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Jaskier's had a lot of sex in his life with a number of different partners and he's loved it all, but nothing can quite beat the sensation of a man cumming in his arse. The connection, the heat- how wet and slick it feels, sitting heavy in his bowels as it waits to leak out and ruin the fine silk of his trousers the second he relaxes for a moment too long.
It's indescribable.
It's perfect.
There was simply nothing that could compare- not even the wet heat of a cunt around his cock would win, were it a competition, and Jaskier adored women. How soft and sweet and wet they were. How they tasted and the sounds they made when they came.
But most of them didn't have a cock, and he mourned the loss of that even while fucking away between their sweet smelling thighs. He wondered, sometimes, whether women felt the same way- did they crave the heat? The feeling of a cock twitching in their quim as it filled them with seed?
Or did they fear the child it might produce too much to allow such action.
Jaskier thanked the gods everyday that nothing of that sort would ever come of his sin. No seed would catch and produce fruit in him and as such he never had to worry about such a thing- he could just lay back and relax into the punishing thrusts of a heavy cock in his hole and await his wet reward with begging breath.
Finding a man to fuck him, however, wasn't an opportunity that came very often.
Buggery was illegal and punishable by death in many towns and cities unless you had the coin to bribe your way free of the jailers and Jaskier didn't have that very often- which, he supposed, was a good thing that he'd never been caught in the act.
There were names and codewords for people like him, places for men to meet up should they find themselves interested and wanting, but Jaskier never stayed in a town long enough to find those places or catch those words. Some were common and almost universal- larking, bardash, taking the road less travelled, etcetera- but smaller towns had their own and more often than not, it was simply easier to just catch the eye of a man in the tavern and try his luck in getting that man to bend him over a barrel and have his wicked way with him than figure out what terms and slang they used.
Asking a man if he'd care to go for a stroll down the old dirt road or smoke a pipe out back could get him a quick rough and tumble behind the tavern ending with mutual satisfaction and a pleasant parting.
Or , just as easily, it could get him beat to a bloody pulp when Jaskier tried to smoke a different pipe to what the man had in mind, if you caught his drift.
Those nights were a bust and Jaskier usually steered clear of men and dirty alleyways for a couple of weeks after, until the bruises faded and the need grew too much once more and he was forced back out on the hunt. Sometimes it could be months between men where he had to sate himself on his fingers and between the thighs of women, but tonight, however, had been more than a success.
A young farm boy had caught his eye during his first set, sitting alone on one of the creaky tables in the equally as creaky tavern, sipping his ale and staring with dark brown eyes. Jaskier had been more than happy to basically follow the lad out by his cock when he nodded for him to do so during his break.
What followed was a quick, hard fuck against the wall of the stable in which Roach resided for the night, and then the boy, Erek, was gone and Jaskier was left to stuff himself back into his trousers and wipe away the worst of the evidence of their encounter from blue silk enough to make it back to the tavern and finish his set without advertising just exactly what he'd been up to while he was away.
Twice before in his travels he'd been dragged out by another man with his same predilection upon his return and bent over again once they caught on to the reason for his absence. Fucked twice in the same night and filled to the brim with another burning load as he bit his fist to quiet his gasping and groaning.
Jaskier fucking adored those times, touches himself to their memory even now so many years after the fact, and doubts he'll ever stop. He'd felt so full- for hours after he could still feel their cocks in him from how well they fucked him, how wide they stretched him, and he'd felt cold and empty for days following when the last of the cum had dripped from his hole to mess his trousers.
The load Erek left in his guts was enough to warm him now, but it would leak out sooner rather than later and Jaskier was already mourning its loss before his own cum had cooled on his thigh.
Groaning, he pushes himself up and away from the rough wood of the stable, arms weak and wobbly. His cheek feels a little scratched up where Erek had pushed him face-first into the wall but there's no blood on his fingers when he runs them across the prickle, just the slightest sting which promises the lightest of bruises come morning.
He winces a little at the thought, but pushes away any worry before it can build in his chest. He's had worse. Leaving with only a bit of redness and a tender hole is a win in his book because hey, at least he didn't get stabbed like that time in Novigrad, and he was stabbed, no matter what Geralt says. He has a scar and everything and so what if it was less than an inch deep- that man fucking stabbed him with an actual fucking blade.
