whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

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.

He cranes his neck, makes room for her lips at his throat, and his flush creeps upward. The sound of those straps shifting has him shivering, just a bolt of excitement up his spine. He still feels warm and liquid after their earlier intimacy--from the alcohol burning low in his veins. He sighs merrily and takes up the oil she'd conjured for the purpose.

The cursory glance at that cock, black and unyielding, is more for assessment than titillation. He will require a moment, will make a show of it, then.

The oil is thick and smooth when he pours it from the vial. It clings, viscous and luscious, and he lets out a short huff of laughter. Leave it to Yennefer to have the most expensive, finest of lubricants he's ever seen. He had thought he'd learned the whole array of them--how wonderful to be proven wrong. He spreads the gradually rolling droplets of oil across his fingers, coats them, and sets the vial aside.

His cock gives a marked twitch as he looks back at her, where she looms just so, all lovely and raven and flawless skin. Her eyes are on him--he hadn't been wrong about amethyst, even if the prose had been a bit purple (hah). He watches her, holds her gaze as his legs fall apart and he reaches to smooth his slicked fingers over the skin between them. He takes his time, brushing them past his balls, across his perineum, and sighs when they finally smooth over his own entrance.

He keeps her gaze as he circles his fingers, as he relaxes and props himself up so that he can move, can crook his wrist to tend to his own pleasure. When he presses into himself, however, his eyes flutter a bit. The first finger is easily taken, he isn't a blushing virgin, but the second has a bit of sting--it has been some time, hasn't it?

To his shock, when his eyes re-open, he finds his own cock already rising again. His brows lift as he looks himself over and the sight, vain thing that he is, makes the appendage twitch again.

"I...don't suppose you also have a ring, I might use? Or a spell to match?"

He would love to move in her, to fuck her, but he won't be able to spill across the bedsheets while she fucks him, not if she wants to ride him after. Ah, what sweet sacrifice.

A showman is a showman. Jaskier takes the task at hand with his own finesse and flair. Yennefer's progress has slowed because she does not want to take her eyes from him. The glide of his fingers and how they glisten with the oil. His pale, exposed skin, dusted with hair over his legs, his belly and chest. The strewn of muscle in his thighs frame the true attraction.

He doesn't have to be a blushing virgin for her, he doesn't have to be anything or anyone than as he is for that is more than enough. The teasing motion as his body accepts the first finger, she wets her lips. Both of her thighs now afixed with leather. The other straps frame her cunt and rise high enough to be nearly at her navel. The other portions for where she will hold the other party to their play is a circular almost webbing of thinner straps.

"You are so beautiful." The compliment itself has been spoken over and over. The varnish and shine worn away. When Yennefer hears it, while it might be true, it is white noise. Right now in this moment, watching long lashes hide the blue of his eyes and how his mouth has dropped open to welcome another digit into the slick, pink ring of muscle---right now she remembers what beauty is. What an impact it has. Her thighs press together. Jaskier has work to do still to be ready and has just begun.

A ring? Ah. "Of course." Her fingers swirl over the bedding. That same crackle and electric surge to the air comes. It makes Yennefer shiver. No touch or other stimulation and her nipples are hard again. Chaos with the dizzy, wonderful drunkness of love have an effect. The ring that appears is silver, heavy. It has to match. Is Jaskier surprised? Perhaps it is even real silver. A cock and balls can fit through.

Yennefer reaches for it before he does, letting it drape over her pointer finger as she offers it to him. "Are we forgetting anything else?"

He withdraws his hand with a shiver and a short, involuntary whine. Her compliment soaks into him, earnest and simple as it is, and his flush spreads over his chest and high across his cheeks. It is a grand feeling, to be adored, and so openly--his smile is coy (or perhaps honestly a bit shy, given all the feelings already hovering around them) as he takes the ring into his hand. He smears oil across the silver but it is no matter, it will be filthy soon enough.

"The taste of your mouth?" Jaskier says, conversationally, and looks at her lips as she leans near him. She is lovely in that harness, tied into leather and bound, but only to an item that will let her grant pleasure, that gives her power. It is a look that has him entranced and she isn't even clad in that pretty obsidian cock yet.

