whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

A toast to him meant to drink deeply. Her cup was almost empty again. The tavern was truly growing on her now. Warm, and a dim clatter of activity around them. Still the most brilliant and important detail was her company. Why did he have such a schoolboy blush about him? She can't ever be the only person to give him compliments. With a more clear head she would perhaps have been more reserved in her expression.

The seasons have been very kind to Jaskier. His face is dusted with color from the sun, never ruddy. No lost teeth, no scars. A smile present on his face as much as fair weather in the south. Observing him more closely, Yennefer is now experiencing what many have before. A charming, friendly man that is quick with wit as well as affection.

What else does one call when lips touch. Yennefer can't be too sure when she has invited an embrace, a true one this time. His nimble fingers were in her hair and he tastes and smells of cherries. A simple press and still close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. Yen indulged in a nuzzle and cups his cheek.

"Only one Yennefer of Vengerberg and only one Jaskier, hmm?" Her turn to press a kiss to his lips, softer and tilting her face just so. Chaste in a way she didn't mean but it felt so lovely when he did it. Usually Yennefer dives into the deepest depth.

The barmaid was going to have to spend her tears over the washtub with the dishes. She chose this time to come around and ask if the bard would require anything. "Oh and the people was wondering if they could get some songs."

Jaskier starts a bit, turning his soppy smile to the woman behind him, and blinks in open confusion at her entreaty. The people...songs? Oh--OH! His expression goes crestfallen and he looks back at Yennefer, desperate and confused. He has to break away from this to sing.

He has the countenance of a kicked puppy.

"Do you mind?" He murmurs into the space between them--the barmaid is terribly uncomfortable at his back, fidgeting and trying not to look directly at them. Were he sober, he would not blame her for her discomfort. "I won't be but a moment."

It is a promise and an earnest one, told with his whole heart--he wears it on his sleeve, along with his newfound regard. His hand still has not left her soft hair, his thumb slides carefully, gently, tentatively across the swell of her cheek.

Oh. Ohhh. Her lips pressed together and she takes in the barmaid. They are at a tavern. The establishment was still crowded. Not near so rowdy though they were noting that the bard was going to play any time now. That was why he was there, wasn't it? Not that any had asked Jaskier. One of those actions that come with the territory right?

Yennefer sighs and tries not to pout too. "Sing for me," because she had only learned of the second song he was known for. Jaskier had a whole set. And now she could listen with ears tuned to hear what infliction his education brought to his lyrics and poetry.

The barmaid also sighs though it is not the sweet, airy noise. Could be a held back sob. Who knows. Barmaids after all. Yennefer ignored her before and she will again as she leaned up enough to kiss Jaskier's cheek.

Ah, that? That he could do.

Jaskier's face lights up with honest and full-fledged joy and he lets his hand fall from her hair to the lute on the table. He snatches it up and spins out of his seat with a flourish--clearly a move to impress her. The barmaid frowns at him but gestures to the far wall and he offers her a bow and his thanks as he saunters away and into the empty space left for minstrels like him.

Well, for minstrels.

There weren't any others like him.

He starts his set with a jig, something energetic and bright that plays to the flush on his cheeks and the smile he cannot tramp down. It is a crass and bawdy song but his fingers are classically trained and the flourishes, the vibrato are filled with musicality beyond the simple tune. He winks and dances and sashays through tables and it's clear he loves everything about this--he loves the crowd, the eyes, the awkward smiles and open delight. He flits to and fro and pours his heart into his singing.

Jaskier falls into a rhythm, a familiar set of songs. He sings about the Fishmonger's Daughter, about Drunken Sailors in the Early Hours, about The Surf in Cidaris, the Streets of Oxenfurt at Night, and falls into an old classic without realizing he's done it. Toss a Coin resounds through the room and, once he hits the chorus, some of his delight fades--he masks it well, especially in the face of the wonder and singing of the crowd, but it lingers. Someone requests the song he sang for her, Her Sweet Kiss--the barmaid, he thinks, and she looks a bit combative when she does.

Jaskier smiles at her but already he can feel his delight waning. Still, he puts on a good show, it is what he does, and as it is a slow ballad, he can end his set with ease as the song finishes. It is meant to be sung for a crowd, that much is clear when he starts, and his voice breaks on that same line, on the lines that hurt, and the crowd--they go a bit strange, honestly.

He's never gotten this reaction before so, when he smiles sadly and bows, his addled brain cannot quite understand the looks that are aimed at him. They look...piteous? Annoyed? It's very unusual. Sympathetic sadness, misty eyes, those he is used to, but this--they almost look reproachful? Had he offended the barmaid, was she very beloved?

He cannot find her as he looks over the crowd.

"And I thank you, good people of Temeria! May your evening be kind and your drinks deep!"

His flourish does not earn applause and he feels eyes on him as he returns to his seat. They linger a moment and then, one by one, drift away from Yennefer and he. He is deeply discomfited and he casts a questioning gaze at the sorceress. Had he done a bad job of it? Was he a slurring drunken mess? He hadn't thought so but--this was...confusing.

He doesn't notice the looks that linger on Yennefer, nor the animosity that has built around them. His world is too narrow for that, right now. At the very least, he had warned her what most people thought that song was about.

The attention of a room of people transforms Jaskier, it's like he has gained more energy. The skill of his fingers and sense of time and measure for as much as he has drunk is incredible. Though Yennefer knows he has been performing for the better part of twenty years. Maybe he was so accomplished that he could sing in his sleep.

Listening to the people around him raise their voices in song it was plain to see that he was renowned and loved. The bawdy songs were popular, from the grizzle faced miners to the youthful bachelors all. The crone that was playing gwent and giving fortunes croaked out the chorus of Toss a Coin. Yennefer had heard it before. The surreality was stifling a moment and she let herself nibble at Jaskier's plate, not even bothering to lend her voice to the din. At least not for that particular tune. Jaskier was under no obligation to sing such a tune even though he penned it, the public wanted what they wanted. He was as much wounded and uplifted as she.

And to pull the evening full circle once more she hears Her Sweet Kiss. Murmurs and thoughts zing in the air. Oh, the bard is going to be the next victim. That is the decree. Though how can he when the song was there before Yennefer and this---whatever it was. She smiled sweetly at him as he worked the room all the same, pretending to be deaf to all but what comes from the lute and his lips.

"Well done," both of her hands reached out to him. The disapproval mounting will not come of anything if he is in her grasp.

Her praise brings a smile back to his face and, through the gradually fading haze of alcohol, make him glad. He slings his lute over the chair and takes her hand as he sits once more.

"My thanks, I do hope I lived up to the hype," he tells her and his wry smile underscores the fact that he was his best hypeman. No one talked him up quite as extensively or constantly as Jaskier, himself. He still wondered at the negativity, at the distaste in the air, but he tried not to let it sneak into his mind, to claw at him as he might've otherwise allowed.

"If not, may I offer you another drink?"

Her own expression stayed cheery and buoyant. The finale was wrenching in an unexpected way to the room around them. Yennefer muses to herself that now Jaskier has a small experience of her kiss now. Her palm presses to his.

"You are a treasure." He has to know that by now. Giving him kind words through out the night has made him practically glow. "Thank you for singing again." Leave it to her to treat it as though it were a private concert. No one else matters here anyway.

More? Yennefer tilts her head in thought. "I would love for more but I think it would be best enjoyed in private. Do you have a room for the night?" If not she does. At a fine place streets over at the Golden Fawn. "I could share." As friends do.

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.

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