Now if it had been with his cock, Jaskier wouldn't have minded since that's what he was there for in the first place. But it wasn't. It was a knife, and that horrible not-even-handsome-enough-to-get-away-with-it man had ruined a perfectly lovely powder-blue doublet and got away with his coin purse and boots! The coin purse wasn't much of a worry since it had a total of three coins and a small stone that Jaskier had found on the side of the road and liked the shine of stuffed into it, but those boots were basically new!
Geralt had hunted the bastard down and stripped him of everything he had on his person at the time, but Jaskier's boots were already gone at that point and Geralt had to buy him a new pair just so they could get back out on the path.
The Witcher never asked why he was wandering some dirty back alley in the middle of Novigrad, and Jaskier wasn't sure whether to be thankful for that or not.
Geralt was downright the most gorgeous man Jaskier had ever had the good fortune to lay his eyes on and he'd give his left nut to be fucked by him even once, but there was no chance he was ever going to bring that up to him. Geralt could kill him with his pinky finger and while Jaskier didn't believe he would, he held no such illusions on the beating the man would no doubt give him were he to find Jaskier lusting for him.
He never spoke of Jaskier's trysts, but there was no doubt that he knew about them. Witchers were hunters, designed to be the perfect predator. Geralt could smell a town miles from him, could follow trails and hunt the tiniest creatures on scent alone, and Jaskier knew he stunk of sweat and ale and overwhelmingly of cum on those few nights he managed to pull.
Geralt knew, but knowing Jaskier is out fucking men and finding out that Jaskier wants to fuck him are entirely different demons.
But gods, how he wants.
Geralt's cock is no mystery to him- they've travelled together for almost a decade now, and privacy is a joke out on the path. They share rooms, baths and even whores sometimes- though never at once. Jaskier has seen Geralt's cock in all its glory, as well as the ample load he's wont to leave and he knows, by the gods does he know just how well the Witcher would fill him.
He's thick and long and would have no trouble reaching those places inside that always feel so empty, no matter how good a fuck he's just had. He would stretch him to his absolute limit and put all that famed stamina to good use and maybe, just maybe , Jaskier would finally be satisfied with the bounty left to burn his guts.
“ Fuck,” he croaks, running his clean hand down over his arse to prod over his swollen hole, feeling it flutter and clench before relaxing enough to allow two fingers inside. The flimsy human load he was left with is easy to find, slick and wet on his fingertips as he arches his back and groans. “ Fuck ,”
Erek was a passable lover as far as backwater towns could offer, but Jaskier's cock is already chubbing up again with the thoughts of something more.
He wants Geralt, wants him more than he can even fucking admit to himself, and he longs for the weight of him inside.
And he can almost picture it, too. Geralt's out on a hunt right now- something killing stock animals and leaving them gutted and mutilated in the fields- but he can imagine the Witcher returning, slipping into their room while Jaskier is drying off from the bath. He'd see him, clean and naked but for a towel, and have to have him.
He'd drop his swords, his pack, not bother with his armour or to clean off the gore he'd no doubt be dripping in. He'd want too much, need too much . And Jaskier wouldn't even need to be stretched, already loose from his previous fuck- all Geralt would have to do is come up behind him with a little oil on his cock and push inside to the velvety heat awaiting him.
Gods, he can almost feel it. Large, calloused hands gripping his waist, pushing him onto the bed or into the closest wall, a line of hard, strong heat pressing into his back as an equally hard and hot cock planted itself in his guts.
He shivers, bites back a moan.
His cock is almost fully hard again now despite being so soon since he came, plump and swaying between his legs to the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. A whine claws its way up his throat as he speeds up to fuck himself to the tempo he knows the Witcher prefers, while a whisper of “ Geralt ,” falls soft and wanting from his lips before he can pull it back.
And then suddenly there are real hands gripping his waist and pushing him into the wall, a real line of heat across his back and the real weight of a cock pressing against him.
He freezes- fingers, body, mind, all screaming to a halt. His throat constricts violently around a shriek that never makes it past his lips as a large hand clamps over his mouth, silencing him before he can let it free.
“ Mmmph ! ” Jaskier struggles against the hold, throwing his head back in an attempt to catch the man in the nose, but to no avail.
