Geralt was pliant in a way that was rather unique to this situation--he let Jaskier do as he would, settled and sank into the mattress, and grunted as Jaskier took him in hand and lost himself in laving attention on the pretty cock in front of him. And, damn it all, there was a sentiment he wasn't going to be able to express--why had Geralt been so firm on declarations? Did praise and filth qualify? Somehow he doubted the Witcher would appreciate him waxing on about the color and weight of his erection.

Jaskier dragged the flat of his tongue up the length of the Witcher's cock, letting saliva smooth the pressure of his hand that chased after. He wrapped his fingers around him and drew the tip of him into his mouth, sucking idly as he traced the crown of his cock with his tongue--and the taste of him. Oh, he hadn't had this before--Geralt's cock tasted like the very distillation of that musk that lingered under the smell of horse and sweat that clung to him. Fuck. Jaskier moaned around him and bent forward so that he could pull him to the back of his throat.

As much as Jaskier was trying not to think about that little nagging delineation (Not lovers? As they both knew?), as hard as he attempted to fall into the moment, his mind drifted. It was frustrating, to be distracted whilst he had a--what was he even supposed to call him? Geralt was still hesitant to use the term friend in casual conversation? Paramour would be right out, Jaskier suspected--focus--Jaskier hummed on reflex, bobbed his head and swirled his tongue around the hot flesh in his mouth. Designations--friend, lover, whatever--those could come later. Surely.

Damn it all.

"--But what, exactly, would you call us if not lovers?"