whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

Her hair trails his lap and grazes, with perfect light, softness, against his legs and hips as she dips her head back. When she rights herself it falls in a heavy curtain against her back--already his fingers card through it and comb it and he reaches over the side to pluck a fine soap off the tray.

"Not generally, no, unless I have been summoned here or there, or winter is upon us," Jaskier explains as he pours some of the lilac scented soap I to his hands and works it between his fingers. He settles them on the crown of her head and scrubs with gentle, delicate motions against her scalp.

Much like his eclectic scheduling, it is not hard to guess why he works this way. She is certainly not dirty enough to merit this attention, but he is very good at it and enjoys giving this as much as anyone has ever enjoyed receiving it.

"This year, I had thought to journey south, perhaps, or to Cidaris if that cad Marx is afield. I've always been fond of the coast."

The diligent, careful work against her crown makes her sigh and softly moan. Thorough and committed to the task, truly. Leave it to Jaskier to not tie himself to empty promises. All Yennefer will have to do with her locks is brush it and braid it before sleep. "Are you sure you're only a bard and not a barber?" Her head tilts this way and that into Jaskier's hands. Now Yennefer can list is accomplishments beyond the lute.

Facing away, she cups the water to rinse her face. Her own cosmetics are resistant until she wills them not to be. More curiosity and illusion, as if females needed more.

"Marx? That is another bard. Hmmm. Marx... I can't say I've heard the name." One of her shoulders shrug. "Though as you know I am chasing the tail of trend on what is popular where music is concerned. Have you met the man? Or are you sworn rivals on principle?" Yennefer reaches beneath the water to stroke his thigh because she can. "Don't speak ill of cads. Some are most brilliant."

There are precious few things Yennefer could have said that would have endeared her more to Jaskier than asking who the hell Valdo Marx was. His grin split his face as he pulls her head back a bit and cups water in one hand to rinse her long dark hair. He looks positively elated, even as she corrects him about his own status as a horrible cad.

He is, apparently, a brilliant cad.

He could love her, he realizes, with his whole heart for as long as she would allow it.

"Oh, I've known Valdo Marx for quite a while," Jaskier tells her. "He's a pompous, bloviating, lackluster minstrel with a tin ear and clumsy fingers. He is deadset on ruining my reputation and will not shut up about his own--he is the worst--"

Jaskier smooths her hair back from her forehead and sighs, flatly.

"He is also my ex." Which, he felt, explained quite a lot about their animosity. "Did you know I actually tried to wish him dead with that Djinn? I believe I requested apoplexy, specifically. I know, I know, but he did steal my songs and cheat on me with a patron and muse--it was warranted."

The suds dissolve leaving her hair in a renewed state of shine. Yennefer spies his expression before shutting her eyes against another flow of water. How he outshines the lamps with a grin. She can picture it just as perfectly with her eyes closed the way the sun burns an image. Far more merriment in one little finger than other men have in his whole body.

"Jaskier, why is he still alive?" That's a real question, and she twists to be able to look at him in the face. "Life's riches are ill spent on his like." Is it the carelessness with a fellow sensitive creator that is so offensive to her in this moment? Or is it because it is her dear, sweet new ...friend? She touches his cheek. Diving in and out of lover's beds, taking to the path and flitting in courts on the regular is not for the feint of heart. She still felt his tears for one that did not handle him carefully. Geralt, while cruel, did not act with a plan or motive. Obliviousness is not an excuse and won't redeem him in her eyes she has decided.

"That was a very worthy wish. If he is as charming as you say he is, than he may be dead before the month is out." Her own little grin at the thought could be as reassuring as it could be frightening. Since they are face to face she gives him a peck before turning away.

Two bards together. That must have been a whirlwind. They talk that a sorceress and a witcher is a match for catastrophe, two passionate musicians seems to be of equal standing.

Jaskier makes a small surprised sound in the back of his throat--her question about his living still was not unusual, but the tacit offer to see him dead was a shock. He forgets, sometimes, that many of the people he knows are entirely capable of eliminating those that displease them--or, if they are feeling generous and inclined--those that displease him. He draws her close as she turns back, pulls her back against his chest so that she may stretch out as much as the tub allows, and wraps her in a loose embrace.

