Are you tired of building up to the act? Do you sometimes wish for a chance to skip all the conversation and go straight for the experience?
In that case, rejoice! This hole meme was made for you!
RULES:
Post with your character's name, fandom and pairing preferences in the subject line.
Your character is now in the middle of having sex! Any location, sexual position and level of undress is allowed, so knock yourself out with establishing the scene of your dreams.
Comment around! See if there's anyone else who posted a perfect scene for your character to fuck in.
Keep going and finish the act. Then go for another round or have fun with cuddling and afterplay.
[OOC: Cross canon/medium alright. No preference for m/m or m/f. Attempt at a gender neutral prompt below, but feel free to write something else if that does not appeal.]
Jaskier mouthed along the long line of the neck stretched out before him, drawing tongue and teeth and lips from the rise of a shoulder to the tender space corner beneath a jaw. Not quite throat, not quite ear, but soft and fluttering with a dancing, eager pulse. His partner strained under his attention, arched just so, and he smiled as he pulled them back against his chest, muttering quiet encouragement into the side of their neck.
One hand rested firmly on their hip, slid into the space where fabric parted, and pressed against flesh, held them close and steady. His other hand was farther forward, deft fingers working at the apex of partially clothed thighs. He stroked and pressed and let his fingers dance across sensitive flesh, strummed his partner like a lute (metaphorically, you animals) and reveled in the sounds he drew from them.
He was very fond of clandestine trysts--especially this variety, where he could step away from a party with a willing, eager companion and drive them to ruinous distraction in a semi-secluded corner.
"You sing so well," Jaskier praised as his hand worked mercilessly, tirelessly teasing slick, swollen flesh. "If you don't keep quiet, you might take my job." He urged with a note of warning, despite how he rocked forward against the rise of their backside, ground himself to them, and increased the torturous pressure of his wandering fingertips.
"Ahh-h, and whose job will you take? Mine?" Mary's laughter came out in short ragged gasps, her thighs shivering at the feel of his fingers between them . "Now that would be... ah, dangerous."
And so was this. Dangerous for both of them. The men of her privy council were eager to get rid of her, no matter how polite they presented themselves, and sometimes failing in the polite part of it. For them to find out she had submitted herself to a simple bard would be god-sent; a proof that she was incapable to rule this country, let alone England, her birth right. This would a scandal that she would not recover.
But that made Mary all the more determined to do things her way. She was nothing if not a risk-taker. It was in her Scottish blood, an inheritance she carried with pride.
How long had it been it since she'd shared a bed with her late husband, Francis (may the poor boy rest in peace)? Well over a year. Almost two. She had needs. Needs that couldn't be fulfilled by the medley of maids that hovered by her side at all hours, or by her own voliton.
She refused to be ashamed. Not when she had him.
For a whole month she had watched Jaskier play his lute, sing his songs, walk, and talk and dance and breathe the same air as her. She had made him sat at her feet, just to be near, just to be able to playfully run her fingers across his shoulder blades, with fleeting touches to soft curls at the nape of his neck. It had been torture. It wasn't enough.
Now that she lifted up her hands to reach out for those same curls, damp with sweat and lust, it wasn't playful anymore. It was passion and she was finally getting what she wanted. With her back pressed against his chest, it was hard to touch him properly, but she found it arousing to be controlled by him like this. It was a level of trust that she wasn't granting to anyone else. He must have known it.
The Midsummer Festival was in full gear all around the castle, the courtyard and the surrounding park. She had presented him a brand new outfit for the occasion; 'a gift for the most loyal and humble subject'. Said outfit was not all on him anymore.
"I don't want to be quiet," she protested in kind, eyes falling shut as her body writhed under his touch. If Jaskier wanted to call her moans and sighs singing, oh, oh dear mother of Christ, she would let him.
(ooc: amazing :D I hope you want romantic sob Jaskier because he is a romantic sob)
She teased him and he let his eyes drift closed as he mouthed along the line of her pulse, as he tasted skin and perfume and the barest chalky flavor of fine royal makeup, dusted over her face for this party. Her fingers carded through the hair at the nape of his neck and Jaskier pressed his answering smile into the side of her throat, nosing up against her jaw to urge her head to one side. To grant him more room to taste and kiss and, quite frankly: worship.
