whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

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.

Inspired by his gusto, Yennefer eases into how his hips rock, keeping her mouth steady, lips plush and cushioned. The length and fit at this angle is worth maneuvering for. And it challenges her own breathing. Right now through the nose with hums and deeper, muffled sound. He makes her mouth water, salty, warm and hard at last. Saliva makes the motion smooth. Smooth for her mouth, smooth for her hand. A simulation of fucking. Yes, she will take care of him. Her fingers curl around the base of his cock to stroke what she cannot fit of him right now.

She'd like to. The night has more hours to it.

More firmly planted over his face and with more direct exposure to his kiss, Yennefer's attention is being challenged. No space at all between them. Just his beautiful mouth on the open bloom of her sex, drinking deeply of her. No flavor of cherries, not this time. His cock slips from her mouth. Lower, longer soft sounds tumble from her as Jaskier's attentions have her on the brink. "Yes, mmmm....don't-don't stop." Her thighs, her buttocks, her sex clenches beneath his lips and she is swept away.

He shivers above him around him, her thighs pressing hard against the sides of his head, her cunt squeezing, fluttering around nothing more than the base rubbing of his face, than the grinding half intrusion the bridge of his nose provides. She urges him on and he can hear her distantly, through the pressure of her thighs--his mind drifts back but he keeps at his purpose.

He savors her, drinks her down, laps at each trickling bit of slick that pools on his face, against his tongue. He moans as she shudders, as her crest finds her, and his tongue laves over her in long, flat strokes, tender kisses and quiet sighs--

Her hand is still on him, curled and stroking idly, and he quakes beneath her touch. It does not take much to drive him over, not with the wonder of her own peak still around him. He moans against her thigh, kisses and sucks a gentle bruise into it as his hips jerk, thrust shallowly against her hand. His balls draw up, hot and tight and it is all he can do to resist tumbling over the edge.

His lungs burn and flutter and he pulls her tightly, eyes shut and pressed hard to the apex of her thighs. His hips jerk and he comes in a rush, twitching as he spends across her fingers.

More words of encouragement as she pants for breath. A portion is hardly coherent. The slither and slip of his tongue to cool and sooth what his hot breath and efforts have reduced her to. Out of mercy or because she is so very overly stimulated, Yennefer gives him breathing space, tilting her arse up.

Her hand keeps going, more motion and feeling his hips move. "Please, please." Teeth drag at his belly, a small mark for whatever marks Jaskier chooses to give. "Oh, that's good, isn't it?" He really does not have to answer. The compliment and encouragement come naturally. Easing to a slower glide, knowing he is spent she lavishes him with more kisses, still wet, still breathless to clean as much as commend. "So, so good for me."

Now, he can't be buried between her thighs forever. Yen lets herself roll onto her back beside him. They are still topsy turvy, her head to his feet and his to her own. She sighs long and a laugh bubbles up. "Are you still alive, dearheart?"

"I'm not sure," Jaskier admits dazedly, his chest heaving as he sucks in air. His face is positively slathered in her, red and slick and he is grinning like the superlative fool. He releases one of her legs as she leaves him and rolls onto her side but the other he leaves on her ass, pinned between it and the sheets, pillowed against the softness of both.

"It's rather hard to tell, given how lovely everything is," Jaskier adds and chuckles, boneless and delighted. He spends another moment luxuriating before he pushes himself up onto his elbows and peers at her.

"If you had designs on penetration, I can still oblige. I've been told my hands are ideally narrow for...several different tasks...else I...do have musician's fingers. Deft and quick as they are."

Yennefer lazily pushes herself to sit up on her elbows. "I'm no necromancer but I can see if I can bring you to life once more." Her own mouth is glossed from her efforts, lips more plump and far, far more smug. How she can pull off more smug than usual? Well, now Jaskier knows.

"You are lovely, darling." The other shoe hasn't dropped. Sexual tension still hangs in the air. It is not a dreadful, feared weight. Were it to drop away, Yennefer is confident she would still feel that same tenderness. They are friends. How is it that notion is just as thrilling as knowing that the next time she kisses Jaskier she will taste herself?

Such a proposition. Her head tilts, hair gaining volume and less order now as it moves. "Will you play me like your lute, bard?" The cunt is not a stringed instrument. Yennefer is not at all in a state of mind to think of what else it would be like actually. Violet eyes twinkle and she spreads her thighs.

She stares and his stomach flips, his cock twitches at her offer but he knows himself. If she is dedicated they will waste much time and effort trying to make him rise again. If he tends to her, if he revels, then it may yet happen...or at least the effort involved will be lessened much.

"I could, if you like," Jaskier offers and the muscles in his stomach, hidden by a fine layer of fat, bunch and shift beneath his skin. He is lithe and lovely and he knows it, knows how it appeals and why. The hair on his chest travels nearly to his navel and the hair from there follows the line to his cock.

"I could have you sing for me, sweetling," he suggests and leans forward, bends at the waist so he can press his lips against her chest, against the dip at the pit of her neck. Her hair is so soft where it brushes his hip.

"A private concert. Or--" he starts as the thought drifts through him. It hangs, caught on something in the back of his mind, in the vagueries of memory and he is tempted to let it drift...but the chance is.

"Or, perhaps, you would like to move in me until I can return the favor?"

With and without his close, such a sight. Such a man. They come in many sizes and like fruit have their appeal and flavor. He reminds her of no other person. It's perfect. And she could love him for that alone. There are piling reasons beyond that. Yennefer won't sort through them any time soon. She is too distracted. Jaskier is lean, muscles wiry and close to his frame. Handsome, and smooth like a carved statue in a garden. The rakish grin on him is less angelic, less cold.

