#even though i know him better as jaskier rather than dandelion :sobbing: | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonlights-inkwell · 4 years

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Oh, Can’t You Hear The Scratching?

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 4747

Summary: A serious injury leads to you being forced to leave your travelling days behind you and try to reintergrate yourself into a life you left behind. But it seems something from travelling has decided not to leave you

A/N: So. Um. This was meant to be some post Mountain smut, but turned into some semi-angst and is probably gonna turn into a series (and kinda (?) a companion piece to my Oxenfurt Series) where Jaskier and the Reader just sorta embrace some domestic bliss. So yeah. Title taken from That Unwanted Animal.

The first chill of Autumn is enough to wake you from a dead slumber. The cold nips at the tip of your nose, leaving it almost painful and chaffed, and you curse internally at the windows of your small home, which lately has done little to keep out either rain or cold. Pushing yourself up from the warmth of your fur-lined bed, you sit up and wince when the chill hits your chest, causing you to heave out a sigh as if you had been punched, blinking bleary-eyed before turning to gaze out of your window. It’s still dark, but no longer pitch. The sky is the colour of the violets that grow along the path that leads to your cottage but paling slowly, no sight of sun or moon, cloud or stars. Soon the horizon will be warmed by the orange glow of the sun, but right now you find yourself in this blissful timelessness, caught between dusk and dawn, sleep and awake. Moments like this feel rare, special, and you dedicate them to memory, to remind yourself of the mundane beauty of the world when you feel lonely and upset. These moments are wonderful, and your lips turn up in a tired smile.

Sleep is trying desperately to overtake you once more, begging you sweetly to rest as long as humanly possible- after hard nights working in the tavern, you deserve rest and respite, but you fight against it. Swinging your legs out of bed and standing up, you groan in annoyance.

“Melitele’s tits.” You curse, slurring with sleep. Padding barefoot to the window, you lean against the wall and rub your eyes, toying with the thin fabric that hangs to the side of the windows. It’s much too early in the day, and much too early for you to be feeling this way. This feeling only normally comes with Winter but reminds you all too much of the day you met Jaskier. It was as if fate had insisted you to be ready for him. Your heart sinks at the thought of him.

You left the Witcher and your Bard behind in the spring. It wasn’t an easy choice, or even really a choice that you made, but it was the only one that was given to you. It came as a result of fighting a Wyvern. You hate Wyverns, always have and always will, but the fight against this one had cemented that in your mind, seeing as it sunk its claws into the left side of your face, and nearly blinded you. You didn’t even really know what damage it had caused until you sunk, faint, to your knees and Jaskier screeched in horror at the sight of you. I'm not that ugly, am I? You thought to yourself and chuckled slightly before falling unconscious.

You woke in a healer’s tent, barely able to comprehend spoken language as the medic told Geralt you were lucky to be alive, never mind retaining the vision in both eyes. Something in the back of your mind told you that you should be in pain, excruciating pain, but you can’t feel a thing. Your face would likely keep the marks of the beast forever though, he told the Witcher, voice as emotionless as possible. The hand holding your own tightens its grip. Jaskier. You smiled and cracked open the uninjured eye, but the smile faded at the sight of his red, tearstained face. He looked like he had been sobbing, and he probably had. He fretted about you when you got splinters, so the idea that you could have died was too much for him. He glanced down at you, and upon seeing your open eyes cupped your face gently and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It’s like no kiss he’d given before, it’s full of something you haven’t felt from him, sadness. Regret. It feels like goodbye. When he pulls back his lips and chin are stained with your blood.

“I’ll find you in winter.” He muttered and your eyes narrowed in confusion. Tears overtook him once more, and he dragged you into his lap to sob onto your bloodied blouse- he'd never been squeamish about blood before, but in that moment, it was as if he was trying to get as much of your blood on him as possible, to mar and mark himself with proof that he was yours. Your fingers threaded through his hair, but whatever the Healer had given you meant that you couldn’t feel the softness of the chestnut locks, smell the musk and lavender scent that you know permeates from him over the coppery blood. It's hollow. You can’t feel him at all and would have taken the agonising pain of the wound if it meant that you could feel the touch of his skin on yours.

“Till winter.”

It was goodbye. At least for the time being.

