Jaskier knotted Geralt's bootlaces firmly. His hurried thoughts snagged as the Witcher groggily called his name. Well, not groggy exactly, but his voice had a sort of absent quality to it. His words were a little rough, like he'd been sleeping particularly well and hadn't come out of it far enough to have inflection yet. Jaskier looked up, an apologetic grimace already dashing over his face, and Geralt beckoned him with a hand on the side of his neck. It was a slow gesture, but it wasn't particularly sleepy or uncoordinated--
Geralt palmed his throat, settled fingers against the side of his neck and tucked his thumb up beneath the spot where his jaw and his ear met. He stared at the Witcher, met his absent amber stare, those slit pupils wide in the dark, and Jaskier let out a short whine. Geralt wasn't taking him seriously--there was no alarm, no expression on his face, at all, in fact. How drunk had he gotten?
--and he still wanted to--?
"Geralt," Jaskier started, the urgency of panic still hovering on the edges of his tone, and let out a short, exasperated huff of laughter. "Ah, truly, I am tempted, but we should go--"
There was appeal in touch like this, in letting the Witcher draw him up or forward onto his knees. The bed was a dream, the room was positively lovely, but the risk was not the heady, sexy kind of risk. Jaskier's pulse raced under Geralt's thumb, his panic real and earnest, and he gave the Witcher a soft, pleading sort of look. Geralt...didn't look away and his hand tightened against the nape of his neck, his thumb pressed down--
--Oh, was this the game? Fuck--a dart of surprise goes through him but the thready laugh the bard let out, then, was not inviting.
"Not really the correct opportunity, Geralt--I'm so sorry," Jaskier said and reached up to wrap fingers around the Witcher's wrist. The pressure of his thumb didn't release, it just kept increasing, and Jaskier's brows dipped. He gripped Geralt's wrist tight and open confused danced over his face. It wasn't more than a moment before the digging of his fingers went from firm to painful.
"Geralt--" he hissed, anger coloring his objection, and jerked his head to the side as he pried the Witcher's hand away. It took a lot more effort than it ought to, like he'd actually been trying to hold on but wasn't entirely there--Jaskier stared and found Geralt's gaze unchanged. The wrist in his grip was tensed.
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Geralt palmed his throat, settled fingers against the side of his neck and tucked his thumb up beneath the spot where his jaw and his ear met. He stared at the Witcher, met his absent amber stare, those slit pupils wide in the dark, and Jaskier let out a short whine. Geralt wasn't taking him seriously--there was no alarm, no expression on his face, at all, in fact. How drunk had he gotten?
--and he still wanted to--?
"Geralt," Jaskier started, the urgency of panic still hovering on the edges of his tone, and let out a short, exasperated huff of laughter. "Ah, truly, I am tempted, but we should go--"
There was appeal in touch like this, in letting the Witcher draw him up or forward onto his knees. The bed was a dream, the room was positively lovely, but the risk was not the heady, sexy kind of risk. Jaskier's pulse raced under Geralt's thumb, his panic real and earnest, and he gave the Witcher a soft, pleading sort of look. Geralt...didn't look away and his hand tightened against the nape of his neck, his thumb pressed down--
--Oh, was this the game? Fuck--a dart of surprise goes through him but the thready laugh the bard let out, then, was not inviting.
"Not really the correct opportunity, Geralt--I'm so sorry," Jaskier said and reached up to wrap fingers around the Witcher's wrist. The pressure of his thumb didn't release, it just kept increasing, and Jaskier's brows dipped. He gripped Geralt's wrist tight and open confused danced over his face. It wasn't more than a moment before the digging of his fingers went from firm to painful.
"Geralt--" he hissed, anger coloring his objection, and jerked his head to the side as he pried the Witcher's hand away. It took a lot more effort than it ought to, like he'd actually been trying to hold on but wasn't entirely there--Jaskier stared and found Geralt's gaze unchanged. The wrist in his grip was tensed.