'Ludicrous witcher logic'. What Jaskier thought of as ludicrous, Geralt simply thought of as practical. Dainty finger-foods and poetry are the kind of slow seduction that you use on rich ladies with expensive tastes, ballads and trinkets for farmers' daughters with grand ideas about love who don't know any better yet. Geralt is both a man and a witcher, and he has few needs and even fewer wants. He would get into Jaskier's soft canopy bed with or without the songs and pretty words. Knowing that he is, for now, held in the bard's esteem is enough.

They would see, anyway, if Jaskier still felt like cherishing him or sweeping him off of his feet after four months of being stuck at the keep with him.

There's an amused turn to the corner of his mouth at Jaskier's offense, his exaggerated histrionics, the finger that he waggles at Geralt like a scandalized housewife. His eyes drop to Jaskier's throat when he flicks open a few buttons and bares its bruised surface, and so do quite a few others in the vicinity. The whispers increase in volume and Geralt can't help but roll his eyes.

"I like your fingers just fine," he says, and then Jaskier decides that the best way to show off said fingers is to dip them in cream and practically fellate them. It's quite the sight; Jaskier has a clever tongue and soft lips, and Geralt finds the movement of his throat when he swallows very appealing, especially when covered with his marks. He feels that thrill of interest again, warming his blood more than the ale does.

When the bard leans forward, his doublet pulls up just a little in the back, revealing an inch or two of his chemise; Geralt puts his hand there, running his fingers over the soft fabric that covers his lower back.

"Once you've finished pleasuring your tarts, I could show you."