If there was ever a woman who Jaskier could fall (in a word they do not speak) with, it is a woman who will wax on about mythology while his fingers work her, while she's tied up in vines that are now beginning to slowly, if not loosely, wind up his arms, buds growing and unraveling into flowers.

(He does not look to see what they are. Or if there is nightshade caught between them, growing up the sides of the room.)

Truly, he may be later thinking of how this scene, as imprinted in his memory, should be painted. For private viewing only, of course.

Jaskier isn't totally unaffected by the words. The heat in the room is already growing, and now he flushes, letting out a breath. He is rather sure this must be the first time he's been compared to... a god.

You know what? He deserves to hear that. He smiles, pressing closer as he moves his hand away, sliding up her bent leg instead.

"Then let me prove it to be so. With both pleasure and performance."

Hers, and his. He bends down to kiss her belly, and this his head falls between her legs, tongue deftly teasing. The heat in his face only grows, but he settles into it, as glutted as a cat with cream.