Geralt took you home on Roach the next day, and insisted you remain. Retune yourself back to the life in your village, rather than a life that will kill you at any and every turn. He said it so firmly you couldn’t force out an argument, and so you’ve remained since that day; remaining in the old home you resided in just outside of the village, returning to your job in the tavern, and trying in vain to pretend that you aren’t in pain, not spending your days missing your bard, counting down until the seasons change and Geralt will return to Kaer Morhen and you can feel a dandelion on your skin once more.

Absent-mindedly, you drag the tips of your fingers over the fading scar over your eye, it’s no longer garishly red and surrounded by mottled green, yellow and blueing bruised skin, instead almost white, with a strange shining quality about it. You don’t hate it, but you hate what it represents. Weakness. You found scars wonderful as a child, proof of how adventures had marked you, even on the road with Geralt it had been something of note, proof of how no monster had felled you yet. This one has felled you, left you more than just marked. It’s a conversation starter with patrons at the pub though, it sees you regaling people with your tales of traveling with a Witcher, and sees the pockets of your pinny grow heavy with coin as the nights draw to days, but the song starts up and you feel your throat begin to swell closed, lips suddenly wordless and eyes swelling with tears. Toss a Coin to Your Witcher is capable of reducing you to tears, your Dandelion would be proud were it under different circumstances. You miss him like a lost limb. After so long around him, always touching, always grinning, always talking, the absence makes you uncomfortable, especially at night.

Jaskier had always been there at night, oh what the luxury of your travelling partner being your lover had been during nights on the road. The sound of him singing in the darkness, illuminated only by the firelight and framed by the canopy of the trees, as if on a stage and performing for an audience of only you, how it felt when he dragged you, often kicking and squealing in laughter, towards your shared bedroll. While you are glad of a permanent bed, you miss sleeping beside him. It feels childish to admit that you find it hard to sleep without him, even if you are only admitting to yourself, but it is difficult without him; you miss the feeling of his arms around your waist, head between your shoulders and breath fanning against your skin, lulling you to sleep. Not only that, but you miss the sweetness that comes before sleep, tiredly resting on his chest and listening to him talk- usually utter nonsense you care little for, but enamoured by his passion and way of speaking- or singing, ringed fingers burying themselves in your hair while your fingers thread through the Shag Rug of chest hair.

The shadow that passes by the window doesn’t catch your eye, distracted too much by memory, and you turn tiredly back toward bed but stop. Bed will do nothing but remind you of the chill behind you, lack of arms about your waist and head resting in the hollow between your shoulder blades. That won’t do. Instead, you find yourself padding to the small room that keeps the hearth, lip trapped between gnawing teeth as you begin a search for a means to light the fire and warm yourself a serving of last night’s stew but stop. Scratching. Scratching. Something is scratching at the front door. That’s not normal. All your life there has never been scratching at the door, even in spite of its close proximity to the woods no creature normally drags their claws along the wood, save for once, when a wolf had found itself lost and confused, but even that had been a pup. Just Imagining things, you try in vain to convince yourself, hand falling onto the matches and drawing a sigh of relief from you. It takes a second or so for your hands to stop shaking, but when the scratching dies you manage to strike a match and start a fire beneath the hanging pot of stew. Warmth, at long last, and light too.

You sit on the floor to warm yourself in front of the hearth, humming softly along with the phantom of a song you hear in your dreams. It’s not one you know too well, you don’t even know if the song has lyrics, but it's one of Jaskier's and that means it’s your favourite. Tears that threaten to fall blur your vision and in the glowing flames you almost swear you can see him, sat across from you.

It’s familiar, hauntingly so. You can all but feel the hard stone beneath your feet turn to prickly, drying grass, your sleep shirt turning to almost threadbare chemise and trousers. You can even feel the bruising ribs from an especially rough incident with a werewolf that saw the Witcher walking to a nearby village for food to help you feel better. The flames in front of you ripple and roar, causing the wood to pop and crackle, and with each noise you jump slightly and flinch in pain. Jaskier sits across from you, staring at you intensely and strumming at his lute. He’s beautiful in the light of the fire, lashes dark and his eyes focused, taking in every flinch and jostle.

“Try not to move so, Little Miss. You'll only hurt yourself. Well. Hurt yourself more.” He's trying to sound unaffected, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him. You worried him; a skill you’ve been honing in your time with Geralt and him, and you know how he worries. He's more of a mother-hen than a fighter in the first place, flapping about and acting as if you’re some delicate flower in polite society rather than someone who enjoys being combative, but combined with your human fragility? He frets. Overwhelmingly so. His eyes, the colour of the sea after a storm, moves from your eyes to where he knows your injury to be and then back to your eyes once more. You can’t quite meet his eyes, distracting yourself by looking over the intricate ivory embroidery that decorates his doublet.

