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Jaskier has a hard time letting go, the first time they fuck.
It's not as if he doesn't consent—he very much does, hells, had even said please—but Yennefer is still, well. Yennefer. Which is to say: electrifying, terrifying, gorgeous; powerful, in more ways than one; and terrifying, once more for emphasis.
The last time she'd paid his cock this much attention, she’d been holding a knife to it.
She's got him pinned beneath her now, riding him in much the same way she'd ridden Geralt—incidentally, the same day she’d saved Jaskier’s life and subsequently threatened to geld him: leaned back, taking her pleasure of him, violet eyes peering deep into his own and flaying him from the inside out.
He understands, now, that the knife was purely for show.
"Am I boring you, Jaskier?"
He blinks. "Far from it," slides his hands up her sides, attempting to sit up—manages the barest brush of lips against a perfect, pert nipple before she pushes him back into place. "Yenna, I—mm, oh. Please,” and there, he's even said it twice.
Yennefer rakes her nails through his chest hair and tugs, smiling, self-indulgent and smug. "Do I frighten you, Jaskier?"
"Immensely."
"Good," she says, brushing her hand down his belly—then thoughtfully, almost to herself, lovely dark eyes still locked with his own, "not a complete coward, then," and Jaskier would take exception to that, except then she clenches and grinds down against him, which makes his cock throb and milks an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak from the back of his throat.
So, of course, she does it again; Jaskier’s hands quiver and flail at her hips ‘til she captures them in hers. "Be a good boy and make me come, and then I'll give you what you need."
Jaskier, to his immense but not insurmountable mortification, finds that he desperately wants to be a good boy.
He thinks, once he's done his absolute damnedest to stay hard enough to fuck her to completion, watching her shudder and sigh above him—her second of the evening, after the way she'd put his tongue to work—that this is what he needs, just this, just being useful to somebody for once in his godsdamned...well.
He has what he needs for the moment, he thinks.
But Yenna says, "Good boy," and her eyes flash, and something in the air seems to shift, like the pressure which precedes the wind which precedes a devastating storm, and Geralt is—
—not here, can't be here, and Jaskier knows it’s nothing but a thin apparition when it buries its face into Yennefer's hair and not one single strand shifts out of place, and yet—
—oh fuck, and yet, and yet—
Geralt meets Jaskier's frantic stare, one hand playing with Yennefer's tit and the other hand trailing down to where she and Jaskier are still connected, where she continues to ride him without missing a single beat.
"Jaskier," says Geralt, soft and fond, and Jaskier could swear he can feel Geralt's fingertips trailing up through his pubic hair, and Jaskier is hard enough to cut diamonds, and—
"Oh—"
Yennefer says, “Good boy.”