"Honestly, the cruelest fate for Valdo is going unknown," Jaskier muses with a note of smugness. "For all my songs grate on me, they are each of them nails in his foppish coffin. I cannot imagine how much he must have suffered when Toss a Coin first swept through Cidaris. Weeks after his thieving hands stole my music and suddenly he is awash in it."

He still gloats about that, about his own popularity with the people where Marx has failed to make a foothold. The face Valdo makes, each time, is nearly worth the humiliation and heartbreak he'd suffered.

"Now, before I ramble on about more past loves to my newest paramour--a terrible breech of affairs, I must say--tell me, sweetling, what scented soaps and salts would you prefer? We have quite an assortment."

There are so many hazards to life on the road as it stands. When your livelihood depends on the approval of your talent there is a heavy importance of money to add to safety, supplies and lodging. Bards are not known to be skilled in warrior arts. Accidents do just happen. Yennefer prefers blunt, direct methods for a statement. What statement can be made for life carrying on as it does? Vermin don't live long. Providence to Valdo Marx because when Jaskier speaks again, her drive for justice disappears.

"What manner of song does a man that chooses to go by Valdo Marx sing?" Her bias is obvious. And she nestles against his back. "That's some gall to take another's work and tout it as your own. Is there not a guild of bards?" There's a high council for mages to decide the fate of the realm. Not that Yennefer heeds them anyway.

The conversation pauses for real important matters. Yennefer hums thoughtfully. "I do want the lavender salt. Rose too." All the floral and sweet. "Do they have any of the lemon and sage soaps? I keep meaning to buy some in Novigrad. Business is so distracting."

"They do," Jaskier announces cheerfully and plucks up the lavender and rose salts first--best to scrub and then wash, or so he has always found. He frees his hands long enough to pour some of the scented granules in the palm of one, and then offers it first to her, should she wish to scrub her face or arms. He will merrily scrub the rest of her, given the chance.

"Valdo," Jaskier says and seems equal parts bemused and befuddled that they are still discussing his ex, "is known for his academic pieces. Fine ballads for courts, weddings, funerals, pronouncements, that sort of dreck."

Much though he maligns Marx, even Jaskier has to admit the man has some talent in the finer orchestral arrangements. It was why he'd fallen head over heels for him. Young Jaskier had been too easily impressed by a few complex bits of phrasing and complementary melodies.

Still, he revels in the obvious bias in Yennefer's tone. There is nothing quite like listening to someone as lovely and powerful as her as they distastefully inquire about someone he dislikes.

"And..as for a guild. Yes, technically? They're all a bit cut-throat, honestly, and mired in academia. It mostly comes down to 'Who sang it first?' rather than a question of who wrote it. I would imagine Sorcery would be the same--aren't there any terrible rivalries? Vying for positions? Salacious murders or trysts?"

The salt is finely ground and truly a balance of fragrance. It's plain to see that The Golden Fawn is not gilded. She will pay handsomely for their hospitality. There is a nagging feeling that it is all enhanced by the company. Yennefer knows a good bath, a good salt and a grand room well enough on her own. Everything about tonight feels heightened. Scrubbing with the tiny fragments loosens the lingering grime on her skin.

Yes, fucking makes grime. And she is not one to trample through bogs, marshes or ditches. Squalor was a thing of her past.

Music comes in shades the way that flowers do. She knows that much. Her nose crinkles. "Court music. Forgive me, darling but as whole it did not seem to hold longer than the duration of a dance. Perhaps your own orchestrations are different." In that way he takes to everything, his own fire and energy would be played out to a venue that can return even a part of what he gives. Lords and ladies can be so anemic. "I think the only way he could gain any popularity is if a dance were crafted for his pieces. As it stands there are so many variations to a damn waltz." Yes, court life was not her favorite time. All that luxury and no chance to enjoy it, surveying every occasion and making chances for his excellency to slip away with whoever caught his eye.

