like your blood knows the way

Yennefer uses her thumb to tilt Jaskier’s head up, pressing it into the bed. He goes willingly, pliant and easy underneath her hands. His eyes watch her, half-hooded and dark from where he’s laid out on the bed. She has already stripped him of his shirts, of his ridiculous coat, leaving him barechested beneath her straddled legs. Vulmerable.

“I could do anything to you like this,” Yennefer says. She had thought of this when she accosted him in the hallway earlier, when she grabbed him by the lapel of his ridiculous coat and tugged him into her room. Kaer Morhen is large and empty and it leaves Yennefer with too much time alone with her thoughts. Holding down a bard and using him for her own pleasure seemed like a much better plan at the time.

Jaskier’s lips pull into a lopsided grin. “I know,” he says. “Do you need me to remind you of how terrifying you are? Because you really are a big scary mage with big scary powers, and I know you could murder me right now without trying very hard.”

And yet, he’s still here. Geralt did say once with his limited words that Jaskier had the self-preservation instincts of drunken lemming. Her hands are on his neck, and his eyes are on her face. She wouldn’t even need Chaos to do it, to snuff out his all too human, all too fragile life. But for some reason, he doesn’t protest. She says, “You’re an idiot.”

“So I’ve been told,” he agrees.

“I don’t--” She grimaces. I don’t understand how you perform night after night. I don’t know why you peel yourself open so that anyone can see the raw, hurting parts of yourself. “I don’t know why you trust me.”

“I don’t know why you trust me, either,” Jaskier says, “and yet somehow, here we are.”

Yennefer laughs in his face. She doesn’t trust people in general, and she doesn’t trust men in particular. “I always knew you were funny, bard, but I didn’t think you knew any jokes.”

“Right, yes. You’re the big scary mage who is too powerful to have feelings, You’ve never had a feeling in your life.” He rolls his eyes as he says it. Yennefer considers gouging them out with her thumbs.

She says, “Don’t presume you know anything about me.” Chaos swirls around them, and Yennefer could pull a strand of it, use it to strip the flesh from his bones. She rakes her fingernails over his bare chest and imagines drawing blood. This is what it means to have power over something, isn’t it? The ability to destroy it at any moment. This is the kind of thing Yennefer has craved since she studied at Aretuza. This is what she has clawed and fought and killed for. What could one silly little twit who spent most of his life trailing after Geralt of fucking Rivia understand about any of that?

He shivers under her touch -- not from the chill of Kaer Morhen, because Yennefer ensures that her own rooms are a livable temperature. “Is this your version of foreplay?” Jaskier asks. “Do you find cowering arousing? Should I be cowering right now?”

Yennefer pinches one of his nipples, not the sort of teasing touch that past lovers have tried on her, but one hard enough to sting, hard enough to make him yelp. She thinks of the last time she saw him bloodied and cowering, tortured at the hands of a fire mage. It hadn’t been particularly arousing. More of an annoyance than anything else, that he’d had the temerity to get captured and leave it to her to save his woebegotten ass. “Don’t cower. It’ll just make your wrinkles worse.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I’ve been told that they make me look quite distinguished.”

“They just make you look old,” Yennefer says, but she finds herself studying the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the signs of a lifetime full of laughter and smiles. Her body doesn’t age that way, and she’s rarely spent enough time around humans to mark the passage of the years on their faces, but Jaskier has been a thorn in her side for how long now? A decade at least.

“You’re quite the wordsmith,” he says. “Did you charm Geralt into bed with such sweet nothings as well?”

“Did you?” Yennefer shoots back. It’s a low blow, but they have never pulled their punches with each other.

He swallows. Yennefer watches his throat bob and thinks about sinking her teeth into it. “For a time, yes.”

It’s a more honest confession than she expected, more honest than one that Yennefer would ever give, but then again, he’s the one who makes his coin by wearing his heart on his sleeve. Just leaving it open for anyone to steal or break or both. It must have driven Geralt mad, trying to protect him from himself. “We’ve already established that you’re an idiot.”

