Witcher Fic: Toss A Bone To Your Witcher
Mar. 4th, 2020 07:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kat_lair***
Title: Toss A Bone To Your Witcher
Author:kat_lair / Mistress Kat
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
Warnings/enticements: bathing/washing, hand jobs, first time, first kiss, porn with feelings
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,340
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: He licks his lips, mouth suddenly bone dry, the heat from the fire and Geralt’s body making sweat spring up at the back of his neck, the small of his back. Get a grip, Jaskier, he tells himself and then has to suppress a hysterical laugh because yeah. Yeah. He’s going to.
Author notes: No regrets about the title. Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pornday. Because ![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
HanHathma made me. But then she also made the below SPECTACULAR ART so... You should click on it to tell her how awesome it is. This #11 of my 100 Fandoms Challenge. AO3 Collection here.
Toss A Bone To Your Witcher on AO3
Another inn, another bath. Geralt’s armour and clothes are sitting in the corner, stinking of ghoul guts and well, probably someone else’s guts too, considering their diet.
Geralt himself is in the bath, head tipped back against the rim and eyes closed. He’s not asleep though, Jaskier knows that much.
He’s still moving around the room quietly. Well, what amounts to quiet for him; humming only a little under his breath as he kicks the soiled outfit closer to the door, feeling momentarily sorry for the servant who ends up having to clean it.
Not sorry enough to offer to do it himself though. They both have enough experience of washing their clothes and themselves in cold rivers that when the opportunity to avoid it arises – thanks to the dead ghouls and the heavy purse they enabled – neither of them thinks twice about paying an extra coin or two for the luxury.
Geralt makes a noise, something that on any other man – being – would be considered a contented sigh, but from him is more like an unusually mellow grunt. When Jaskier turns around, Geralt is watching him.
“Ready for me to look at that wound now?” Jaskier asks and grabs the bag of supplies without waiting for an answer. He’s learnt to leave Geralt be for a little while just after a hunt, to let him come down from the adrenaline and alchemy before insisting on basics like cleaning bite marks and eating food.
Baths help. Jaskier likes being warm and clean as well as the next man – well, the next man in a civilised town – but he doesn’t have Geralt’s penchant for sitting in a tub with water close to boiling for hours on end. The clearest evidence of his mutant status, Jaskier thinks, is that no matter how long he soaks, there’s not a single part of him that turns pruney.
Jaskier’s checked. For accuracy of his craft obviously. Not that he’s going to write a Ballad of the Bathing Wolf but…
There’s another wordless sound, this one with a querying lilt, and when Jaskier kneels by the tub, Geralt’s eyebrows are raised.
“It’s nothing,” Jaskier says. “Long day. I’m wool-gathering. Why do the call it that, do you know? Come on, let’s see it then, just… Turn that way… No, the other way. And lift…” He prods at Geralt’s upper body until he moves, determinedly not noticing the slick warmth of hard muscles under his hands. “Oooh, that’s nasty,” he says when the long gash is fully exposed. It runs from below Geralt’s left shoulder blade to the upper part of his ribs, already closing. There’s a pink tint to the bathwater that would have turned Jaskier’s stomach when they first started sharing these little rituals, but not now.
Normally, trying to move Geralt is like pushing at a castle wall, but the other benefit of baths is that they turn the Witcher… Well, not pliable, but certainly more open to suggestion. At least from Jaskier. And that too is something that has changed over the years.
Keeping up a steady chatter about etymology of wool-gathering, how much he misses good mutton stew and whether they should look for new winter gear soon, Jaskier cleans the wound as quickly as he can, whilst still doing a thorough job of it. Mutant healing properties or not, having ghoul gunk in your body is certainly not going to help. Geralt is still under his hands, not flinching even little bit. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, only that he’s better than most – better than anyone Jaskier knows – at ignoring it. And that right there is why Jaskier is determined to lessen it as much as possible.
“All done now,” he says finally, letting himself rest his palm on the curve of Geralt’s ribs just for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “I’ll put some salve on it when you get out.” By that point the wound is probably more like an angry scar, but again, it won’t hurt and at best it will make Geralt feel a bit better.
