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( I'M GOING TO EAT YOU UP )
[ in all honesty, yennefer has no idea what to fucking think.
she feels some hope for the future. her magic thrums through her again, feeling warm and bright and right there, but she can't quite enjoy it. no, not with what it almost cost. she ignores it, the way it completes her once more. it runs through her like fire and warms her despite the chill of the tundra. she no longer feels so alone with it now alongside her with her current company.
geralt and ciri leave her on the edge of the bridge without a look back. both of them burn with anger towards her. she deserves it, she knows. wanting to sacrifice a child, for fuck's sake, doesn't exactly endear one to other people. (it hardly endears her to herself.) it's not exactly a choice she thinks she can walk away from without a scar. she has to grow around it, live with it—and yennefer, despite all she's seen and done, isn't quite sure how to properly take a step from that.
she remains out in the cold long after she should've picked herself up and wandered back into the grand ruined hall. it's half out of self-pity—she's sure jaskier might be in the middle of writing some stupid song about the evil witch finally getting her dues—and half out of absolute exhaustion that she picks herself up. yennefer of vengerberg has never let anything get her down, but this… this is different.
when she wanders back in, the room's still a shit pile. everything's ruined. tables remain broken, most of the bodies have been plucked from the ground and taken somewhere more sacred for the witchers to begin preparing for a proper goodbye. the hall doesn't look so grand. it looks pathetic and hollow, much like how she feels.
yennefer's never been one for self-deprecation, but she's a little tired of trying to convince herself all of this is fucking fine.
most of the witchers are gone, thank fuck. she's not interested in making small talk with them. none of them would say what she needs, look at her the way she needs them to. she's merely a stranger—and whatever geralt's told them of—and what she needs right now is the proper derision only one person can give her.
and there he is, sitting out of place. it's comforting to know he's as much of an outsider as she is. he doesn't sit like a witcher, certainly doesn't look like one.
she approaches, uncaring if he hears her boots, and childishly flicks jaskier's ear. ] You had a piece of flesh on you. [ monster or human, she's not quite sure. doesn't really care to elaborate, knowing she may use it in the very near future (in the next few minutes, perhaps) to torture his vanity.
yennefer takes a seat beside him, brushing up against him without much of a care, and drops onto the firm wooden bench. at least this one survived the attack from the monsters. it's strange to her, sometimes, what ends up surviving and what ends up dying. a lot of the strong get fucked over by luck.
although she wants to sit up straight, she rests her elbows on the table before her and her head in her hands. jaskier's already seen her at her worst and believes it. she has nothing left to lose. her hair's a mess, her nails are chipped, and she feels as dirty as she looks.
good thing jaskier doesn't look any better. if he did, she'd really consider throwing herself off the bridge.
in her hands, voice muffled, ] Thank you for doing what I asked.
[ for having faith in a magicless mage's potion. ]
she feels some hope for the future. her magic thrums through her again, feeling warm and bright and right there, but she can't quite enjoy it. no, not with what it almost cost. she ignores it, the way it completes her once more. it runs through her like fire and warms her despite the chill of the tundra. she no longer feels so alone with it now alongside her with her current company.
geralt and ciri leave her on the edge of the bridge without a look back. both of them burn with anger towards her. she deserves it, she knows. wanting to sacrifice a child, for fuck's sake, doesn't exactly endear one to other people. (it hardly endears her to herself.) it's not exactly a choice she thinks she can walk away from without a scar. she has to grow around it, live with it—and yennefer, despite all she's seen and done, isn't quite sure how to properly take a step from that.
she remains out in the cold long after she should've picked herself up and wandered back into the grand ruined hall. it's half out of self-pity—she's sure jaskier might be in the middle of writing some stupid song about the evil witch finally getting her dues—and half out of absolute exhaustion that she picks herself up. yennefer of vengerberg has never let anything get her down, but this… this is different.
when she wanders back in, the room's still a shit pile. everything's ruined. tables remain broken, most of the bodies have been plucked from the ground and taken somewhere more sacred for the witchers to begin preparing for a proper goodbye. the hall doesn't look so grand. it looks pathetic and hollow, much like how she feels.