"Ah, if that is her majesty's wish, how can I refuse?" Jaskier murmurs against her skin and drags teeth against the edge of her jaw. The fingers circling her clitoris press harder, grind down for a blessed second, before backing off once more and tracing wide, round patterns through her folds.
She was lovely, anyone would have to be blind to miss it--she was proud, clever, and stood with all the certainty of a woman who deserved her position, who knew how well it suited her, and who had to fight to keep it. She was impressive--a vision even, and Jaskier's heart gave a little lurch every time her fingers grazed through his hair. His cock was fond of that as well, the soft, idle tug and passing touches she granted, but it vastly preferred the way she shivered and twisted against him now.
(His cock was a cad who clearly had no appreciation for subtlety.)
Jaskier was positively besotted, which was just as well, because she doted upon him and granted him her favor in all the most bold and blatant ways. She adored him, in the way someone of her station adores someone of his, without any guile or malice, and he enjoyed every moment of her attention--and he would happily return it, tenfold, and moments like this made that so much easier for him to achieve.
He was not, however, a total idiot--he would encourage her within their games, their teasing, but he had no desire to see her unseated over him. He could take care, even as he sweetly entreated her to succumb and cast her worries aside. If she cried too loudly, he could quiet her--if the excitement of semi-public trysts grew too dangerous, he could move them to greater seclusion.
It was a game and he had no intention of it becoming dire.
"If anyone asks, perhaps we can call these lessons?" Jaskier suggests and the fingers sliding through her folds shift lower, twist between her thighs, and curl into the heat of her--two first, without the courtesy of a single finger to ease their sudden stretching. She was nearly dripping down his wrist and the surprise of intrusion would drive the most lovely sigh from her. The heel of his hand ghosted over the swollen bud he'd been torturing, but he kept that touch light, barely grazing at all.
"Private lessons?"
His hum is self indulgent and just a bit smug (it is also, admittedly, excruciatingly fond). The hand on her hip slackens and he lets it roam, sliding up to feel the delicate brocade of her bunched gown, the shape of her ribs and waist beneath the fabric--he noses at her jaw, at the stray locks that have fallen from their arrangement as he works around her.
Her hair smells of the little white and purple flowers that mar the perfect manicure of the grounds--little Scottish things that grow in thickets and over moors. He shall have to collect some, later.
Private lessons? You can't say things like that after what you just did with your fingers.
At the sudden jolt of sharp pleasure within her core, Mary's knees almost gave under her. She gasped louder than she would have liked to and the light touch of her fingers through his hair turned into a forceful tug.
"Yes!" Yes. She would gladly surrender to his lessons. That was why he was brought to the court; to please the Queen.
Trembling, twisting in his hold, Mary shifted her feet on the hard stone floor, prodded by the press of his knee to open herself up more for that master hand of his. Every time that she thought she was about to burst, his attention had shifted to another sensitive spot of hers, prolonging the wonderful sensations shooting through her body. She had lived in the notoriously decadent French court for years, yet she had not known desire that equalled this.
It had been easy to tempt him away from the main festivities, making some half-believable excuse of a thing that she wanted to show him. Not far along the hallway she'd pulled him aside, brazenly covered the bulge in his pants with her hand and closed the remainding distance by leaning in for a kiss.
His eagerness had not come as a surprise but his assertiveness had, even if Mary had not expected Jaskier to be coy about this. He knew when to bow down in front of her and when to call her 'Your Majesty' but he took liberties with his behaviour as well and obviously would not hold back when it came to matters of the flesh.
If she had thought this tryst would be about the queen ordering her subject around and showing him his place, she had been wrong. Instead, she was the one being held in place, in the most agreeable way. Even though them both partially clothed still, she felt the hard length of his cock rubbing on her backside while she feverishly rocked her hips against his hand, wanting to feel more of it, deeper into her wet and warm body.
"Too bad everyone knows... I already can play the lute."
Edited (Wanted to fix a few things I wasn't happy with) 2020-03-18 08:53 (UTC)
Jaskier bends forward as he pulls her back, ready to take all of her weight with his free hand, should she require it. Gods' her fingers in his hair are glorious--just this side of painful, the pull goes straight to his cock. He hums to cover the indecorous sound he wants to make.
