[It is now that Geralt's fingers leave his hair he realizes that, damn. He was quite enjoying that, actually. More people, he wishes, would just give him a good tug or two. Certainly he has yet to drive anyone to a level of frustration where they're throwing him into walls, but there will be time yet for it.
Jaskier laughs at his sound, in good spirits still.] Oh, don't grumble. You'll be having a good time plenty soon.
[It's a promise, evergreen. And though his smile stays through their kiss, it sends a tripping through his heart. This time, when he parts, it is with some reluctance.
A good time, as he said.
Yet he wants to offer more than that. He's a good dick and a talented mouth, but he can be more. He can give more. And he wants to. Here, where he must do it without statement or offering. Where, in a way, he must take the opportunity to provide it.
He inhales, sharp, as Geralt turns over. Somehow, in the moment, he wasn't thinking how much it would be. How little they could fully heal. But that's all he does, all the sound he makes before reaching out. Palms spread across Geralt's back, tracing up his scars. He rolls the heel of his palm deeply into them, searching out knots. All these scars, and he knows each one that is new now.
He bends down and kisses the largest one, a horrid welt that runs nearly horizontal to his spine. As his hands move lower, he takes a long, squeezing appreciative touch of the Witcher's rump. Murmuring against his back, he says:] I know you have oil somewhere close.
[Alone or not, he could guess after Geralt's needs.]
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Jaskier laughs at his sound, in good spirits still.] Oh, don't grumble. You'll be having a good time plenty soon.
[It's a promise, evergreen. And though his smile stays through their kiss, it sends a tripping through his heart. This time, when he parts, it is with some reluctance.
A good time, as he said.
Yet he wants to offer more than that. He's a good dick and a talented mouth, but he can be more. He can give more. And he wants to. Here, where he must do it without statement or offering. Where, in a way, he must take the opportunity to provide it.
He inhales, sharp, as Geralt turns over. Somehow, in the moment, he wasn't thinking how much it would be. How little they could fully heal. But that's all he does, all the sound he makes before reaching out. Palms spread across Geralt's back, tracing up his scars. He rolls the heel of his palm deeply into them, searching out knots. All these scars, and he knows each one that is new now.
He bends down and kisses the largest one, a horrid welt that runs nearly horizontal to his spine. As his hands move lower, he takes a long, squeezing appreciative touch of the Witcher's rump. Murmuring against his back, he says:] I know you have oil somewhere close.
[Alone or not, he could guess after Geralt's needs.]