whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

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

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

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

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

"Wherever did you find it?"

He's asking, for reasons.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The curve of his smile is the spell keeping herself from crumbling in these precious seconds. Yennefer's heart still beats. Her eyes still see and there is still breath in her lungs. That gentle acceptance for her answer for what it is, for how she is keeps the order to balance the chaos. She loves him for it with such a sudden blooming sharp pain as if she were struck by an arrow.

He rises out of the water, lean and now with glossed from the fine honeysuckle and grass soap. A bard and noble viscount. "If there is one thing that I have learned today, it is not to doubt your word or skill." She reaches for his hand slowly and her own smile begins to renew on her mouth. The water sloshes, foggier from the soaps and salts. Midsummer air is warmer to be in and she notes that the maids have left towels. Jaskier's fingers get a squeeze.

"I would also like to hear more about what you find alluring." Perhaps with more time spent together to learn his ways of easy smiles and easier conversation where matters of the heart are concerned. "We can figure out the details at the market at Gors Velen. I'm sure the madam would be able to procure whatever needed. Magic can do the rest."

Lengths of silken ropes. Perhaps better suited cock pieces. The obsidian phallus was large he did say. Yennefer pulls at the towels and offers one to Jaskier. Their fingers are still touching.

He takes the towel and just resists taking her fingers as well. He ducks his head at her question, smile reduced to something small and nearly private before he ruffles the towel through his hair and dries his face and arms. He steps out of the tub a moment later and, after a cursory drying of his legs, sets out his towel on the floor for her. A damp mat, but better than the floorboards of an inn.

Has he been so obsequious with past lovers? He has certainly been caring, but this fawning is new. She brings it out in him and, frankly, he cannot say he objects. Even simple kindnesses seem to brighten her eyes and demeanor and, if that is the trade, he will make it gladly. Every time.

"My wants vary," he hedges, not because he is particularly ashamed, or because he thinks she will refuse him--no, he is nervous because he knows she will not.

"I delight in service, as I am sure you've noticed--in gentle aid and kindling desires," he begins in a tone he hopes is casual. "On my own, I enjoy praise as much as punishment, enjoy being ignored as much as fawned over, and find that toeing the edge of bliss and being left wanting is the sweetest torture."

He enjoys being the center of attention and straining to reclaim it when it's lost. To be petty, to break rules and bring punishment and focus back upon himself? It is a guilty pleasure and one he has rarely indulged in.

No, too often he accepts dismissal outright. His lovers are rarely in on the game and it is unfair to presume.

Smarting hurts and swift discipline are sweet and savory things, when applied right, though there is a touch of hesitance in him as he ponders that. Finding a brothel that specializes in such things is rare, and rarer still are the courtly bodies willing to indulge him. The last time he had truly had another committed to the whole of it, it had not gone well. When he had brought it before Valdo, the troubadour had been exceptionally keen on the rod, on neglect and denial, as opposed to songs of praise and wanting.

His memory is kinder to Valdo than Yennefer is likely to be, so he doesn't mention it aloud. The troubadour hadn't had enough regard for him to learn the balance, and that was just as well. Jaskier had left him a decade ago.

Geralt had...also echoed Valdo, hadn't he? Full of denial and harsh words, punishment and mocking, distance...and even more distance. He had never struck him with a crop or left him lashed in place with a weeping cock, but that was not for a few decades of trying on Jaskier's part.

What an unpleasant line of thought--his smile has fallen and a short frown taken his expression as he mulls it over.

The day is coming to a close, hours slipping and with each the distance between them becoming smaller and smaller. How much more time will pass before there is hardly any room at all? Will they collide? Will they exist together in tandem? This peace is so new. Yennefer will have to sort out what it all means when she is by herself. That may not be until close to the afternoon tomorrow.

Jaskier's face, charming and still not yet through with the boyishness of his features, holds so many expressions. Speaking these wants does not bring out bashfulness. It is a more refined emotion. She waits and listens before deciding. Each whim has her smile grow steadily brighter. "You speak rightly, that is a variance indeed." Her voice is warm and amused. "I would like to explore that range with you."

