Geralt doesn't protest when she crawls into his tent, or when she moves over him and kisses him. But when she sits up like she's about to undress, Geralt grabs her wrist gently, halting her. "We probably shouldn't," he rumbles. His pupils are huge in the dark. "You aren't--okay."
Oh Snap
There wasn’t any real rhyme or reason for Molly’s feet to have been pointed to Geralt’s tent--and less still for why she’d entered in the first place. Her mind was heavy, her shoulders tense and aching from the weight and expectation of her title, even here in the encampment, where they were little more than refugees and fugitives. She was still looked to for the final word, for guidance and reassurance, and frankly...Molly was exhausted. For just one moment, she didn’t want to be the Queen. For just one moment, she hadn’t wanted to think.
While there was still very little Molly knew of the Witcher, she knew he was safe. With Geralt, she was no more simply the Queen than he was simply the Witcher, however they’d been taught to believe otherwise.
So, she’d snuck inside the tent, kissed him, content to lose herself with what felt Safe. Egged on by the touch, Molly had leaned back, finally leaving the responsibilities to the outside world--
At least until he’d halted her hands. She did stop, then, breathless as she looked down to him.
You aren’t okay.
She huffed out a laugh, mirthless. “And you are..?”
He was right, of course. This wasn’t the way. This wasn’t any way, least of all for her. Naturally, the rejection stung, as did his perceptiveness, but that was something for her to mine through alone in her own tent. Not while she sat straddling the Witcher. She’d simply...misread. Her hands moved to cover her face for the moment as she inhaled, and began to withdraw.
“I apologize--g-ds, I’m sorry. You are right, this isn’t...I’m sorry.”
