[He slides a hand down one of her arms, appreciating the softness of it. How the texture feels so much more on his palm, leaving it tingling.] I shan't trust you. Not about that.
[It's not all about whether the domain itself is fascinating, after all; it's what it tells about its owner.
Hopefully he recalls the desire to do so. His head feels... not foggy, exactly, but as if his interests and priorities are constantly shifting, with about the same flexibility as his fingers hold right now. Jaskier, though gently admonished, pulls his hands away and watches her undo whatever it is that is holding this thing material around her.
It's. Something. A contraption that makes a unsettling noise, but splits open her costume like a blossoming flower. And while normally he would take this moment to not look so awkward, standing there -- like undressing himself -- his costume, so to speak, is nary silken cloth around his loins and the fur that rises underneath. Which she does not mind, making him far more inclined to keep it.
Perhaps it's rude, how he takes in the show. And what a show it is. He expects... well, to be fair, there's hardly any room for the undergarments he is so used to removing underneath her costume. No garters or chemise or plain strips of white cloth. This is white, and that is the only similarity it holds. The way it fits against her, leaving very little to the imagination (though still, he imagines.) And lace. Lace, a material he often only sees on the highest of ladies. Though not... like this.
Beyond the undergarments, there's so much to take in he missed. The scar, quite obviously, but he is a gentleman and his eyes only glide over it, yet he cannot help but let them linger on her... her horns.
Ah. He did not expect those. Did angels have horns? How quaint. (Later, he'll get it. And he's the same. Even in the Horizon, he doesn't hide the scar that's left of his arm being torn apart.)]
They match your hair. [He means the horns, but he supposes everything about her does. It all comes together in this ghostly, ethereal way. He steps forward, his hands finding her hips, sliding up around her back. His body follows the movement, moving behind her only because this time, he would rather not fumble removing her clothing.
Ah. A clasp. Several, actually.. Now this, he understands, and he unhooks them after a moment, allowing them to hang free from each other.] I do appreciate your assistance, my lady. It serves you well you're as graceful as you are striking.
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[It's not all about whether the domain itself is fascinating, after all; it's what it tells about its owner.
Hopefully he recalls the desire to do so. His head feels... not foggy, exactly, but as if his interests and priorities are constantly shifting, with about the same flexibility as his fingers hold right now. Jaskier, though gently admonished, pulls his hands away and watches her undo whatever it is that is holding this thing material around her.
It's. Something. A contraption that makes a unsettling noise, but splits open her costume like a blossoming flower. And while normally he would take this moment to not look so awkward, standing there -- like undressing himself -- his costume, so to speak, is nary silken cloth around his loins and the fur that rises underneath. Which she does not mind, making him far more inclined to keep it.
Perhaps it's rude, how he takes in the show. And what a show it is. He expects... well, to be fair, there's hardly any room for the undergarments he is so used to removing underneath her costume. No garters or chemise or plain strips of white cloth. This is white, and that is the only similarity it holds. The way it fits against her, leaving very little to the imagination (though still, he imagines.) And lace. Lace, a material he often only sees on the highest of ladies. Though not... like this.
Beyond the undergarments, there's so much to take in he missed. The scar, quite obviously, but he is a gentleman and his eyes only glide over it, yet he cannot help but let them linger on her... her horns.
Ah. He did not expect those. Did angels have horns? How quaint. (Later, he'll get it. And he's the same. Even in the Horizon, he doesn't hide the scar that's left of his arm being torn apart.)]
They match your hair. [He means the horns, but he supposes everything about her does. It all comes together in this ghostly, ethereal way. He steps forward, his hands finding her hips, sliding up around her back. His body follows the movement, moving behind her only because this time, he would rather not fumble removing her clothing.
Ah. A clasp. Several, actually.. Now this, he understands, and he unhooks them after a moment, allowing them to hang free from each other.] I do appreciate your assistance, my lady. It serves you well you're as graceful as you are striking.