And who put her in such a position? Yennefer herself. Though she had faith in her elders, in her council. "Unfortunately, yes. There are so many, many agendas being pushed. Nilfgaard still on the march as if it were a crusade." Her head drops back against Jaskier. "I had hoped it would be more orderly given that the collective expertise is more an artistic pursuit."

Once she has taken her fill from the well of salts in his hands, he smooths both his wet palms together and splits the delicately scented slurry that forms between them. He rubs down her arms, across the back of her neck and over the tops of her shoulders as she pulls a face describing her distaste for court music. Jaskier could giggle, his amusement was so great.

"There was a dance crafted for one of his--a formal little Basse unique to Cidaris," Jaskier tells her, quietly hoping she might've seen it. "The one with all the spinning and the arm's raised bend. Looks ridiculous, if you ask me, but supposedly represents the sun over the ocean."

It was far too academic a thing for parties, but that was why Valdo would never be the best. Her hopes for the Bardic Guilds is charming but it does draw a chuckle out of him.

"My dear, you have met bards before, yes? Put two of us in the same room and we fight like wet cats. Can you imagine what a hundred of us in the same building looks like?"

Jaskier hums, then, and leans to put his chin on her shoulder. His hands start the gentle process of rinsing where he's scrubbed.

"Actually--there is a contest in mid-autumn in Oxenfurt," he says. "Very dry, but full of excessive drama. We all clamor and perform for judges and seek the University's patronage for the next year."

He hadn't tried to gain it in years, not for all the time he'd spent with Geralt. When last he'd gone after it, he had lost quite soundly...but that had been before he left the school. He could probably take it now and the idea of having Yennefer present and in the audience? Oh that was appealing.

"You should come, as my guest."

The floral scrubbing makes her skin pink and even in a heightened state of comfort, Jaskier makes her laugh. "No, really?" Her arms lift from the water, not even committing fully to the arrangement of the dance, she still has some salt she'd like to use on her chin and face. "That one? The hmm-dee-dum-da-da-da-hmm?" That is as close to the tune as she can recollect. "With their arms up it's more like the scuttling of crabs!" The Cidarians have a strange enough taste as it stands. She's laughing again. "Oh he really is awful." It might be amusing to meet such a lowly bard after all.

His touch is so gentle. If there was a way for her to relax into his body, she would. Yennefer kisses his arm as it crosses over her.

"Hundreds of wet cats... in concert. What a sound!" Patronage for a whole year would make a significant improvement for any aspiring musician of any repute.

She reaches from the water again, this time not to mock a dance. To touch his cheek. "I will only attend if you promise to tell me each and every sordid little thing about the contenders.... will you also compete?"

"Of course! On both counts," Jaskier assures her brightly. He couldn't imagine how disappointed he would be if she refused to indulge in the rumor mill while attending such a popular event.

"And you must tell me what you think of the dances because crabs? I shall never be able to see anything else," Jaskier tells her and his chest shakes with silent laughter. He reaches behind them and plucks up the bar of sage and lemon soap, one of several scents on the tray, and holds it out before her, presenting it for her use and approval whenever she is done with the salts.

"And weren't you just saying I was overdue for a visit to Oxenfurt?" It all falls together so nicely. And with events being what they are in their country, any manner of amusement should be pursued. "I would like to see you win."

Soap in hand she takes to gliding it over her arms. "Have you seen the step that is supposed to be Zarrikanian? Overly elaborate stepping with, wide legged with a head movement? I cannot keep a straight face. How do these things come into fashion? I see that that dog Marx is one harbinger." At least it comes with music.

Yennefer gently pushes from Jaskier. "Would his lordship like a wash as well? You've been so very, very attentive." And not at all shy with how he enjoys to touch. The bath is still warm and their fingers are not utterly pruned. She slips the bar of soap over her breast to clean under her arm.

"The Zarrikanian one! Oh yes, it's positively ridiculous--" he agrees and has to snort back the sudden laugh at her dig toward his rival. What a wonderful woman. She sits up and offers that smile back at him as she slides the soap across herself.