Jaskier busies himself by putting away the medicine, using the excuse to keep his eyes away from Geralt’s naked body for just a few minutes. It’s not like he can’t handle it – he’s been handling it for years, thank you very much – but for some reason his control seems more frayed tonight than usual. Maybe it’s seeing Geralt get completely buried under a swarm of ghouls, disappearing from sight entirely for almost a full minute until he’d come swinging up, sword in each hand and eyes black as night. Maybe it’s the way those eyes – back to their normal gold now – are following Jaskier around the room. Maybe it’s the firelight dancing over Geralt’s skin, casting a warm glow.
Fuck, maybe it’s just because Jaskier’s tired and hasn’t had a chance to share his bed with anyone in too long. There’s a whorehouse in the town but he prefers not to pay for it if he can help it, relying on his voice and looks and charms instead. Much more fun that way, for all concerned.
Maybe he should leave Geralt to it now and go back downstairs, see if he can sweet talk his way into the bedchamber of one of the local beauties. Maybe he should go and get drunk or have a walk to clear his head. Maybe he should write another maudlin song about unrequited love and pretend very hard it’s about some girl he left behind years ago.
Instead Jaskier drifts back to Geralt and his tub.
“Water still warm?” Jaskier asks, more for something to say than any need. There’s still steam gently rising from the bathwater and besides, Geralt is not exactly shy about demanding replenishment once it starts to cool too much.
Jaskier lowers himself to his knees beside the tub again, slightly behind Geralt but to his uninjured side now. He’s out of eyeline though and Geralt needs to tip his head back just a little to see his face.
“It’s fine,” he says. They are the first actual words out of his mouth since the ‘I’ll be taking my payment now’ he’d uttered at the poleaxed mayor earlier in the evening, and despite himself Jaskier jolts just a little in surprise.
Not as much as he does at what happens next.
Slowly enough that it must be on purpose, Geralt choosing to broadcast his every move instead resorting to his normal inhuman speed, he reaches behind himself and grabs hold of Jaskier’s wrist. “Try for yourself,” he says and tugs, placing Jaskier’s hand flat over his chest, low enough that his fingers dip into the water.
The grip is loose, certainly loose enough that even Jaskier could break it with ease if it occurred to him to do such a thing.
He’s too busy marvelling at the swell of Geralt’s pectoral under his palm though. His skin is warm, from the bath and his natural body heat that runs higher than average human one both. With a dry click of his throat, Jaskier realises that he can feel the steady thump of Geralt’s heart like this, can see the pulse at the side of his neck, so close he could just lean over and…
Jaskier swallows, somewhat precariously balanced with one arm leaning against the side of the tub, the other draped over Geralt’s shoulder. “Uh,” he says, intelligently. “Yes. It’s… Warm.” He wriggles his fingers a little bit as if testing the temperature, causing little ripples that break gently against Geralt’s body.
“Thank you,” Geralt says. “It’s a good bath. I like it.” He looks grim despite the words, as if getting through that little speech had been an effort. And, well, Jaskier knows it probably had been.
“I…” What is he supposed to say to that? “You’re welcome? Glad… Glad to hear it.” And okay, he isn’t normally this graceless about receiving what could, in a certain light, be considered an actual compliment. But then again, he isn’t usually half-hugging a naked Witcher either.
One who has tipped his head now until it’s resting almost against Jaskier’s chest, getting his shirt wet. Geralt’s hair is trapped awkwardly between his head and the side of the tub and Jaskier shuffles closer instinctively so he can use his free hand to coax it out, draping it over Geralt’s shoulder.
The Witcher hums. His eyes, still on Jaskier, grow heavy-lidded. His hand around Jaskier’s wrist tightens momentarily and then he’s moving him again; slowly, deliberately dragging the flat of Jaskier’s palm over his own chest and then lower, to the slight swell of his stomach.
Then he lets go, arm falling away to the side, Jaskier’s hand wrist deep in the water now.
Alright. Okay. Despite some people’s opinions of him, Jaskier is not, in fact, an idiot. Nor was he born yesterday. Nor is this the first time he’s had someone in his… Okay, in his arms, let’s face the goddamn facts here, who is made of sharp ankles and hard planes of muscle instead soft curves.