yennefer's never been one for self-deprecation, but she's a little tired of trying to convince herself all of this is fucking fine.
most of the witchers are gone, thank fuck. she's not interested in making small talk with them. none of them would say what she needs, look at her the way she needs them to. she's merely a stranger—and whatever geralt's told them of—and what she needs right now is the proper derision only one person can give her.
and there he is, sitting out of place. it's comforting to know he's as much of an outsider as she is. he doesn't sit like a witcher, certainly doesn't look like one.
she approaches, uncaring if he hears her boots, and childishly flicks jaskier's ear. ] You had a piece of flesh on you. [ monster or human, she's not quite sure. doesn't really care to elaborate, knowing she may use it in the very near future (in the next few minutes, perhaps) to torture his vanity.
yennefer takes a seat beside him, brushing up against him without much of a care, and drops onto the firm wooden bench. at least this one survived the attack from the monsters. it's strange to her, sometimes, what ends up surviving and what ends up dying. a lot of the strong get fucked over by luck.
although she wants to sit up straight, she rests her elbows on the table before her and her head in her hands. jaskier's already seen her at her worst and believes it. she has nothing left to lose. her hair's a mess, her nails are chipped, and she feels as dirty as she looks.
good thing jaskier doesn't look any better. if he did, she'd really consider throwing herself off the bridge.
in her hands, voice muffled, ] Thank you for doing what I asked.
[ for having faith in a magicless mage's potion. ]
no subject
Oh, he'll definitely write something about this whole ordeal, that's for sure - Yennefer's not wrong there. But while there already is a rhyme or two forming in his head, he can't bring himself to put them together into something real yet. The witch isn't the only one that doesn't know what to fucking think.
Should he even go back to sing about witchers? (No, Burn Butcher Burn doesn't count, that song could be about anyone!) Or should this new rhyme stay on his notebook where thousands of songs have been kept from the public? He and Geralt are fine now, he supposes. He's trusted him with Ciri, right? It's been weird, and they haven't exactly had much time to talk since the prison break. War is around the corner, his role of Sandpiper may be compromised, and his-- best friend? -can he still call him that?- only has eyes for his daughter. Which is understandable, but still.
The Continent is slowly going to shit, and Jaskier feels bloody lonely. Years of jumping from town to town gave him many casual friendships he's fond of, but not bonds that withstand war. Not people he could rely on during hard times, except for Geralt, who left him on top of that fucking mountain.
(He should visit Essi's grave soon before war makes it impossible to.)
Where does he fit in all this? He's always been good at support, and he's proud of that. As he told Rience, he's brilliant. And he'll never let anyone bring him down, never let anyone make him feel like he doesn't have anything to give. He does! He has so much. But at moments like this, surrounded by the witcher family that is strictly sticking to each other, with their mighty powers and distrust of the outsiders, he can't help thinking exactly whom he's supposed to be giving to. And who wants him around to be given in the first place.
(Not to speak of his lack of lute and his burned hand and the possibility he may not play again except for fucking spoons he will not think of that--)
The hand on his ear and the mention of flesh make him squeal like the idiot he is, and he rubs his ear with his sleeve until he's sure there's nothing nasty left, as if he wasn't a walking ball of nastiness already. They both look and smell like shit, and Jaskier can't help noticing the irony of their classy selves being in what one would call a witcher style when they're actually so far from the group it hurts.
...oh. Huh. Jaskier can't help staring at her for a moment. She doesn't feel like she belongs here either, does she? Not even now that she has her magic and could step on all of them with her heels. Just like it happened in Oxenfurt, it makes Jaskier feel a little less lonely - being lost isn't a he problem. The Continent is being shit to anyone and not even sexy but insane witches are safe from it.
It's fucked up. But also comforting in its own way.
