Sing Me Awake
summary: A weary traveller makes the acquaintance of Jaskier and softness ensues. Set in Jaskier's cabaret.
pairing: Jaskier x Oleander (ofc)
word count: 5k (oh jesus christ, HELP this was meant to be max. 1k!)
tags/warnings: meet-cute (or perhaps love-at-first-sight, because it's Jaskier?), softness, bathtubs and food, mentions of exhaustion and canon typical levels of violence/danger
a/n: The result of me watching season 2 and the urge to write a "short cuddle fic" with new, sexy Jaskier: 5k later and they don't even cuddle. But hey. Mix massive Jaskier feels, a few The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt feels and a newfound appreciation for The Amazing Devil et voilà you get this. (Don't forget to shake very well!) Also, a little character study maybe? And tenses, as I did with my Thunderbird fanfic, I wanted to see the effects of present tense. In true self-analysis style, I made a quick "reasons why Jaskier is suddenly sexier in The Witcher Season 2" post a few days ago.
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Enjoy ✨
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Oleander plops down, her arms propped up on the surface of the wooden table and when her bottom connects with the equally hard surface of a wooden bench, the woman lets out a heavy sigh. The journey was long, strenuous, and the rests, where she could afford them, far and few in between. The sigh contains the anguish of her travels and provides the first relief for her sore feet and her exhausted body. Her neatly-packed bundle of belongings, she places carefully down on the stone ground, close to her by the foot of the bench.
In her weariness, she doesn’t dawdle on taking in the ambience of what appears to be a busy tavern. Already from the bridge that Oleander used to cross the river to get into the city of Novigrad, the noise and ruckus coming from the estate were unmissable, promising a lively inn. And a lively inn, in her experience, promised food and drinks to be served, and drinks and food came with the promise of a bench and a table to rest at. Chunky pieces of rich slices of bread and meats, useful in absorbing the plentiful of flowing alcohol… a thought that has her empty stomach growling and her mouth fill with water. Lodging for the night, she thinks and her mind wanders to the leather pouch containing ever-dwindling coins, she could not afford. But an ale or two, that she could pay for. About the rest of the night… well, she would have to see. Some way or other she would find a way to give her travel-weary body its deserving rest.
***** The bard on stage surveils his audience. Tonight’s spectators are the typical brawl found around these parts of the city, though this night one person, in particular, stands out from the crowd. He watched her tumble in, barely stable on her feet, just as he had finished a particularly polarising number. As entertainers do, he tries to interact with every member of his audience equally, though his gaze frequently hops back to that woman - auburn-hair artfully spun in a braided bun, and from what he could see, with a particularly lovely neck - though the lighting on the wooden stage may be playing a trick on him. She devours the snacks provided on the table like nothing else and nurses a drink. A woman after his own heart, he muses, considering the snacks are one of the bard’s favourite discoveries if he does say so himself. Thin, the thinnest slices of a round loaf of bread, crispy when bitten and lightly salted, they go well paired with any alcoholic beverage: The perfect addition to his cabaret. The bard’s pale blue eyes are still on the woman, he watches as she picks up crumb after crumb of the baked bread slices. As soon as the contents of the bowl are gone, almost as quickly as she started nibbling them, she returns to sipping her drink.
The bard is familiar with the air she has about her, knows it too well from the contorted figure staring back at him in the mirror, the few times the lodges he stayed at provided them; recognises travel exhaustion easily after years spent on the path accumulating the adventures he now sings about. Something about her, may it be empathy for a fellow travelled soul, his kindness of which some people say he doesn’t possess a speckle underneath all his egocentrism, or may it be a different pull altogether… whatever between the three it may be - mayhaps a combination even - is reason enough for him to announce a short break.
There is an ever-so-slight tremble to her hand as she moves the tankard of ale to her mouth, she sips it and sets it down again. Wood on wood a loud echo, as she loses her hold on the tankard a little too soon, and stifles a yawn. Her eyes get smaller and smaller, the longer she sits.
A sudden jolt to the table shakes Oleander out of her daze, eyes suddenly wide awake: Two hands had fallen down on the table, mirroring the previous impact from the tankard. This, though, the slapping, she thinks, was on purpose. The hands look masculine, she observes as her gaze travels upwards; her eyes following the ruffles of a cream undershirt that disappears underneath the hem of fuchsia coloured leather.
