Jaskier stared, up from the floor, wearing nothing but a human shape and a startled expression, as his date shimmied gradually from the room. His head was swimming just so, he'd just started to get into the proceedings--but Geralt was standing above him rather than the woman he'd planned on fucking into the floor--it wasn't his fault if the images bled together--if he envisioned his slick hand buried in one instead of the other--his cock practically started weeping at the sight.

No.

He didn't slap himself, that would have been positively gauche, but it was a near thing. His mental chiding was sharp and, while that usually did the trick, he didn't usually have his cock out and ready and nearly a season of celibacy to make up for. His blank look of shock transmuted into something just this side of frustration and he burst into a flurry of movement. Jaskier didn't really make to cover himself, not beyond the most token effort to keep his aching cock from actually bouncing against his stomach as he scrambled to his feet.

"Geralt, you're early," Jaskier announced in a poor parroting of his usual charm. Geralt was not early, not nearly, his charms had just failed to secure him a bedmate before the Witcher finished his hunt. And he clearly had finished. He was a wreck, covered in blood, sticky with it, and how he stank of sweat and sun and blood--

Oh dear.

He wasn't fond of blood, he didn't like the texture or the taste, even if he was technically a carnivore. But Geralt? Bloodied an clad in black leather armor? Well, he had no need to fake his interest. It took literally all of his focus to keep from reaching forward. Unfortunately, his mouth tended to run whether he wanted it to or not.

"You look terrible. I do hope none of that's yours."