He knows what this is. He just… Doesn’t quite believe it.
Except Geralt is still and patient, his eyes studying Jaskier’s face with the kind of intensity that sets his blood on fire. Can Witchers do that? Jaskier hopes not because that would really…
Fuck. He licks his lips, mouth suddenly bone dry, the heat from the fire and Geralt’s body making sweat spring up at the back of his neck, the small of his back. Get a grip, Jaskier, he tells himself and then has to suppress a hysterical laugh because yeah. Yeah. He’s going to.
Seems like he’s deliberated too long though because Geralt is shifting in his arms now as if preparing to get up, growing tense again in a way that Jaskier very definitely doesn’t want.
Only one thing for it.
Jaskier slides his hand back up but not off, turning it into a very deliberate caress as he traces the contours of Geralt’s muscles, letting his thumb drag over one peaked nipple, then the other.
Geralt grunts and goes boneless, sliding back down. Turns out, Jaskier likes that. A lot.
He does it again, bolder this time, and finally just pinches Geralt’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger and twists. Geralt jerks up hard enough that water sloshes over the rim.
They both groan.
“Still like it?” Jaskier asks, breathless and painfully turned on, even though the answer is obvious enough.
Plenty obvious, some might say. Extremely, erm, obvious.
He could draw this out. Maybe he even should draw it out, because this might the only chance he’ll ever get, but there’s a tremble to Geralt’s muscles, the tendons on his neck standing out as he fights to bring himself back under control and Jaskier… He doesn’t want to deny Geralt pleasure, not now, not even for a few minutes. Maybe if he gets another go at this, when they are both more rested and he’s had a chance to drag out at least a few more words out of the Witchen than ‘I like it’ – reassuring as that phrase is – maybe then Jaskier can indulge himself, and stretch out the pleasure for them both, for hours…
Right now, right here, Jaskier simply reaches down and wraps his hand around Geralt’s erection.
“Fuck,” Geralt says. “Jaskier…”
He thinks there’s a start of a bitten off ‘please’ at the end there, but hearing his own name fall off Geralt’s lips like a ripe fruit is sweeter than that.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pressing close, wrapping his other arm around Geralt’s front, his head lolling heavily against Jaskier’s shoulder now.
He doesn’t tease, just sets a steady, hard rhythm that has Geralt pushing his hips up in no time, meeting every pull, fucking himself into Jaskier’s hand.
Just the thought of that is enough to make his own dick throb painfully, never mind the glorious reality; the way water sloshes over the muscles of Geralt’s torso as he moves, the sounds he makes, the wet press of his open mouth against Jaskier’s face.
It’s as if they realise the possibilities of that at the same time as no sooner has Jaskier thought it than Geralt reaches up, grabs a handful of Jaskier’s hair and yanks him into a kiss. Their mouths crash together gracelessly, the clink of teeth painful. Jaskier tastes a faint tang of copper.
Geralt growls, all frustration and lust, adjusting the angle, and then it gets good. Jaskier moans, sucking on Geralt’s tongue, pushing his own inside the wet heat of his mouth, his grip on Geralt’s cock tightening to what should by all rights be uncomfortable.
With a sharp snap of his hips, Geralt comes.
Jaskier drinks every sound, every harsh breath, easing his grip slightly but keeping up the rhythm until Geralt’s hand wraps around his wrist once more, squeezing gently.
For a few moments, everything is still.
Then Geralt sits up, turns around and surges to his feet, water sluicing down his body in rivulets, all in a span of few seconds. All that inhuman speed that had been noticeably absent earlier is back, present and counted for.
Jaskier scrambles back, wide-eyed and not afraid, never afraid, but… concerned maybe. Just a bit.
“You said you liked it!” he points out. “In fact, you practically… Oh.”
Geralt steps out of the tub and it’s nothing Jaskier hasn’t seen before but it’s very different now, Geralt’s cock still half-hard, hanging heavy against his thigh and the evidence of his pleasure barely cooling in the bathwater behind him.
“I did like it,” he says, bending down to haul Jaskier to his feet. “And now I’d like some more.” This time, when they kiss, it’s slower, more questioning.
“Yes,” Jaskier says when he can talk again, arms around Geralt’s neck, hands buried in his hair. “That can definitely be arranged.”