"My voice is not made to entertain as yours." With a turn of her head she kisses his skin too. Pretty, pretty thoughts from her songbird.

The last proposition gets her to straighten up and look him in the face. "You--would you like that?" Her smile is wide and a renewed mischief makes the chaos in her blood rush. "I could be ever so careful, as gentle as you would ever need." Now that they are face to face again, her hands frame his jaw and she gently smears away some of the slick, just a little. It doesn't matter because she is kissing him for such an appetite.

He presses back, his own hand burying into her hair and holding her close, cradling the side of her head, smoothing a thumb across the rise of her cheek. He can taste her cunt and her mouth at once and the combination has him moaning against her. He breaks away to breathe, to hold his lips against hers and just graze them together.

"You need not be terribly gentle, but I cannot deny that I rarely have lovers who are so," he tells her and bumps his nose against hers.

There is a lot of appeal in that--having a lover that is personal, that is dearer than usual. So rarely does he engage with people he has known as long as her. He can imagine it, her gentle rocking hips as he is filled, as she drives into him, as she pushes him toward a peak that needn't require his spent cock. She could be less than gentle, could be rough or demanding, could pull his attention from himself and set him adrift. She could be harsh, though he cannot manage to picture that in his mind.

Strange. Only a few days ago it wouldn't have been hard to imagine it. He doesn't think so, at least.

"Though I admit to lacking the necessary equipment for such ventures."

He mouths along her cheek, starting at the corner of her lips, drifting gently toward her jaw. His hand drifts, grazes over her stomach and moves up her ribs. Nimble fingers find the curve of her breast and smooth across it, cupping the flesh as tenderly as anything.

Staying within a breath away is such a kind action. Yennefer has had demanding lovers, giving lovers, mindless with and without the aid of magic. Jaskier once more is proving to be committed to being a unique man among men. Her tongue sweeps over her mouth and his because they are so close. A humming, thoughtful sound follows. Herself and his own taste melded and that was the first song of the set.

"Dearheart, you know what you offer me." She wants everything. He knows that. The offer is not standing for her appeal alone. Yennefer has known men in her time. It takes more wine, more charm and chaos for men to want to play the maiden. This is Jaskier's desire. There has been so much smiling today her face could ache. "I won't mishandle you. Unless you like to be mishandled."

No materials? Yennefer tosses her head back and laughs. "Jaskier. You forget." The air shifts and static makes the hair on his arms and neck lift. A little magic in the air. Black leather straps with silver fastens appear on the bedding. A beautiful crystal vial and an object made for such a feat lay carefully arranged.

His heart lurches as she assures him she will be as delicate as he prefers. He is given to such conversations before bedding eager partners, he wouldn't dream of behaving in any way other than the one she's promised, but the promise gives him a dreamy besotted feeling all the same. He licks his lower lip on reflex and, at once, she laughs--

The air tastes like lightning and cold and at once an array of accouterments appear on the bed beside them. The black leather straps and silver fittings are terribly to her style. He reaches and plucks them up, shifting the harness in his hands and running fingertips along the length of the belting. She will look indescribable wearing these--it's enough to have him sighing.

The oil is in a lovely crystal vial--the way it glitters appeals to him, all facets of clear glass before amber liquid.

The phallus alongside it is--well, it is beautiful, but that is hardly a surprise. It is a heavy thing, black and shining, like it has been carved of living stone or volcanic glass. It is thicker than he is and they are of a length. He has had bigger but only very rarely. He cocks a brow and looks back at her, harness still in hand--there's a humor on his face. He is clearly pleased, but it's a wry thing.

"I see you can guess my proclivities," he says, jesting at the size of it and how, true, he is neither concerned nor reluctant to picture himself impaled upon it. Some men would be, it would not be a thing easily taken by those unaccustomed to similar. Leave it to Yennefer to make it just slightly fantastic and challenging.

"I would offer to dress you, but I think you might do a better job securing yourself...and I think I would like to watch you while I prepare myself." At that, he does have a bit of red spreading up his neck. He is used to speaking candidly about his desires but rarely does he do so with such a tender, delighted partner. It is the closeness that drives embarrassment into him--makes him into a coquette.

"Unless you would like to do that yourself?"

They have stumbled into a beautiful fever dream. Yennefer does not want to wake. Her appetites indulged, encouraged and Jaskier's aligning without even the slightest suggestion on her part. She sits back on her knees, tempted to find the bottle of cherry spirits that have kept them giddy for the earlier portion of their evening. Any other action would mean she has to tear her eyes from him.

Each item is scrutinized, turned over and held. No flinch or distaste. Blue eyes are so bright and not at all attributed to tears. A wrong is being set right.

"It was only a guess." His reddened cheek gets a fond pat as she takes up the leather straps. "I think it will suit you and our purposes nicely." Black to match, it is what she does. Though the weight and whole of its construction made for pleasure. Yennefer has no regrets or wants for additional appendages however if she had to entertain a possibility, she would imagine this would be a cock fitting of her person.

"...and I would like to watch you too." What a change. This venture has played out for Yennefer's pleasure and through her own efforts with the other party doing no more than lay still. That can be fun. Such an experience set beside this--and it has not yet come to fruition!--makes it all seem bloodless, cold. That blush is begging for her lips and she has one for his collar bone and one for his throat. "Show me." The leather and straps clink in her grasp as she sets to fasten it around her thighs and hips. The cock rests where Jaskier left it, a bold black figure on the pale fabric.

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