Jaskier's mouth and hands are as confident in this arena as Geralt's in a battle; the sureness of a man with experience on his side. He is, if his reputation is even the slightest bit true, a master in the bedroom, as excellent a lover as he is a musician. He might leave a trail of broken hearts in his wake, but he never leaves an unsatisfied bed-partner.
Geralt hums as the bard finds an acceptable place on his neck to suck and bite at, even tilts his head a little to give him better access to that spot. The bruise won't last, not against the mutagens that accelerate his healing, but for a little while, his skin will hold the mark left behind by Jaskier's mouth.
The bard then delves a hand underneath the waistband of Geralt's pants, bold as you please, and the witcher makes a surprised grunt as his fingers close around his third sword. There's plenty for him to get his hand on-- more, if he had been a normal man with a normal man's pulse, instead of a witcher whose cock is as slow to get going as his heart. Even so, it's not entirely unaffected; there is life in Geralt's pants, his cock thickening a little under the bard's tender attentions.
"Jask..."
He tips his hips into Jaskier's touch and remembers that he has hands of his own that ought to be doing things; he runs one from the bard's hip to chest, thumbing across one of his nipples just to see if he'd get a reaction. Jaskier's body is unexplored territory, and Geralt fully intends to become a master of it--
He hears feet on the stairs. Heavy, not the barmaid's or the innkeeper's. The creak of leather, muffled slightly by padding-- armor. The metallic, slithering sound of steel being drawn.
Geralt is up and off of him in an instant, buttoning up his fucking trousers and tossing the bard's doublet and chemise back at him on his way towards his swords.
"Get your things and get out the fucking window," he says, yanking his sword out of its sheath. They're outside the door, he can hear them, and he is barely within range when the door bursts open and he swings his sword. There's a scream from one of the men in the hall who had been trying to get in, then a low thump as his severed arm fell to the floor, sword still clutched in hand.
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Geralt hums as the bard finds an acceptable place on his neck to suck and bite at, even tilts his head a little to give him better access to that spot. The bruise won't last, not against the mutagens that accelerate his healing, but for a little while, his skin will hold the mark left behind by Jaskier's mouth.
The bard then delves a hand underneath the waistband of Geralt's pants, bold as you please, and the witcher makes a surprised grunt as his fingers close around his third sword. There's plenty for him to get his hand on-- more, if he had been a normal man with a normal man's pulse, instead of a witcher whose cock is as slow to get going as his heart. Even so, it's not entirely unaffected; there is life in Geralt's pants, his cock thickening a little under the bard's tender attentions.
"Jask..."
He tips his hips into Jaskier's touch and remembers that he has hands of his own that ought to be doing things; he runs one from the bard's hip to chest, thumbing across one of his nipples just to see if he'd get a reaction. Jaskier's body is unexplored territory, and Geralt fully intends to become a master of it--
He hears feet on the stairs. Heavy, not the barmaid's or the innkeeper's. The creak of leather, muffled slightly by padding-- armor. The metallic, slithering sound of steel being drawn.
Geralt is up and off of him in an instant, buttoning up his fucking trousers and tossing the bard's doublet and chemise back at him on his way towards his swords.
"Get your things and get out the fucking window," he says, yanking his sword out of its sheath. They're outside the door, he can hear them, and he is barely within range when the door bursts open and he swings his sword. There's a scream from one of the men in the hall who had been trying to get in, then a low thump as his severed arm fell to the floor, sword still clutched in hand.