With a hum that sounds downright pleased, Geralt picks him and carries him to the bed.
***
Title: Toss A Bone To Your Witcher
Author:
kat_lair / Mistress KatFandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
Warnings/enticements: bathing/washing, hand jobs, first time, first kiss, porn with feelings
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,340
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: He licks his lips, mouth suddenly bone dry, the heat from the fire and Geralt’s body making sweat spring up at the back of his neck, the small of his back. Get a grip, Jaskier, he tells himself and then has to suppress a hysterical laugh because yeah. Yeah. He’s going to.
Author notes: No regrets about the title. Written for
pornday. Because Toss A Bone To Your Witcher on AO3
Another inn, another bath. Geralt’s armour and clothes are sitting in the corner, stinking of ghoul guts and well, probably someone else’s guts too, considering their diet.
Geralt himself is in the bath, head tipped back against the rim and eyes closed. He’s not asleep though, Jaskier knows that much.
He’s still moving around the room quietly. Well, what amounts to quiet for him; humming only a little under his breath as he kicks the soiled outfit closer to the door, feeling momentarily sorry for the servant who ends up having to clean it.
Not sorry enough to offer to do it himself though. They both have enough experience of washing their clothes and themselves in cold rivers that when the opportunity to avoid it arises – thanks to the dead ghouls and the heavy purse they enabled – neither of them thinks twice about paying an extra coin or two for the luxury.
Geralt makes a noise, something that on any other man – being – would be considered a contented sigh, but from him is more like an unusually mellow grunt. When Jaskier turns around, Geralt is watching him.
“Ready for me to look at that wound now?” Jaskier asks and grabs the bag of supplies without waiting for an answer. He’s learnt to leave Geralt be for a little while just after a hunt, to let him come down from the adrenaline and alchemy before insisting on basics like cleaning bite marks and eating food.
Baths help. Jaskier likes being warm and clean as well as the next man – well, the next man in a civilised town – but he doesn’t have Geralt’s penchant for sitting in a tub with water close to boiling for hours on end. The clearest evidence of his mutant status, Jaskier thinks, is that no matter how long he soaks, there’s not a single part of him that turns pruney.
Jaskier’s checked. For accuracy of his craft obviously. Not that he’s going to write a Ballad of the Bathing Wolf but…
There’s another wordless sound, this one with a querying lilt, and when Jaskier kneels by the tub, Geralt’s eyebrows are raised.
“It’s nothing,” Jaskier says. “Long day. I’m wool-gathering. Why do the call it that, do you know? Come on, let’s see it then, just… Turn that way… No, the other way. And lift…” He prods at Geralt’s upper body until he moves, determinedly not noticing the slick warmth of hard muscles under his hands. “Oooh, that’s nasty,” he says when the long gash is fully exposed. It runs from below Geralt’s left shoulder blade to the upper part of his ribs, already closing. There’s a pink tint to the bathwater that would have turned Jaskier’s stomach when they first started sharing these little rituals, but not now.
Normally, trying to move Geralt is like pushing at a castle wall, but the other benefit of baths is that they turn the Witcher… Well, not pliable, but certainly more open to suggestion. At least from Jaskier. And that too is something that has changed over the years.
Keeping up a steady chatter about etymology of wool-gathering, how much he misses good mutton stew and whether they should look for new winter gear soon, Jaskier cleans the wound as quickly as he can, whilst still doing a thorough job of it. Mutant healing properties or not, having ghoul gunk in your body is certainly not going to help. Geralt is still under his hands, not flinching even little bit. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, only that he’s better than most – better than anyone Jaskier knows – at ignoring it. And that right there is why Jaskier is determined to lessen it as much as possible.
“All done now,” he says finally, letting himself rest his palm on the curve of Geralt’s ribs just for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “I’ll put some salve on it when you get out.” By that point the wound is probably more like an angry scar, but again, it won’t hurt and at best it will make Geralt feel a bit better.