Their hands are still clasped. She can use the towel with one hand so much better than she thought she would be able to. Over her torso, her arms. Carefully patting her hair. Putting down a towel as a mat is brilliant. He is a clever man. Keeping company with a mage can bring so many benefits as well as dangers. That is just in company, not friendship. Not--whatever this is becoming slowly but surely.

Chireadan had the chance to warn Geralt. He did not warn Jaskier. All he got to hear was how magnificent Yennefer was to him. Perhaps it is just as well. The warnings were from a man that had watched her from afar. He did not know her the way Jaskier knew her even a full day ago. What good are words of caution about fickleness or cunning? What do those even mean?

That sweet, smiling face changes once more. Yennefer wonders if he feels the bruises left by those that mishandled him. Is he thinking of them right now? She would ask, yet had denied him her thoughts a moment ago. Words she cannot use to reach out. She lifts their joined hands to rest at her heart. "Say the words and I can fulfill your want to the letter. I don't believe we need a special trip to Madam d Carabas for that." She presses her lips to his knuckles and then gently steps to pull him to the bed.

"More juice before bed, dearheart?"

For just a moment, he looks like he will say it. His face shifts, just so, with how desperately he wants to ask her, but he doesn't in the end. No, he stays silent and swallows back that desire. They have had enough turmoil tonight for a lifetime. He should space out their fraught conversations if he can. He will find ample satisfaction in holding her close and slumbering--he needn't beg for praise beyond her trust.

Not tonight.

His small smile returns as she calls by that pretty little name, and he leans in to brush a kiss against her brow.

"I would adore some, but I admit the idea of sleep calls to me more," He answers delicately. "Today has been a wonder, but it also feels as though it were years long, in and of itself."

He leans back a bit and looks down at her.

"Then...perhaps, once we have slept and the world is new, I will feel bold enough to request my wants without all this coy hesitation."

There is time yet to show what other scars have marred their hearts and souls. That won't mean that it will be any less spectacular of a reaction. Yennefer loves as fiercely as she fights, with her whole self. Light and shadow of her aligned to a cause. Perhaps it is a blessing to the whole world that not many are endeared to her. Especially fragile, normal humans.

Yennefer is able to smile and breathe now that there is a sign of recovery at his own lips. It feels even better as a kiss on her skin. "It was an adventure, wasn't it?" Gossip, song, drink and lovemaking and so very, very much stimulating conversation.

"The offer stands." Hands joined acts as a lead as she steps to pull them to the bed. A gesture pulls back the furs and linen. There was a thought to comb her hair and put it into a plait, it's been over taken by wanting to wrap him in an embrace in hopes to settle what is trying to ail them. "Tomorrow morning or four and twenty mornings from now...the offer stands." She does not apply the same patience with her own hesitation. Jaskier's on the other hand? She has the time.

His shoulder gets a push. Urging him to sit, undoubtedly after lay because she is going to draw the bedding up and around them.

He follows after her eagerly, almost like a puppy with a new mistress, and feels a bit of the thrill of that as he goes. She pushes him to sit and he obeys but draws her down with him, into his arms before he lays back down. Wrapping her in a hug and taking her down with him, damp hair fanning across his neck and chest in the process.

She has magic, he reasons airily, she can pull the covers up without use of her arms, right?

If not, he will merrily wind himself around her and act as a blanket.

"Thank you," he murmurs, honestly, against the top of her head. Not for the acceptance--though he well appreciates that--but for the patience to tolerate in him something she has already expressed distaste for in others.

Pulled down? That ignites a short laugh. Yennefer doesn't resist his touch nor gravity. They fall together. Lilac, honeysuckle, gooseberry, lavender... the lighter shades have a sort of musk on his skin, it's pleasing to her nose. That's whys he nuzzles up against him.

One hand has a careless half movement and the blanket linen move, the fur after. The candles can gutter out. It's fine.

"You're welcome, Jaskier." Gods above she is actually feeling tired now that they lay still. She keeps her face close to his body. His heartbeat is steady, honest and true. No magic, just the miracle of life as it was before The Conjunction of the Spheres.

It is so very easy to fall asleep wrapped around her, ensconced in blankets and furs and the smells of fine soaps. He sinks into that bed and against her and is out in mere moments, limp and comfortable and utterly dead to the world. He has never been a light sleeper and, if she remains awake to hear it, is actually given to mumbling nonsense in his sleep. Half formed thoughts, lyrics, names--he says them all warmly or with some pale shade of his mock aghast and then resettles in the cocoon of blankets and warmth. He is just a bit animated in sleep which is, frankly, not all that surprising.