"Can you?" Jaskier asks, his husky tone just barely at odds with the earnest, fond delight in his tone. He shifts her back onto his leg, pulls her up the length of his thigh until she is forced onto the very tips of her toes. It will make her writhing more dramatic and grant his hand greater dexterity.
He adds another finger, twisting his hand as he does. His wrist is just this side of delicate, a feature exaggerated by his occupation, but the shape of it is perfect for this particular endeavor. He fucks her on his hand and the angle grinds the bony side of his wrist down against her clitoris with every shifting thrust.
"You shall have to play for me." It is equal parts honest request and innuendo, whispered against her hair as his hand works in her.
"Jas-!" Being pulled up so makes her cry out, halting her hips' movements while she tries to adjust to the new position. She grabs a handful of his sleeve into her fist, of the hand he has between her legs, while other hand takes support from the wall beside her. Oh dear God, dearGoddeargod! Her whimpers get louder.
He has to wait for a proper answer because she's not capable of rational thinking right now - though she does moan his name again, or the beginning of it anyway. Panting harder and chest heaving in the same rhythm that Jaskier's fingers thrust inside of her, she lets herself be swept away with his intoxicating touch and the heat radiating from him.
"The lute, and the virginals," she finally breathes out, because at this moment she finds the name of the instument and its proximity to virginity quite amusing. Oh, she is virgin now, learning of real lust for the first time.
She shakes her head at the suggestion of playing for him. "You would laugh." She has been complimented on her playing but who is going to tell a queen she plays badly?
She is so beautiful when she breathes out, when she sighs and is carried away by the movements of his hand. He presses her through it, draws her pleasure out, until she finally sighs an answer to his request. His hand shifts then, rests against her cunt as his lips trail along the slope of her neck.
He hums and it has a surprised, questioning lilt.
"I would not," he defends and, takes her far hip in his free hand. He lowers his leg and turns her, crowds her back against the wall until she is pressed there and he can stare at her lovely face. Her skirts remain rucked up, caught on his wrist, his hand still resting just above her pubis.
"I could never," he adds and bends his head to press his lips against hers.
Mary's back arches in desperation as she feels Jaskier's fingers slip away from her, along with a trail of liquid of her own sex. No! No, he can't stop, not now! She was so close. If it weren't for the hot kisses along her neck, she would complain louder. Now she just tries to buck her hips up, to entice him to continue but he has other plans.
With a surprised yelp Mary finds herself shoved against the wall. Oh? Oh, yes. She forgives him then, staring back just as intently. There is sincerity in his words, she believes so.
"Teach me more first," she asks with a low voice. Her eyes fall down to his mouth.
When that mouth captures hers, Mary's love-hungry heart sings. Jaskier tastes like her finest wine, and sugared fruit. Her tongue slides past the seam of his lips, exploring, while her thumbs find the waistline of his pants and curl inside it near his hipbones.
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bakerstreet2020-03-15 04:17 pm
Jaskier | The Witcher | So very OTA.
Gender Neutralish Prompt
One hand rested firmly on their hip, slid into the space where fabric parted, and pressed against flesh, held them close and steady. His other hand was farther forward, deft fingers working at the apex of partially clothed thighs. He stroked and pressed and let his fingers dance across sensitive flesh, strummed his partner like a lute (metaphorically, you animals) and reveled in the sounds he drew from them.
He was very fond of clandestine trysts--especially this variety, where he could step away from a party with a willing, eager companion and drive them to ruinous distraction in a semi-secluded corner.
"You sing so well," Jaskier praised as his hand worked mercilessly, tirelessly teasing slick, swollen flesh. "If you don't keep quiet, you might take my job." He urged with a note of warning, despite how he rocked forward against the rise of their backside, ground himself to them, and increased the torturous pressure of his wandering fingertips.
no subject
"Ahh-h, and whose job will you take? Mine?" Mary's laughter came out in short ragged gasps, her thighs shivering at the feel of his fingers between them . "Now that would be... ah, dangerous."
