This will be my first time asking someone for something...I'm a little nervous. Also I love what you wrote about Frank, they really made my day!! Can I make a request regarding dbd killers? (You can make any killer you want.) Especially Frank šāāļø
It's going to be a bit classic but how would they be with a s/o who is addicted touching. For example,with a s/o who suddenly opens their shoulders and starts kissing their bare skin until she get tired. But if they refuse and stop the reader, with a s/o who gets offended by them and opens her own shoulder and starts kissing it.
(I have a cousin who has this habit and it's pretty funny. Anyway you can add Nsfw if you want, I'll leave that up to you šāāļøāØ)
Character: Frank Morrison/Legion, Ji-Woon Hak/The Trickster, Albert Wesker/The Mastermind, Danny Johnson/The Ghost Face and Sally Smithson/The Nurse
A/n: Thank you so much for the request and even though it took forever (I'm very sorry š) I very much enjoyed writing this and I hope you also enjoy reading <3.
I included a little but nothing explicit smut and it's after the ~~~~~~~
Frank Morrison / The Legion
Frank never really understood why you loved slipping his hoodie off at the end of a hard day just to kiss his bare shoulder so tenderly, but at some point it started just feeling... right.
The first few times he might have instinctively flinched, not used to someone being so gentle with him. But seeing the way your face softened every time you pressed your lips to his skin made his chest ache but in like a good way.
If he ever stops you, either because he's feeling overwhelmed or simply teasing you, Frank would let his hand rest on your arm, pulling you closer.
And then, to your surprise, his lips would find your shoulder instead, pressing a bit of a clumsy but very heartfelt kiss there.
"...There," heād mumble under his breath, almost shy. "Fairās fair, right?"
The more you do it, the more he craves it without realizing it himself. Waiting for your kisses at the end of the day and feeling pissed off when you don't do it.
The moment your lips ghost across his shoulder, Frankās patience wears thin.
His breath hitches as you kiss him again, hands teasing beneath his hoodie. Thatās all it takes for his hunger to awaken.
If you dare to continue, heāll grab your hips, pulling you flush against him with a growl. "You really like doing that, donāt you?"
He shifts your shirt down your own shoulder now, lips on your shoulder with a rough, heated kiss that lingers a bit too long.
His hands roam further as your breathing quickens, and soon enough, you're both tangled, shirts discarded, and all that from one simple kiss.
Ji-Woon Hak / The Trickster
Ji-Woon laps up your attention like honey. Your fingers slipping off his jacket, your lips dragging along his shoulder, it's pure adoration, and he loves every second.
He usually lets you do as you please, basking in the feeling of being worshiped.
But occasionally, just to toy with you, heāll stop you, grasping your wrists with that much too attractive grin of his.
Instead of leaving you hanging, though, Ji-Woon would lean in close, brushing his lips against your shoulder with deliberate slowness.
"Why should you have all the fun, hm?" he purrs, voice like silk.
He loves making you feel just as weak for him as you make him feel for you.
Every touch you give him feeds his ego, but also ignites something primal in him.
When you trace his shoulder with kisses, Ji-Woon watches you with lidded eyes, his hand already slipping lower on your body.
Sometimes heāll stop your teasing fingers, smirking before guiding your shirt off your shoulders and returning the favor with hot, wet kisses that leave your skin tingling.
"Such devotion," he hums against your skin. "You deserve to be worshiped too."
Before long, you're both stripped bare, his lips traveling lower, his voice purring sweet filth against your ear as he claims you.
Albert Wesker / The Mastermind
Wesker always watches you with those sharp eyes as you tug his coat from his shoulders and begin planting soft kisses along his skin.
Sometimes, though, his clothing proves annoyingly stubborn, the layers, the tight fit and then you find yourself getting a little frustrated trying to get them off properly.
He watches your struggle with amusement in his eyes, lips twitching ever so slightly at your determination.
After a few moments, with a low chuckle, Wesker steps in, quickly opening up your clothes, peeling the fabric away to grant you full access (at least when he is in the mood to do so).
He pretends to tolerate it at first, letting you think youāre in control, but deep down, your tenderness actual shakes up his careful composure.
If you get too bold, heāll stop you with a firm hand on your wrist, holding you still as his gaze darkens.
But instead of fully denying you, Wesker leans in, his lips brushing against your shoulder with precision, leaving a heated mark.
"If anyone will indulge in such affections" his voice is dangerously low, "it will be me."
Your kisses are a dangerous game with Wesker ,one you always lose, deliciously so.
As your lips work along his shoulder, he watches you like prey, stopping you with a firm hand just as you begin to crave more.
"Enough," he commands, but only so he can slide your own shirt from your shoulders slow and calculated.
His lips descend onto your exposed shoulder, teeth scraping lightly as he whispers in your ear. "You forget whoās in control here."
