whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

She is right, her praises have brought joy to him and they renew the smile that has fallen over the course of his set. His delight is honest as he holds her hand--its warm and smaller than he thought it ought to be. It was strange, she was actually quite a delicate woman, fine fingered and slender armed. The air of confidence she projects is so great, it disguises her size.

"Could you?" he asks and he cannot keep the smile from his question. He stands, just as dramatically as he sat, hand still in her's and offers his elbow.

"Then let us away and continue in private," Jaskier decides, beaming.

Jaskier's fingers are muscled, thin and nimble. Just what would expect of a musician. The small callouses are not near so offensive. Yennefer imagines that he indulges in a cream or salve. That is what any sensible man would do. Unless you're Geralt and you opt for gloves and don't do a thing about a wound until it is bleeding. Two songs out of it inspired by that wretch. Jaskier can do better. He will do better.

She squeezes his hand and stands after him. "It would be my pleasure to host you." He provided food, music and entertainment. Though this give and take has been so easy, so effortless. That can't be because of drinking.

Seeing that the bard is departing, he is getting a purse out of this. Meager. The barmaid was apparently well liked. Oops. Yennefer takes Jaskier's arm and tilts her head to his shoulder. She can take the purse since the other hand she is not holding will be for the lute.

The night is far less oppressive than the tavern had been--the weight of glowering and unfriendly eyes is needling. He had forgotten, honestly, and that was a strange thing. He had traveled with Geralt for so long that, once, he had been entirely used to that sort of reaction. Now it bothered him--or it had.

His lute is slung over his shoulder and, in his spare hand the remainder of their cherry brandy. Yennefer has his small purse but he would have just as soon left it--he had been paid by the King already and sets in taverns were no longer his bread and butter.

They stroll out into the spring breeze, the sweet smell of flowers and fresh grass and snowmelt greet them. It is a wonderful night with a clear sky and cool air and he is tempted to take her other hand and spin her about, to dance in it idly as they walk. The swinging of his arms says as much, but he refrains. The peace between them is nice, comfortable, and he relishes that as much as movement.

He is humming by the time they reach her lodgings, a nonsense song that is half worked out and cheerful. It will be sweet when it has words, but it doesn't and so it is a wordless accompaniment for a fine night filled with fine company and a new, dear friend.

How wonderful to have a new friend--he doesn't even realize as he squeezes her hand and draws her closer, to bump his hip against her and settle her against his side. She is warm and her gown is smooth and delicate and whispers around her legs and his as they meander.

Ungrateful, the whole of them. Yennefer usually has a sharp word. This night she has seen what a change they can do to her company. No, they don't need her opinion. She has already given a glowing review of the night's entertainment. That is the very last word.

The cherry elixir sloshes in the glass and there is a music to their gait. Jaskier humming, the lute now and then thumping to his back. Yennefer smiles and lets her skirts swish. The Golden Fawn is very close. They pass the mercantile and a few other taverns and inns. They are still loud and bustling. This must be a result of the festival crowd.

Yen already has her key and they slip up the stairs. The room is a room you'd expect a sorceress to occupy. A canopy bed, a wardrobe, a vanity, a writing desk and a chaise. Why the chaise? She hadn't figured it out though now would be a good tie to use it. His closeness has been encouraged the whole of their walk. A bump gets a small chuckle. "A coin for your thoughts." It's her turn to now guide them to sit on a plush chaise. "Or is it another song, Jaskier?" There is so much room available, she sits up against him.

The room is comfortable and he is comfortable--the warmth of the alcohol, the languid weight of his limbs after exertion, the smell of lilac and gooseberry, of linen and lemon that the room carries in it. She sits with him and he shuffles his lute aside, propping it idly against the chaise, glad to have her near--but her questions ring in his ears and all his thoughts of song are disrupted.

He keeps his smile, though it falters, and looks at her. Her hand in his is warm and soft and she is a warm weight on his side. The chair is comfortable and so unlike--this is--this inn is too nice, he thinks at once, and is startled by the thought. He relishes fine things, he has stayed in rooms the equal of this! He has no need to be frugal with his coin, to rent a room so narrow that one must shuffle past the other, that cannot fit a single tub or wash basin, where the bed is straw and smells of damp...and one must share space on the narrow mattress or risk being trampled on the floor.

There is so much space here.

Jaskier feels suddenly adrift in it.