You hate worrying him. He’s been so kind to you, always so giving: making sure you have enough stew to eat, warm enough when autumn comes about, threatening any man who looks at you with anything less than respect. He knows how you revel in fighting, but each and every injury you get sees the bard fretting even more so than normal. Though you can't meet his gaze you can feel his eyes on you, and hear the soft melody he's plucking, which makes you shift on the spot, letting out a pained moan as you do. Focused on the searing pain in your ribs, you don’t quite hear the bard gasp out your name and rush to your side, only knowing he's even there when you feel a warm palm rest on your thigh and turn to see him on his knees in front of you.

“Fucking hell, Little Miss, are you alright? Do you need something? Shit... I- I can try and fetch Geralt, he won’t be too far-" The brunet rambles, eyes wide and grip on your thigh tightening, which serves to make your breath hitch- but not from the pain. Jaskier is always touching you, you’re quite certain he was not given sufficient human contact as a child, but never has he touched somewhere as... intimate as your thigh. The heat of his hand seeps through your trousers, and goes straight to your core and face- cheeks bright pink. He's still rambling, you realise, and reach out gently to cup his cheek, silencing him immediately. Stubble you can’t see on his boyish face prickles your palm, and you meet his eyes once more, noticing how wide the pitch of his eyes had grown.

“I’m fine, Dandelion. Truly. Just moved too fast... bruises, and such.” You laugh weakly, tilting your head. “It will pass. Just need to distract myself.”

He laughs with you, hand squeezing the meat of your thigh and so close you can feel his breath fanning against your skin.

“I can distract you if you like?” He offers, voice lower than normal. You smile in return and nod, expecting a song or joke but what you get instead is his lips pressed against yours. Warm, wind chapped, perfect-

A log pops and you come from your memory, blinking and sniffing as the smell of the soup makes you smile. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Before you can reach up for a spoon to mix it, you hear it again. The scratching. It's back, and worrying. You miss Geralt, not for the first time that night, missing how his acute hearing would be able to tell you if it was an animal or human- specifically if it was a wolf as you suspected. Scratching, scratching and scratching. It worries you, but not enough for you to become fearful; instead making you smirk, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits and shifting towards the sword you've kept beside the door. Less than a second later you dart toward the door, and grip the cold hilt of the blade in one hand, body pressed against the wall beside the door. The scratching stops when you move which only makes you hold your breath, eyes slipping shut as you try to relax once more. Calm doesn’t come, and instead you heave out a sigh and call out,

“...Hello? Kacsper? Is that you?” It wouldn’t be the first time your employer had come by in the night to ensure a young woman alone would be safe at night, which you thought to be immensely invasive but, in this moment, you cannot stop yourself from hoping it was him.

“...Dear Heart?” A voice you didn’t expect at all replies, weak and choked. Jaskier. Only Jaskier has ever called you anything like Dear Heart, the only person to ever even think to call you by pet names, but not in that voice. Pained, like he was injured. Something logical in the back of your mind tries to remind you of Dopplers or any number of creatures that can change their voices, but the sound of your lover’s voice is enough to see you throw caution to the wind. You drop the blade to rip the door open, completely unfazed by the ear-splitting clatter of steel on wood. The door is open before you realise how forcefully you pull and there, shivering in the autumnal cold, is your bard.

It’s hard to tell in the minimal light of your cooking fire, but he looks a mess. Chestnut hair splayed across his forehead in wet clumps, from rain or sweat you have no idea, deep red doublet and trousers stained with something that could be either mud or blood, and eyes sunken and darkened from a lack of sleep and something else. A sort of... hunger, longing that you know, but not in this intensity- he would look at you like this before kissing you, or bedding you, like you were ephemeral and easily gone without his touch. His frame lurches, holding to the door frame for stability.

“Jask?” You whisper, and it’s enough for him to surge forward and crash his mouth to yours. The look in his eyes mirrors how he kisses you, hungry and rough, cracked lips moving against your own in such a way that you almost fear the blood you can taste is your own, but it’s definitely not. You feel like you ought push him away, chide him for coming so late and frightening you, but instead your arms wind around his neck to pull him closer still, lips moving gently against his, trying to slow the kiss. It’s been so long, too long, without his lips on yours, months without his touch when you would seldom live an hour without his touch. He takes the hint and the kiss instead turns sweet though still desperate, his hands resting on your hips even after you pull back and stare up at him like he’s a phantom or dream. “Jaskier, what are you doing here?”

