[It's not such a big deal whether she's forgotten hearing it or not. Jaskier is sure it still plays there, from other bards who follow in his footsteps. Understandably. He is so much more talented than those hired by Thorne.
He watches her every movement not because she is beautiful, but because she is so fucking different. A very paranoid part of him almost tricks him into believing this is some new jest of hers, some ridiculous farce she's putting on to humiliate him. But one cannot fake a blush so prettily. And Jaskier is quite sure Yennefer would rather die than pretend to be demure in front of anyone.
Or self-conscious.]
Outrageous! I won't let you complete the thought. [He gives her more room to sit, noting her posture. Stiff, nearly uncomfortable. Fuck, for a minute, it isn't even Yennefer. It's other women he's heard insult themselves to flatter him. Actually. Men, too. She is women in his past, when he was young, who were unsure and shy and quiet. Those with husbands who screamed, or who died in war, or were never home. She was men who could not risk a father finding that they liked a little more cock than hen.] You shouldn't limit yourself when others are so happy to do it for you. If you want to fuck him, then you should seduce him. Honestly, how hard could it be?
[That's right. Be honestly pitiful enough and even your enemy could become your fabulous wingman.] And for your first question, of course I'll play it for you. I would love nothing else.
[Honestly, that is the truth. He is not losing the point here. Of this -- of everything. Having Yennefer, of all people, ask him for a song. That's really going to stick. When she remembers, oooh. That's really going to stick.
He tosses the reins down near their boots -- the horses have never had a problem controlling themselves, after all -- and he reaches back for his lute. The lute that is his. Solely from home. Filavandrel's lute, with all its gold filigree and warm wood. With a few notes, he tests the strings. Here, they never are anything but perfectly tuned, yet it's habit to check.]
Close your eyes. I promise, it makes it better.
[He settles back, cradling the lute, and begins to perform The Lonely Mountain King. One of his better ballads, he thinks, with imagery he's never touched before -- the mountain, the rivers of fire. A man with skin hardened to rock, with fire in his veins and a star for a heart. The wolf moves forward to sit between them, head on his paws, and the smallest twitch of his tail could be mistaken as a wag.]
no subject
He watches her every movement not because she is beautiful, but because she is so fucking different. A very paranoid part of him almost tricks him into believing this is some new jest of hers, some ridiculous farce she's putting on to humiliate him. But one cannot fake a blush so prettily. And Jaskier is quite sure Yennefer would rather die than pretend to be demure in front of anyone.
Or self-conscious.]
Outrageous! I won't let you complete the thought. [He gives her more room to sit, noting her posture. Stiff, nearly uncomfortable. Fuck, for a minute, it isn't even Yennefer. It's other women he's heard insult themselves to flatter him. Actually. Men, too. She is women in his past, when he was young, who were unsure and shy and quiet. Those with husbands who screamed, or who died in war, or were never home. She was men who could not risk a father finding that they liked a little more cock than hen.] You shouldn't limit yourself when others are so happy to do it for you. If you want to fuck him, then you should seduce him. Honestly, how hard could it be?
[That's right. Be honestly pitiful enough and even your enemy could become your fabulous wingman.] And for your first question, of course I'll play it for you. I would love nothing else.
[Honestly, that is the truth. He is not losing the point here. Of this -- of everything. Having Yennefer, of all people, ask him for a song. That's really going to stick. When she remembers, oooh. That's really going to stick.
He tosses the reins down near their boots -- the horses have never had a problem controlling themselves, after all -- and he reaches back for his lute. The lute that is his. Solely from home. Filavandrel's lute, with all its gold filigree and warm wood. With a few notes, he tests the strings. Here, they never are anything but perfectly tuned, yet it's habit to check.]
Close your eyes. I promise, it makes it better.
[He settles back, cradling the lute, and begins to perform The Lonely Mountain King. One of his better ballads, he thinks, with imagery he's never touched before -- the mountain, the rivers of fire. A man with skin hardened to rock, with fire in his veins and a star for a heart. The wolf moves forward to sit between them, head on his paws, and the smallest twitch of his tail could be mistaken as a wag.]