Jaskier's mouth slips over his thumb, encasing it in the warm, wet heat of his mouth. The bard tongues it, sucks it slow and thorough like Geralt could only imagine that he would a cock. He watches him intently, unblinkingly, and the slight hitch to his breath when Jaskier ran his tongue along the edge of his nail-- the thought of how it would feel on the head of his cock-- is surely just the bard's imagination.
And that slowly awakening cock of his is starting to stir, albeit only a little; there's heat starting to pool in his gut and he's a little more plump under Jaskier's hand. His point has been made, and made quite eloquently for someone not using a single word.
Jaskier preoccupies his mouth with Geralt's own again, his narrow hips giving an aborted little jerk as though trying to find some relief. Geralt takes pity on him, shifts him so that he can move a thigh between his legs and give him something to rut against. There's something very appealing about the desperation in him, in the biting, aggressive kiss and the way that he tries to press every inch of himself against Geralt; his earnest, raw wanting. Geralt could get drunk on just the smell of him alone.
Geralt hums at the question, have you ever even sucked cock before, and it is perhaps notably not a negative kind of hum. The witcher's history with sucking cock isn't as extensive as Jaskier's undoubtedly is, but he's been in that position once or twice-- he doesn't leave his bedpartners unsatisfied, even if they're just whores. His voice dips into something low and rumbly when Jaskier's hands travel south, cupping his balls, and his hands really are just as clever as he had guessed--
But the pleasant scent sours a little, his hand falters. The bard's customary babbling trails off as he loses the thread of it, and Geralt has never known Jaskier's incessant chatter to fumble like that. He can keep up a monologue without much direct input from his brain.
He's noticed. Of course he's noticed, he's got his hand in Geralt's pants and where there ought to be an erection, he's got a hand full of limp cock. That would be a disappointment for anyone, nevertheless Jaskier, who has twenty years of fantasizing for Geralt to live up to. This was probably never a feature of his daydreams.
"It's not what you think," he says, and internally winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. When has that ever been a good way to start a conversation, especially about one that involves fucking? Gods, he's had to explain this at least a hundred times to a hundred different whores, why is it so much harder now that the audience is Jaskier?
"It's not a lack of... desire," he tries to clarify, and it's really still not going well. "Fuck."
He takes Jaskier's hand and brings it to his throat, pressing the bard's fingers into the soft spot under his jaw where his pulse can be felt. Still slow-- a little faster than normal, a third of a human heart rate instead of a quarter, but still inhumanly slow.
"The slowness of my heart," he tries again, "makes it more difficult for me to bleed out, and also more difficult for... this. I am slow to rise and slower to finish. It's physiology, not unwillingness."
Geralt is entirely willing, he's been willing since fucking Oxenfurt. His cock just gets the message so much slower than the rest of him.
"Most become bored with the effort and time involved. It's... fine, Jaskier, you don't need to worry about it. Let me take care of you, and I can finish on my own."
no subject
And that slowly awakening cock of his is starting to stir, albeit only a little; there's heat starting to pool in his gut and he's a little more plump under Jaskier's hand. His point has been made, and made quite eloquently for someone not using a single word.
Jaskier preoccupies his mouth with Geralt's own again, his narrow hips giving an aborted little jerk as though trying to find some relief. Geralt takes pity on him, shifts him so that he can move a thigh between his legs and give him something to rut against. There's something very appealing about the desperation in him, in the biting, aggressive kiss and the way that he tries to press every inch of himself against Geralt; his earnest, raw wanting. Geralt could get drunk on just the smell of him alone.
Geralt hums at the question, have you ever even sucked cock before, and it is perhaps notably not a negative kind of hum. The witcher's history with sucking cock isn't as extensive as Jaskier's undoubtedly is, but he's been in that position once or twice-- he doesn't leave his bedpartners unsatisfied, even if they're just whores. His voice dips into something low and rumbly when Jaskier's hands travel south, cupping his balls, and his hands really are just as clever as he had guessed--
But the pleasant scent sours a little, his hand falters. The bard's customary babbling trails off as he loses the thread of it, and Geralt has never known Jaskier's incessant chatter to fumble like that. He can keep up a monologue without much direct input from his brain.
He's noticed. Of course he's noticed, he's got his hand in Geralt's pants and where there ought to be an erection, he's got a hand full of limp cock. That would be a disappointment for anyone, nevertheless Jaskier, who has twenty years of fantasizing for Geralt to live up to. This was probably never a feature of his daydreams.
"It's not what you think," he says, and internally winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. When has that ever been a good way to start a conversation, especially about one that involves fucking? Gods, he's had to explain this at least a hundred times to a hundred different whores, why is it so much harder now that the audience is Jaskier?
"It's not a lack of... desire," he tries to clarify, and it's really still not going well. "Fuck."
He takes Jaskier's hand and brings it to his throat, pressing the bard's fingers into the soft spot under his jaw where his pulse can be felt. Still slow-- a little faster than normal, a third of a human heart rate instead of a quarter, but still inhumanly slow.
"The slowness of my heart," he tries again, "makes it more difficult for me to bleed out, and also more difficult for... this. I am slow to rise and slower to finish. It's physiology, not unwillingness."
Geralt is entirely willing, he's been willing since fucking Oxenfurt. His cock just gets the message so much slower than the rest of him.
"Most become bored with the effort and time involved. It's... fine, Jaskier, you don't need to worry about it. Let me take care of you, and I can finish on my own."