“Quiet,” the voice that rumbles against his ear is thick and deep- rough in a way so very few people’s are, even out here in the sticks, “be still, Bard,”
The rush of relief that washes over him almost leaves him light-headed.
Geralt .
He should have fucking known . No one else on the continent smells so nauseatingly of blood and fucking onion.
The snap of ' You bastard! ' comes out too muffled to make out, what with the Witchers hand still clamped across his mouth and all, but Geralt growls as if he understood it anyway. Jaskier's next muttering of ' get off ' is much more audible, but with this, the Witcher acts as if he heard nothing.
Jaskier rolls his eyes and moves to push the man away himself, when suddenly the realisation of exactly what he'd been caught doing raises its ugly head and he freezes once more.
Geralt growls again, breath hot and damp where it spills across Jaskier's ear and down his neck. His doublet and chemise had been shed sometime during his escapade with the farm boy, leaving his torso bare to the warm summer air and he can feel the rough scrape of Geralt's armour across his naked back.
Geralt runs his nose along the length of his neck from shoulder to the spot right behind his ear, huffing deep breaths. Goosebumps break out across Jaskier's skin, a shiver working its way up his body.
“G'rmph?”
The next growl rumbles through Jaskier's back even through the Witchers leathers. Dangerous. Animal .
The hand not covering his mouth slips down his back and circles the wrist of the hand still buried between his cheeks, gripping tight enough to ache. Jaskier startles, whines. Geralt snarls.
“ Have some fun , did you, bard?” he spits, “found some pin dick farmer to fuck a load into you while I was out risking my life for the coin to put a roof over your head for the night,”
“Mmmph!”
“Quiet!” the Witcher snaps. His hand drops from Jaskier's mouth as he crowds in closer, forces Jaskier further into the wall until the rough of the wood scrapes at him from cheek to thigh.
Geralt's hand had partially covered his nose as well as his mouth and made breathing a little awkward, but it hadn't been the most pressing of the things happening so he'd ignored it, but now he gasps in a much needed breath of air. It’s not fresh, the little alley they're in stinking of piss and horse shit, but it’s better than nothing and Jaskier sucks it in greedily.
“G-Geralt!” he manages to stammer, “fuck, what are you-”
Geralt snarls and snaps his teeth right next to Jaskier's ear, and the bard squeaks himself into silence. The grip the Witcher takes on his hip is just as harsh as the one on his wrist, nails biting and bruising delicate skin.
Jaskier's fingers twitch inside himself without his permission.
“You think I don't know?” he whispers dangerously, “you think I can't smell it, when you come into the room we share- the bed we share, dripping some other man's seed?”
Jaskier knows he can, but he hadn't thought-
“ It takes every bit of training I have not to hunt down the men that have touched you, that have fucked you and marked you as if you're theirs ,”
Jaskier's eyes widen.
“ Don't,” he says quickly, “Geralt, don't -”
The Witchers snarl silences him again, his heart rabbiting in his throat.
He's never been scared of Geralt, even the first time they met and he knew nothing of him past his moniker of The Butcher of Blaviken and the horror stories told about him.
But now... he's not scared for himself, but he's never seen Geralt like this before and he fears what might happen should he go after the farm boy. Erek did nothing to warrant an angry Witcher on his doorstep, nor anything that might occur after that.
The twist of his arm aches all the way to the shoulder as Geralt presses even harder into him, his lips touching Jaskier's ear as he growls.
“You would take his side? Deny me my justice?”
'What justice' Jaskier wants to ask, 'how are my transgressions any business of a man who has never claimed to want me in the first place?'
“Stay,” he gasps instead, struggling his free hand out from its place pinned to his chest to reach back and take a hold of Geralt's own hip, slipping on the slick leather. He knows its blood, hopes it’s the monster’s and not Geralt's own. “Geralt-”
“ You reek ,” he spits, “I can smell him all over you,”
“Sorry, 'm sorry, Geralt, I didn't-”
“ Didn't what? Care? ”
“I didn't think you cared!”
Geralt snarls in his ear loud enough that it rings.
“I care that my bard thinks he can go around and fuck whoever he pleases and then expect to sleep next to me stinking of his conquest!”