And so was this. Dangerous for both of them. The men of her privy council were eager to get rid of her, no matter how polite they presented themselves, and sometimes failing in the polite part of it. For them to find out she had submitted herself to a simple bard would be god-sent; a proof that she was incapable to rule this country, let alone England, her birth right. This would a scandal that she would not recover.
But that made Mary all the more determined to do things her way. She was nothing if not a risk-taker. It was in her Scottish blood, an inheritance she carried with pride.
How long had it been it since she'd shared a bed with her late husband, Francis (may the poor boy rest in peace)? Well over a year. Almost two. She had needs. Needs that couldn't be fulfilled by the medley of maids that hovered by her side at all hours, or by her own voliton.
She refused to be ashamed. Not when she had him.
For a whole month she had watched Jaskier play his lute, sing his songs, walk, and talk and dance and breathe the same air as her. She had made him sat at her feet, just to be near, just to be able to playfully run her fingers across his shoulder blades, with fleeting touches to soft curls at the nape of his neck. It had been torture. It wasn't enough.
Now that she lifted up her hands to reach out for those same curls, damp with sweat and lust, it wasn't playful anymore. It was passion and she was finally getting what she wanted. With her back pressed against his chest, it was hard to touch him properly, but she found it arousing to be controlled by him like this. It was a level of trust that she wasn't granting to anyone else. He must have known it.
The Midsummer Festival was in full gear all around the castle, the courtyard and the surrounding park. She had presented him a brand new outfit for the occasion; 'a gift for the most loyal and humble subject'. Said outfit was not all on him anymore.
"I don't want to be quiet," she protested in kind, eyes falling shut as her body writhed under his touch. If Jaskier wanted to call her moans and sighs singing, oh, oh dear mother of Christ, she would let him.
no subject
She teased him and he let his eyes drift closed as he mouthed along the line of her pulse, as he tasted skin and perfume and the barest chalky flavor of fine royal makeup, dusted over her face for this party. Her fingers carded through the hair at the nape of his neck and Jaskier pressed his answering smile into the side of her throat, nosing up against her jaw to urge her head to one side. To grant him more room to taste and kiss and, quite frankly: worship.
"Ah, if that is her majesty's wish, how can I refuse?" Jaskier murmurs against her skin and drags teeth against the edge of her jaw. The fingers circling her clitoris press harder, grind down for a blessed second, before backing off once more and tracing wide, round patterns through her folds.
She was lovely, anyone would have to be blind to miss it--she was proud, clever, and stood with all the certainty of a woman who deserved her position, who knew how well it suited her, and who had to fight to keep it. She was impressive--a vision even, and Jaskier's heart gave a little lurch every time her fingers grazed through his hair. His cock was fond of that as well, the soft, idle tug and passing touches she granted, but it vastly preferred the way she shivered and twisted against him now.
(His cock was a cad who clearly had no appreciation for subtlety.)
Jaskier was positively besotted, which was just as well, because she doted upon him and granted him her favor in all the most bold and blatant ways. She adored him, in the way someone of her station adores someone of his, without any guile or malice, and he enjoyed every moment of her attention--and he would happily return it, tenfold, and moments like this made that so much easier for him to achieve.
He was not, however, a total idiot--he would encourage her within their games, their teasing, but he had no desire to see her unseated over him. He could take care, even as he sweetly entreated her to succumb and cast her worries aside. If she cried too loudly, he could quiet her--if the excitement of semi-public trysts grew too dangerous, he could move them to greater seclusion.
It was a game and he had no intention of it becoming dire.
"If anyone asks, perhaps we can call these lessons?" Jaskier suggests and the fingers sliding through her folds shift lower, twist between her thighs, and curl into the heat of her--two first, without the courtesy of a single finger to ease their sudden stretching. She was nearly dripping down his wrist and the surprise of intrusion would drive the most lovely sigh from her. The heel of his hand ghosted over the swollen bud he'd been torturing, but he kept that touch light, barely grazing at all.
"Private lessons?"
His hum is self indulgent and just a bit smug (it is also, admittedly, excruciatingly fond). The hand on her hip slackens and he lets it roam, sliding up to feel the delicate brocade of her bunched gown, the shape of her ribs and waist beneath the fabric--he noses at her jaw, at the stray locks that have fallen from their arrangement as he works around her.
