Jaskier definitely neither heard Geralt's answer, nor even noted his tone--his pulse was in his ears and the smell of sweat and sex and blood had his brain in a fog. His people had long since grown past the frenzy instinct when they tasted blood, it was beneath them, they had language and culture--Geralt scraped his hair off his neck and Jaskier swayed in on reflex.

When had he crossed the room?

Why was he holding a pitcher?

"You smell delicious," Jaskier mused through his daze--Geralt didn't want the pitcher, right? It was taking up a hand, humans liked hands, he shouldn't be wasting this one. He dropped the pitcher without preamble and instead reached for Geralt's filthy, sweat streaked hair.