“I bathe,” he gasps, “I- I always-”
“You clean the cum from your skin,” Geralt growls, tightening his grip until the delicate bones in Jaskier's wrist creak with the abuse, “but not from your hole,”
His face burns, “I-I-”
“Do you like how it feels, bard? To have a man leave his claim in your arse like he would in his wife's cunt? To be dripping spend like a cheap whore with no care of who might use your hole next so long as they fill you like you need?”
Geralt uses the hold he has on Jaskier's wrist to press his fingers even deeper despite the awkward angle. Jaskier gasps, rides up on his toes to try and ease the pain in his wrist at the action.
“Fu-fuck, Geralt, it-”
“You want to be so full of cock and cum that anything with a nose can scent that you're nothing but a hole for men to warm their cocks in,”
“Yes!” he croaks, finally breaking, “Fucking- Gods, what do you want from me, Geralt? Yes, I want it! I like being full. I like having a cock in me and I like feeling their spend drip from me after they're done. I fucking crave it, okay? Are you satisfied now?”
Geralt growls, “Are you? ”
Jaskier can barely think past his embarrassment, “I-”
“ Humans have nothing on Witchers. Our size, our stamina . We're built big . You think some doughy farmer can give you what you need? I can fill you better, give you so much you bloat with it,”
Geralt pulls Jaskier's fingers free with a wet sound, but the bard doesn't have time to mourn their loss as a second later, the Witcher has unlaced his own trousers and pulled free his cock, pressing the fat head into the newly vacated space between his cheeks.
Jaskier gasps, stiffens.
“ Don't play coy,” he growls, licking a wet line up Jaskier's neck to bite at his ear, “Go soft, bard. Let me in ,”
And Jaskier- a man who makes his living with his voice and prides himself on a silver tongue as sharp as any Witcher’s sword- can’t bring himself to reply verbally. He shivers, ducks his head against the rough wood, and slowly, carefully, shuffles his feet wider.
Geralt rumbles against his throat as brilliantly as an overly large cat and equally as dangerous, “ Good boy,”
There's a disgusting noise and glob of spit hits his twitching ring a moment before the heat of Geralt's cock returns to rub a line up his crack and settle back into place. Despite the well-used softness of his hole, it’s still a stretch when Geralt starts to push inside. The Witcher wasn't lying when he said he'd fill Jaskier better than anyone before him, and the pinch quickly turns uncomfortable and then to an ache the further he sinks inside.
There's no breath left in Jaskier's lungs. He aches and twitches, his hole fighting the intrusion in a way it never has with any other cock, but Geralt forges on without pause.
The hands at his waist are vices, clamped and biting, bruising blooming purple flowers into the soft give of his stomach. Geralt growls in his ear as he presses in deeper than anyone ever has before, only pausing briefly when the head of his cock hits the bend of Jaskier's intestines before forging on even while Jaskier chokes and shakes under his hands. The Witcher holds him still, pulling, pressing, sinking, until the bend shifts and gives and suddenly Jaskier is fuller than he's ever been in his entire life- literally stuffed to the brim with cock.
“ G- Gods ,” his lungs stutter, burn. His fingers claw bloody at the wood before him, the sting of splinters breaking skin nothing compared to the aching of his hole, “ Fuck - Geralt, I-I can't-”
“You can,” Geralt rumbles. He leans in, presses his chest to Jaskier's heaving back as he screws the last inch of his cock inside with a little groan that he breathes across the bard’s ear. “just like that,”
It hurts. Hurts so much it leaves Jaskier struggling against the urge to strike out against what's causing it, but gods- it feels better than any other cock ever has before. He almost wants to hate it, but it feels too much like everything he's always craved.
“Breathe,”
“ I'm fucking trying ,” he gasps, “your cock is in my fucking throat ,”
Geralt, the bastard, chuckles.
“ Not your throat,” he says lowly, slipping one hand free from his hip to round his stomach and knead the soft flesh, “your guts , maybe,”
Jaskier whines.
“Don't-”
Geralt twists his grip to his cock and squeezes, cutting him off. He's hard as a rock, dripping steadily into a puddle already forming between his feet.
“ Is it good?” Geralt almost purrs the words, far too smug for his own good. If it weren't for the mantra of ' fuck ouch god fuck too much ' echoing in Jaskier's head or the steady whine creaking from his throat, he'd have cut the man down a few pegs, but as it is, he could do nothing but let him speak, “Do you like it, bard? Does my cock finally fill you like you need?”
