The hand covering his was nothing more than opportunity.
Geralt took it in his own, fingers sliding across smooth knuckles and the edges of string-built calluses as his weight shifted. He brought the limb up as he leaned forward and pinned it above the man's head to the soft sheets of the pallet. Between them it was dark and warm. "It's fine," he said again, his voice a soft husk. Not much attention was given to speech. Despite his actions there was no arousal in the witcher, he was simply considering with each crashing wave between his ears how best to humiliate the bard. The problem was that the cave that the water had occupied inside of him was deep and storied-- Geralt knew Jaskier too well to make the request that twisted through him a simple one.
Leaning in closer, Geralt's nose brushed the end of Jaskier's. The fingers of his other hand were back to the bard's throat; the back of his hand brushed with a barely perceptible touch before he settled the hard palm flat against the sensitive column of skin and cartilage. Hand and neck-- what could a bard do without those two things? He would be a ruin, a laughingstock.
As before, the pressure against Jaskier's neck slowly increased. After all-- better to do it slowly, to let Jaskier understand his downfall as it came.
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Geralt took it in his own, fingers sliding across smooth knuckles and the edges of string-built calluses as his weight shifted. He brought the limb up as he leaned forward and pinned it above the man's head to the soft sheets of the pallet. Between them it was dark and warm. "It's fine," he said again, his voice a soft husk. Not much attention was given to speech. Despite his actions there was no arousal in the witcher, he was simply considering with each crashing wave between his ears how best to humiliate the bard. The problem was that the cave that the water had occupied inside of him was deep and storied-- Geralt knew Jaskier too well to make the request that twisted through him a simple one.
Leaning in closer, Geralt's nose brushed the end of Jaskier's. The fingers of his other hand were back to the bard's throat; the back of his hand brushed with a barely perceptible touch before he settled the hard palm flat against the sensitive column of skin and cartilage. Hand and neck-- what could a bard do without those two things? He would be a ruin, a laughingstock.
As before, the pressure against Jaskier's neck slowly increased. After all-- better to do it slowly, to let Jaskier understand his downfall as it came.