By the time Jaskier managed that idiotic answer, Geralt was hardly listening.
The position he had put the bard into had held the man still but a witcher was made to sense the minutiae. He had pinned Jaskier down with no intent other than to turn the question into some stupid, airy answer-- which the man was sure to give-- and then hopefully more kissing and, positively sweetly, an orgasm for both of them. But underneath the captivity of Jaskier's limbs there were different questions being asked and they had nothing at all to do with what Geralt and Jaskier should call each other now that their relationship had turned sexual.
It was a shallow skip of a heart borne of low oxygen, not arousal. It was the quick pulls of lungs that weren't inflating properly when there was no reason to do otherwise. It was the utter stillness of the muscles, a prey response.
No, Geralt did not hear whatever words Jaskier muttered-- and there was no answer given. Instead, fingers around wrists opened slowly and Geralt's chest pulled slightly from Jaskier's back to give him room. The witcher rolled his weight back onto his toes in order to take it off the back of the legs he knelt on; instead he gave his knees to the bed. So the curl of his body was still present but suddenly far less ominous.
Geralt pressed his face lightly against the back of Jaskier's shoulder. There were things he wanted to ask but he knew how the man was bound to answer. The heat of true anger curled in his gut alongside his lust and his erection diminished. "Friends," he said instead, his tone civil. "Friends who are fond of taking advantage of each other when the correct opportunity arises."
With a sigh, he slipped away just enough to fall onto his side, rolling onto his back and again-- staring at the ceiling.
no subject
The position he had put the bard into had held the man still but a witcher was made to sense the minutiae. He had pinned Jaskier down with no intent other than to turn the question into some stupid, airy answer-- which the man was sure to give-- and then hopefully more kissing and, positively sweetly, an orgasm for both of them. But underneath the captivity of Jaskier's limbs there were different questions being asked and they had nothing at all to do with what Geralt and Jaskier should call each other now that their relationship had turned sexual.
It was a shallow skip of a heart borne of low oxygen, not arousal. It was the quick pulls of lungs that weren't inflating properly when there was no reason to do otherwise. It was the utter stillness of the muscles, a prey response.
No, Geralt did not hear whatever words Jaskier muttered-- and there was no answer given. Instead, fingers around wrists opened slowly and Geralt's chest pulled slightly from Jaskier's back to give him room. The witcher rolled his weight back onto his toes in order to take it off the back of the legs he knelt on; instead he gave his knees to the bed. So the curl of his body was still present but suddenly far less ominous.
Geralt pressed his face lightly against the back of Jaskier's shoulder. There were things he wanted to ask but he knew how the man was bound to answer. The heat of true anger curled in his gut alongside his lust and his erection diminished. "Friends," he said instead, his tone civil. "Friends who are fond of taking advantage of each other when the correct opportunity arises."
With a sigh, he slipped away just enough to fall onto his side, rolling onto his back and again-- staring at the ceiling.