Bull makes a low sound that feels like it’s coming from somewhere deep in his chest, eye sharp on the witcher, his little smile going hungry and pleased. He rolls himself up from the ground, graceful and slow, doesn’t look away from the witcher’s eyes. He’s letting something unfold inside of him, the loneliness, that empty, aching pull, in anticipation of the moment he gets to feel that pull loosen a little. The moment won’t be too far off, if things go well; the moment when he smells the witcher’s arousal and the succubus part of him lets those pheromones start to slip into the air, deepen that smell the witcher had been so baffled by and let some part of him start to ache a little less, at last.

So Bull rises to his knees, he lifts himself a little more to look down at the witcher and he lifts a hand to the witcher’s hairline, just to the side of the place that scar disappears into the witcher’s hair, half to get a hand on that face and half to see how he reacts when Bull comes just shy of touching it.

“Tell me what to call you,” he breathes against the witcher’s lips, his murmur low and rough. “And I’ll call that a deal.”