Jaskier busies himself by putting away the medicine, using the excuse to keep his eyes away from Geralt’s naked body for just a few minutes. It’s not like he can’t handle it – he’s been handling it for years, thank you very much – but for some reason his control seems more frayed tonight than usual. Maybe it’s seeing Geralt get completely buried under a swarm of ghouls, disappearing from sight entirely for almost a full minute until he’d come swinging up, sword in each hand and eyes black as night. Maybe it’s the way those eyes – back to their normal gold now – are following Jaskier around the room. Maybe it’s the firelight dancing over Geralt’s skin, casting a warm glow.
Fuck, maybe it’s just because Jaskier’s tired and hasn’t had a chance to share his bed with anyone in too long. There’s a whorehouse in the town but he prefers not to pay for it if he can help it, relying on his voice and looks and charms instead. Much more fun that way, for all concerned.
Maybe he should leave Geralt to it now and go back downstairs, see if he can sweet talk his way into the bedchamber of one of the local beauties. Maybe he should go and get drunk or have a walk to clear his head. Maybe he should write another maudlin song about unrequited love and pretend very hard it’s about some girl he left behind years ago.
Instead Jaskier drifts back to Geralt and his tub.
“Water still warm?” Jaskier asks, more for something to say than any need. There’s still steam gently rising from the bathwater and besides, Geralt is not exactly shy about demanding replenishment once it starts to cool too much.
Jaskier lowers himself to his knees beside the tub again, slightly behind Geralt but to his uninjured side now. He’s out of eyeline though and Geralt needs to tip his head back just a little to see his face.
“It’s fine,” he says. They are the first actual words out of his mouth since the ‘I’ll be taking my payment now’ he’d uttered at the poleaxed mayor earlier in the evening, and despite himself Jaskier jolts just a little in surprise.
Not as much as he does at what happens next.
Slowly enough that it must be on purpose, Geralt choosing to broadcast his every move instead resorting to his normal inhuman speed, he reaches behind himself and grabs hold of Jaskier’s wrist. “Try for yourself,” he says and tugs, placing Jaskier’s hand flat over his chest, low enough that his fingers dip into the water.
The grip is loose, certainly loose enough that even Jaskier could break it with ease if it occurred to him to do such a thing.
He’s too busy marvelling at the swell of Geralt’s pectoral under his palm though. His skin is warm, from the bath and his natural body heat that runs higher than average human one both. With a dry click of his throat, Jaskier realises that he can feel the steady thump of Geralt’s heart like this, can see the pulse at the side of his neck, so close he could just lean over and…
Jaskier swallows, somewhat precariously balanced with one arm leaning against the side of the tub, the other draped over Geralt’s shoulder. “Uh,” he says, intelligently. “Yes. It’s… Warm.” He wriggles his fingers a little bit as if testing the temperature, causing little ripples that break gently against Geralt’s body.
“Thank you,” Geralt says. “It’s a good bath. I like it.” He looks grim despite the words, as if getting through that little speech had been an effort. And, well, Jaskier knows it probably had been.
“I…” What is he supposed to say to that? “You’re welcome? Glad… Glad to hear it.” And okay, he isn’t normally this graceless about receiving what could, in a certain light, be considered an actual compliment. But then again, he isn’t usually half-hugging a naked Witcher either.
One who has tipped his head now until it’s resting almost against Jaskier’s chest, getting his shirt wet. Geralt’s hair is trapped awkwardly between his head and the side of the tub and Jaskier shuffles closer instinctively so he can use his free hand to coax it out, draping it over Geralt’s shoulder.
The Witcher hums. His eyes, still on Jaskier, grow heavy-lidded. His hand around Jaskier’s wrist tightens momentarily and then he’s moving him again; slowly, deliberately dragging the flat of Jaskier’s palm over his own chest and then lower, to the slight swell of his stomach.
Then he lets go, arm falling away to the side, Jaskier’s hand wrist deep in the water now.
Alright. Okay. Despite some people’s opinions of him, Jaskier is not, in fact, an idiot. Nor was he born yesterday. Nor is this the first time he’s had someone in his… Okay, in his arms, let’s face the goddamn facts here, who is made of sharp ankles and hard planes of muscle instead soft curves.
He knows what this is. He just… Doesn’t quite believe it.