And then she speaks and gods. Such simple words. Basic manners, really. But Jaskier lives for praise, lives for being noticed, and Geralt has never been exactly the best at expressing gratitude. He needed to hear that, and it means so much more coming from her, the all-powerful witch that needs no man and no human, the nemesis that talks to him in banter.
His friend.
His expression softens and he offers a little smile.]
Thank you for trusting me with it.
[He watches her for another moment as he rubs his fingers together in an old nervous habit - they can be soft with each other, he knows, but it never lasts long, and he doesn't want to ruin the moment with their bickering yet, even if their battles of wits is wonderful when it comes to keeping his mind busy and stimulated. It's so different seeing her like this - instead of held high, her chin is resting on her hands, almost as if she was a young maid at a tavern waiting for the smithy to pick her up to go to the harvest festival... so terribly human.
(She probably wouldn't like that comparison.)
It hits him then: maybe she is the one that could receive what he has to give. After over twenty years of taking care of Geralt, maybe it's time to use those skills on someone else. She told him to adapt back in Oxenfurt, right? Well, time to adopt a new old, grumpy supernatural person under his care.
Except he can't say that aloud, because she'll probably smack him again.]
You smell like monster guts. And so do I, for the record. [He quickly adds before she thinks he's trying to bait her.] I keep hearing rumors about legendary hot springs under this keep, but I couldn't get a single witcher to take me there. Mayhap something in your demonic arsenal of spells may be able to guide us there?
[There, let's try making it look like he's asking for her help. Which isn't completely incorrect, he just happens to plan to bring her with him on this. A perfectly normal one, if he says so himself - both of them have always loved their grooming, their fine perfumes, their soft silks. If there's someone who won't judge them for wanting to find comfort in looking better right now is each other.]
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she suspects he's a little shaken and battle-worn. jaskier's made for singing about battles and making them pretty, not for being thrust into the fray of them. but she's grateful he's survived. life would be dull if it was only her and the witchers and the little princess. all of them seem overly sensitive. it's not like she could sharpen her claws in trying to banter and deride them. (they'd all take it personally—how dull.)
keeping her head bowed, she smiles and shakes her head slightly. ah, jaskier. always reliable. she feels the same warmth bloom in her chest as it had when she heard him sing. even though she doesn't wish for him to see her smile, she lifts her head and doesn't bother to wipe it from her face. let him call it an ugly shape. she hardly cares; it's something normal and old and comfortable.
she cocks her brow. ]
You haven't tried walking to a door and seeing where it leads?
[ of course not.
what he offers is an invitation, even if it isn't one that has his hand extended and a specific question asked. she much prefers it. jaskier can be blunt when he wants, but she doesn't particularly ache for bluntness right now.
sitting back, she plants her hands against the table and pushes up. throwing her legs over the bench, she brushes her hands against the fabric of her dress. ]
Come on. Let me show you how a door works.
[ she doesn't offer him a hand. turning on her heel, she begins to walk to the large doors. the one thing yennefer knows truly is that jaskier will follow. ]
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...maybe he does need some parchment and a quill after all.
Finding comfort in her smile, he starts to return it - that is, until she speaks again and yep, here we go, he knew the softness wouldn't last much. Jaskier huffs as he throws his hands in the air, dramatic and sarcastic as he can be.]
Oh, right, a door! How could I not think of that, it's not like there are thousands of them in this maze of a keep!
[Yes, he calls it a maze, obviously built for witcher senses to navigate. He's performed at many castles and lived in a luxurious mansion as a kid, one would think he's used to these big buildings... and he is! Castles usually aren't a problem. This is just more witcher logic at its finest, he's sure of it!
Sarcasm aside, his invitation has been accepted, and while the "plan" is important, he also wishes to find those hot springs for real, since he does feel pretty nasty at the moment - not only because of jail and the monsters, but also because he smells like a walking hangover (so maybe he's been drinking a little too much, no biggie!). So he doesn't hesitate to follow Yennefer, not thinking much of her expecting him to follow - as far as he knows, that's what she expects in any room, for eyes to be on her and know she's in charge.
That's fine with him, as long as she doesn't try to control him for real - clip the songbird's wings, get ready to get pecked in return.]