He finds his eyes growing hot and is surprised by the sensation; his smile falters again and this time--this time he does not smoothly recover it. He laughs as he ducks his head and lifts the bottle of cherry brandy to rest it atop his knee. He makes a show of studying it as the weight of tears gather on his lashes. How swift a turn this is?

A coin for his thoughts.

Oh, but it is not her fault--he knows that. None of it is or was.

His next chuckle lacks his artful facade and he hates himself for that. It is pathetic and thin and not at all worthy of the evening he had planned. To sit and indulge and revel in Yennefer and their newfound camaraderie--in the closeness he so desperately desired from her, singular and special as she is.

Is he lying to himself?

A thread of paranoid doubt curls dark and painful in his gut. Does he only want to be near her because she is the same distance to Geralt as he is? Because being with her is some shadow of being with him? He--he doesn't think so--but the alcohol makes thinking hard and suddenly he is afraid. He is terrified he will harm her and he knows how cruel that cut would be, were she doing it to him--

He lets out a breath as his mind races.

"I--" he starts and it's a bit thick. "I don't know why I sang that. Habit, really. Stupid, base, habit."

Yennefer cannot place when she had been gaining strength and a sort of sustenance from his smiles. They've been together for hours now. No quest. No Witcher. And in the time it is a new, warm and restoring wave to have that expression aimed her way. Like someone has lit a fire in the coldest places of her self or the first brighter days after winter. Watching that expression change to anything less has her clutch at him, waiting for an answer.

She could pull it from him. Though she had promised earlier not to read his thoughts. To go back on such a thing, even for momentary satisfaction would be a complete violation of trust. Jaskier has trusted her with his full name, his secrets and scandals. Yennefer cannot repay that with impatience. The longer he's quiet the more it rustles up misgivings. No enchantment keeps him here, he is here by invitation and free will. He could leave if somehow offended. Everyone leaves.

Lightly she clears her throat and reaches to tilt his face to her own.

"Your songs are popular, you sing them because people want to hear them." The blue of his eyes is intensified with the threat tears they're almost crystalline. Her fingers stay on his face. "It hurts you to sing it." That's not a question. Hearing it, hearing a room of people join was also an event Yennefer had no way of preparing for. She should have known. Still, perhaps it was being so comfortable, so safe and close to Jaskier she imagined there wouldn't be any injury.

Months have pasted. It will be close to a year soon won't it? Wounds take time to heal. And their clumsy Witcher is known for being fierce and effective. At least this isn't deadly. Yennefer presses her body closer to Jaskier's she has half a mind to climb into his lap if it weren't for the bottle. For now.

How could he explain? He hardly knew how to quantify it, himself. That, perhaps, was part of why the hurt lingered so well, why the thoughts still cut him so very deeply. Her hand is on his face, gentle and light, and he leans into it before he can stop himself. He really doesn't want to stop himself, if he's honest.

"They all do," he admits and--she is clever, she will know what he means. He has a repertoire of songs, two decades worth, all about the same subject, the same grand hero. His whole life's work is built around Geralt of Rivia as its cornerstone. His best ballads, his best jigs, the most requested of all his works are all about the Witcher. He had never regretted it--he doesn't still--but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"That one, though," he admits softly and has to swallow around a word. He blinks too hard and the tears gathered on his lashes fall as fat drops, missing his cheeks entirely. At least his foolish weeping won't stain his face this time.

"Gods' I hate that song, now," he adds and the laugh he lets out is bitter and bemused. Geralt had always hated it and, oh, but he understands that feeling now. That song hounds him, chasing him from place to place, nipping at his heels. It was the first and, oh, it has persisted.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes abruptly and looks at her, at the violet eyes and raven hair and the tender shades of concern on her face. He is an idiot and he is with a beautiful woman and he weeps about her ex lover. He had never even--ah, that thought has him flinch and another stray volley of tears fall. These don't avoid his cheeks as the last did.

"I am a maudlin fool, I'm afraid. Alcohol brings it out of me, I should have guessed it would do the same now."

Working so hard to be his own person out of the mold set by breeding and title to have most of his laurels shared with Geralt in a roundabout way, it's cruel. Jaskier is an artist, what was made was in good faith and total devotion to his beliefs. He believed in Geralt, believed what he wrote. And now everywhere he is to relieve that old faith.

Tears trickle over his still quite youthful face. Yennefer lets her fingertips rub away the worst of them. "You could refuse, perhaps as a means to draw attention to other songs or causes." The man loves his songs that have meaning. This sounds too simple, too pacifying to her own ears. She gently takes the bottle and places it on the floor against one of the legs of the chaise. "There are so many more songs and lyrics, and you will bring them into the world. I know you. You're Jaskier. Not a man with a number to his name. You are the man putting in the work, enduring this hardship. You will pull through."