He pulls a slight face at the title, but says nothing to dissuade her teasing. He quite likes it, he finds.

"I would not object to a lovely woman washing my back for me, if she were so inclined," he responds diplomatically. He had to scrub the oil from himself--thick and luscious as it was, it would remain on him until he put in some concerted effort to remove it. That...was not a delicate or flirty request to be made. Once she was finished, he would clean whatever they had not.

Her own face is as much of a mask of innocence as she can make. She is ready for a push back. It does not come. If it weren't already a test, she would start to tell him he is such a good and kind lordling, so gracious to a lady. Instead she bats her lashes. Violet is not a common eye color and she can gather why they are said to do things like twinkle or sparkle. She is just looking at him.

"I'm so very inclined. Yes." Both arms open for him to lay where he likes. "Did you choose anything for yourself downstairs? A salt or treat?" Her hands dip below the water to feel over his legs. Yennefer is seated crosslegged and is happy to reach wherever. Jaskier's trim body is so lovely to hold, lovelier to lay waste to. "I did say anything you like. I meant it."

What could he want? What makes him stretch and sigh that is not caresses? Silken, tailored clothes, berry schnapps, witchers and sorceresses it seems.

He turns, then as she moves her fingertips gently over his legs. His poor cock is too dearly spent to stir again this evening, but he warmth that follows her touch is pleasant nonetheless. He reaches across the tray and sorts it a moment before coming back with something rather decadent--it is a smooth and liquid soap that smells of honeysuckle and grass. He had enjoyed the scent when he smelled it first, and the texture was fine enough that he wouldn't lament using it across the soreness of his backside later.

"I found this rather charming, but hadn't put much thought into additional treats," he admitted and handed her the bottle as he turned to lean against the side of the tub. He pillowed his head on his arms and peered back at her, comfortably.

"I have already had so many this evening, I fear I'll become insatiable."

"Become? Now, Jaskier." His appetites are what make him such a person.They would not have got on so well if he were a reserved monk sort. Having a person enjoy indulgences unabashed and with no design around it is a wonderful, wonderful change. Yennefer takes the bottle from him. "This is a fine choice."

Pouring the contents into her palms she smooths both hands over his shoulders to spread the soap. It is so very soft and it guides her hands to spread a gathering foamy lather. "Don't you dare become meek or reserved because it's proper." The steam and warmth dulls all of the beautiful aches and stills he wants to touch him because she can, their bath is a floral bouquet as it was. Now honeysuckle and grass is the most potent. "Besides, I don't think that you have it in you to be so." Which is a fine thing to be by her tone of voice.

"True, true," he acknowledges and sighs, relaxing into her soft touch and the smell of honeysuckle. He sighs, airily and indulges, his eyes following her as best he can while she maneuvers behind him.

"I have never been one to languish in propriety," he admits, "and surely I cannot be expected to do so when around someone as enchanting as you."

Was that a pun? It was. ~~Go to word jail, Jaskier.~~

He smiles as her hands glide and smooth and, as hey hit his waist he has a truly stupid idea. He should not, really, because they are not in love, no matter how adoring his glances, and this shall surely break the comfortable ease between them--but he cannot help but prod at his own happiness. It is the only way to know if it is real.

His cheeks burn just so as he looks back at her.

"Your hands are so much softer than my own, love, and I fear I will be sore enough already. Would you clean the oil that lingers still?" Oh, but that was asked with such delicacy and care, like a fine crystal flute balanced precariously on the edge of a table. So rarely did he have lovers who would do the mundane for him--

She laughs because yes, that is a line. And it cannot go without punishment. His ear lobe gets a tug. The awful, truly awful pun still has her stifling a chuckle as she moves. "I know you can do better than that." A wordsmith and poet along with a musician, you know, bard and all. Gods she hates that it has a response from her. It must be the hour, the mood. She can't blame cherry schnapps anymore.