Sooooooooo. [He worries his lower lip for a second.] Your magic is back. How are you feeling? [Wait, too nice.] Do we need to start sacrificing any goats yet?
[It's the usual banter, but there's something else underneath this time... a touch of envy. He wants his lute and his hand back, too, is it too much to ask for?]
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pulling open the large door a little wider, she gestures with her hand for him to step out first. she points to the left so that he doesn't stand in the entrance looking like a dumbfounded goat. ]
Maybe tomorrow when we're cleaner than the goats.
[ see? she can play nice (sometimes). she smells like shit, he smells like shit, and she's sure he feels as much like shit as she does.
she walks beside him at a casual pace. peering up at him, she smiles before she wipes it from her face and replaces it with an expected arch to her brow. ]
You'll catch the goat and kill it for me, of course. Put you to some bloody use for once.
[ he is the only person she trusts completely here. it doesn't feel strange; it never really has. ]
no subject
But fuck, if he doesn't need something a bit cheerier to distract his mind from the lack of lute, the burns on his hand, the nightmares that haunt him every night that only go away if he lets alcohol put him to sleep. ...maybe they should've brought a bottle of wine with them for this bath, it sounds like the perfect combination he needs right now.
It doesn't help that Yennefer strikes right where it hurts - she always has, like the time she commented on his crow feet. This time isn't intentional, he knows, but he still can't help wincing when she says she wants to put him to some bloody use.]
...it would be good to have something to do. [He mumbles without meeting her eyes as he follows her without question, knowing that she'll find the place they're looking for.] This isn't exactly how I imagine my first visit to Kaer Morhen would go.
[Sure, Jaskier is a romantic that lets his imagination run wild sometimes, but nobody can't blame him for expecting better than this.]
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Really?
[ she sounds genuinely curious—and surprised. geralt never brought jaskier back home to meet the family? that's a surprise in itself… and something she should expect, really. geralt, despite being someone who seems to adopt strays, isn't necessarily the talkative type, let alone the type to bring anyone back home to the witchers. but she did stupidly think perhaps jaskier would've been dragged here at least once. ]
I would've thought you'd have been here before. Left the Witchers at least a long list of improvements they could invest in. [ she glances around and peers up at the high, dank stone ceiling as they walk. she murmurs, ] It could use a few of your suggestions.
[ if yennefer is being nice, it's clearly not on purpose. if she's picked up on his less than spitfirey mood, she won't say. jaskier is at his best when he's quipping and insulting her. after what's transpired in the last few hours, she honestly doesn't blame him for being mellow. it doesn't mean she likes it—and she's a selfish creature. ]
no subject
But he doesn't want to think about his relationship with Geralt now. And that's weird for him, he always wants to express how he feels and let everyone know, ask people to back up his dramatics, but Geralt has been a sensitive subject since the mountain, and right now he isn't sure what's even going on anymore other than "fine".
So he just snorts.] Why are you surprised? Have you met Geralt? [Just... passing it off as a Geralt thing instead of thinking too hard about the fact this is supposed to be his best friend that even trusted his daughter with him. Ah, but the chuckle that follows is more honest and less cynical.] Awfully lifeless, is it not? An impressive keep, full of tales I'd love to find while exploring, but it needs color. And comfort. Do you think they're allergic to cushions? Even Queen Calanthe, a corset-opposing warrior herself, allowed her castle to have some finesse. [A huff.] I hope the princess doesn't end up in all black as well - or at least, Geralt's idea of all black. You do know what to do with a dress. [He looks at her with his head tilted as he hums in thought.] I wonder - how many of my suggestions could your magic take care of?
[Because boy, does he have a bunch of them.]
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they'll need her magic for more than just cushions if that tree doesn't crumble any time soon. ]
Too many of them.
