Jaskier obliges him and takes off the doublet, and Geralt doesn't care where the deposits the garment afterward. He only gives him enough room to pull the chemise over his head, revealing his attractively flushed chest, surprisingly hairy. The witcher watches him as he removes his boots, eyes raking over his body, all of the warm, inviting flesh on display. Once as undressed as he pleases to be, Jaskier is back in his arms and kissing him, impatient and messy.
Geralt wraps an arm around his back, crushing him to his chest, and his other hand gropes over his hip, down to get a solid handful of his ass. All of the walking that Jaskier has done over the years has been to his benefit-- perhaps he ought to complain less about not riding Roach. It's certainly left him with a bottom that fills out his trousers nicely, and gives Geralt plenty to squeeze at while he's chasing his tongue.
The bard's nails scratch at his back and might even leave faint red marks behind; nothing that will last, his enhanced healing will make sure of that, but the brief sting pulls a pleased rumble out of his throat.
He breaks the kiss long enough to speak.
"Bed."
Then grabs Jaskier under the thighs as he did back in that classroom; it hadn't escaped him then how Jaskier enjoys being manhandled. He lifts him to waist height, urges those legs to wrap around him to help bear his weight. The bard isn't heavy, though Geralt would appreciate his cooperation while he walks them over to the bed, getting his mouth back onto his neck as he goes, kissing along the purple-blue marks that mar it. (He bruises beautifully, but the bard could write far better poetry than Geralt about the contrast against his pale skin and the way his flesh bears the imprints of the witcher's teeth.) Then, when he feels the mattress bump against his knees, he tosses the bard onto it; there's something appealing about seeing him bounce on the plush surface. Geralt tears his shirt off and tosses it aside, revealing an expanse of scarred, muscular chest, and follows him onto the bed.
He's getting his mouth onto Jaskier's chest, running his hands over his sides, his stomach, there's so much for him to touch, when--
Frantic bangs on the door. An even more frantic voice saying Master Witcher, Master Witcher, please, there's a werewolf.
Geralt makes a noise that probably rivals a werewolf's growl and pushes himself off of the bed, away from the bard. He stalks to the door and throws it open, undoubtedly to the surprise of the terrified man behind it, and listens with mounting irritation to a panic-stricken account of a rampaging werewolf that had already mauled two people on the streets.
"Fuck," he says, and has probably never meant it more. "Fine. I'll take care of it."
Then slams the door shut and goes to fetch his fucking armor.
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Geralt wraps an arm around his back, crushing him to his chest, and his other hand gropes over his hip, down to get a solid handful of his ass. All of the walking that Jaskier has done over the years has been to his benefit-- perhaps he ought to complain less about not riding Roach. It's certainly left him with a bottom that fills out his trousers nicely, and gives Geralt plenty to squeeze at while he's chasing his tongue.
The bard's nails scratch at his back and might even leave faint red marks behind; nothing that will last, his enhanced healing will make sure of that, but the brief sting pulls a pleased rumble out of his throat.
He breaks the kiss long enough to speak.
"Bed."
Then grabs Jaskier under the thighs as he did back in that classroom; it hadn't escaped him then how Jaskier enjoys being manhandled. He lifts him to waist height, urges those legs to wrap around him to help bear his weight. The bard isn't heavy, though Geralt would appreciate his cooperation while he walks them over to the bed, getting his mouth back onto his neck as he goes, kissing along the purple-blue marks that mar it. (He bruises beautifully, but the bard could write far better poetry than Geralt about the contrast against his pale skin and the way his flesh bears the imprints of the witcher's teeth.) Then, when he feels the mattress bump against his knees, he tosses the bard onto it; there's something appealing about seeing him bounce on the plush surface. Geralt tears his shirt off and tosses it aside, revealing an expanse of scarred, muscular chest, and follows him onto the bed.
He's getting his mouth onto Jaskier's chest, running his hands over his sides, his stomach, there's so much for him to touch, when--
Frantic bangs on the door. An even more frantic voice saying Master Witcher, Master Witcher, please, there's a werewolf.
Geralt makes a noise that probably rivals a werewolf's growl and pushes himself off of the bed, away from the bard. He stalks to the door and throws it open, undoubtedly to the surprise of the terrified man behind it, and listens with mounting irritation to a panic-stricken account of a rampaging werewolf that had already mauled two people on the streets.
"Fuck," he says, and has probably never meant it more. "Fine. I'll take care of it."
Then slams the door shut and goes to fetch his fucking armor.