Well, Yennefer of Vengerberg, what did you expect when you told him not to be proper? Her gaze is steady and her cheeks are already flush from the bath. Jaskier trusted her to fuck him. He asked. Even suggesting such an action would have been so very, very much more than most women could grasp. The bar maid would not have known what to do with such a request. Sad, simple thing would have run away in tears as she already had. Usually she has to persuade or use chaos to make wills more open to suggestion. She fucked him in this room and loved it all so very, very much. Why would she refuse when it is a simple task? The soreness is her doing.

"Delightful stuff, wasn't it? Though it does stay until thoroughly cleaned. I should have warned you." The market place at Gors Velen has a vast assortment of pleasure toys and paraphernalia. She reaches for the liquid soap. "Do you feel it right now? Soreness?" Not yet reaching below to touch him there, it is an honest question. "You're going to have to move. Kneel? I'd say bend over the tub but half of you would be cold."

His heart does a little leap at her scolding, at the small stifled laugh that bubbles below her expression regardless--when she urges him up, agrees to his request, his heart clenches hard in his chest. Truly? She had not even hesitated, hadn't given him a look, or seemed put upon by the very nature of it. He is dumbstruck for a moment.

"Yes, but I would trade it for nothing," Jaskier assures her, just this side of breathless and then rises onto his knees. It requires him to pick his head up off the side of the tub, to idly brace with his arms, but he does it without objection. It is midsummer and while it is cool, dripping dry above the tub, it is not biting or cold.

The bending does, however, remind him of the soreness more keenly. He is a bit ginger in his movements as he rests his weight on his arms.

"If the worst downside is that it does not rinse off easily in water," Jaskier ruminates, aloud, "oh--what a dreadful shame. Positively unfortunate." His drawl is flat and unconvincing. He would keep a corked flask of that on hand if he had his choice.

"Wherever did you find it?"

He's asking, for reasons.

"If it still smarts I may have something medicinal." Not a cream or salve, an herbal remedy to chew or drink. It all depends. She didn't get the chance to properly admire Jaskier's bare buttocks. Is that a birthmark? High on the cheek and a little darker than his skin tone. Hardly the size of her littlest finger nail with a smaller twin scattered slightly higher....that's a birthmark. Her soapy hands start at the waist and work down. The oil and movement, oh his trousers too truly might have a bit of work to be done. It dries well, that she remembers.

"I was passing through to Aretuza and made a stop in Gors Velen. They have an open air market most seasons. One of the madams from the redlight district had taken it upon herself make a sundry of goods to pull more coin from patrons. Now, I would not find my joys but the clever old crone has such a collection. Madam de Carabas she calls herself because of all the puss she deals with." Bawdy humor of course, of course. By the time she reaches this point she is better acquainted with the cleft of his rump, still careful, still soapy hands getting the worst of the oil.

"Phillipa recommended it to be, in fact when I mentioned her by name Madam de Carabas had so many, many recommendations. I know so very much more about her now."

"And have the memory of that lovely experience muted? I think not," he replies airily and is very vehement about it. Her fingers linger over his birthmark and he lets out a quiet huff of amusement--it catches as she cleans the tenderest parts of him, but she is soft and careful and he feels no new pains as she works.

He still cannot quite believe she is doing this, that she is willingly indulging him--it is strange to be so off balanced by so simple a thing, but he truly is.

"Gors Velen?" he muses, just to participate in the conversation, as though so much of his attention were not focused on her hands or that she is chatting with him at all. He snorts at the Madame's name, for it is precisely the sort of humor he deals in, and hums as he makes a point to remember it.

"I shall have to take a trip to Gors Velen and chat with her, Gods' know what new fun pieces I might be able to acquire before that contest in Oxenfurt."

It is a tacit invitation, one given freely without thought that she might decline. He doesn't hesitate on it or think much of it after it is offered. Once the worst of the oil is cleared, he shifts and resettles in the water. The look he turns upon her is grateful.

"I did not ask, but should we do this again, is there anything exotic that you are fond of, sweetling?"

He has allowed her this intimacy. Knowing what damage she can do, he still invites her closer. This vulnerability is so closely guarded in men. As though it would make them a lesser. Is that all it takes? Penetration? Her fingers never stray gentle, purposeful to clean away the crystal vial's oil. Touching the muscles of his arse, ensuring his comfort and cleanliness is not a demeaning task either. She doesn't need his help to clean her cunt though she imagines he would do so in the same manner.