His abs strain to hold him up as he lifts his hand and tucks it into her hair. The kiss he draws her in for is--it is not chaste, and it is not hungry in the feral, hot way that kisses during trysts ought to be. He is already well on his way to loving her, his heart has devoted itself wholly and just waits for knowledge and time to fill up the space it has made for her. He kisses her like he loves her, because he does, he will even if they are not so close yet, not near to admissions like that or serious devotions.

He maneuvers the ring on him as his lips move, slow and soft, as he licks into her mouth and savors the taste of her. He ought to have set this on before he began rising, it pinches just so as he fits it in place--fortunately it sits snug once he manages it. Once he fills it will be immovable until deft fingers unhook it and grant him freedom.

Oh the thrill of that is wondrous.

When his fingers return to task, he whines against her lips and the muscles in his stomach begin to tremble. He should brace himself on his arm but that would mean removing his hand from her raven hair--that is not something he is willing to do, not just yet.

He is going to do her in with these simple, perfect requests. To be fucked, to be cared for, to be kissed. All of these are within her power to fulfill. And she wants them. Suddenly, badly the way she has not wanted in years and years. The newness of this territory they explore does not resound with any other memories of any other person. First Jaskier makes it known that both he and Yennefer are refugees of the same heartbreak, then he proposes that they rinse the sadness in alcohol. After he tells her that this is is his chosen path in life. There is no way she could ever go back to seeing him as only an insufferable, fawning dolt. A songbird, a treasure, a man that is so very, very enthralling.

Fuck. Could she already be in love with him?

Critical thinking is not allowed. Jaskier is kissing her too thoroughly for that. Her tongue touching and dancing with his own, stealing the breath from her lungs. Can you draw out loneliness with a kiss and expel it? It's like she has forgotten the sensation. Her heart is light and eager. A little noise gets lost in her throat. "My, my. You work fast." The way his body shifts and trembles, she pets over his chest, one pec to the next and lightly scratches down over his belly. "And doing so very, very well on your own." Her nose rubs against his. A little peck at the corner of his mouth.

Her praise truly gets to him, makes him eager and wanting, and he leans just so as she pulls away after that pack, a faint and distracted attempt to reclaim her lips. His abs burn, though, and he is finally forced to drop his arm back onto the bedding, to prop himself up and reclaim the best angle to prepare himself. His eyes are closed, he cannot remember closing them, and cannot seem to open them.

His focus is elsewhere.

The lubricant she has provided is, truly, very, very good. It clings and slides and seems to have made a slick, friction-less film over his skin. He doesn't even bother fetching the bottle when he twists his hand and sinks a third finger into himself. That--that makes his hips jolt and tremble, his cock rising red and pink between them--he laughs breathlessly.

How lucky he is, that he shall be straining before she even sinks into him. Oh, he will be mad with want of her her and her touches before long. Somehow, he thinks she will like that.

"What can I say," he breathes and keens just slightly as he stretches himself. "I am inspired by you, and an inspired artist can work wonders."

Her fingertips linger on his belly still--the places she has scratched tingle and he wishes she would do it again.

Admiring him now working with his eyes closed, the small lines in his brow are hardly an indicator of age, he lays before her so trusting. Yennefer kisses him again. Half committed, teasing and trailing. Tonight he had his breathing tested, best not suffocate the poor man. The soft, wet sound of his fingers working his tense body open is it's own lewd sort of music.

"Do you practice on your own?" Her lips smile and her tone is teasing. "I can see you have a natural skill." Teasing though her voice has gone lower and more rough. Yennefer's fingers draw lazy lines over him. A sigil or a runes, nothing harmful. Symbols of good luck and fortune. They are not charged with magic, more a want. May he be this perfect for all time. Her soft hand smooths down to his thigh before scratching up it's length. The pressure only draws shallow red lines, no blood.

"You're a sight, Jaskier." Shivering, and tense, nearly all of his small fingers fitting. Another kiss, still no savagery. "I want you so."

He laughs around a shaky moan and cracks an eye open to catch sight of her. His expression dips, humor and smiles drawn away by a pinched, nearly pained look of pleasure as his fingers ghost across his prostate. He hadn't been aiming for it, but the pressure, the spark of sensation and need it shoots through him, is enough to have his cock hardened to straining between his legs.