“And we’ve also established that you wanted me in your bed. You didn’t have to take my shirt off if you just wanted to insult me.” He rests his hands on her hips, from where she’s straddling his belly. It’s not an insistent touch, not demanding anything of her. It’s more of an offer.

“I cannot believe the pablum that comes out of your mouth. As if you need an excuse to take off your shirt ever.” It had been common enough when she had traveled with both him and Geralt on the road, on hot, sticky summer days, when Jaskier’s non-stop chatter had merged into an ongoing complaint about the weather, and the only thing that would shut him up was a dip in the nearest stream.

“Can you blame me? I would hate to deprive the world of the sight of my bare chest.”

Yennefer snorts. “It’s a little scrawny.” He’s lost some weight from being underfed in prison. He’ll get it back soon enough, she’s sure, even with the slop they feed people in Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier sqwacks in indignation. “I’ll have you know that there are numerous songs that have been written about its glory, and not even all of them were written by me.”

Yennefer knows this could send him off on a tangent, so she undoes the ties of her robe, shrugging it off her shoulders and tossing it onto the floor. Apparently, she should have done this earlier, because he goes blessedly silent at the sight of her bare skin. “You were saying?” she asks, just to poke at him.

“Um,” Jaskier says. His eyes are fixed on her breasts. Yennefer rolls her eyes. How typical.

“I was under the impression that you’d done this before,” Yennefer says. She reaches for the laces of his breeches. Perhaps his reputation is nothing more than big talk. It wouldn’t be the first time that a man’s performance couldn’t live up to his words, but it would perhaps be the most disappointing one. She had been counting on fucking the bard to pass the time during their long winter in the keep.

Jaskier says, “Well, excuse me for taking a moment to appreciate your truly lovely bosom, especially since you threatened to castrate me the last time I had a chance to observe it.”

“I will do more than just threaten this time if you don’t make yourself useful.” The laces come apart underneath her fingers, and she reaches into his smallclothes to give his cock a rough warning squeeze.

He lets out a gratifyingly shrill sound at that, and a spike of his arousal shoots through him, the sensation strong enough that it leaks into the air. “If the lady insists,” he says, his voice a bit high and strangled. He does a move with his hips that shifts her off balance enough that she falls forward, and he catches her when her crotch lands on his face.

When she glances down, he gives her a saucy wink and presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Yennefer says, “Fine, you can keep your balls for now. But you should get to work before I change my mind.”

Jaskier, wisely, doesn’t shoot back a sarcastic remark before he puts his mouth on her cunt. He takes his time with it, starting out with long, slow licks, careful to gauge her reactions. His tongue does live up to its reputation, much to her annoyance, and she grabs a fistful of his hair, gives it a yank. He lets out a soft moan at the sting of pain. She does it again just because she likes the sound of it.

It heats her blood, the feel of him willing and eager and compliant underneath her. She’s always been greedy, and she wants to take from him, wants to take and take until he has nothing left to give. Maybe he would even let her.

He brings his hands into the mix, makes a pleased noise when he finds a place that makes her shiver, uses just a hint of teeth when she digs her nails into his scalp. Geralt wasn’t like this between her legs. He was focused and single-minded about bringing her pleasure, figuring out what worked for her and exploiting it to its fullest extent. Jaskier’s touch is more exploratory, even playful, and he manages to take her by surprise more times than she’s willing to admit. A particularly good twist of his fingers sets her off, the orgasm rippling through her and stealing her breath.

“Acceptable,” she says as she lifts herself off his face. His face and cheeks are smeared wet with her juices. His already ragged hair is even more of a mess. His cheeks are a lovely shade of pink that has spread down to his chest. His cock is hard enough that the head peeks out of the gap in his breeches, sitting in a nest of dark curls. All she can think about is how much she wants to tear him to pieces.

“Oh yes, professor. Of course I’ll study harder for the next exam.” Jaskier says. His tone is aiming for sarcastic, but he’s too breathless for the jibe to have any bite to it.