And from there, he dismantles you, piece by piece, kiss by kiss, until you're breathless under his total dominance.
Danny Johnson / The Ghost Face
You slipping behind Danny, easing his robe down and tracing your lips over his shoulder? It's the kind of intimacy he secretly craves.
Heād chuckle under his breath, pretending to be unaffected, but his breathing always betrays him.
If he ever stops you, just for the little thrill of watching your reaction, he doesnāt leave you wanting for long.
With a sly grin, he cups your face, shifts your shirt aside, and plants a playful kiss on your shoulder.
"Youāre not the only one who can do a little skin to skin" he whispers, eyes almost sparkling.
Danny always makes sure your games end with him holding the upper hand, or at least, making you feel like he does.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your touches always stir something dark in Danny, a wicked possessiveness.
When you start kissing along his shoulder, he smirks, then halts your hands for a moment, just to flip the script.
Tugging your shirt aside, he sinks his teeth gently into your shoulder, marking you with a satisfied hum.
"Didnāt think Iād let you have all the fun, did you?"
His touches grow rougher, his hands slipping under fabric, fingers roaming freely as clothing falls to the floor, leaving you completely vulnerable to his attention.
Sally Smithson / The Nurse
Sally is delicate. She trembles slightly as you pull down her robe and lay soft, reverent kisses on her shoulder.
Your touch is one of the few sensations that brings her back from the fog of her torment.
Sometimes, though, the vulnerability overwhelms her, and she gently halts your hand, unsure how much she can handle.
But seeing your soft eyes waiting patiently encourages her.
Slowly over time, she gathers courage, and with slightly shaky hands, brushes your shoulder free of fabric, pressing a feather-light kiss there.
"I... I want to give you the same," she whispers, her voice quiet but sincere.
With you, Sally is learning how to give affection as much as she receives it.
Ā Ah yes, another piece that I made as pure self-indulgenceš„° I love sleeping, I love soft kisses depicted in art, I love painting backs and a good bicep and I very much love drawing Crowley's hair from this perspective. I'm very happy with the end result, I hope you love it tooš
It's so exciting to me that I get to print this for my sweet ĻĪ±ĻrĪæns this September! Join the club if you want to have one!
Yes, hello !
Welcome to my excuse for kisses at bare shoulders, because i am the somft panda once again.
Thank you darlin Kuri for doing the beta, where would i be without you?
Please enjoy!
On Ao3
Getting ambushed in the bath is the lowest of low.
Ā
Djikstra had invited them into his bath house after a mission accomplished, only to have the witch hunters run a raid after some nutjob preached one thing or another, who the fuck even knows these days.
Point is, the bath house was being raided just as Jaskier and Geralt were stripping down. Undignified.
If Jaskier wasn't so keen on staying hidden, he would sniff loudly to show his contempt.
Somewhere a bit further into the building, he can hear women shrieking and men yelping as they are being ripped out of the steaming waters in all of their nude glories. At least they didn't make it into the water. At least Geralt has time to back them both into a hidden alcove, pressing as close to the cold wall as they possibly could.
Ever the hero, Geralt shields Jaskier from the terrible, terrible wall with its terribly, terribly cold tiles. But the space is incredibly narrow, so their bodies press close together, their bare chests closer than they had ever been while awake.
Geralt's arms are around his waist, Jaskier's arms are pressing against Geralt's sides. The air is warm and humid, but the witcher's skin is hot against his.Ā
Every inhale and exhale has their skin move against each other. Jaskier barely dares to breathe; the way they are pressed together right now makes his breath hit the nape of Geralt's neck.
It is oh so very intimate, and Jaskier's mind is reeling. The witch hunters are the only thing that is keeping him grounded, however that is possible. He can absolutely blame his racing heart on that, and if asked, he will.
They stand close together for a long time, Geralt's hand a solid weight against his lower back, and eventually he can't help but to relax into the hold.
It's exhausting to stand stiff as a board, he tells himself. Not worth it.
He lets his head dip forward to rest against Geralt's shoulder. Had the circumstances been different, he would have let his hands wander, dragged his lips and nose across the exposed skin.
Well.
In his heart, his mind, he does. Always.
But this is real life, this is Geralt, and that is not who they are. But as he sighs, relaxing just a little bit more, Geral's hands slide against his back. Changes his grip.
It didn't feel like a hug before, but now, as Geralt adjusts, it fucking does. Holy hells and all the Mothers. Melitele help his racing heart.
The clamor slowly dies down as the Witch hunters either find what they came for, or simply give up. Some loud complaining can still be heard, and heavy boots echo still beyond the changing rooms' doors.
The noise outside is nothing compared to the noise in Jaskier's mind, as he begs every holy entity he can think of, and some unholy ones to boot.
