Judging from the bard's heartrate and the increasingly desperate way that he ruts into Geralt's hand, he enjoys the dirty talk-- just maybe not exactly the flavor of dirty talk that Geralt tries. Thankfully, Jaskier's the talkative sort and steers him towards the sort of dirty talk that he wants, with a side order of all but begging him to get his teeth into him. The teeth stay gentle-- but the words, those he can fix. Follow Jaskier's lead and give him what he wants to hear.
And what he wants, apparently, is plenty of ego-stroking to go along with the cock stroking. He oughtn't be surprised, the only thing bigger than Jaskier's dramatics is his ego. He shouldn't have ever told him about that thing in Vizima, about seeing the sight-reading contest; clearly it's gone to his head, the knowledge that Geralt is fond of his fillingless-pie voice.
"Is that why you always relished singing your bawdy songs?" he says, giving the hard cock in his fist a gentle squeeze; he almost fancies that he can feel the relentless pulse of blood in it, pounding through the thick vein on the underside in time with his heart. "Flirting around with your doublet open and your chemise half undone, singing at the top of your lungs about cock? I had half a mind to pull you out of taverns by that ridiculous fucking bow on the back of your trousers every time you started playing Fishmonger's Daughter. Was that what you were hoping for? That one day I'd crack and toss you over my shoulder in the middle of your set?"
And wouldn't that be a fine way to start an evening? Or it would be, anyway, if it wouldn't have surely resulted in a dozen men trying to stone him for making off with the bard to have his evil witchery way with him. And it wouldn't matter how much the bard would try to insist that he's a willing participant in the evil witchery way, Geralt would still end up either stoned or arrested. Ah, well. That's why this is dirty talk, just a fantasy.
"I could throw you into bed and really give you something to sing about."
He could give him something to sing about right now. Jaskier's been keen on getting a witcher's fangs into his neck, and though Geralt still refuses to put those teeth anywhere near such delicate structures, the bard does have a tempting strip of muscle that runs from neck to shoulder. He presses his lips to it for just a moment before biting down, the pressure firm enough to bruise but not enough to draw blood. A kind introduction to witcher fangs, while his hand continues to jack the bard's prick just how he likes it.
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And what he wants, apparently, is plenty of ego-stroking to go along with the cock stroking. He oughtn't be surprised, the only thing bigger than Jaskier's dramatics is his ego. He shouldn't have ever told him about that thing in Vizima, about seeing the sight-reading contest; clearly it's gone to his head, the knowledge that Geralt is fond of his fillingless-pie voice.
"Is that why you always relished singing your bawdy songs?" he says, giving the hard cock in his fist a gentle squeeze; he almost fancies that he can feel the relentless pulse of blood in it, pounding through the thick vein on the underside in time with his heart. "Flirting around with your doublet open and your chemise half undone, singing at the top of your lungs about cock? I had half a mind to pull you out of taverns by that ridiculous fucking bow on the back of your trousers every time you started playing Fishmonger's Daughter. Was that what you were hoping for? That one day I'd crack and toss you over my shoulder in the middle of your set?"
And wouldn't that be a fine way to start an evening? Or it would be, anyway, if it wouldn't have surely resulted in a dozen men trying to stone him for making off with the bard to have his evil witchery way with him. And it wouldn't matter how much the bard would try to insist that he's a willing participant in the evil witchery way, Geralt would still end up either stoned or arrested. Ah, well. That's why this is dirty talk, just a fantasy.
"I could throw you into bed and really give you something to sing about."
He could give him something to sing about right now. Jaskier's been keen on getting a witcher's fangs into his neck, and though Geralt still refuses to put those teeth anywhere near such delicate structures, the bard does have a tempting strip of muscle that runs from neck to shoulder. He presses his lips to it for just a moment before biting down, the pressure firm enough to bruise but not enough to draw blood. A kind introduction to witcher fangs, while his hand continues to jack the bard's prick just how he likes it.