“I’m not going to roleplay your stupid schoolboy fantasies. You’ll have to find a different bedmate for that,” Yennefer tells him, but she might be lying about that, just a little bit. It could be fun to take a switch to his backside.

“More’s the pity,” he says, still gasping. “Something tells me you’d be a great disciplinarian.”

His smile is too smug. She wants to claw it off his face with her fingers. Instead, she ends up kissing him, biting at his lips, tasting herself on his tongue. He lets out a soft noise at the back of his throat, and she swallows it down. His hands come up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair.

When she pulls back, his expression has softened, his eyes bright and clear and adoring. All of his feelings laid out in front of them both like she won’t smash them to tiny little pieces. It makes her so angry that he’s like this, that he’s not even attempting to hide his weaknesses from her, that she could use this to destroy him completely and he’s just offering it up to her on a platter. Geralt at least had the decency to try to keep his emotions under wraps.

Yennefer bites down on his collarbone, which spares her from having to look at his face anymore. He hisses at the sharp flare of pain, but a shudder also runs through him. He groans when she digs her nails into the tender flesh of his arms. She shifts to press her thigh against his stiff cock. His hips jerk under her touch. “Fuck,” he says, and she likes the thought that she might have stolen all the pretty words from his lips. There are red marks on his shoulder that perfectly match the shape of her teeth.

She makes the mistake of glancing at his face again, and somehow, there’s something even rawer, even more open, written all across it. She wishes she’d bitten hard enough to draw blood, bitten hard enough to remind him that she’s dangerous, that loving her has only brought suffering. She says, “I hate you,” because that statement is true enough.

For some reason, Jaskier smiles at that. The light in his eyes doesn’t dim one whit, and it just makes her hate him more. “I know.”

She says, “You are such an useless irritant.”

He just laughs. “And you’re an evil, hateful witch.” He says it with such fondness.

“No wonder Geralt left you on the side of a mountain,” she hisses.

He flinches after she says it, his expression shuttering closed. “Fuck you,” he says, and there’s none of the playful teasing left in his voice. This is what she wanted, right? To teach him the lessons she learned a long time ago. To do what was done to her and strip all the softness, all the weakness from him. He says, “I don’t have to take this--” and he’s sitting up; he’s pushing her away.

It leaves her feeling cold, a chill leaching through her, even though her enchantment on the room to keep it warm hasn’t faded. “Jaskier--” she says. He hasn’t quite dislodged her from his lap yet, and she reaches out and grabs his wrist. She had wanted to hurt him, yes, but she doesn’t want to let him go now, doesn’t want to let him slip away from her grasp. Maybe it isn’t fair, but nothing in Yennefer’s life has been fair.

“No,” he says. “I thought-- I thought that maybe things were going to be different when you-- but no, of course not. It’s all--” He tries to make a gesture with his hands, but Yennefer has one of them still in her grip. He glances up, meeting her eyes. “I figured you would break my heart. I just thought it would take longer for it to happen.”

“Jaskier--” she says again, clutching onto his wrist even tighter. She’s still greedy, still selfish, and she is still unwilling to let him go, and she doesn’t even know why. She shouldn’t care, shouldn’t want the warmth of his regard again. His anger shouldn’t feel like pins underneath her skin.

He studies her, and this is what she wanted from him, something even vaguely resembling self-preservation, but she finds that she hates his scrutiny. “What do you want, Yennefer?”

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, and it’s something close to the truth.

He wavers, but his mouth is still pulled into an unhappy line, and she can feel how close she is to losing him entirely. She doesn’t-- she hates the idea of that with a ferocity that surprises even her.

So she lets go of his wrist, takes a deep breath, and rolls over onto her back. She feels keenly aware of the fact that she’s naked. The wool sheets are rough against her skin. “Jaskier,” she says, “I--” She doesn’t know the words to say. She doesn’t have his ability to convey everything she’s feeling with just a turn of phrase. She doesn’t know how to offer up the things he’s given her. “I want you to.”