“ Too much, ”
Jaskier has to grit his teeth when Geralt's full bodied laugh causes his cock to shift inside, pressing unyielding into tender guts.
“ Too much ,” Geralt echoes, soft and teasing and downright cruel into his ear, “We're not even close to done yet, bard,”
“ W-what are you-” he gasps and jerks against Geralt's hold on him as something in his stomach twitches and warms. The feeling isn't unlike when whatever man he's picked up for a romp climaxes in him- the same sort of jetting warmth that spreads throughout him, but.. “Geralt, what-”
“Relax, little bard,” the Witcher rumbles into his ear, shifting to press somehow even closer. They're almost of a height, but Geralt is still taller and Jaskier is forced up onto his tip-toes as he's pushed further into the wall, Geralt cock pressing deeper deeper, “I thought you liked being full,”
“ Full-” he chokes, shudders. The warmth is spreading fast, growing larger, bloating his stomach, “f-full of what?”
He has an idea- an absolutely filthy disgusting vile idea but it can't possibly be true. Geralt wouldn't... he wouldn't-
The Witchers mouth twists into a grin against his ear, baring teeth as he murmurs; “ You know what ,”
His stomach starts to ache with the stretch, distending out as if he were with child, and he stares down at it in a building mix of horror and twisted arousal.
The Witcher is pissing in him.
Jaskier has done a lot of things in his life that he's not exactly proud of.
He's cheated, stolen, swindled, and damn near whored himself for a place at court, not to mention the time he dumped a jar of Zerrikanian itching powder into Valdo Marx's pompous little hat and caused the Cidarian minstrel to have to shave his golden ringlets a week before performing for his adoring fans, but Jaskier can't exactly say he's not proud of that last one.
But this- this was something else.
There's a steady whining noise resounding through the alley, heaving grunts and sharp wet slaps echoing it. Drool slicks down Jaskier's chin, pooling and making a filthy mess of his chest hair. His back aches, his thighs strain, slick and wet with sweat and another bodily fluid he's trying hard not to think about. His stomach bloats out in front of him like an overfilled waterskin.
Behind him, Geralt fucks like an animal, hard and vicious and chasing his own end more so than caring for Jaskier's pleasure or comfort. The bard’s cock swings heavy between his legs, purple red at the tip and begging for touch, but Jaskier's hands are too busy clawing at the wall to keep him from being fucked through it.
“G-Geralt-” he cries, clenching down hard and sobbing with every harsh bounce as piss and cum slosh around inside him, “I c- fuck, I can’t!”
Geralt growls in his ear, nails biting into the soft flesh of his waist, and snaps his hips even harder until Jaskier worries he might actually break something. He's heard stories from whores- girls that took a Witcher to bed and were left unable to work for weeks until they healed.
“Keep it inside, boy,” Geralt's voice is as sharp and dangerous as any blade, “stay nice and tight for me- good boy,”
“Geralt!”
“You said you wanted to be full- you're going to keep it all inside like a good slut. My cum, my piss, burning hot in your guts while you sing and dance for all your adoring fans, and then I'm going to fuck you again in our room, make you spill over the bed and then make you fucking sleep in it so everyone can smell it on you tomorrow.” He snarls, hips snapping hard enough that Jaskier's guts hurt where his cock strikes, “you're mine,”
“ F- fuck! ”
“Your little friend go back to the tavern, you think?” he asks, “Think he'll look at you and realise you let another man fuck you after he did? He couldn't satisfy you and he'll know it,”
“Fff-fuck, Geralt- Geralt, please,” he doesn't know what he's begging for- to cum or for it all to stop, “please, please-”
Geralt sinks too sharp teeth into Jaskier's shoulder, clamping down until it aches almost as much as his arse, his guts. Jaskier is on the precipice, teetering like a newborn lamb and so close to plunging off that cliff.
“Touch my cock- please, gods, Geralt, touch my cock!”
He doesn't. Instead, he plunges in harder, faster. Wet dribbles around the speared clench of Jaskier's hole, running down his legs and filling his boots to sloshing, and yet still his stomach stays just as full and taut.
“ Geraalt !”