“...I missed you.” He says simply, voice cracking and breaking your heart at just how sad he sounds. “I. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, Little Miss. I should-"

“Shut the door, Buttercup.” You interrupt him, hands sliding from his throat to hold his cheek. “And sit down. You look dead on your feet. Where's Ger?”

Jaskier flinches at the mention of the white-haired man but does turn to close your front door. As soon as it’s closed, keeping the cold somewhat at bay, his arms are around you once more and face buried into your hair, drawing a contented sigh from you while your own arms work their way around his back. It’s been far too long. He feels like he always has, soft but with a firm layer of muscle just beneath, not obvious by looking at him, but there none the less. Hugs have always felt restrictive, like being caged but his have always felt like safety. It’s the same now, just more tight, and you cannot tell if he knows how tightly he’s holding you. Honestly, you can’t bring yourself to care. He could leave a Jaskier shaped bruise on your flesh so long as he robs you of the Jaskier shaped hole in your heart. He doesn’t smell as usual though, lavender and musk replaced with sweat and sulphur, telling you just how long it must have been since last he bathed.

Deft fingers wind into the wispy hair at your nape at the same time that lips press to the crown of your head, followed by a deep inhale, you aren’t the only one to have missed the simple things like this. So much is hidden away in touch and smell, especially when not too long ago the two of you spent near every moment joined at the hip.

“You smell like posies.” He mumbles into your hair, and you smile weakly at the observation.

“You smell like death, Darling.” You reply before you really consider how mean the words are, though you hope your voice is playful. “I'll draw you a bath-"

“No, no, no. Don’t... don't move, Muse. Let me... Let me cherish this moment. Reunions are supposed to be a happy time.” He doesn’t sound happy; he sounds as if he's choking back tears. “Gods, how I’ve missed you, Dear Heart.”

“I missed you too, Buttercup. Like a lost limb.” It should seem a melodramatic turn of phrase, but it truly isn’t. It was like losing half of yourself to be away from him. Having him wrapped around you now is the closest to normal you’ve felt since leaving his side. “...Why are you here though, Love? Oughtn't you be with Ger-"

“Don’t say his name.” The usually sweet voice of your bard comes out venomous, and his grip only tightens, “I’m not travelling with the prick.”

The Prick. That’s new. So many of Jaskier’s songs are about the Witcher, but now he's the prick. You can’t help but blink in confusion, head tilting to look at your man but he instead swoops his head down to kiss you gently. He's trying to distract you, of that you're certain, but you decide it best to indulge him, kissing him sweetly and pulling back before he can deepen it.

“...Stew.”

It’s his turn to look confused, head tilted to one side to stare at you while you pull away.

“Stew?”

“Do you want some?” Gesturing blindly to the pot behind you, you begrudgingly break free of his hold on you. “You look hungry. Stew, a bath and then bed. I think it would do you the world of good.”

“When did you become a domestic goddess, Little Miss?” He asks incredulously, lips turning up in a smile. He’s taunting you, but you don’t care as long as he stays smiling. “My Little Miss would sooner skin a deer with her teeth than cook.”

“You can thank my mother for that. Old habits die hard, even if they are ones to make me a perfect wife.”

“You’re a perfect wife already.” He says with a degree of finality in his statement, sitting by the fire. He makes it sound like you are his wife, and the thought brings a blush to your cheeks. “Are you going to join me?”

“I need to get bowls for the stew.”

“I mean in the bath.” He shoots a wink in your direction that you suppose is meant to be flirty, but on this defeated looking Jaskier it comes across more pathetic than anything else. Had you been asked an hour before, you would have moved heaven and hell for a chance to be in your miniscule bath with the Bard, using bathing as a preamble to ride him until your brain and legs turn to jelly and there's more water out of the bath than in it, but this Jaskier needs a gentle hand, and a helping hand to remove the layer of grime and melancholy that is covering his entire being. “You... You don’t have to. I. I'm being presumptuous, aren’t I?”

“How?” You ask weakly, descending to your knees at the bard's side. “It's hardly the first time you've asked to see me unclothed.”