He’s still studying her, his expression cautious and wary, but then he shakes his head and lets out a sharp, rueful laugh. “I cannot believe you two. You’re the most emotionally unavailable people I have ever slept with, and I fuck married people as a hobby.”

“Your hobbies are shit,” Yennefer says automatically.

He says, “I’m well aware,” but the smile is coming back onto his face. “I would also like to point out that lashing out because you’re feeling emotionally vulnerable is not exactly a healthy coping mechanism.” She wants to tell him to shut up again, but then he’s kissing her.

Their positions are reversed this time. He’s not looming, not demanding. He’s not Geralt, who holds so much inside himself that it weighs him down. He’s not Yennefer, who can’t help but grab for anything within reach. He’s just… himself: a silly, bright, foppish bard who was there when Yennefer needed him and for whatever reason is still with her now.

Jaskier kicks off his breeches, pushes his smallclothes off, and lays himself on top of her, his legs settled between hers. He kisses her again. She hasn’t fucked anyone like this since Geralt, and she can’t help but feel the echo of that encounter in this one. But there’s none of the heavy hand of destiny here, no trace of a djinn’s wish. His mouth tastes like her and the terrible witcher ale he had with dinner, and he smells like the musty library he likes to spend his days in. He doesn’t smell like a horse at all.

“So…” he says against her lips. It almost sounds like a question. Hesitation colors his voice.

“I know you know how to do this part,” Yennefer says. She wraps one leg around his back, pushing her wetness against his hard cock. “Get on with it, bard.”

She can feel his smile as he kisses her again. When he pushes into her, something in her chest stutters. She’s too old for schoolgirl romance and flowery poetry about true love, but she does like this closeness, the intimacy of having him inside her.

He doesn’t rush this either. He just watches her face as he moves his hips in smooth, even thrusts that spread a deep, rolling pleasure from her head to her toes. Yennefer has had plenty of sex, but so little of it has ever felt this simple, just two bodies moving together.

She wraps her other leg around his back, and he shifts to meet her. The change in angle feels sharper, deeper, and a groan escapes her lips before she can stop it. “More?” he asks, his voice high and breathy.

“Yes,” she snaps, because he’s an idiot, but she didn’t think he was that much of an idiot. “More.”

“Of course, my lady,” he says, and she laughs, the sound of it brighter than she would have thought.

He picks up the pace, using the new angle to draw more noises from her. She clenches around him, and the place where they’re joined is so wet, and it’s good. It’s the best she’s felt since she stumbled out of Sodden Field. He slides a hand between them, and the press of his fingers against her clit sends sparks through her nerve endings.

“Come on,” he whispers, and he does have talented fingers, because it’s no time before she’s falling apart under them. He fucks her through the orgasm, not stopping or slowing down. She digs her fingernails into his back, clinging to him as she rides through the aftershocks.

When she comes back to herself, his breath is heavy, and there’s a certain desperation in his eyes that Yennefer is all too familiar with. She grins at him. “Fill me up,” she says.

“Fuck,” he says. He squeezes his eyes shut as he comes, and he makes a ridiculous face as he spills inside her. Yennefer is going to blame the afterglow for the swell of fondness she feels at the sight of it.

When he’s done, Jaskier pushes away and flops down onto the bed beside her. “So, what’s the review this time? Three words or less.”

“Could be worse,” she says.

“Oooh, an improvement.” His smile is so soppy. She hates it less than she thought she would. “I don’t expect you to say anything or even, well, feel anything, because of the whole heartless witch thing, but I did want to say that I do-- I do love you. Heartlessness and all.” He gazes at her, and it’s still written all over him. She doesn’t even need to peer into his mind to see it.

Her chest hurts. She doesn’t know why her chest hurts. She says, “Much to my own regret, I do care about what happens to you,” because that’s the only thing she can get herself to say. She doesn’t know how to give him any more than that.

“You know what, I’ll take it,” Jaskier says with a laugh, and then he kisses her again.

FIN.