If he can survive reinvention, he can survive anything. Yennefer knows that Jaskier did not have to have his body manipulated for his transformation. He didn't have to. There was tremendous pain, talking even shortly on it and knowing that he did not indulge any details of his family save for name spoke volumes. He was not his family. They were not him. And Gods above would you not know that would leave another hole in his heart in dire need.

"Stop. Stop all of that right now." This set of words would usually be a sharp command out of her, right now it is easing, gentle. "You owe me no apologies." Instead of slipping into his lap, she pulls at his shoulders so that he could rest to his shoulder or bosom. Whichever he likes.

Her encouragements are a balm on his heart and he tries to steel himself with them--he tries to let them urge him forward, to keep despair out...but it is a feat that encouragements cannot manage alone. They are precious to him, so very precious, but still he cannot stay his tears.

She takes the bottle from his nerveless fingers, he offers no resistance, and she shifts, pulls him to her and, fool that he is, he goes. He rests his head on her shoulder and weeps against her neck. He would swipe at his eyes if he thought it would help at all.

It won't, he knows that well enough.

She is warm and welcoming and he feels a surge of guilt just as he is consumed by desperation. Something in his throat is raw and his chest feels like it will break open at the slightest touch. His arm wraps around her and the other joins it, gathering her up in an embrace, pulling her against him and, ah, he is acting like a child--

"I do, perhaps more than I've given you," Jaskier corrects and sounds a bit hoarse. "I was callous and cruel and would have--I would have wished you poorly in my jealousy."

His hold tenses and he shuts his eyes as he rests his forehead against her neck.

"Forgive me, it was unworthy."

The embrace would be more satisfying if he were not so wrought with sadness. Yennefer cards her fingers through his hair and pet down his back. No, she doesn't know how best to sooth a child, though were she weeping she would feel comforted in the arms of someone she trusted. Today has been such an eye opening experience for one another. Trust is there, tentative and strengthening.

Would have? She stops a laugh and turns it into a thoughtful hum. "Far be it from me to say I have done nothing to deserve it. I was not kind to you as you suffered. I know better now. As do you," why else would he be apologizing? Yennefer presses her cheek to Jaskier's, holding him tighter. Her smooth skin to his own, her lips close to his ear. "Apologies don't come from unworthy people."

And for a moment they sit, cozy to one another. She lets him breathe and hold her. Her hands stay in motion. Now and again her lips move to press kisses close to the shell of his ear.

Somewhere that fool of a Witcher may feel the sensation of feet treading over his grave. May it bring him restlessness. May it bring him remorse. Such a skilled hunter to wound not one but two hearts in such an action. Yennefer tries her best not to think of him. The song conjured him as sure as chaos. Holding Jaskier who smells of the cherry liquor, the smoke of the tavern and chill of the night is her charm against memories. She sighs and nuzzles again. The bard is here and close, speaking his mind the way so few ever do.

"I can take cruelty. All this time I've assumed you hated me. All of this is a surprise... a wonderful, merciful surprise. Please don't weep, my lord." A very gentle teasing. "Don't weep for things we cannot undo. It hurts us, yes."

The title earns a groaning sort of chuckle. He smiles against her collarbone and, while it is a sad thing, it is wistful and amused as well. After a time he picks his head up from her shoulder and--Gods' but he must look a fright. His heart hurts, still, but he doubts that will ever truly cease. At least the redness in his face will fade, in time.

"You don't deserve cruelty," he tells her softly, certainly, and leans in to rest his forehead against hers. It takes so little to draw her in, to sit up and pull her into his lap and--without overmuch thought about who she is, about how easily she could break him in half--he drags her closer and into a firmer embrace. It raises her higher, this movement, so that her breasts sit at his eye-line, but his expression is all gentleness and warmth--not heat.

"Whether you can take it or not," he adds and his hands shift to rest behind her waist. "You don't deserve it."

There is still a glow to his eyes as they rest on her. Blue and clearer. Jaskier is a sight, yes. Not the way he is guessing. Playing with this warm wood colored hair has made it lift. The carelessness is charming. The whole of him, not just the face, the eyes, the clever tongue and gentle, bruised heart...all of him charming.

