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With his wrists held tight on the pillow above him and magic keeping his hips pinned to the bed, Geralt could do nothing but writhe and moan as the sorcerer’s soft lips chased the hem of his braies down his hip at an agonizingly leisurely pace. Istredd had already come once, rutting into the witcher’s hand fully clothed against the door like the teenagers neither of them had been in a century; no longer driven by his own pressing need, he had apparently found a new bottomless well of patience with which to torment the other man laid out in his bed.
(This teasing had absolutely nothing on the sort of torture a certain violet-eyed sorceress could inflict when she was in the mood to make a man wait, as both of them knew all too well.)
Just as the witcher was losing patience with Istredd’s determination to so thoroughly explore every inch of his skin on his way to where he needed that mouth most, there was a break in the pattern of skin on teeth on skin. Geralt had a short moment of relief, sure that things would finally be moving forward, before he realized what had happened.
“Don’t fucking laugh at me, you bastard!” Geralt snarled in fury, sitting up as much as he was able to glare at the sorcerer he’d thought was showing himself to be one of the few mages who made for pleasant company, and surprisingly willing to treat fairly with witchers as well. Istredd’s gaze was fixed somewhere on his left thigh near where he’d left off, glued to- ah. Glued to the little black-and-purple tattoo over his artery, a perfect replica of Yen’s signature obsidian star.
Istredd felt the witcher’s thoughts take on a distinctly betrayed tone, with background notes of bitter resignation and self-loathing, and hastily reached out with the hand not suddenly busy at the fastenings of his own pants.
“No, no, wait, I- heh- I swear I’m not mocking you!”
Geralt’s eyes narrowed in suspicion even as he relaxed back against the mattress, pointedly ignoring the way his cock’s continued rigidity suggested that he might not be entirely opposed to a bit of humiliation in the bedroom, which- later. They could explore that later, if Istredd managed to salvage this encounter.
“It’s just, you did say you knew Yenna, but I wasn’t expecting, well,” he tried to explain, still struggling to return his breath to a more regular rhythm. Finally, he untied the last of the laces in his way and shoved both his pants and the (soft, lacy) smallclothes under them to the floor, then lifted his foot back onto the bed in a decidedly awkward pose that showed off his own inner thigh. “It’s just kinda funny, I thought, ‘cause I have one too.”