Geralt squeezes his cock as he fixes the topic of his dirty talk, and Jaskier swears he's in fucking heaven. Moaning and pretty much mewling like an animal in heat, he nods to every question Geralt asks, relishing the fact the witcher has noticed. Yes, of course that's why he likes playing dirty songs. There are other reasons as well, like simply enjoying the faces of conservative assholes when they hear what he has to say about sex and relationships, completely scandalous for the society they live in.
That second when their faces morph as they realize Fshmonger's Daughter is about fucking a monster? Priceless. Jaskier never gets tired of it, and his ego grows a bit more every time he gets away with singing it in court.
But the main reason is definitely the attention and power. Having all eyes in the room, regardless of gender and sexual orientation, watching him with desire, feeling some heat in their groins without understanding why. He teases with winks, pushes the boundaries of how much flesh is allowed to be shown through his opened chemise, makes them notice his perky butt by the use of a strategically placed bow. Could these tactics work on an antisocial witcher that usually sticks to whores and one insane sorceress?
Turns out the answer is yes, and that thought is as pleasurable as the hand that touches him.
"S-so it did work," he manages to mumble with a short chuckle, a touch of pride and glee mixing in his scent under the overwhelming lust. So many years of thinking the opposite and now... Geralt is right, every confession of his strokes his ego more. "I, ah, I do love it when you ma-manhandle me... imagine their faces, Geralt, come on..."
Indeed, it's only a fantasy, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it. The mental image of Geralt picking him up in the middle of a performance is too good - even better if he's performing somewhere fancy, the scandal among the nobles would be delicious. And considering how much Geralt hates nobles? Jaskier is sure the witcher can appreciate the idea as well: the pretty songbird that everyone wanted but nobody was able to keep has been caught by the 'mutant' they hate so much. It's poetry in its purest form.
There's the start of another mumbled sentence, intending to tell Geralt how much he's given him to write about since last night already, but the witcher chooses that moment to fucking finally bite him. That delightful sting on his sensitive flesh pushes him through the edge and Jaskier can barely say fuck before coming in the water, head thrown back over Geralt's shoulder as his whole body shudders and his feet struggle to keep their balance on the slippery surface when every nerve is too busy bursting with pleasure. His hands hold onto Geralt's mighty muscles as he chases his orgasm to make it last as much as possible, his hips thrusting erratically into Geralt's hand, his mind incapable of speech for once.
It's a release of self-consciousness, of any thought whatsoever. It's having pure, raw ecstasy running through every vein and taking over his mind - no need of control, of decision making. Only the pleasure crashing inside him and the feeling of Geralt's body pressed outside his own.
And thank the gods for that strong body behind him, because Jaskier slumps right against it when he comes to reality, panting but still grinning like the happiest man alive.
"...you're going to be the death of me, Geralt of Rivia." His head is turned to look for Geralt's neck to nuzzle, the closest thing he can do to cuddling right now - his legs still feel like jelly, making it hard to move. "And I can't think of a more magnificent way to go."
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That second when their faces morph as they realize Fshmonger's Daughter is about fucking a monster? Priceless. Jaskier never gets tired of it, and his ego grows a bit more every time he gets away with singing it in court.
But the main reason is definitely the attention and power. Having all eyes in the room, regardless of gender and sexual orientation, watching him with desire, feeling some heat in their groins without understanding why. He teases with winks, pushes the boundaries of how much flesh is allowed to be shown through his opened chemise, makes them notice his perky butt by the use of a strategically placed bow. Could these tactics work on an antisocial witcher that usually sticks to whores and one insane sorceress?
Turns out the answer is yes, and that thought is as pleasurable as the hand that touches him.
"S-so it did work," he manages to mumble with a short chuckle, a touch of pride and glee mixing in his scent under the overwhelming lust. So many years of thinking the opposite and now... Geralt is right, every confession of his strokes his ego more. "I, ah, I do love it when you ma-manhandle me... imagine their faces, Geralt, come on..."
Indeed, it's only a fantasy, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it. The mental image of Geralt picking him up in the middle of a performance is too good - even better if he's performing somewhere fancy, the scandal among the nobles would be delicious. And considering how much Geralt hates nobles? Jaskier is sure the witcher can appreciate the idea as well: the pretty songbird that everyone wanted but nobody was able to keep has been caught by the 'mutant' they hate so much. It's poetry in its purest form.
There's the start of another mumbled sentence, intending to tell Geralt how much he's given him to write about since last night already, but the witcher chooses that moment to fucking finally bite him. That delightful sting on his sensitive flesh pushes him through the edge and Jaskier can barely say fuck before coming in the water, head thrown back over Geralt's shoulder as his whole body shudders and his feet struggle to keep their balance on the slippery surface when every nerve is too busy bursting with pleasure. His hands hold onto Geralt's mighty muscles as he chases his orgasm to make it last as much as possible, his hips thrusting erratically into Geralt's hand, his mind incapable of speech for once.
It's a release of self-consciousness, of any thought whatsoever. It's having pure, raw ecstasy running through every vein and taking over his mind - no need of control, of decision making. Only the pleasure crashing inside him and the feeling of Geralt's body pressed outside his own.
And thank the gods for that strong body behind him, because Jaskier slumps right against it when he comes to reality, panting but still grinning like the happiest man alive.
"...you're going to be the death of me, Geralt of Rivia." His head is turned to look for Geralt's neck to nuzzle, the closest thing he can do to cuddling right now - his legs still feel like jelly, making it hard to move. "And I can't think of a more magnificent way to go."