He obeys gladly--the sound peals out of him as she aims, as she drives against his most tender spot. Lights dance behind his eyelids and his breath comes in deep, heaving breaths as his face screws up in sweet, wondrous agony. His cock throbs between his legs, red and purple and neglected--held in a nearly painful grip by that ring.

Jaskier cannot think--he writhes arched and twisting like a cat. The weight and slide of that obsidian cock drives him mad, makes insane heat gather in his gut, at the base of his spine, in his trapped balls and the head of his weeping cock. He sings a symphony of moans, choked and interspersed with cursing, with praises for her, with nonsense.

Her hands keep his shoulders down, keep him pinned, and his own hands shift--they fly up from the sheets and take hold of her hips as she drives in. He cannot--he cannot--tears creep out from the corner of his eyes and, for a glorious moment, he is thrown into a place beyond himself. He goes blind with it, eyes flying open and seeing nothing--the sound that punches out of him is loud and wailing and drawn from the very depths of him.

His limbs shake and tremble and, strain, fingertips digging hard into the softness of her flesh, but he has no nails to puncture with. He holds her in close and curls up, curls forward, with a whine and shiver--his cock strains and twists, jumps and smears against her but it cannot spill. Glorious day it cannot and it hurts so sweetly as his orgasm washes over him and finally releases him.

Jaskier falls back, breathing heavily, panting and gasping--brow sweat-slicked and expression tired and comfortable and laced with bliss. His heart is racing and, as his hand shifts and settles upon hers, where it rests at his shoulder, he drags it down to hold it over his fluttering pulse--like a bird trapped in his ribs, frantic and weak.

Oh she has made him so weak and he could think of nothing he enjoyed more.