As soon as Geralt's hand closes around his wrist, Jaskier enters drama queen mode (did he ever leave it, really). Thinking Geralt is still trying to give him blue balls, he struggles against the hold, trying to get his hand back on his cock and not to lose momentum.
"Fuck no, I said I'm not leaving until--"
Thankfully Geralt is extremely fast and efficient with his movements, and Jaskier quickly catches on what the witcher is going for. He can feel that thick dick against the curve of his ass and hums his approval - a pity it isn't quite awoken yet. For a short moment there, he considers sending his hands to his back, help Geralt join him in his pleasure, but the witcher is going all out and Jaskier doesn't have time to even think. His balls are a sensitive spot of his and Geralt's already abusing that knowledge - if the witcher wasn't holding him, Jaskier would've already slipped on the water. Instead he throws his head back and moans loudly, body arching and hands landing on his lover's strapping thighs.
Every stroke of that thumb on his sack sends sparks of pleasure throughout his whole body, makes him dig his nails on witcher skin and his toes curl underwater. It's so much better than any fantasy he's ever had - not only because it's the real thing, but because they're doing it in the hot springs of Kaer Morhen, out in the open where anyone could find them, or at least hear and smell them. It's not a crappy bed in an inn, it's not on the bumpy ground of the forest - it's at Geralt's home, in the water the others may bathe themselves later on. Part of him wants to be found, wants them all to know how much Geralt likes this normal, "delicate", average human body that still manages to keep up with a witcher.
Is the thrill of potential exhibitionism that sends a shiver down his spine and get his heart beating really fast? Or is Geralt's deep, sensual voice whispering dirty talk into his ear? Both, the answer is always both.
And oh, what sweet words are leaving that mouth that usually doesn't say much. Confessions of twenty years of knowing things and not actually doing anything about them, it's amazing how much of a turn-on and pure frustration they are at the same time. And yet... Jaskier has to shake his head.
"N-no, that wasn't-- oh fuck, yes, yes, give me your fucking teeth--" Is he begging? He's totally begging, coming undone under Geralt's ministrations, one of his hands coming up to grab the back of the witcher's neck and pull him as close as possible. "You wouldn't-- gods, Geralt-- you wouldn't say those things. That-- it would mean you knew and didn't reciprocate. It would... hurt..."
He sounds so pathetic right now, especially when the next confession reaches his lips - he may regret it later if Geralt teases him for it, but right now his brain isn't making good decisions, blurry with lust as it is. His mouth keeps running as his ass is rubbed against his lover's groin, silently asking for it.
"You would tell me that... that you liked watching me dance, that my singing of bawdy songs made you uncomfortable in those tight pants of yours, that-- fuuuck. Geralt, Geralt, just like that, you're so good to me, love..." Fantasies of a performer, of an attention whore, of a poet that wants to know his art has the effect he intended. It seems a different fantasy is the one that becomes real, though: Geralt is, indeed, methodically using what he's learned to masturbate Jaskier exactly as he likes it, making him forget about rubbing his ass and instead buck directly into those hands he loves so much. "You would say that you stayed until the end of my performance because you liked watching everyone's faces when they realized... yes, yes, more-- when they realized that no matter how much flirting and winking I did in my show I, ah fuck, I-- I still would go back to you."
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"Fuck no, I said I'm not leaving until--"
Thankfully Geralt is extremely fast and efficient with his movements, and Jaskier quickly catches on what the witcher is going for. He can feel that thick dick against the curve of his ass and hums his approval - a pity it isn't quite awoken yet. For a short moment there, he considers sending his hands to his back, help Geralt join him in his pleasure, but the witcher is going all out and Jaskier doesn't have time to even think. His balls are a sensitive spot of his and Geralt's already abusing that knowledge - if the witcher wasn't holding him, Jaskier would've already slipped on the water. Instead he throws his head back and moans loudly, body arching and hands landing on his lover's strapping thighs.
Every stroke of that thumb on his sack sends sparks of pleasure throughout his whole body, makes him dig his nails on witcher skin and his toes curl underwater. It's so much better than any fantasy he's ever had - not only because it's the real thing, but because they're doing it in the hot springs of Kaer Morhen, out in the open where anyone could find them, or at least hear and smell them. It's not a crappy bed in an inn, it's not on the bumpy ground of the forest - it's at Geralt's home, in the water the others may bathe themselves later on. Part of him wants to be found, wants them all to know how much Geralt likes this normal, "delicate", average human body that still manages to keep up with a witcher.
Is the thrill of potential exhibitionism that sends a shiver down his spine and get his heart beating really fast? Or is Geralt's deep, sensual voice whispering dirty talk into his ear? Both, the answer is always both.
And oh, what sweet words are leaving that mouth that usually doesn't say much. Confessions of twenty years of knowing things and not actually doing anything about them, it's amazing how much of a turn-on and pure frustration they are at the same time. And yet... Jaskier has to shake his head.
"N-no, that wasn't-- oh fuck, yes, yes, give me your fucking teeth--" Is he begging? He's totally begging, coming undone under Geralt's ministrations, one of his hands coming up to grab the back of the witcher's neck and pull him as close as possible. "You wouldn't-- gods, Geralt-- you wouldn't say those things. That-- it would mean you knew and didn't reciprocate. It would... hurt..."
He sounds so pathetic right now, especially when the next confession reaches his lips - he may regret it later if Geralt teases him for it, but right now his brain isn't making good decisions, blurry with lust as it is. His mouth keeps running as his ass is rubbed against his lover's groin, silently asking for it.
"You would tell me that... that you liked watching me dance, that my singing of bawdy songs made you uncomfortable in those tight pants of yours, that-- fuuuck. Geralt, Geralt, just like that, you're so good to me, love..." Fantasies of a performer, of an attention whore, of a poet that wants to know his art has the effect he intended. It seems a different fantasy is the one that becomes real, though: Geralt is, indeed, methodically using what he's learned to masturbate Jaskier exactly as he likes it, making him forget about rubbing his ass and instead buck directly into those hands he loves so much. "You would say that you stayed until the end of my performance because you liked watching everyone's faces when they realized... yes, yes, more-- when they realized that no matter how much flirting and winking I did in my show I, ah fuck, I-- I still would go back to you."