Yennefer can his face now and she can press kisses to his cheeks. And she does once settled into his lap. Over the bridge of his nose and forehead the way folk do at shines and altars, kissing the statues to grant them things they can't possess. She isn't sure of what she is asking for right now though the way he is warm and strong, the way her chest presses up against him.

"Are you going to tell me what I deserve then?" she did not give any thought to her question. Merely what would a sorceress deserve that was not cruelty when she is a mercenary for her own cause? Her lips find his again, slower like before though her's are parted and guide his own to be the same way.

His expression doesn't shift, he doesn't even postulate over his answer, not as her lips press against his. He follows her lead and the chasteness of their last kisses is replaced by this one--slow and gentle and tender. She tastes as much of that cherry drink as he must, but the burn of it is faded and only that sweet lingering flavor remains. Her lips are impossibly soft and welcoming and, oh, he is not a strong man.

It takes only a few moments, kissing and tasting her, smoothing his tongue over lip and tongue alike, before he is entranced with it. When he must finally part to breathe he does so with a sound of reluctance but, at once, is able to answer her question.

"Everything," he says simply, as though it were not a question. To him, it is not. Now that he has begun to know her, to know the shape of her smile and the taste of her lips and how her clever teasing dances behind her eyes, he wants nothing less for her than whatever she wants. Whatever she desires should be hers. Unfortunately, romantic as he is, Jaskier can give her very little.

He can give her this, though, if it is what she wants from him. He will give this gladly, as he always has.

"What do you want right now?" he asks her, breathes out against her lips, and finds his hands roaming, smoothing the soft fabric of her dress across her hips, her thighs, then back up along her sides.

The flavor has changed, melting and becoming new and lush. Yennefer drinks his kiss even though it is slow and more measured than what was in the tin cups. She already feels warm and quickly drunk. Jaskier is a brilliant kisser. Why is she surprised?

Inviting him here was to assure safety from angry tavern patrons. The layers of intention below that were of a more carnal desire for the touch of his hand and music of his laugh. One word like an incantation and her heart is in his hand.

Everything.

Hope, gold, faith, jewels, love, title, patience, property, forgiveness, friendship, desire...everything, everything, everything. The list is long.

And the answer to the question is at the top of her head. "I want you," their eyes meet and burn with the same fire. "Stay with me tonight." Her hands have slipped to smooth over his chest and find the silvery, smooth buttons of his shirt. "Let me take care of you." Care is one word meaning another, her tongue slipping over his bottom lip and their lips crashing together once more.

He leans back into her, drinks her down like a man dying of thirst and his hands leave her hips to help with the buttons of his shirt, to shed his doublet and help her efforts to undress him. He doesn't move quickly, but he doesn't linger long or fumble as his fingers move over the buttons.

Once his shirt hangs open against his chest, still tucked into the trousers that rise to his waist, Jaskier's hands return to her. He settles them low on her ribs, and his fingertips glance over the shapes of her, the planes of her, as they move to her back and find the laces that hold the gown closed.

He doesn't think hard on her offer to care for him--he isn't certain what that means and he doesn't dare to hope. He would give her anything she asked, in this or any moment hereafter.

"Anything, move me as you like, sweetling, and I shall do my best for you," Jaskier promises and his lips find her chin and then the soft flesh of her throat. He kisses down her neck, dragging lips and tongue and drawing the tender flesh into his mouth as his lips hover over her pulse. She tastes of fine perfume, of mineral makeup, and like the very edge of air after a lightning strike. That must be magic.

His fingers work swiftly, as they had with his shirt, and the laces of her gown loosen beneath them. They will have to move to free themselves from the fabric that pools around them but, at the moment, he is none too eager to pull away.

Fine cloth between them drops away. Her fingers dance over the skin of his chest and gently pull his shirt from his breeches. The skill and tenderness of his mouth makes her skin prickle. No scruff or scratch of stubble. So careful, so sweet. Indulging only a little it's plain to see this will go to her head.

"Come to bed, Jaskier. I have utter faith in you" Though it is less of an invitation because as she moves back to stand, she pulls at his shoulders. The front of her dress drops away. Never one to indulge much in underthings beyond the essential, with more space and movement the gown peels away from her body.

Lilac and gooseberries lingers on her skin, and the more they press together, it will be on him too. She gently drops her hands from him to push her sleeves down, down to bare her breasts. The fabric is heavy and gravity with a step has the whole of her gown pool at her ankles. All that remains clinging to her body is a scandalous small piece of fabric across her hips. That's enough for now. The open doublet needs a push before reaching for the buttons and laces that keep his breeches up.