"What is a bard without practice?" He asks against her lips, huffs a quiet laugh, and then his humor is overshadowed entirely by the breathy, strained quality of his exhale. It catches on a high throaty sound and he breathes out a thin stream as he pauses the work of his fingers and nearly draws them free.

He has practiced this on his own, though he does not do this too often. There is less satisfaction to be had in fucking one's self open on an immobile appendage. He has always enjoyed sex for the company more than the actual acts or the sensations that followed. Alone it...leaves him to his thoughts.

He would prefer not to think at all.

"Tell me, my sweetling, am I ready for you?" His question has a whine in it. He will continue, will try to add his fourth finger if she advises it, but he is already trembling. He wants her to remain above him as she is now, to drive into him, wants to watch her breasts bounce and her hair drape over them both like a curtain of darkest night--

"As ready as I can be--" he ammends, soppy and tender with his want and infatuation.

"And I have heard many a time what practice brings." Perfection already lies with Jaskier. The connection is automatic. Yennefer hesitates to say so much. He is handsome. Beautiful. Lovely. Words sprouting out of nothing like flowers. That is another means that he inspires in her. "So accomplished," her eyes blatantly linger on the work of his hand.

Ready? She has a thoughtful, long hum. Instead of more petting, she denies him of no other touch beyond the sweep of her hair on his torso as she reaches for the cock. "I have never been a patient woman. ...and you are too delicious to resist any more."

The leather trappings resting on her skin move and she crawls over Jaskier. He must lay on the bedding alone now. Yennefer takes to kneeling at his spread legs, she takes a hold of the cock to set it into the tethers. It is a simple task, mundane nearly which is way she prefers to watch his hole clutch and shiver. Her fingers run down the length of the cool, dark surface of the shaft and she sighs lit gives her pleasure. "You're ready for me, dearheart. I know you are."

Before any other actions come into play she procures the vial and trickles it's contents down the black cock as she strokes from root to tip. A final assurance on her part that no harm will come to her dear, dear friend.

She leaves him bereft and Jaskier sighs, wistfully, fitfully, as he draws his fingers out of himself. His slicked hand, for most of his hand has been covered by the movements against himself, settles loosely around his own cock and he watches, through half-lidded, fascinated eyes, as she sets her cock into place.

Her sigh is acting, but he shivers nonetheless, as though she had drawn those delicate fingertips over him instead.

Jaskier suddenly has the image of her as an actress, stalking the stage and projecting the breadth of her emotions and tone across an eager, rapt audience. It takes so little to envision it, the way fire would rise in her face, the way she would look clad in characters, wearing costume as much as the facade of some other fictional life. That she would breathe life into those pale constructs like the breath of chaos itself.

His hand flutters as the slick and swollen flesh of his hole does and he sighs, dreamily at her.

"Then come, take me," Jaskier encourages, an edge of neediness to his voice. "Please?"

Allowing a person to truly see you, to catch on to your ways and whims is dangerous business for a sorceress. Jaskier in his haze of passion already can see that yes, she is an actress. Not ever to be bothered with decorum or manners and always wearing her heart on her sleeve does not free her from feeling remorse, or wanting acceptance. The years have show it is better to hide that. Her pride is real. Yennefer has the immortality that the ascension provides and with it a mind committed to success she earns. Success is measured not with applause. Accolades are acceptable.

She wants to be admired. Her reflection in his beautiful eyes is not the draw, it's his gaze. The heat, the want. It's hers and hers only. There is power in that. Her hands firmly grasp at both of Jaskier's knees. "Yes, dearheart. Yes." Her knees spread and she guides her body to bend over him, their anatomy is different and some shifting and wiggling is required. Her cock prods his. The sultry severity of her expression crackles as a giggle comes up in her throat.

"How good you are," Yennefer props her weight on one arm and reaches down, deliberately tracing Jaskier's cock with her impressive black piece before guiding it where it needs to be. "No wonder the Continent whispers about you." Laid back over the pillows glossed with sweat and flushed in shades of red and pink. The first motion is careful, not to say slow. She had seen how far he got on his own.

Her praise keeps his flush pink and delicate across his face, he beams at her as she moves over him, and his heart jumps and skips as she giggles with her joy. Melitele she is...so beautiful. She draws that unyeilding black phallus over his cock and then murmurs as she sinks into him.