"No perhaps at all. It's a certainty. You must go with a sorceress in tow. That seems to be the best way to get service. And I would not wish Phillipa on you."

Yennefer cups the water in her hands to rinse. "Should your commitment to memory change, the offer stands." The water runs down his skin and she gives a ridiculously small tap high on his rump to signal she's finished.

The water is getting cool. And she finds a want for more of the apple juice. Thoughts of leaving divert at the question. Her lips part and the first thing she thinks of is two--and it is not at all what their budding intimate friendship needs. No other person. No other party. And the mutual connection between them is as good as gone. Her fingers ball into fists at her own carelessness and she lets her eyes lift upward. "You are insatiable." And it's a giving, marvelous thing. The smile on her face is a true one. She should not be so greedy, so selfish. Talking of more fun and games is the way out of this and she takes it. Immediately. "Have you ever seen a woman in nothing but ropes and knots?"

Jaskier is skilled enough at reading people that he cannot miss her near answer before she quells it. It pains him, just so, that she would withhold something from him...but he is not entitled to know. They have been friends less than a day, after all. His calm, curious smile maintains as she makes her request.

"You wish to be bound and strung up, sweetling? Or just to wear your weight in knotwork, restricting you as we come together?" He would be fine providing either, the idea of seeing her in naught but fine rope and careful knots appeals...but the idea of tying her down (or literally hanging) is so much more so. He will have to learn to tie proper knots before the competition--a trip to Cidaris was certainly in order.

"I have done that before, tell me, do you wish to lose yourself in it? Sink to another place and be cared for? Or to struggle and be dominated?"

These were extremely personal questions and Jaskier felt the line he was toeing as he asked them...but it was a very important distinction, this.

They had been freely sharing everything this night, hadn't they? Showing little injuries, sharing little stories, any small thought or worry spoken. Yennefer helped him dry his tears. She doesn't wish to cause more of them. Not for Jaskier or herself. Geralt's mutant nature must be what makes it so difficult to banish him from thoughts or hearts. Worst yet that she is betraying this fellowship even considering him a party. No, she can't speak of that.

"I like the thrill of being hung and admired. It's like becoming a garden swing." She lets her eyes return downward until resting on his face. Sly, bard. "Would you and your ropes be so strong as to hold me down?"

This second question is a greater surprise. Instead of retreating, her brow furrows thoughtfully. Yes, that is deeply personal. Her knee jerk reaction is to leave the tub, leave the room. She is still a prideful, angry sorceress. Though she is also used to walking a path on her own, untethered, unattached. And this won't be information shared with a person that will squander its value. They're naked to one another and she finds in her heart that she does not want to shrink from Jaskier twice. Her eyes stare into his.

"The act has been...as a performance. No service or distribution of power." As a habit she has not allowed anyone to step up to the plate to take care of her. It has been a command or an order, Jaskier and a few other lovers act intuitively, navigating the points of pleasure on a woman's body. That is not what he is asking. "I seldom get to go to another place or know what it is like to be cared for. I struggle and dominate enough as it is."

He sees the alarm flash in her eyes and regrets asking, he nearly reaches out for her...but she steels herself and replies anyway. He finds he can only admire her more for the strength in that. It makes her uncomfortable, this admission, and his heart swells with that. His smile is gentle as he regards her and, after a moment of silence, he offers her his hand.

They should rise and dry off before the water becomes uncomfortably chilly.

"If...you would like, and it does not discomfit you to have me render such care, I would be happy to provide it." He rises but leaves his hand out for her still. "I rarely dominate and, in truth, find less allure in it than most things...but I have always enjoyed caring for people who need it...and sometimes a firm touch is needed."

Ah, but this is very heavy. Heavier than his fragile heart will tolerate for too long.

"That I might truss you up and hang you like a lovely work of art is, additionally, very appealing. Though where I will find a satisfactory length of black silken rope, I've no idea."

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