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Art by Dreadelion
Even witcher stealth isn’t enough to conceal Geralt’s entrance. If Regis hadn’t heard him, though, he would have smelled the coffee aroma instantly.
Geralt doesn’t drink coffee. Curious. An offering, then.
He smirks.
Continuing to the scan the text on using other members of the family Papaveraceae as an alternative ingredient in healing potions, Regis rests his empty cup on his knee.
“Possession is nine tenths of the law in Nilfgaard,” he announces pre-emptively.
“Guess I’m counting on you to have mercy on me, then.”
It sounds like he’s smiling, so Regis finishes the paragraph and risks the glance.
Geralt leans in the doorway, predictably shirtless and elegantly contrapposto, steam rising in delicate coils over the mug in his left hand.
"I will trade you a fresh cup of coffee in exchange for my shirt back.”
It’s not a sentiment easily stirred in Regis, given his complicated relationship with time, but Geralt always seems to confound the rules, and it has proved to be true thus far: seeing him like this never gets old.
“Hmm,” Regis ruminates. "You drive a hard bargain.”
“Eh.” The witcher shrugs, shifting the lines of his shoulders momentarily into an elegant V, "part of the job."
“Counterpoint,” Regis says, setting his cup down on a nearby stack of books as punctuation. "I am very, very cozy right now,” he grasps a hand protectively into the fabric of his lover’s shirt. "And it smells like you.”
Geralt’s mouth narrows to a flat line. “One cup of coffee and three kisses.”
“Throw in a guarantee of the inclusion of tongue in them, and you have yourself a deal.”
Crossing the room, Geralt nods and gives him a low chuckle. He leans in to make the first installment of his payment.
“Kinda thought that went without saying,” he whispers against Regis’s lips, making good on his promise.
“Trust, but verify. That’s my motto,” Regis smiles, lips still touching Geralt’s.
The witcher’s breath is warm and soft against his mouth, and the smell of him is even better than the shirt. “You have too many damn mottos.”
The second kiss is even better than the first; Regis drags it out to its fullest, moaning softly as he slides his hand up the wall of muscle that comprises Geralt’s torso.
“I almost feel bad,” Geralt admits after the second deposit.
“Why?” Regis asks, gently arcing his thumb back and forth over a particularly pronounced scar.
“Because,” the witcher confesses, grinning guiltily, "I make fucking terrible coffee.”
He slides his fingers beneath the hem of his own shirt, moving to reclaim it.
“I am well aware,” Regis informs him, catching his greedy hand and pausing him. His expression gives away his own satisfaction, there’s no hiding it. “Save your pity for yourself, my dear.”
“Oh?” Geralt raises his eyebrows. “What’d I miss?”
“At the end of this transaction, you won’t want to go deal with that Slyzard contract any more than you want to now...”
Regis cups Geralt’s jaw and guides him in for the third kiss, moving his mouth against Geralt’s hungrily, teasingly, sharp teeth grazing his lips and tongue, each brush a promise, whispering more to come.
His smile is nothing short of exultant as he pulls back, raising his arms to allow Geralt to strip him at his leisure.
“And I’ll be exactly as charming as I am now. And,” he adds pleasantly, putting a button on his argument. “I’ll also be completely naked.”
Geralt’s breath hitches as he realizes he’s been outmaneuvered, and he finally sighs, gripping the edge of the shirt in question once more.
“Dammit, Regis,” he says, with not a trace of the venom he likely intends. He sighs. “All right.”