"Are they leaving?" Jaskier whispers, realizing too late that the proximity has his lips touching Geralt's bare skin.
The witcher tenses; were they not pressed so closely together, were it not Geralt but a stranger, Jaskier likely wouldn't have noticed.
But it is Geralt, and they are so closely pressed together, and Jaskier needs help.
"Some of them are," Geralt whispers back. It is only the need to be quiet that makes him bend down and press his mouth to Jaskier's ear, Jaskier tells himself. "We need to be quiet."
Jaskier sucks in a ragged breath, closing his eyes. His lashes catch against Geralt's shoulder, as everything on his body fucking does.
Up until now, his hands have been closed into fists.
Dare he open them? Dare he rest his palms over scarred ribs, feel them expand under his fingers?
Slowly, ever so slowly, he dares. He changes his stance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, slipping closer. It's as good an excuse as any, as he braves it, as he presses his palm against Geralt's ribs, as his lips press into his shoulder.
It isn't a kiss. It is just his mouth pressing into where he is hiding, it is merely Jaskier keeping himself from making other sounds. That's it.
Geralt's lips are still pressed against his ear. His hands are still pressed against his back.
"What are you doing?" he whispers, barely a sound. But he doesn't shift them, doesn't break Jaskier's grip.
That is Jaskier's problem, and what a problem it turned out to be.
When he leans back, the sound his lips make as they part from the skin sounds like a kiss.
"Hiding," he whispers back, embarrassment flushing him head to toe.
A door slams in the distance, and then another one.
The witch hunters are gone, and so is Jaskier's excuse for staying close. He doesn't back up and Geralt doesn't push him away. Not yet.
For a little longer, they are close. For a little longer, they pretend they don't need an excuse.
When things finally change, it is not a parting. It isn't pushing away, no distance being put between bodies.
Again, Geralt shifts, one arm properly wrapping around Jaskier's waist, one hand coming up to caress the back of his neck. Ever so slowly, Jaskier dares raise his head, and as he does, Geralt's lips move to his cheek bone.
"Did you kiss my shoulder, Jaskier?" Geralt asks in a murmur and Jaskier can't fight off a shiver.
"You told me to be quiet," Jaskier whispers, and he has used up all his bravery. He can't move, can't do anything but wait for judgment to come.
"So you kissed me?"
"I didn't."
He didn't. He was hiding, that's all.
They stand in tense silence for a few seconds, until it seems Geralt has made up his mind.
"You can."
"I can what?"
"Kiss me."
Jaskier can't breathe. Can't do anything but hear his own heart beating furiously, his mind racing.
Leaning down again, more like tilting his head really, he presses... another kiss into Geralt's skin. When he isn't stopped, he does it again. His fingers curl against Geralt's sides, and he dares, he lets himself press gentle kisses over his collarbone and the nape of his neck. Soft, barely there kisses.
Until Geralt's hand shifts again, tilting his head up, turning him into a pressing of lips.
Soft, gentle, barely there.
His heart stops and starts again. His chest explodes with a million fireworks. His skin tingles with sensations so familiar but so achingly new.
Their lips part and realign. The world has gone around them, cold tiles forgotten, Witcher hunters ignored. The only thing that exists is lips pressed against lips.
As the world rights itself, Jaskier pieces himself back together, trading kiss after kiss.
When his lips are sore, slick with spit and swollen red from little nips, Jaskier has to pull back. Instead, he touches their foreheads together, his hands resting against Geralt's chest, over his heart.
"Did you kiss me on the lips, Geralt?"
"You said that is how you keep quiet."
There is not a quiet cell in Jaskier's body, but he can't stop smiling, can't keep from nudging their noses together.
"Silly witcher," he whispers, touching a gentle finger to Geralt's lower lip.
"Silly bard," Geralt counters.
When they finally make their way into the actual bath house, it is mostly deserted. The few remaining customers that were not put out by rude people in armor are soaking in the various pools.
Jaskier and his witcher find one of the more secluded ones. Under the water, their legs tangle while above it, their shoulders bump.
"You know, despite the armed idiots, I think this is the best bath we have had in a while," Jaskier muses, his head resting back against the tiled edge of the pool.
"You are going to write a song about it, aren't you?" Geralt says, their hands finding each other, holding on to each other.
"I might." Jaskier smiles, his eyes closing.
But in his heart, it's already a poem. A poem he has written long ago, words and rhymes that were never meant to be heard.
They might be heard now. Another time, another place.
Maybe when they crawl into bed tonight, as sleep claims them.
Maybe he will press them into Geralt's shoulder, maybe he will whisper it into his skin.
Maybe then, he'll let Geralt know.
For now, he will enjoy his witcher's company. For now, he will compose silly limericks and filthy jokes, as their fingers interlace under the water and his witcher's smile lights up the room.
