[He's beginning to think he could drown under these compliments if he only kept Rhy occupied enough to give them. He kisses the back of his neck gently, moving his hands down to his biceps from his shoulders.
At least the scar could so easily be some sort of painted ink on his skin. But as his fingers move down his arms, brushing a different scar, he peeks.
Like the initials carved in Nadine's thigh, he knows so much better than to ask. He does not let himself pause over it; he rolls his thumb across the scar, knowing Geralt has always responded to them getting attention, and then moves back up to his shoulders.
He sings. He chooses a little love ditty he wrote when he was quite young to impress the cook's daughter with his knowledge of philosophy. It's terrible, a product of his inexperience, and yet he is fond of it as one of his first steps into the game of love.
no subject
At least the scar could so easily be some sort of painted ink on his skin. But as his fingers move down his arms, brushing a different scar, he peeks.
Like the initials carved in Nadine's thigh, he knows so much better than to ask. He does not let himself pause over it; he rolls his thumb across the scar, knowing Geralt has always responded to them getting attention, and then moves back up to his shoulders.
He sings. He chooses a little love ditty he wrote when he was quite young to impress the cook's daughter with his knowledge of philosophy. It's terrible, a product of his inexperience, and yet he is fond of it as one of his first steps into the game of love.
Sorry. What could he be so sorry for?]