[ Always something, when he can get quiet out of Jaskier. When he has enough of the bard's attention that he becomes contemplative, only listening. Perhaps that's the real reason Jaskier's been able to pull those stories out of him piece by piece, over the years. Because in the rare moments he tells them, really tells them, Jaskier goes silent. Watches him. He knows Jaskier remembers every one of them, and not only for his songs.
He curls his fingers around Jaskier's arm. Steals too much out of that kiss, possibly. His teeth catch on Jaskier's lower lip, biting, tugging. (It matters. It does, all of this shit, but despite that they're together, the four of them. He isn't alone. He doesn't have to be alone, and neither do they. That's worth more than he can put in words.)
Patience. The fucking irony of Jaskier telling him this. He makes a soft sound, arches his spine. The scar that runs along it is fresh, sensitive, and it stretches with each movement. He is patient, though. Patient and more than willing to have Jaskier offer what he will. It's easy to let go, when he finally allows himself to, and he has. He lets go and sinks and feels the crest of pleasure rise.
And fuck if it doesn't rise hotter as Jaskier slips inside, eases in, sends a curse spilling from his lips. His hips lift, rolling into a steady pace. Jaskier is bent over him, skin slick where they press together. He draws in a jagged breath, breathes it out just as sharply. ]
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He curls his fingers around Jaskier's arm. Steals too much out of that kiss, possibly. His teeth catch on Jaskier's lower lip, biting, tugging. (It matters. It does, all of this shit, but despite that they're together, the four of them. He isn't alone. He doesn't have to be alone, and neither do they. That's worth more than he can put in words.)
Patience. The fucking irony of Jaskier telling him this. He makes a soft sound, arches his spine. The scar that runs along it is fresh, sensitive, and it stretches with each movement. He is patient, though. Patient and more than willing to have Jaskier offer what he will. It's easy to let go, when he finally allows himself to, and he has. He lets go and sinks and feels the crest of pleasure rise.
And fuck if it doesn't rise hotter as Jaskier slips inside, eases in, sends a curse spilling from his lips. His hips lift, rolling into a steady pace. Jaskier is bent over him, skin slick where they press together. He draws in a jagged breath, breathes it out just as sharply. ]