He wakes when the sun finally creeps far enough through the windows to fall across his head. He doesn't have a hangover, somehow--ah, yes, they'd had juice and hadn't slept drunk, had they? He feels thirsty, yes, but there is no punishing headache or pain behind his eyes to back that up. So, as one does when they awake next to a beautiful woman in a comfortable inn bed, he shifts and pulls her closer, burying his head in her dry silken locks and tucking his eyes beneath her, pinned in that space between her and the pillow.

He doesn't sleep, but he does doze very comfortably, then. She smells more of herself than perfumes or soaps and it is both indescribable and easily assigned to her: a tang of feminine sweat and skin and just the edge of magic.

Yennefer isn't sure at what point sleep takes her. She drifts, and is able to hear mutterings. They make her pet his arm, his chest until the movement is too much. Whether it had any lulling effect for him she won't know. Dipping into the depths of unconsciousness she is less rigid, less tense. In the night she hardly moves. When she does it is to grab for the form of his body to be sure he near. And he is. No nightmares or visions. No empty bed.

Dimly she feels movement. Her hair shifts just so and her lashes flutter but her eyes don't open. A small noise is caught in her throat. Stillness again. The room is silent. This close she can hear him breathe and a steady, regular beating of a heart. There is shuffling on the floor of the in. Someone is sweeping. Up the street a horse and cart have started to pull through. It's day again.

Yennefer wets her lips and pulls herself closer. Her hair may overtake him completely. "Hello." Sunlight cuts in tiny shards through the black forest canopy of her hair as her lips drag on him for a sleepy kiss. "...I know you're awake."

He yawns into the mattress and says something that sounds like: "Scurrilous lies." He draws a deep breath a moment later, holds it, and then draws back far enough to crack an eye open and look at her. In the soft morning light, rumpled and haloed by sunshine, she is more than a worthy muse. He studies her for several long moments, committing this to memory, and shifts his arms around her so they can settle more comfortably.

"Good morning," he offers after a moment drawing himself up from sleep. He grazes her lips with his in a sleepy kiss and gamely resists the urge to fall back asleep. Mostly. He closes his eyes and hums and is comfortable but surely--alright maybe he is given to dozing more.

"Sleep well?" he asks in a slurred murmur.

The movement is good, she can see his face better. Heavy with sleep his eyes are softer, though his mouth as generous and careful as the night before. The moment his eyes dip shut she wants to pull on him.

"Good morning to you." Waking rested, clean and in an embrace. They did not part ways in the night. No further tears shed. Yes, it is a good morning. Yennefer kisses back with a measured pressure, lips together and chaste. Those blue eyes stay shut and a laugh rumbling low in her voice. She reaches up to stroke the line of his jaw.

"I did. You must have too, I see you're not yet willing to give up." She reaches his ear and traces the lobe up to his hair. "..or perhaps that was not enough, mmm?" She expects an answer and rubs nose to nose as her finger nails gently scratch his scalp. "Do you need more sleep?"

Each touch and nuzzle draws him further into waking. Her fingers dancing on his face, against his jaw, and her amusement shakes his arm. He shudders just a bit, a fine shiver as she draws her nails over his scalp, and he is awake, far more awake than he expects to be. He takes another deep breath but keeps his eyes closed, if only so he doesn't dissuade the fingers in his hair.

"Why...would I willingly give up such comfort?" he asks, in place of an answer, but the drowsy, drifting edge of his voice is gone. He will have to surrender this comfort, eventually, and so he resigns himself and cracks open his eyes to look at her again.

"Did you know that you are almost unbearably soft?" Jaskier asks and shifts the leg he has carded between hers, smooths his calf across her slender one and revels in the delicate softness of her limbs. "It is like hugging a cloud. How does anyone refrain from embracing you at all times?"

Finally seeing results puts a smug smile on her face. His eyes don't have to be open, that shutter and change in his breathing is telling. Dear me, perhaps she should not be so openly admiring common place things like breath and heartbeat. Her profession already gets push back. Blame it on Jaskier for adding his own shine to the common place.

