Geralt kicked the door closed with a sharp slam and the sound bounced through Jaskier's chest like an invitation. He was already well past flustered, his hard cock making a nuisance of itself was evidence of that, but his attention just zeroed onto Geralt with that snap of movement. (He was not food, idiot hindbrain--though, that did conjure images of Geralt in his mout--)

"I do have a rag and a pitcher," Jaskier offered abruptly and, as Geralt started peeling out of his leather, the rest of the bard's attention evaporated. His pulse was hammering in his head as Geralt turned his back and it was harder and harder to keep in his normal mindset--was it hot in here? How long had it been since he'd fucked something? It was hot in here and it smelled like blood and sweat and sex. Oh, this was bad--he should--

"I should--" Jaskier said, to himself mostly, and broke line of sight. He turned to fetch the pitcher and rag, anything to distract himself as his mind started to fog up. Fuck. Sharp mental chiding wasn't going to cut it anymore and, damn it--he didn't indulge because Geralt would go on without him, but he couldn't indulge with Geralt--

He turned to see Geralt already out of his armor and his swords set aside and, for some reason, that was the fact that frayed the very last of Jaskier's human thought. He stared at the Witcher, still looking dreadful and sticky, and swallowed.

"You, uh, should probably leave, Geralt," he suggested, almost light-headedly.