The Witcher (One shots)

Her Sweet Kiss

(Jaskier x Yennefer)

Falling in love with Yennefer is easy in the way that falling victim to a curse is easy. Jaskier doesn’t notice it for what it is at first— that strange feeling beneath his skin, surely, is nothing more than an ailment he’ll recover from soon. There’s no name for it, no reason or motive; it’s a mess he slipped into all on his own. And, when he does realize what it is, it’s far too late. Yennefer smiles at him at the end of some grand battle, and Jaskier finally has a word for the warmth that curls across his body each time she stands close.

And, like a curse left untouched, it evolves. He loses sleep, tossing and turning to the thought of violet eyes. He writes songs he’ll never share, snapping quills in anguish when it’s late and he’s alone. Other people look at him with questioning glances and ask if he’s okay; Jaskier smiles shakily each time, keeping this curse close to his heart. 

He prays, sometimes, like an afflicted madman, for a cure. Geralt and Yennefer may not have named what they are, but Jaskier knows they’re a family, and bards only ever stand on the outsides of such things. It’s a lonely life but, at least, it offers him a lovely seat for the songs he has to write.

If love is a curse, though, perhaps it was stupid to imagine that a witch couldn’t sniff it out.

She confronts him one night on the road, pulling him away from Ciri and Geralt with the excuse that she needs his help collecting firewood. It’s a blatant lie, but Jaskier doesn’t know how to tell her no.

Instead, when she pins him to a tree with soft hands wrapped around his wrists and asks why he’s been behaving so oddly, he opens his mouth and tells her something else.

“Don’t panic,” he says, “but I think I love you.”

And she watches him with wide eyes as he fumbles to explain the feeling in his chest when she’s around, the magic-less enchantment she’s tied around his very soul. She snaps at him, calls him a liar, shoves his chest and says he’s cruel for playing such a joke. Jaskier cowers away from her anger— but, in her rage, her mask slips. Beneath the fury, he spots something greater— he spots fear, the kind that only roots itself in hope.

“I’d never lie about this, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, barely capable of forcing the words through his throat— it feels like he’s choking on his emotion, drowning in his desperation to prove his sincerity to her. It reminds him of the djinn, of that disaster. Yennefer fixed that curse, once; can she ease the pains of this one, too? “But I don’t want to hurt you with it, either. If you don’t need me, I’ll go.”

“Need you? You think this is about me needing you? A love confession isn’t a request for help or assistance, Jaskier. Don’t be stupid.” And Yennefer’s words shake, too, her hands trembling as she wraps them in the front of his shirt, holding him in place. “You foolish, hopeless bard— you should be asking if I want you.”

Want— it’s strange, almost, how odd that word feels against his skin. Back when he was first returned to this group, needing was the only word they used: I need your help, Jaskier, I need you . He had a purpose, a use; he never, though, had a role greater than a temporary aid.

“Do you want me?” He breathes, and Yennefer’s eyes burn.

“Yes,” she says. “I do.”

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At first, Jaskier didn't expect the two of them to last. Either destiny would pair the witcher and the witch back together, or fate would tear Jaskier from her in a tragic ending; Nilfgaard’s war felt never-ending, and Ciri’s powers drew more dangers than Jaskier could count. More than once, Jaskier tried to explain these fears to Yennefer.