. our muses getting handsy in the car.

In the grand scheme of things, this isn’t the worst way to spend his time waiting for the mark to come to meet his mistress. But then again, the only ways that would be worse would be to stand in front of his front door with a sign that said ‘I’M HERE TO KILL YOU’ so it’s not that grand of a victory. 

But it’s the hollow bullshit one he needs to pull his phone out of the glove box and open up the incognito browser. 

Geralt tells himself that it’s all for naught. That the odds of him being at “work” at the same time as Geralt was slim to none. 

Which was all well and good, except for the fact that the little red notification bubble at the top of the screen was flashing, and when Geralt clicked on it, he was met with Jaskier is live!!

“Fuck.”

No amount of mental gymnastics would change the fact that he was clicking on the link before any amount of thought could sink in, and the top third of Geralt’s screen filled with the white wall of a bedroom and Jaskier, propped up against a mountain of pillows, idly strumming the guitar in his lap. 

Jaskier was a fucking vision, with smudged eyeliner and chest hair that rose above the tank top he was wearing. And--much to Geralt’s disappointment--hair that was wet with sweat and sticking to his cheeks. Which meant Geralt had missed the naked part of the show. 

Well, you know how it is. When the muse takes you, you... 

Jaskier’s bright eyes flicker to the corner of the screen. There must be some sort of sound when someone logs on. But beyond that, he doesn’t stop his ramblings about musing and love. 

Geralt had chosen this platform because he needed anonymity. His life wouldn’t make room for anything else. And the first few shows he’d been content to jerk himself off without paying a cent more than the monthly fee he paid for the account, and the “entry fee” for Jaskier’s chat room. 

It was a farce of privacy, a way to enjoy the sight of a beautiful man and his near constant ramblings, to let it fill up the silence in Geralt’s life. It was pathetic, is what it was. But Geralt has never been good at the bits before the fucking, and this was simpler. 

At least, that’s what he told himself. 

“I’m not doing this.” The pretty face on the other end of the video connection didn’t respond. Because it was a one way connection. Nothing to respond to. Geralt was just a name in a tiny chatbox. One of dozens, if not more. 

Jaskier (which couldn’t be a real name, but Geralt respected the veil of faux privacy enough to leave it alone) strummed something less idle, the words throaty where they spilled out of him. 

He was even better to look at when he sung. “Fuck.” Geralt’s typing before he can think better of it, hazarding a glance at the apartment building to make sure he wasn’t missing anything before he finishes the words. Of course, the man he was sent to kill didn’t have the decency to be early, and save Geralt from himself. 

‘How much for private time?’ 

There must be some sort of ping, because Jaskier’s sky blue eyes dart down, and then he lights up with a smile, turning the full force of it back onto the screen. Well, lovely G-Man, I can assure you that it’s worth every penny. 

Jaskier leans over to do his own typing, and Geralt can see his lashes. On his screen, a pop up...well...pops up with increments of time and their cost. Twenty dollars for ten minutes. Two dollars a minute. It was nothing compared to what he’d get paid for tonight’s work. 

Geralt sighs, and presses the button. 

Jaskier blows a kiss to the screen and tells the other viewers he’ll be back shortly, and to wait for him. There’s a moment or two of blank screen where Geralt is left with nothing but his own stupidity and regret, before he’s met with the sight of Jaskier again. 

He wasn’t sitting back now, he was sitting on his knees, intent and eager, gazing right into the camera. Even though Geralt knew it was impossible, it felt like that gaze was staring right into him. 

Well well. Here we are. All alone. And what will you do with me, handsome G-Man?

The username was completely stupid, and he had Yen to blame for that. But she’d paid for the first month, so...

God, he was supposed to answer. This was the part Geralt wasn’t good at. He’s never been great with people, less so with flirting. This was a mistake. An expensive one. He’s halfway to reaching up to click the ‘X’ on the screen when Jaskier speaks again.

Feeling shy, are we? That’s alright. I’ll get us started. Jaskier winked at the screen, brushing a hand down his chest. The movement was slow, and mesmerizing. Why don’t you tell me your fantasy, and I’ll do all the work. You can say it in as few words as you need. 

Geralt swears under his breath, cheeks feeling hot. He couldn’t walk away from this, not now. Not when he finally, truly had Jaskier’s attention all to himself. But his mind was overflowing with ideas. All the things he’d thought about in the shower after watching Jaskier’s show. Finally, Geralt went to the one thing he could never have. 

‘In public.’

His life was lived in the shadows, and he had to do everything he could to blend in, and not draw attention to himself. Jaskier was the opposite. He lavished the spotlight, soaked it up like a cat sunning in a window. 

In public, hm? Maybe that moan was fake. (All of this was fake, Geralt was paying for it, for fuck’s sake. But he wanted to believe, just for a little while.) But it came from low in Jaskier’s belly and echoed in the same place inside of Geralt. 

Would you fuck me where people could see, G-Man? I bet you’d make sure we put on a good show for them. You’d fill me up nice and deep, wouldn’t you? Geralt’s bitten off moan echoes through the car, and he has to reach down to adjust himself through his slacks. 

Jaskier slips just the tips of his fingers beneath his pants, watching playfully through his lashes. Would you want me to moan loud enough for everyone to hear, or would you cover my mouth?

Typing one handed has never been his strong suit, but here Geralt is, stroking himself off in a black rental car, having pretend sex with a beautiful boy who might as well be half a world away. 

‘Not cover. You could suck on my fingers’. 

Geralt has never been more grateful for autocorrect than at this moment, and he’s rewarded with another messy moan from Jaskier, who’s pulled one hand away from his pants to suck his index finger into his mouth, all the way down to the second knuckle. Mm, that’s not all I’d like to suck on, but it’s a good place to start. 

It’d be pathetic how close he is to finishing, if Geralt wasn’t paying by the minute. He pulls his hand away to spit into his palm, stripping himself in short, harsh strokes. 

He’s not a talker, never has been, but there’s some kind of magic in watching Jaskier moan and rock on his knees, still fully clothed and somehow utterly debauched. It makes him want to talk. 

‘I don’t want you over the table. I want you bouncing in my lap while people watch. Let everyone at the bar see.’

Jaskier’s blue eyes seem to darken at that, or maybe it’s a trick of the light. Tell me your name, handsome stranger. Tell me what I’ll be moaning while I fuck myself on your cock. 

He shouldn’t. It’s beyond a bad idea. His name isn’t exactly a popular one, especially in the states. But he’s lost, wrapped up in Jaskier’s voice and his pretty eyes and pretty hands, and just for a fucking second, Geralt wants to be seen. So he types those six letters with a shaking hand, and stabs ‘send’ with his thumb. 

Geralt. God, Geralt. 

It’s too much and not enough and he’s going over the edge while the timer in the corner of the screen counts two minutes and sixteen seconds remaining. Geralt curls in on himself as the waves of orgasm crash over him, and he only just happens to glance away from his phone to see a fat little man scurrying into an apartment building front door. 

“Fuck!” 

His phone drops to the floorboard as Geralt yanks his zipper back up, grabbing the gun from the center console. 

By the time Geralt washes the blood from his shoes and drops the gloves into the incinerator, all that heat in his belly has turned to ice. And when he picks up his phone out of the floorboard, stark white words flash up at him. 

Jaskier is offline. 

“...fuck.”

#ch: geralt #polyfacetious #polyfacetious | jaskier #v: sister margarets #you ever accidentally write a novel about a camboy and an assassin? no? just me? #I also gain actual joy by not making these into what they should be #ehehe handsy in the car