Fucking hells, was that why women loved Jaskier? One of Geralt's eyebrows began to rise before he could properly school it back down again. He'd seen Jaskier naked of course, but never aroused. He knew why a cock that would put Eskel's to shame made him more cross-- he'd fucking asked for a bath, not a spectacle-- but there was no reason for his mouth to feel so chalky. He wasn't a godsbedamned barmaid to be trounced for the price of an inane song. Geralt exhaled a heavy sigh.

"Shut up, Jaskier."

They both knew that he wasn't early and they both knew most of the blood wasn't his; Geralt couldn't find it in him at the moment, confronted by a member stiffer then the excuse given, to offer platitudes. The door was kicked shut with a boot heel and a crack of wood and Geralt turned away from the bard, already reaching for the stays on a pauldron. Lacking a bath he'd peel out of the leather and go stick his head in the horse trough-- perhaps spend the night in Roach's stall as well, just so he didn't have to smell all night what had been done in the bed. He wasn't about to waste the piddling coin he'd fetch for the forktail on separate rooms.