whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

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.

He obeys gladly--the sound peals out of him as she aims, as she drives against his most tender spot. Lights dance behind his eyelids and his breath comes in deep, heaving breaths as his face screws up in sweet, wondrous agony. His cock throbs between his legs, red and purple and neglected--held in a nearly painful grip by that ring.

Jaskier cannot think--he writhes arched and twisting like a cat. The weight and slide of that obsidian cock drives him mad, makes insane heat gather in his gut, at the base of his spine, in his trapped balls and the head of his weeping cock. He sings a symphony of moans, choked and interspersed with cursing, with praises for her, with nonsense.

Her hands keep his shoulders down, keep him pinned, and his own hands shift--they fly up from the sheets and take hold of her hips as she drives in. He cannot--he cannot--tears creep out from the corner of his eyes and, for a glorious moment, he is thrown into a place beyond himself. He goes blind with it, eyes flying open and seeing nothing--the sound that punches out of him is loud and wailing and drawn from the very depths of him.

His limbs shake and tremble and, strain, fingertips digging hard into the softness of her flesh, but he has no nails to puncture with. He holds her in close and curls up, curls forward, with a whine and shiver--his cock strains and twists, jumps and smears against her but it cannot spill. Glorious day it cannot and it hurts so sweetly as his orgasm washes over him and finally releases him.

Jaskier falls back, breathing heavily, panting and gasping--brow sweat-slicked and expression tired and comfortable and laced with bliss. His heart is racing and, as his hand shifts and settles upon hers, where it rests at his shoulder, he drags it down to hold it over his fluttering pulse--like a bird trapped in his ribs, frantic and weak.

Oh she has made him so weak and he could think of nothing he enjoyed more.

He is the one giving all of the vocals, the room accompanying in what way it can. Yennefer orchestrating or perhaps providing the tempo. Her thrusts stay in closer to him, far more concentrated. And what guides her along is the volume, the way his voice climbs and the quality. That need and urgency has her heart racing, every connected motion forward into the cradle of his hips has a low noise of effort. Jaskier's pressing grip could bruise. She loves it.

"That is---just like that. Oh, lovely. So-so lovely." Encouragement has not yet failed to reach him. Jaskier is already flying so very high. The ragged breathing of him--no, them--fits together. His cock is visibly aching and it's so perfect to behold. The silver ring only ceases the physical release. Nothing and no one can keep him from the pleasure he is owed.

His body moves wildly, arching up to her. It plunges the obsidian cock a might deeper and it can go no further. His body can clutch and clench on it's unyielding surface to it's content. It's glossed, heavy mass now warm from Jaskier and friction.

Such a dynamic end befitting a wondrous person. Eyes wild, a shaking mess of a man. She has this power. Yennefer stills. Her thighs, hips, stomach and buttocks ache from rapid to no motion at all. Looking down at him now, the most wrecked and handsome of expressions yet. She breathlessly laughs when there are no words spoken. "Have you come back to me, Dearheart? I lost you in the stars." Moving carefully, so carefully she presses kisses to the corners of each eye. No crows feet, just proof of merriment. That fluttering, wild beat of his heart under her hand. "You're so, so good for me. I cannot believe my eyes." Her breathing hasn't regulated and the words are thin and airy.

He stares at her through heavy lids and catches his breath. The hand on his chest is drawn up to press it against his cheek and saw. He smiles at the delicate drag os her lips by his eyes, on the damp trails the watering of them had left. She is heaving, breathing hard and eager and he leans up to capture her mouth with his.

The heavy weight of that cock within him shifts as he does, grinds harder to his over-sensitive prostate and pulls a thready gasp out of him--he shivers hard but doesn't fall back, doesn't give up her mouth or the gentle movement between them.

"I am still half in the stars, but can you blame me? So many of them linger in your eyes," he mutters, his poetry returning to him with saccharine gusto.

He is not given to moving his partners with force, not unless they have voiced a proclivity for it, but she is wanting and flushed above him and his faculties have returned. The fuzzy haze of alcohol has burned away at last and he is clear and bright and aware. Oh, how he intends to repay her, how he wants to make her call and cry and quiver. His hand on her hip pulls her tighter, his leg catches her thigh to keep her immobile--she is sunk so deep that it is a bit of a trick to flip them, but he is nothing if not clever.

He turns her onto her back, sets her dark hair fanning out over the fur and linen. Like spilled ink atop clean pages. She is held deep, tight against him, but her phallus has no give to it and it steals his breath again with a hard jarring press against him, shifting as they do. He swallows the sound that shivers through him and presses her back against the bed, his lips against hers moving in hard, open-mouthed strokes and bites.

"Shall I return the favor, sweetling?" he asks against her mouth and moves his hand from atop hers so it can hold him up above her. His eyes are bright and clear and his smile is full of hedonistic promise. Thank the Gods' she had a ring for him.

This the most poetry spoken in her bed ever. Though the direct, and yes saccharine, lines from Jaskier make A Meditation on Spring such a relic. These words are alive. And Yennefer knows that there are no stars in her eyes and he is a flutter with ecstasy she still is touched so deeply. Words have a kind of magic to them. Now aware, now vulnerable to Jaskier's charm they are a caress.

"Careful," else he shatter again. Could he after such a reaction? Clearly his attention is peaked.

They tumble together. More full contact, more touch and her body sings with delight. Yennefer's knees feel weak and she still cannot find enough air. The kisses are too good to bother with a true effort to breathe. A flush comes up over her skin, spreading from between her breasts to her cheeks. Her eyes are wide, aware now that what a possibility is before her. "Now. Now please. Yes." He asks so very, very nicely.

Thighs spread open and this time there is more space than before. She feels exposed and does not a thing to change it.

"As you wish," he murmurs against her lips and sucks in a shaking breath as he draws himself off her pretty black cock.

The sensation is a drag, a glorious aching loss, and he feels so very empty without it inside him. He shudders and feels his hole gape around the sudden emptiness. Her cock settles against his stomach and bends forward, tugging at the straps around her legs, her hips as it does. Fortunately, it is not at a steep angle for long, as he moves down from her mouth and--indeed, steps off the bed entirely

Her long legs are so beautiful and curve so sweetly, he slides his hands down them, settles them against her knees, and gives her a mischievous look, smiling as he peers past that wonderful cock to spy her face. He lifts one of her legs, kisses against the inside of her knee, and settles it over his shoulder--it drags her up at an odd angle as he stands, even hunched as he is, above her.

"Can you tolerate such an angle, my lovely?"

Yennefer sits up on her elbows to watch him pull free. The serum from the vial performed true to its reputation. A small portion running from the glassy black surface like melted honey. She shivers right along with Jaskier.

Watching him with so much attention and yet she did not foresee this development. Is he going to leave? Unfortunately that is the first brief thought. Jaskier cannot bare the burden of so very many missteps of lovers before. She straightens and is about to protest when his hands are on her again. The mischief in his grin and pulling her to splay at his direction settles worry in a blink.

Someday she won't behave like this.

"I can." Her knee bends a little to clutch as a response of this kiss. "Show me what you've got." Because now she is dying to know. The obsidian dick is wet and lays hot on her skin. Her hands reach to pull at his hips. Does he need her guidance? Violet eyes lift to his face.

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