Being the peacock that he is, Jaskier loves attention. He loves being desired, loves having eyes roaming all over his body wishing to make him theirs. It's a powerful and very intoxicating feeling. The fact it's Geralt of fucking Rivia the one being enchanted by his old yet perfected flirting techniques makes that feeling ten times stronger.
Look at me, he wants to shout to everyone in the room (and maybe into certain sorceress' face). No pretty princess or mighty warrior, it's this humble bard who won over the White Wolf's heart.
Between the rumbling of that deep voice and the way those golden eyes follow every move of his mouth, Jaskier could swear he could come without being touched at all. (And hey, maybe that's an experiment for the future.) And here is Geralt, leaning in and playing along, confessing fantasies about his voice. What better compliment could a bard ask for? His body is shivering at the thought, the spike of arousal as strong as his sweet mirth now.
"I have no doubt in my mind that you'll make me sing undiscovered notes." He replies as a hand returns to Geralt's leg, but not to his thigh this time. It goes to squeeze his knee instead, trying to be comforting. Soothing. "But there's nothing weak about it, Geralt. Emotions don't make you weak - they make you stronger. You fight at your best when you're protecting what you believe in. I may be no swordman, but I know my best friend. I know what pulls at his soul and what he considers worth unsheathing a sword for. I also know my beloved, have watched that body of his move with the gracefulness of a panther and the determination of a wolf, and I've touched myself to the memory of those mighty muscles moving under black armor and extremely tight pants."
...alright, so much for comforting and soothing. He can't help it, they're in the middle of this sensual dance he can't (and doesn't want to) get out of. There's only one tart left, and Jaskier bites half of it only to offer the other half to Geralt. They're leaving after the tarts are gone, right? Well, this is his chance to speed up that process.
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Look at me, he wants to shout to everyone in the room (and maybe into certain sorceress' face). No pretty princess or mighty warrior, it's this humble bard who won over the White Wolf's heart.
Between the rumbling of that deep voice and the way those golden eyes follow every move of his mouth, Jaskier could swear he could come without being touched at all. (And hey, maybe that's an experiment for the future.) And here is Geralt, leaning in and playing along, confessing fantasies about his voice. What better compliment could a bard ask for? His body is shivering at the thought, the spike of arousal as strong as his sweet mirth now.
"I have no doubt in my mind that you'll make me sing undiscovered notes." He replies as a hand returns to Geralt's leg, but not to his thigh this time. It goes to squeeze his knee instead, trying to be comforting. Soothing. "But there's nothing weak about it, Geralt. Emotions don't make you weak - they make you stronger. You fight at your best when you're protecting what you believe in. I may be no swordman, but I know my best friend. I know what pulls at his soul and what he considers worth unsheathing a sword for. I also know my beloved, have watched that body of his move with the gracefulness of a panther and the determination of a wolf, and I've touched myself to the memory of those mighty muscles moving under black armor and extremely tight pants."
...alright, so much for comforting and soothing. He can't help it, they're in the middle of this sensual dance he can't (and doesn't want to) get out of. There's only one tart left, and Jaskier bites half of it only to offer the other half to Geralt. They're leaving after the tarts are gone, right? Well, this is his chance to speed up that process.