Work Text:
The human was called Eskel. He had not told the gargoyle this the first time, or the second, or even the third time he came back. But he does come back, just before the turn of winter, carrying the scent of sharp herbs and musk and night air down into the darkness of the ruins.
They have shared meals together, Eskel preparing his own above a small fire; the gargoyle, who does not eat, basking in the unexpected warmth.
Eskel’s mouth is also very warm.
Eskel sucks gently, eyes closed; the gargoyle rocks its hips in a slow, easy thrust that goes on and on.
The motion lulls them both. Pleasure like this is scarce (for both of them, it suspects). Eskel’s head rests comfortably between its thighs, and it does not want this to end.
Morning comes— too late to stop.
Muffled almost-words around the stone phallus; it feels these as vibration. Eskel struggles carefully against stone fingers locked behind his head, tangled in his hair. He is caged in by the knee bent over his chest, the curve of a knife-tipped wing.
Oh fuck, this was a mistake, it had not meant to— and to a witcher—
But Eskel exhales softly; his blood rushes closer to the surface of his skin. He curls his tongue, experimental on the new texture. The delicate skin of its cock would be smooth and heavy now, like polished marble, slick with spit.
He makes a hungry sound and takes it deeper.
The gargoyle has never been erect during the day before. It is… gods, the heat of him, its cock will be an oven-stone. A sun-baked field at dusk.
Eskel would not know that it is still aware. That it enjoys his touch. He explores because he wants to, with his mouth, with the limited range of his hands. Basalt thighs, smooth and dark. The membranes of its wings, thin enough that light would filter through, even as stone.
Perhaps it is beautiful in the light. Who would know? It is a thing of darkness, and solitary.
It should have warned him better. It should have paid attention— its shame wars with fascination, as Eskel chases his own pleasure, having managed to work one hand down between his own legs, shoulder moving with rhythm and intent.
He means to find his own release, while the gargoyle waits, all trapped arousal, to transform.