Yennefer's mouth drags to his throat that ailed him the better part of a year ago. Kissing and gently nipping to sooth away with her tongue.

He watches, rapt, as she draws him up to standing, as she lets her gown fall away and bares skin for skin's sake. His doublet is dropped behind him, his shirt follows suite, and by the time they have pooled on the chaise and the floor, the laces of his trousers are undone and, frankly, so is he. Her mouth passes over his throat, over the base of it where once he'd been so terribly wounded.

He draws a narrow, deep breath and his hands find her hair, settle against the side of her head, against her jaw, and pull her back to his mouth. He can kick his boots off without looking and does--toes one and then the other, and steps out of them as he walks her back toward the bed. Their cast off clothing is forgotten and his trousers are all but hanging from his hips as they reach the mattress.

He is not hard yet, the shape of his erection is half-mast and bare against his small-clothes, but that is not terribly shocking. He is far drunker than he ought to be...but that will not stay their tender touching or the advancing of the night. He is a skilled cocksman, for whatever that is worth, but one doesn't necessarily need to thrust a cock into anything to make an evening truly special.

His body is young, still strong. Chances are years will not wither him for quite sometime. Blood rushes and sings under his skin. Another beautiful and original composition unique to Jaskier. Yennefer wants to spend time acquainting herself with the ways of him, how he breathes and leans, sighs and shivers. Kisses vary so much now. Deeper, more robust and searching. She hasn't found a displeasing motion.

Pulling him to lay over the soft linen and furs--Temeria and it's half seasons as they call them, one can never be too careful--she bids his trousers goodnight with a last shove. Small clothes of men are not the most becoming of sights though again, Jaskier has a taste for flare and her fingers search for him over the fabric. A pleased hum follows. Half or full mast, still pleasing to touch and she wants to be in his lap once more. This time she chooses to straddle his thigh and push for them to both lay back. The fabric between her thighs is already damp and now he too can feel it by contact.

Yennefer's body has not aged beyond twenty. Crafted by the Sculptor and her own vision of beauty and power. The delight of it a gift as much as a frustration. Right now she is glad to be a pleasing image for him. Her breasts are pert and press to the hard, flat plane of his chest. He would do whatever she asked, no doubt in her head.

Jaskier settles back and stares up at her with no small amount of adoration, eyes roving the skin he now has permission to touch, to taste. Her fingers find him through the blue silk of his smalls and he hums comfortably, almost wistfully, and the sound is carried off on a sigh. She settles over him, their legs intertwined, and oh but she is eager and willing--his heart jumps delightedly and his hands find her bare waist.

He leans up, bends his head to capture her lips again as his hands roam. As he feels the same curves he had only just mapped through her dress--the heat of her, the softness of her skin, is immeasurably superior to the gown she had been wearing. He pulls her lip between his teeth, just gently tugging as his own lips curl into a shy smile.

Jaskier shifts the leg she is balanced atop and, in that same breath, slides a hand down to that thigh to urge it forward. To hitch her up so that she is pressed entirely against that thigh, so that the sharpness of his hip rests before her, an easy plane to grind against if she should choose it. His hand lingers on her thigh, on the back of her knee, and he hums again when he lets her lip go.

"I cannot imagine you have ever wanted for anything in bed, but if you have, speak it and I will make it so." His voice is a whisper, tender and soft in the bare space between their mouths. This is easy for him, comfortable, a way he can forget the bruising of his heart and soul--he has always reveled in granting others pleasure, either through song or deed, and he has become so terribly fond of her.

Every press and nip is expanding the fire under her skin. His hands wander freely as they should. She is committed to guiding Jaskier to hardness, silk to skin is a terrific pleasure. His choice of dress is unmatched. The sky is also blue. Blue as his eyes.

The nudging of his knee and thigh guide her hips into motion to rut against him. Simple action with a beautiful result. Yennefer hums and sighs. "I want you to have your own meditation on spring." Of petals and rich nectar. She won't leave him straining with want. Some men were made to be reduced to whines and shivers. Tonight she promised to take care of him, and in a way care for herself.

She must leave his poor cock alone to remove the wet tiny excuse for her own small clothes. Not without an apologetic peck to his lips. Comically chaste for what she has in store.

He levers himself up as she pulls away, as she stands and shifts out of the scrap of cloth around her hips. It hadn't hid much but still, having her fully exposed before him is new, is vulnerable, and his heart does a flip in his chest. He shifts, on the bed, doesn't rise as he pushes down his own silken smalls. They make it halfway down his thighs before she takes them and pulls them down, frees his cock and his legs and then climbs astride him once more.

