Geralt knows what he means-- which is why he knows that it's utter bullshit. He arguably doesn't even have the finest cock in this keep, nevertheless in the land, nor would he believe for a second that Jaskier couldn't be satisfied by another man's cock or even necessarily want that to be the case. Saying as such is just... flattery. Pretty words when he could just speak plainly and say that it was a good fuck.
But the subject is dropped, and that's fine. Geralt's close to sleep for once in his ridiculous life, a product of being warm, satisfied, and safe within the stone walls of his home. Jaskier promises a talk in the morning and the witcher would actually like little more than to completely avoid that, but for now, they rest.
He wakes to the sound of a fist hitting the door and Eskel's annoyed voice asking how long they're going to laze about in bed. Geralt's missed morning training, no doubt, and while he's certain that Vesemir won't be pleased with him for it, he's equally sure that Eskel provided a sufficient excuse to mollify him. Eskel's the favorite, after all. He'll be there for afternoon training, anyway, and that should keep the old wolf from getting too grumpy about it.
His arm is very numb. Geralt tries to discreetly move it from underneath Jaskier's weight so that he can start getting blood flow back to it without disturbing him. The tingling feeling in his hand is unpleasant, but worth it for a good night's sleep and the privilege of being drooled on.
Geralt opens his eyes when Jaskier shifts against him, expecting something like a good morning kiss despite what has to be prodigious morning breath, and feels something stiff against his leg. Jaskier seems almost embarrassed about his otherwise entirely normal bodily function, dismissing Eskel and getting a warning about Lambert eating their breakfasts if they take too long. He rolls away and checks on his cock like it's something that might up and walk away.
"Seems to be," he says in response to Jaskier's good morning. Geralt's cock is still soft against his thigh, hardly unusual for him in the mornings, but the bard has a very healthy-looking erection that demands attention. And, sure, Jaskier could deal with it himself or just wait for it to go down on its own, but Geralt was perfectly willing. And there is a promise that's gone unfulfilled from last night, and Geralt is a man who keeps his promises.
He reaches over and hauls Jaskier on top of him, bringing him up to straddle his waist. Jaskier is a lovely sight in the morning, appealingly disheveled and his skin warm from spending the night underneath the covers with a furnace of a witcher.
"I promised you something last night," he says, because it's true-- he had said that Jaskier could spill on his chest, and the bard had yet to do so. "You can have it now, if it pleases you."
And if not, Geralt still has a perfectly serviceable mouth and hands, as well. There must be some part of him that would satisfy Jaskier before they go down for breakfast and then-- undoubtedly-- to the baths.
no subject
But the subject is dropped, and that's fine. Geralt's close to sleep for once in his ridiculous life, a product of being warm, satisfied, and safe within the stone walls of his home. Jaskier promises a talk in the morning and the witcher would actually like little more than to completely avoid that, but for now, they rest.
He wakes to the sound of a fist hitting the door and Eskel's annoyed voice asking how long they're going to laze about in bed. Geralt's missed morning training, no doubt, and while he's certain that Vesemir won't be pleased with him for it, he's equally sure that Eskel provided a sufficient excuse to mollify him. Eskel's the favorite, after all. He'll be there for afternoon training, anyway, and that should keep the old wolf from getting too grumpy about it.
His arm is very numb. Geralt tries to discreetly move it from underneath Jaskier's weight so that he can start getting blood flow back to it without disturbing him. The tingling feeling in his hand is unpleasant, but worth it for a good night's sleep and the privilege of being drooled on.
Geralt opens his eyes when Jaskier shifts against him, expecting something like a good morning kiss despite what has to be prodigious morning breath, and feels something stiff against his leg. Jaskier seems almost embarrassed about his otherwise entirely normal bodily function, dismissing Eskel and getting a warning about Lambert eating their breakfasts if they take too long. He rolls away and checks on his cock like it's something that might up and walk away.
"Seems to be," he says in response to Jaskier's good morning. Geralt's cock is still soft against his thigh, hardly unusual for him in the mornings, but the bard has a very healthy-looking erection that demands attention. And, sure, Jaskier could deal with it himself or just wait for it to go down on its own, but Geralt was perfectly willing. And there is a promise that's gone unfulfilled from last night, and Geralt is a man who keeps his promises.
He reaches over and hauls Jaskier on top of him, bringing him up to straddle his waist. Jaskier is a lovely sight in the morning, appealingly disheveled and his skin warm from spending the night underneath the covers with a furnace of a witcher.
"I promised you something last night," he says, because it's true-- he had said that Jaskier could spill on his chest, and the bard had yet to do so. "You can have it now, if it pleases you."
And if not, Geralt still has a perfectly serviceable mouth and hands, as well. There must be some part of him that would satisfy Jaskier before they go down for breakfast and then-- undoubtedly-- to the baths.