“ Mine ,” he snarls around the flesh between his teeth, “you're mine! ”
“ m'yours! ” Jaskier sobs, nods, agrees, “ I'm yours, I'm yours, I-I'm- I'm- ”
Geralt's grunting growls pick up in pitch a split second before he rips his teeth from Jaskier's shoulder and throws his head back, cumming with a sound so animalistic it makes the hair on the back of the bard’s neck stand on end. It’s usually Jaskier's favourite part and he can't even feel it- not with how full he already is.
Geralt stays planted to the root inside him, heaving like a warhorse. Jaskier shudders, whimpers. His fingers flex against the splintered wood, thighs trembling. He still doesn't reach for his cock.
How long they stay like that is a mystery- seconds, minutes, hours. Jaskier's brain is a fog of pain and pleasure and need and please please please. Every touch feels like lightning across his skin, and he can barely breathe over it all.
Geralt slaps him suddenly, hard and quick on his arse, shocking him from his thoughts. He startles, cries out, and Geralt growls: “ Clench . If you let any more spill out I'm going to make you lick it off the fucking dirt,”
Jaskier does as he's told, clenching so hard he shakes as Geralt steps away, cock pulling free with an audible pop . Trembles wreak Jaskier's form as he fights the instinct to relax, to push and release the torrent of fluids the Witcher left in him.
“G-Geralt,” he whimpers, clawing at the wood hard enough to break the skin of his fingertips, “Geralt, I c-can't,”
It's not like with cum- it’s too liquid, too much .
Geralt hums behind him and Jaskier is only just barely aware of the sound of rustling and the clinking of vials before he returns and something hard is being forced back inside the weak clench of his hole.
Jaskier cries out, the tiniest dribble escaping around the object before he locks down around it. Fingers run up the trail dripping down his thigh, collecting the mess along their length before they're shoved in his mouth. Jaskier can't even bring himself to protest around their intrusion. He sucks them down like he's expected to.
The taste is foul and he chases it when they're pulled away.
Geralt rumbles against his ear, rubbing spit, piss, and cum across Jaskier's cheek as he grips him hard enough to bruise.
“Good boy,”
“W-What's-”
“Dagger hilt. Lost the blade in the wyvern,” he huffs a laughs into his ear, running his lips over the lobe as he wiggles the thing deeper despite Jaskier's groans of discomfort as it presses unyielding into his bruised guts, “was going to get it fixed or sell it for junk but I think I like this better,”
“That's-” disgusting, is what he wants to say. Degrading. Vile. To have the hilt of a dagger, broken during a fight to kill something, shoved up his arse like a makeshift cock or plug- he groans, hips jerking. It's absolutely loathsome and yet Jaskier can't bring himself to be angry about it. Not when it’s keeping him full of everything the Witcher just gave him.
“ Hm?” Geralt rumbles, pressing in close. He slips his thigh between Jaskier's legs, using the rock hard meat of his muscles to press against the hilt and push it deeper. Jaskier gasps, riding up on his toes to get away from the overwhelming feeling of toomuchtoodeep, but Geralt pulls him back again, grinding him down until he can feel the heavy bulb at the base of the hilt kiss his burning rim as it sinks in completely.
“ Ger-alt, ” his cock burns too, hanging heavy between his legs with lack of attention. He chokes on a whine, rolling his hips, eyes fluttering at the never-ending assault on his bruised prostate. “ Please ,”
Geralt hums again, and for a horrible moment, Jaskier thinks he's going to ignore him and leave him hard and wanting, force him to go through the rest of the night with his cock burning a hole in his trousers where everyone can see.
He almost cries when Geralt reaches around and takes a hold of him, sword callouses catching the tender head.
He lasts less than three strokes, and it legitimately hurts when he cums, teeth and hole clenched too tight as his cock jerks and sprays the wall and Geralt's tight fist with jets of white.
Geralt laughs as he whines and tries to pull away when his grip becomes too much, but slows to a stop.
“Satisfied, bard?”
Jaskier can only whimper.
“ Good,” Geralt purrs, giving one last squeeze to his cock before dropping it and stepping away until Jaskier can feel the cool breeze across his burning skin. “Get dressed. You're going to finish your set and follow me upstairs, and then I'm going to eat you out until you cry .”
Given how close he already is to tears Jaskier has absolutely no doubt that he'll manage it and, as he listens to the Witcher turn on his heel and stalk away into the darkness, he realises with no little amount of horror, that he can't fucking wait.
Fin