[ jaskier's bound to have thousands of idiotic suggestions.
she smiles at him before she looks straight ahead. it's like she's a patient mother with a rowdy child. magic thrums through her addictively, but yennefer's a touch scared to use too much of it. what if she's a well that needs refilling? ]
How about we start with the pillows? I'd prefer colours that clash. Really make it look like something actually threw up in this place. We could blame it on Lambert. He seems like the type to take pride in being wrongly credited for a poor idea.
[ given what they've just dealt with, well… yennefer turns a corner and it's dark and dreary and in desperate need of some colour and some fun. ]
sorry for the delay! had some tough weeks
Oh, I do love it! [He starts counting with his fingers.] Pillows - by the gods, we need so many bloody pillows. And proper mattresses - their enhanced spines may be able to sleep on those fucking rocks they dare to call beds, but I--
[Around the corner Yennefer turns, there's a door, and Jaskier immediately interrupts himself when he opens it. The hot springs are a sight to behold, a little piece of heaven hidden in the mountains. Jaskier can already feel the warmth caressing his skin, and after a moment of shock, he cries out--]
Oh, sweet nectar of the gods!
[--before he starts undressing right there without a second thought. And he's very efficient at that, too, shedding layers faster than a witcher's reflexes. He takes off his ring, too, and safely puts it in his jacket's pocket, but he leaves on his two necklaces (ring and tuning fork) because those he can't lose in the water.
It's as if he's forgotten that Yennefer is there with him, not that it would've stopped him. So now the witch can see how shapely his butt and his thighs are thanks of years walking after certain witcher, how hairy his whole body is under his clothes, the scar on his leg that he got as a kid when he fell off a tree, the one on his ribs from a monster incident... and well, there's his cock too, of course, but Yennefer is already familiar with it thanks to that djinn-inspired groping: not too small, not too big, just a nice comfortable average.
Jaskier tests the waters with his toe, yelping when the first spring is too hot, but exclaiming fuck yes when he finds the one with the right temperature. He jumps into it without a care, going underwater from head to toe, and groaning in obscene delight when he resurfaces.]
That's it, I'm spending the rest of winter here. [He says as he begins running his fingers through his now wet hair. Fuck, he should've brought a comb.] Not even another monster invasion can make me move right now.
you're all good! 💖 i hope everything is better!
closing the door behind her to protect anyone's eyes from seeing the ungodliness of jaskier naked, yennefer stays near it as she watches him in amusement. it's as if he's thawed—he comes to life; he's a flurry of excitement and juvenile happiness…
and she does check him out just a little. yennefer was concerned perhaps a spell had turned him into half-man, half-goat. but he's still a man—a decent one to look at if his ass is anything to go by—and a map of a life that she's underestimated as being spent being pretty and hiding behind a lute. ]
What if there was a monster lurking in the water, hm? You didn't exactly check to make sure it was unoccupied.
[ honestly, jaskier. the reason he's survived all these years has been pure luck.
but yennefer, smiling, steps away from the door, and begins to toe-off her boots. unlike jaskier, she isn't going to shed herself of her clothing in a flurry of excitement. the last few days have suddenly hit her and she feels as though her nones are made of the stone that shapes kaer morhen.
she's slow to undress and she cocks her brow pointedly at him. turn around. you're in the presence of a lady. ]
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[Speaking of experience there, but also he thinks it's fair logic to think the witchers wouldn't allow anything creepy besides themselves in their keep (possessed Child Surprises being an exception, of course). And that's why Jaskier has survived this long: yes, part of it may be luck, but he's also just spent two decades putting his safety in the hands of a certain witcher, who never failed to keep him safe.
Well, at least until the mountain. But let's not go there now.
Once upon a time, he told Geralt that Yennefer is a very sexy but insane witch, words he still stands by to this day - he won't say them aloud because he doesn't want to give her the pleasure, but the way she glances at her doesn't exactly hide it. If they hadn't met the way they did, he would've hit on her without hesitation - beauty and power, a combination women of this world don't often get to have.
That brow, though. That cocked brow makes him raise his own.]
...you're serious. [He snorts again but still closes his eyes and throws his head back against the edge of the pool, soaking contently.] It seems you've forgotten I've already seen your tits, witch.