“It’s been months. You probably have a new lover. I mean, look at you, how could you not?” He asks, gesturing to your body as if it was supposed to mean something to you. “You look like a gift from on high, and I... I left you here. To grow soft, and gentle and domestic.” His hand rests on your thigh but there’s nothing romantic in the touch, just longing. Like, despite his hand on your bard flesh, you're in fact a thousand miles away or he's lamenting to the spectre of a lost love. “Someone else has snapped you up, and I’ve lost you, and come here, and you’re too polite to say no.”

“We both know I would never be made to do anything I don’t want.” You smile, and lean in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He chuckles softly, and watches you as you ladle some stew into a bowl and hand it to him. “And I don’t. Have anyone else.”

“You said a man's name when I was at the door.”

“My employer. He’s... odd. Constantly sniffing about.” You reassure him, watching him spoon up some of the both and sip it before sighing, from the taste or reassured that you love him still. “If I didn’t want you, I’d have stabbed you.”

“You. You waited.” It’s a statement, and you nod simply in agreement.

“You said you'd come in winter.” His eyes focus on you once more, drinking you in like it is both the first and last time he shall see you.

“You look like you did the night we first met.” He says conversationally, and you smile, remembering how he had winked at you mid song. It feels a hundred years ago, though you know it couldn’t be more than six years ago. “I thought you were the most sublime creature on the planet. There’s not an ounce of feral in you, just... beauty and softness, with something wild behind the eyes.” He says soft like it’s a thing to be admired, not disparaged. His eyes, stormy blue and sad look about your childhood home with nostalgia for a time that you don’t know. “You look like a life worth living, Dear Heart.”

“...A life worth living?”

“Yes. This. This you, all gentle and half asleep, looking at me like you love me. A little home and a fire, Darling Love telling me to eat and bathe and sleep. Domestic. A life worth living.”

“I do love you Jaskier.” You interrupt, letting the words fall off your tongue like they’re the easiest thing in the world to say. They feel that way.

“You shouldn’t. I left you here.” The words come out hollow, and you take his hand from your thigh to your lips and kiss it. You can all but see the knotted weaves and threads of his mind, and hope the kiss will soothe them, even a little. His hand tugs free for a moment to ghost his fingers along the scar on your face, making you shiver.

“I was hurt.”

“I should have stayed. Should have stayed by your side.”

“You’re here now, Julian. That’s enough.” It shouldn’t be, but it is. He's here, not exactly as you’d like him to be, but having him beside you is more than enough. The comforting presence of warmth beside you is more than enough to wipe away the months of absence.

He sighs your name like a prayer, “I love you.”

“As you should.” You tease, and he places the bowl beside him to take your hands in his, prompting you to give up all pretence of propriety to instead climb onto his lap, intertwined fingers bridging the gap between your bodies. “You’re upset.”

“At the sight of the love of my life looking like a perfect little wife in an empty home.” Obtuse Jaskier might just be your least favourite form of the Bard, him trying to mask feelings he wears so openly, like he thinks you a fool. You’re unwilling to pry, though, so bite your tongue. “I’m half convinced I died on that mountain, and you’re just what my mind has created as a dying thought.”

“Shush.” You coo, lips chastely brushing against his. “You're as alive as I am, keep the melancholies out of it. If I look like some... darling bride then be quiet, seeing as that would make you a very foolish husband to spend your night bemoaning your fears and not kissing me.”

He chuckles at that, a small triumph, but enough to fill your heart to bursting point.

“I’d be a fool for leaving you here alone.” He starts but a sharp noise of annoyance cuts him off.

“Stay forever to make up for it, then.” You retort, “Sleep next to me until I can’t remember a single morning without you.”

He blinks at that, enrapturing you in how the black of his eyes swells until you cannot see any of the blue.

“You want me to stay?”

“For always.”

He grins, almost wide enough to distract from the tears that well in his eyes and you lean in to kiss him once more, his hands settling on your hips to pull you closer still. You've missed this, the stupidity that fills your head when his lips are on yours, tongue gently trailing along the seam of your mouth, never invasive, just inquisitive.

“You truly do need a bath though.” You grumble against his mouth, Jaskier pulls back in mock indignation.

“I know you don’t actually mean that and just want to undress me.”

“Oh, shut up, Dandelion.”

His hands turn from cradling to tickling, sending you into reams of laughter that he echoes. All, for just a moment, feels right in the world, now that he's with you again.

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier x y/n

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