Her hair smells of the little white and purple flowers that mar the perfect manicure of the grounds--little Scottish things that grow in thickets and over moors. He shall have to collect some, later.
no subject
Private lessons? You can't say things like that after what you just did with your fingers.
At the sudden jolt of sharp pleasure within her core, Mary's knees almost gave under her. She gasped louder than she would have liked to and the light touch of her fingers through his hair turned into a forceful tug.
"Yes!" Yes. She would gladly surrender to his lessons. That was why he was brought to the court; to please the Queen.
Trembling, twisting in his hold, Mary shifted her feet on the hard stone floor, prodded by the press of his knee to open herself up more for that master hand of his. Every time that she thought she was about to burst, his attention had shifted to another sensitive spot of hers, prolonging the wonderful sensations shooting through her body. She had lived in the notoriously decadent French court for years, yet she had not known desire that equalled this.
It had been easy to tempt him away from the main festivities, making some half-believable excuse of a thing that she wanted to show him. Not far along the hallway she'd pulled him aside, brazenly covered the bulge in his pants with her hand and closed the remainding distance by leaning in for a kiss.
His eagerness had not come as a surprise but his assertiveness had, even if Mary had not expected Jaskier to be coy about this. He knew when to bow down in front of her and when to call her 'Your Majesty' but he took liberties with his behaviour as well and obviously would not hold back when it came to matters of the flesh.
If she had thought this tryst would be about the queen ordering her subject around and showing him his place, she had been wrong. Instead, she was the one being held in place, in the most agreeable way. Even though them both partially clothed still, she felt the hard length of his cock rubbing on her backside while she feverishly rocked her hips against his hand, wanting to feel more of it, deeper into her wet and warm body.
"Too bad everyone knows... I already can play the lute."
no subject
Jaskier bends forward as he pulls her back, ready to take all of her weight with his free hand, should she require it. Gods' her fingers in his hair are glorious--just this side of painful, the pull goes straight to his cock. He hums to cover the indecorous sound he wants to make.
"Can you?" Jaskier asks, his husky tone just barely at odds with the earnest, fond delight in his tone. He shifts her back onto his leg, pulls her up the length of his thigh until she is forced onto the very tips of her toes. It will make her writhing more dramatic and grant his hand greater dexterity.
He adds another finger, twisting his hand as he does. His wrist is just this side of delicate, a feature exaggerated by his occupation, but the shape of it is perfect for this particular endeavor. He fucks her on his hand and the angle grinds the bony side of his wrist down against her clitoris with every shifting thrust.
"You shall have to play for me." It is equal parts honest request and innuendo, whispered against her hair as his hand works in her.
no subject
He has to wait for a proper answer because she's not capable of rational thinking right now - though she does moan his name again, or the beginning of it anyway. Panting harder and chest heaving in the same rhythm that Jaskier's fingers thrust inside of her, she lets herself be swept away with his intoxicating touch and the heat radiating from him.
"The lute, and the virginals," she finally breathes out, because at this moment she finds the name of the instument and its proximity to virginity quite amusing. Oh, she is virgin now, learning of real lust for the first time.
She shakes her head at the suggestion of playing for him. "You would laugh." She has been complimented on her playing but who is going to tell a queen she plays badly?
no subject
He hums and it has a surprised, questioning lilt.
"I would not," he defends and, takes her far hip in his free hand. He lowers his leg and turns her, crowds her back against the wall until she is pressed there and he can stare at her lovely face. Her skirts remain rucked up, caught on his wrist, his hand still resting just above her pubis.
"I could never," he adds and bends his head to press his lips against hers.
no subject
With a surprised yelp Mary finds herself shoved against the wall. Oh? Oh, yes. She forgives him then, staring back just as intently. There is sincerity in his words, she believes so.
"Teach me more first," she asks with a low voice. Her eyes fall down to his mouth.
When that mouth captures hers, Mary's love-hungry heart sings. Jaskier tastes like her finest wine, and sugared fruit. Her tongue slides past the seam of his lips, exploring, while her thumbs find the waistline of his pants and curl inside it near his hipbones.