[ The ears are not, fortunately, any real part of him; Geralt doesn't go as far as Jaskier for his costumes. It slides out with ease, limp as a flattened rat where it lands on the floor. He pays little mind to the fact that he's now one ear down. The other begins to slip, lopsided.
She's slick against him, and he makes a wanting noise alongside her. His fingers dig into her thigh, small crescent imprints left behind. There's so much heat, he's burning up, the lightest flush creeping up his neck in a way it almost never does. His hair falls loose under her hands—slips free of the leather cord wrapped around it.
He lets her grip him as tight as she wants, lifting a little higher on his knees to get just the right angle for her. ]
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She's slick against him, and he makes a wanting noise alongside her. His fingers dig into her thigh, small crescent imprints left behind. There's so much heat, he's burning up, the lightest flush creeping up his neck in a way it almost never does. His hair falls loose under her hands—slips free of the leather cord wrapped around it.
He lets her grip him as tight as she wants, lifting a little higher on his knees to get just the right angle for her. ]