Except Geralt is still and patient, his eyes studying Jaskier’s face with the kind of intensity that sets his blood on fire. Can Witchers do that? Jaskier hopes not because that would really…
Fuck. He licks his lips, mouth suddenly bone dry, the heat from the fire and Geralt’s body making sweat spring up at the back of his neck, the small of his back. Get a grip, Jaskier, he tells himself and then has to suppress a hysterical laugh because yeah. Yeah. He’s going to.
Seems like he’s deliberated too long though because Geralt is shifting in his arms now as if preparing to get up, growing tense again in a way that Jaskier very definitely doesn’t want.
Only one thing for it.
Jaskier slides his hand back up but not off, turning it into a very deliberate caress as he traces the contours of Geralt’s muscles, letting his thumb drag over one peaked nipple, then the other.
Geralt grunts and goes boneless, sliding back down. Turns out, Jaskier likes that. A lot.
He does it again, bolder this time, and finally just pinches Geralt’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger and twists. Geralt jerks up hard enough that water sloshes over the rim.
They both groan.
“Still like it?” Jaskier asks, breathless and painfully turned on, even though the answer is obvious enough.
Plenty obvious, some might say. Extremely, erm, obvious.
He could draw this out. Maybe he even should draw it out, because this might the only chance he’ll ever get, but there’s a tremble to Geralt’s muscles, the tendons on his neck standing out as he fights to bring himself back under control and Jaskier… He doesn’t want to deny Geralt pleasure, not now, not even for a few minutes. Maybe if he gets another go at this, when they are both more rested and he’s had a chance to drag out at least a few more words out of the Witchen than ‘I like it’ – reassuring as that phrase is – maybe then Jaskier can indulge himself, and stretch out the pleasure for them both, for hours…
Right now, right here, Jaskier simply reaches down and wraps his hand around Geralt’s erection.
“Fuck,” Geralt says. “Jaskier…”
He thinks there’s a start of a bitten off ‘please’ at the end there, but hearing his own name fall off Geralt’s lips like a ripe fruit is sweeter than that.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pressing close, wrapping his other arm around Geralt’s front, his head lolling heavily against Jaskier’s shoulder now.
He doesn’t tease, just sets a steady, hard rhythm that has Geralt pushing his hips up in no time, meeting every pull, fucking himself into Jaskier’s hand.
Just the thought of that is enough to make his own dick throb painfully, never mind the glorious reality; the way water sloshes over the muscles of Geralt’s torso as he moves, the sounds he makes, the wet press of his open mouth against Jaskier’s face.
It’s as if they realise the possibilities of that at the same time as no sooner has Jaskier thought it than Geralt reaches up, grabs a handful of Jaskier’s hair and yanks him into a kiss. Their mouths crash together gracelessly, the clink of teeth painful. Jaskier tastes a faint tang of copper.
Geralt growls, all frustration and lust, adjusting the angle, and then it gets good. Jaskier moans, sucking on Geralt’s tongue, pushing his own inside the wet heat of his mouth, his grip on Geralt’s cock tightening to what should by all rights be uncomfortable.
With a sharp snap of his hips, Geralt comes.
Jaskier drinks every sound, every harsh breath, easing his grip slightly but keeping up the rhythm until Geralt’s hand wraps around his wrist once more, squeezing gently.
For a few moments, everything is still.
Then Geralt sits up, turns around and surges to his feet, water sluicing down his body in rivulets, all in a span of few seconds. All that inhuman speed that had been noticeably absent earlier is back, present and counted for.
Jaskier scrambles back, wide-eyed and not afraid, never afraid, but… concerned maybe. Just a bit.
“You said you liked it!” he points out. “In fact, you practically… Oh.”
Geralt steps out of the tub and it’s nothing Jaskier hasn’t seen before but it’s very different now, Geralt’s cock still half-hard, hanging heavy against his thigh and the evidence of his pleasure barely cooling in the bathwater behind him.
“I did like it,” he says, bending down to haul Jaskier to his feet. “And now I’d like some more.” This time, when they kiss, it’s slower, more questioning.
“Yes,” Jaskier says when he can talk again, arms around Geralt’s neck, hands buried in his hair. “That can definitely be arranged.”
With a hum that sounds downright pleased, Geralt picks him and carries him to the bed.
***