She shifts up the bed, moving until she towers over him, until he is looking up the length of her, at the fall of her hair and the topography of her torso. She is lovely and he knows, at once, what her plan is to be. His smile is wide and he bites his lower lip in casual excitement.

"How kind, a Meditation on Spring--lovely and lilting, the taste of flowers and blooms upon the warm breath of the sun," Jaskier murmurs. He could be reciting it wrong, it has been some time since he read through those poems, but he thinks not. His hands settle on her thighs and he lies back down, urging her up as she likes.

"Better," she purrs as he is now bare to her in the same way. Long and lean all over in the most ideal of designs. The blue silk is in her hands only for a moment until joining the other garments. Violet eyes cast over him from the top of his head to his proud and free cock. "So much better."

Who truly knows or cares what the right words are. They never were so alluring to Yennefer's attention or ears before now. She twists and chooses to mount him, inviting his mouth to kiss and taste. Her knees rest carefully on either side of his chest, her palms gliding down over his chest, his ribs. "Kiss me." He knows where and if his reputation is anything like what she has heard, he knows how. Yen lets the rest of her weight rest above him, leaning down to follow the indentations at his hips with her mouth, her dark hair falling in silken threads over his skin as she moves.

He doesn't hesitate once she makes her request, it is no challenge, no dire thing, to wrap gentle hands around her thighs and stretch up. To kiss the shape of her mound, to drag an open mouth across the soft flesh at the deepest bends of her inner thighs. When he finally parts her folds it is with his nose, drawing through the wetness and delicate flesh and chased by lips, by his tongue, held open with the width of his chin, however narrow it actually is.

He devours her with enthusiasm, without care for how he might have to grind his face into her nethers, without care for mess or trivialities like air. He sucks and plies with a firm tongue, traces with flat strokes, traces the outside of her entrance here and then pulls the firmness of her clitoris between his lips. He draws it, sucking and slow, into his mouth and toys, indulgently with firm presses of his tongue.

Is there anything as glorious as this? As the taste of sweet and salt, of sweat and musk, sex at its most base and primal. He breathes deep of her as he drinks her in, his hands spread and grasping at her thighs and buttocks, kneading flesh tenderly and sharply in counterpoint to his mouth.

When her hair flutters across his thighs, he groans against her. His cock rises, but gradually, still fighting the haze of liquor in his blood. His gut is tense and tight already, twisted with emotion and anticipation, and it is all he can do to focus on his task.

All she had to do was ask. Yennefer doesn't fight the urge to sit back more comfortably. If her dear viscount had any discomfort, any concern for his well being, he would voice it. Already moments in her thighs tremble and goosebumps again lift over her skin. Her kisses are open mouthed and she is free to breathe and gasp.

Her sex is open, aching and wanting. No exact direction needed. "Jaskier---yes." A devotee to the act of love, he finds her clitoris without issue. Lighter, more airy sighs spill from her lips that have wandered past the sprig of hair at his thighs.

His nimble hands grasping her inspires a test to his resolve, to his technique as she hazards a wriggle of her hips. Now is as good at time as any to guide his length in whatever state it is in to her lips. Though it is not a kiss laid first, the length of her tongue over the tip. Yennefer is generous with the low moan. It's for herself as much for him.

He hardens rapidly beneath the coaxing of her lips and the pressure of her tongue over the head of him. His hips twitch against her hands, against the weight of her, but he keeps the movement small. With her resting back, ground down against him, it is so simple to suckle more flesh, to draw the lips of her into his mouth, to lave them with whorls of his tongue.

Jaskier catches the firmness of her clitoris between the barest pressure of teeth and attends to it wholly, darting full focus across it as he grinds his nose, his brow, against the slick and fluttering flesh of her opening. Her thighs cover his ears but he can feel her moan as it travels down her form. It resounds through her body and vibrates his cock and it is--it is so very good.

The world is all flesh and wanting, tender warmth of delicate taste and it settles over the worries of his mind, over the pain in his heart. It is like sinking into a warm bath, he thinks, but that does dredge up a certain image and he gasps around it. Fuck. He redoubles his efforts, determined and eager, and his fingertips grip her harder, pull her harder to his face until there is no space between them.

Spots will dance behind his eyelids before long, the sweet relief of breath restricted. He savors it, the discomfort with the thundering of his pulse, with the beat of hers, and he trembles with it.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject