[Not that he's anything against being manhandled -- there are fewer things as titillating as having a lover much stronger than you, ask him how he knows -- but Jaskier isn't in line for that right now. Not tonight. This atmosphere, thick enough to taste, needs something else.
Geralt's needy noise at the painful cutting of his nails confirms that. Fine. If that what he wants, then who should the bard be to deny him?
Call him charitable. This whole night was from his charity. Charity and his -- his various other feelings for the two of them. (Feelings that begin at fondness, piling up higher to adoration, admiration onto love. Unfortunately, the Witchers were not easy to love. However, they gave it back in spades. In their own ways. In blood and scars; in songs, roadside campfires, horse blankets; in screams and hot chocolate.)
Jaskier's lips now wet, he rolls over him with ease. Allows the wet noises and the soft hum of a groan in his throat. It's not silence, but it's close. As close as he gets, as his fingernails scrape across the Witcher's skin. As he presses harder and harder, carving over his hip, like he means to peel him clean.
Only when Geralt is lovely and stiff for him does he lift off with a pop, licking his lip as he hovers over him, peeking up at his -- what had he said? Golden orbs? An idea pops into his head as he surveys the long, red streaks his nails have left behind. The small beads of blood at the joint of his hip. Tiny. Barely anything. Streaks that will heal without even traces of a scar.]
On your stomach, Geralt. [And before Geralt can complain, he adds:] Trust me.
no subject
Geralt's needy noise at the painful cutting of his nails confirms that. Fine. If that what he wants, then who should the bard be to deny him?
Call him charitable. This whole night was from his charity. Charity and his -- his various other feelings for the two of them. (Feelings that begin at fondness, piling up higher to adoration, admiration onto love. Unfortunately, the Witchers were not easy to love. However, they gave it back in spades. In their own ways. In blood and scars; in songs, roadside campfires, horse blankets; in screams and hot chocolate.)
Jaskier's lips now wet, he rolls over him with ease. Allows the wet noises and the soft hum of a groan in his throat. It's not silence, but it's close. As close as he gets, as his fingernails scrape across the Witcher's skin. As he presses harder and harder, carving over his hip, like he means to peel him clean.
Only when Geralt is lovely and stiff for him does he lift off with a pop, licking his lip as he hovers over him, peeking up at his -- what had he said? Golden orbs? An idea pops into his head as he surveys the long, red streaks his nails have left behind. The small beads of blood at the joint of his hip. Tiny. Barely anything. Streaks that will heal without even traces of a scar.]
On your stomach, Geralt. [And before Geralt can complain, he adds:] Trust me.
[He knows well Geralt already does.]