"Ah, that is the angle." He is not wrong at all. The bed is fine as it was. The true luxury is touching and being touched. They were so much more charged and inspired the night before. Though this is, for some strange reason she cannot place, an equal.

Yennefer laughs again, low and dark. Her nails still scratch upon his head, moving it to puff before petting it to order. Then it starts again, carding and scratching, fluffing and petting. No hurry. She has no appointments to attend especially at any hour before noon. "I simply don't allow just anyone an embrace." If he were to say such a thing, would anyone believe Jaskier? He has enough of a reputation as a rake to have it chalked up to exotic appetites to consider Yennefer of Vengerberg sweet let alone soft.

She plays with his hair and he luxuriates in it, like a great cat savoring the scratching behind his ears and above the nape of his neck. He hums delightedly, small dancing shivers creeping across him under the attention. He nearly misses her correction--

"Ah, so they do not know?" Jaskier teases. "What a clever and generous woman, hiding such a secret from the world and allowing me to partake."

He lets his hands roam idly, petting down her sides and smoothing over her hips, the plushness of her thighs, her buttocks. His smile is self-satisfied and nearly smug. He doesn't rock his hips against her but he does want to--his halfmast morning erection can be ignored but, the longer he indulges and the more she pets his hair, the less halfmast it will be.

"Do you have anywhere to be this morning?" He asks, none too subtly.

"The world doesn't need to know. No one does." Flippant? Oh yes. She doesn't have enough of a heart to try and share it with so many. These ventures take time, effort. Jaskier's reckless abandon has inspired her to try. There is less room between them now, her legs entangled in his. The slightly firm shape of his cock resting close to her.

Anywhere his hand wanders, her skin comes alive as if he is rousing the chaos swirling in her blood and bones. "Why here, of course. I never ever make appointments in the morning." The time is usually for herself, for sleep and her beauty rituals. Though in a rare occasion, resting against a handsome man with beautiful eyes that somehow remain shut.

"Do you, bard? Any...breakfast feasts?" Look, she's not sure what kind of an event would take place so early. Yennefer's hip nestles to Jaskier's. Fingers still scratch, fluff and pet. "The world has such demands of you." And she? She only wants everything.

"Thankfully no," Jaskier breathes as she nestles close enough to trap his cock between them firmly. "I've nary an engagement between now and sundown."

They cannot stay like this until then, of course. Surely she must have somewhere to be and he will not be so selfish as to keep her occupied all day, but they can linger like this for a while. He cracks his eyes open just a touch, to peer at her from behind his lashes, and hums delightedly. If he could purr under her petting, he would, he looks so boneless and content with it.

"Though I would not object to a breakfast feast, if you are offering?" Jaskier plies gently, his hands squeezing her hips just as he speaks. He is truly insatiable but, if she declines, he will not be more than the barest bit disappointed. This, right now, is entirely enough.

"Oh?" And it's followed by a thoughtful, fluttering hum as if she has to consider a grave decision. Their nest is temporary, this bliss secure in her memory for all time. That should be more than enough should it not? The room is growing brighter with daylight. The candles burned down, wax spread over the brass and the more costly oil lamps empty. For now the remains of their bath keeps everything fragrant.

His eyelashes are long enough that she can only see his eyelids move. "I am hungry, not near so much as you." Her voice is soft with a humor. "Shall we see what they have downstairs?"

If they start to play again she might not leave Temeria for days. The want, the thrill is deep. Would so much indulgence sate his appetite completely after? Her finger gently cease their motion and she sits up to press kisses to his eyelids.

He let's out a huff of fond laughter as she kisses his eyelids and sits up, pulling free from his idle embrace at last. He watches her, awake and happy, and inclines his head.

"Yes, let's," Jaskier agrees brightly and drags himself up to sit. Getting dressed shall be a trick, but he makes a concerted effort to think of terribly boring, unappealing things as he rises and gathers up his clothing.

Well, most of it. He cannot seem to find his smalls but, then again, he had been terribly drunk when he lost them. He puts up a token search and, by the end of it, has fallen enough that he can shimmy into his trousers and actually make himself presentable. As presentable as he ever is, at least.

"I am actually quite famished--did we eat while we drank? I can't recall."

PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

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