His smile falls away into an expression of silent, overwhelming, consuming sensation. He looks pained but the way his hips arch and press toward hers, the way his hands reach and grab at her arms, at her hips, at anything he can graze hands over--those are not at all the actions of a man in pain. His moan is low and loud and, if this is his reaction to the first slow thrust, there is no chance that anyone in this building or the next will not know how well she fucks him.

It was almost a pity he'd been smothered by her mouth when he last came, he was so given to dramatics, but he does not regret the silence in his last orgasm.

Her hips come up against the back of his thighs and his fingers claw at the sheets, holding tight as he adjusts to the size and stretch of her cock. Fuck--fuck--it is bigger than he is used to, it had not seemed so when he looked at it, but it had been some time since he had seen a cock that was not his own. It was easy to forget that he was large, apparently, and that something larger than him would drive all sense from him.

The muscles in his stomach flutter, convulse just slightly as he acclimates, and he exhales a voiced sigh once he's ready. His breath shakes and he thinks, with a hoarse chuckle, that it is funny.

"It feels like your cock is in my throat, love," he muses, dazed and driven to distraction. "Fuck, please, please--"

He doesn't even know what he wants, for her to grind into him or draw out and drive in. He wants everything, all of it, and he is losing his words.

"A little more than, oohh." Speaking him through the action is just a bonus. Jaskier knows what to do. The magnitude of sadness, the depth she had only begun to see clearly means that his life had a vacancy. A vulgar but true though that it was just waiting to be filled. He asked for that person to be Yennefer.

She peppers his face in kisses. Brief and erratic. Her breathing is not even and she would have to be dead to not be moved. The cock is almost engulfed. Her cunt clenches on nothing. Keeping her legs spread makes her more aware of how wet he makes her just lying back and taking. And not a limp fish, no, no. The way he touches on her like he is adrift at sea in a storm and she is the only thing keeping him afloat.

"It can be in your throat if that is what you wish." The edge of her smile could be wicked if she lets it. "Later." Pinning him to the bed and treating the Golden Fawn patrons to a concert is a better action.

Yennefer rocks her hips forward, giving him that grind he so wanted. Her lips drop open and with breasts like her own they will move. Silver buckling clinks. The bed starts a clunk to the wall. The bard is surrounded by music.

She promises him later pleasures--that he might swallow that down while she watches--and his own cock, red and desperate, beads and leaks between them, smearing precome and sticky slick across her stomach as she leans across him. She grinds and it is so good, his brow dips and he draws a sharp breath--

Then she moves.

The accompaniment is so lovely, the sounds and sighs and clinking and percussion--he sings with it. Low and melodious and louder as she works. His hands grip and his hips roll up into her thrusts, drag out the pressure and the slide of that wonderful obsidian cock. It punches the air from him as she sinks and when he opens his eyes he sees her, wreathed in dark hair, eyes watching, breasts moving with each thrust--

He gasps, sharp and jagged, his back arching off the bed entirely as she drags that heavy, massive cock over his prostate. He feels suddenly faint, lightheaded, and he wants her to do nothing more than that, again and again. He babbles as much, groaning and singing with his keening moans.

Jaskier's cock in it's neglected state is even more enthralling than first appraisal. Their motion makes it move and drag, no doubt a tease to him. Feeling it hard and slip against their bellies as she ruts into him makes her wonder what it feels like. Shame she cannot fill him while being full. She cannot be so greedy with these thoughts. This is so very, very much more than what she had assumed would become of her evening.

Sweat is gathering on her skin. Lilac and gooseberry perfume becoming more of a richer musk with the tones of sex in the air. The crisp, clean and sweet smell of the bard lending itself. Yennefer cannot stop watching him. Her grasp moves to be at his shoulders, letting her fingernails press half moons to his skin. If she had enough hands one would be for her tits, to follow the trail of slickness back up her thigh.

That tone, that arching of him pulls a gasp of wonder from her. "Again, do it again for me." Though it is more her actino than his own. "Yes, yes." Holding him down and rolling her hips, aiming the blunt cock tip where he needs it most. "Sing for me." Though no song of heartache or sweet kisses. Yennefer wants the avantgard ballad of his lust.

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