“You,” the man exclaims dramatically, revealing unmalicious intentions, despite his dramatic entrance, “must be hungry.” “No, I’m a person.” The retort comes quick, the words leaving Oleanders mouth before she can stop them. What a stupid joke, she thinks, and blames her tiredness for it. But the man barks out a laugh, shakes his head. “That was unexpected.” “Yeah, well for me too.” Oleander looks sheepish. “May I rephrase my previous statement, then? Are you, dearest, experiencing a state of a rumbly tummy, others before us, better people surely, have called hunger?” Oleander twirls the mug from side to side, the last of the liquid inside sloshing around at the bottom. Tame her hunger the drought didn’t, that much is true. But she would rather spend her last coin on another drink than forgo liquid for a meal.
“Hungry, I am, good Sir, but my coin purse doesn't allow for it,” she admits at last. No point in beating around the bush, though she is not even certain the man heard her full sentence, since, in the last minute they have spoken, the general volume of the tavern has significantly increased: Sporadic shouts and general ruckus began to rise around them: pointed inquiries for the bard to pick up his lute again. “In that case,” he claps his hands together, his focus solely on the woman in front of him; he ignores his impatient crowd for now. Instead, he turns around to the bar to check for Gustaf, the barkeep, satisfied he’s there wiping the counter, the bard turns again to the woman. “In that case my dear customer, may I propose food and drink on the house tonight?” “After all, what kind of owner of a fine establishment like this would I be, if I let such a lovely flower as yourself leave my premises unsatisfied?” Oleander starts her objection, though the man quickly declines underlined by a firm shake of his head: “Ah now, now, I won’t accept objections, my dear. I insist,” he says, takes a bow and leaves her table.
Baffled at what whirlwind had just visited her table, Oleander watches the man strut away to instruct the barkeep. It’s only a quick chat, the volume in the playhouse increasing by the minute: shouts of “Play another, bard!” fill the room. Oleander even perceives a hollered “Play Jajadingdong!”, whatever that may mean, and another requires, much to the approval of many: “Priscilla’s Song!”
Oleanders attention travels from the unsettled audience back to the bard at the bar, who’s finishing his instructions enhanced by wild gesticulations to and from her table, then leaves the barkeep to resume his post on stage. “And pour her another ale!” He shouts over his back, before hurrying to his waiting audience, which he addresses with his leather-clad arms wide open. “Ladies, and gentlemen,” he announces; his long fuchsia coat swooshes behind him as he hops on stage, “you very well know I don’t play Priscilla’s song when I’m on my own. But you lovely folk are more than welcome to return when the Nightingale next performs.” Low disapproval rumbles through the tables in answer. “It’s way too slow of a number for my taste tonight, anyway. Isn’t that right folks?” This time it’s agreeing glee that swashes back at the bard on stage. Oleander, who follows the interaction with fascination while waiting for her meal, next notices a burly man heaving himself up from the bench he sits on, swings his ale into the air and exclaims: “Stop the lollygagging already, bard, and let that butcher BUURN!” A dozen or so people join him. The volume reaches new heights, as heavy benches scrape over the flooring and the sound of more people standing up and agreeing, yet again, fills the air. More or less stable on their feet, they shower the unfortunate people still sitting in sticky liquid from ale and beer sloshing around their overflowing, raised tankards. The unison cries echoes the last wish until the noise level finally crescents with the resultant uproar: “LET THE BUTCHER BURN!” The bard on stage who watched his audience’s interaction - a twinkle in his eye revealing his amusement - grabs a hat from somewhere and begins the desired song with a rehearsed dramatic turn. He does get lost in his performance like every night, though he has to admit that tonight his glance wanders over to the woman at the table in the corner more than once. He merely wants to verify that she’s eating, he tells himself and eating she is, oh gods is she eating. He was right, that poor thing is half-starved. With another aggressive string of his lute and another word shouted out, he twirls to the other side of the tavern. The picture of the woman temporarily forgotten as he gives himself over to his performance.
The words to his song sting him, nothing new. Sometimes, it even feels like he almost welcomes the familiarity of it. Tonight though, he finds the sting somewhat alleviated. Its grip less sharp as on other nights; it doesn’t quite pierce his core like usual. Almost as if a healing balm, that relieves him of the poison, has set over his skin.
