"She did have quite a pillowy quality about her," Jaskier ceded with a wistful and slightly out of breath lilt to his voice. He considered it, perhaps for too long--what she would look like opened up on his arms, choking on one as he filled her from behind-- It was a good image, one that was dashed to bits immediately as the dull meaty sound of Geralt slapping his own thigh resounded through Jaskier's head.

Gods help him, the muscle beneath those black trousers had barely shifted at all--Geralt was solid of course, Jaskier knew that, and appreciated it. He'd appreciated it with himself on more than one occasion, but the image of that barmaid was so easy to replace with Geralt.

Was he strong enough to pry those thighs apart? Oh, certainly, but it would take a bit of effort--

Jaskier felt a bit hot under the collar, hotter than he had, and unbuttoned another button on the front of his shirt. It did little to help him cool down but the breeze was nice.

"I suppose I could head back--if you're certain it's just a forktail?"

He'd made quite a fuss about coming along. Too often Geralt's hunts ended up being spectacular and more nightmarish than expected, he hadn't wanted to miss out. But...it was also very, very hot and the thoughts of Geralt meandering through his imagination were...pressing. He wouldn't just leave--Roach was in town, that was a reasonable guarantee, so long as Jaskier didn't get...carried away.