[There's certainly a reluctance in Geralt that simply did not exist at the party before. Which he does miss, a bit; Jaskier has always been a great fan of his lovers doing whatever they wish to him. Pinning him to walls, kissing him until he bruised. There was nothing so wonderful as being swept up in passion.

He knows it wasn't the herbs or the drink, considering Geralt had pointed out Jaskier was high with them, not himself. (Though, a shame. He wouldn't mind that feeling more. Like floating.)]

You loved those damn hooves. Especially wrapped around you.

[He's not sure he can replicate that moment. But fuck, he can try. Though they are missing the thumping music, replicating a heartbeat. The heated bodies grinding around them. He suspects this will be a much more quieter affair.

He laughs against his throat, where his lips have landed. Godsdammit. He's trying to set a mood here, and Geralt is making shitty jokes.]

My tail? I certainly do. It was very handy, having a third... er, arm. So to speak.

[Right now he only has two, which is unfortunate. They're still quite capable, though. Like how he grabs a fistful of Geralt's hair and pulls it backwards, to tip his head back and expose the raw length of his throat, his Adam's apple. Jaskier kisses there, and then he bites --- a nip, he hopes, that will spur a bit of energy into the Witcher.]