Once more, the bard’s gaze wanders over to the auburn-haired woman. He didn’t even ask for her name: negligence on his part, that he needs to modify later. Might even need to cut his performance short to make sure he could correct this unfortunate mishap before the woman leaves. Although… now that his mind is on the subject, with her last coin already spent, she might not even have a place to go, with no way to pay for lodging… From his own experiences, he knows even the humblest of accommodations required more coin than they were deserving of. And as every thug and delinquent was well aware, of even outrageously expensive stables were preferable to the gutters of Novigrad.
After another song or two, he supposes, he could get away with a quick break, maybe promise the audience an encore. That way it would allow him to have a quick chat with the woman before she was gone. ******
Oleander scrapes the spoon a last time along the bottom of the now emptied bowl, when the same man as before appears seemingly out of nowhere: Oleander herself too preoccupied with guzzling the food down, to follow the man’s antics on stage. “So good to see you enjoying the food, dearest.” “Oh, it’s you.” Her eyes widen at the recognition and she smiles at him, her demeanour already much livelier than previously. “Thank you, for the food. I really needed that and it's a top contender for one of the most delicious meals I have ever had the grace to taste.” That brings a beam to the man’s face: “I’m glad to hear that. I do pride myself on providing not only exquisite entertainment but also offering the finest selection of foods, I'll have you know. Allow me to introduce myself,” he continues theatrically, “Julian Alfred Pankratz … ah,” he interrupts himself, “screw all that, just call me Jaskier,” he finishes with a flourish. “It’s nice to meet you, Jaskier. Especially because you treated me to all this.” She gestures vaguely to the table to encompass the empty bowls and plates. “Thank you, again, for the meal, you were gone so quickly, I didn't even have the time to pay you my respects for this honourable invitation, I appreciate it,” she stops shortly, then finishes her ramble: “I’m Oleander.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Oleander... about the food, don’t you mention it, I did it gladly. Only I needed to go so quickly, because, - and what can a bard say - I had an audience to take care of. But now that they are sufficiently satisfied, for the moment at least,” he interjects with a side-glance to the crowd in question, “I must ask you something, dear, if you don’t mind." Jaskier doesn't give Oleander time to replay, continuing straightaway instead: "I am gonna make a… some might say - questionable - and daring presumption but rest assured dear Oleander, Jaskier the bard has only the best of interests at heart.” The vague description leaves Oleander curious and her inquisitive look leads Jaskier to continue. “Am I right in assuming you don’t have a place to stay for the night?” “Yes,” she says, eyes cast down. No point in denying her less-than-ideal situation. Knowing her dire position, perhaps he’ll let her sleep here on the benches near the fire after folks have cleared out.
“That’s rather unfortunate. Although you might as well count your lucky stars, for you, my dear, have won a night at the Chameleon - my humble establishment.” “You can’t be serious!” Oleanders mouth drops open, awed, this was more than she dared hope for. “Rest assured, I am, serious!” The bard exclaims excitedly. “In fact, I can spare a few minutes before the bumbling band of baboons in here will demand I sing again, or otherwise I fear they’ll take my head. I could show you to your chamber’s right this second if you finished dining. Or perhaps you’d like another ale first?” Jaskier’s eager demeanour was a lot to keep up with, but nothing Oleander wasn’t used to from some kids back home. With a pat to her belly, she declared “Oh, I’m done, there is no more space for another drop or crumb in here.” “Very well then, follow me, if you would, my dear.” And that she did. ******
“You must be jesting, Jaskier. This is much more than I expected, are you quite certain you can spare this room?!” Oleanders green eyes widen as she takes in the sight of what she is convinced must be the best room in the house: Wide, open space, polished wooden flooring, elegantly furnished and cosy looking furs round off what is clearly fabulous interior design. “My dear rose, the fine establishment you currently reside in is owned by me, therefore, allow me to fill my empty rooms to my liking. And for tonight this suite shall house a weary traveller, I’ve decided and so it shall be. I won’t abide any complaints.”
“If you’re quite sure I won’t ask if you have all your marbles with you after all, and instead humbly accept your offer. This is so very kind of you, Jaskier.” Unbelieving of her luck tonight, - Oleanders widened eyes still roam around the room - she accepts Jaskier’s hospitality without further ado.
Half-shielded behind a folding screen decorated with intricate patterns carved into the wood, Oleander finds a sturdy wooden bathtub. The water inside hot; it readily steams away.
“So you can give your body a little soothing treatment before you lay to sleep,” Jaskier - having followed Oleanders peer - comments. She watches, awed by the thoughtfulness, as the man then struts over to a shelf on the wall, from where he pulls down a glass half-filled with bath salts, opens the lid and with a flick of his wrist, sprinkles a handful of salt into the tub. Next, he glides over to the upper shelving unit, hand fishing around before he - accompanied by a triumphant “aha!” - procures another glass jar that holds “dried lavender bundles.”
Jaskier, having walked over to - this time around - gently place a few twigs of dried lavender into the awaiting water, turns around to Oleander. “I gotta go back and entertain the audience forthwith, and you, my flower, enjoy your bath.” Admittedly a little disappointed that the bard wouldn’t be staying, Oleander undresses, once aforementioned bard has closed the door with a gentle click. She steps her toe into the waiting water: the temperature is a little on the high side, getting in is a slow procedure, but at least this way it promises a longer venture.
She slides in and is immediately greeted by the faint herbal scents the bath salts exude, rosemary and thyme, she believes. Their smell mixed with the flowery undertones of lavender and in combination with their medicinal properties; they prove a solace to her aching body and let Oleanders weary mind relax. The heat of the water sinks into her very bones and along with the vapour of the steaming liquid that rises around her, her ails of the road disappear into thin air. She leans her back against the edge of the tub and relaxes into the water.
*****
Suddenly two knocks, in very quick succession, jostle Oleander awake. She sits up, water splashing a little at her sudden movement, just as the door opens a few inches. “Oleander? It’s me, Jaskier,” Jaskier says, poking his head through the ajar door. “Oh, come in.” “I don’t mean to impose myself on you,” he excuses, as he steps through the door into the room. “I needed to make sure you didn’t fall asleep in that tub, dear,” the bard explains, walks over to the shielded area, and suddenly finds himself having much trouble not to stumble over his own words, once he takes in the sight of Oleander in the tub. The heat of the water has tinted her body - naked and fully on display - the warmth lends colour to her cheeks - a lovely rose-tone - and underneath the surface, Jaskier outlines the shadows of her shapely breasts. What’s more is the brazen look he is met by, once his eyes have travelled up far enough to see her face. It’s a look he’s seen once before, the unabashed presentation of ones body. As if to say: “Here I am, take me in, I don’t care.” The way how she holds herself in her given frame as it is merely a vessel holding her spirit. And what a lovely vessel it is, Jaskier thinks briefly, when he can’t help his eyes roaming all over once more, taking in the sight that's presented in front of him, anew.
*****
Oleander meets the bard’s gaze. He’s still wearing that ridiculous coat of his. Though, in contrast to earlier in the evening, he looks flushed now, a little sweaty even, if the dollop near his forehead dangling from a loose strand of hair is anything to go by. Performing in that carefully put-together outfit of his must get hot after a while. Whereas she didn’t pay it too much attention earlier in the evening; too preoccupied with the feast in front of her - thanks to rest and a tummy comfortably full of food, Oleander feels rejuvenated - her senses sharper again, she takes it all in now. His half-undone doublet underneath his coat exposes a rather revealing blouse.
Through it, Oleander sneaks a peek at a hairy chest: coarse, dark hair adorns what seems to be not an inconsiderable amount of muscles and a glimmer that reflects the dim candlelight, the bling of a necklace, perhaps.
“Aren’t you warm in your coat?” She asks, scrutinizing his masterfully dishevelled hair. “I am, now,” he admits. “You could,” she starts unashamed. Fully aware, that she sits naked in the bathtub, she begins idly playing with the hot water, her finger twirling through the liquid, and disrupting the smooth surface. Her eyes, dark in the dimly lit room, follow the movement her fingers create before she ultimately regards Jaskier again, and finishes: “… join me if you’d like.”
The bard scrambles to follow her proposal; almost falls over in his eagerness as he starts discarding his clothes quickly.
Oleander closes her eyes again, a supposed sign of her relaxation while leaving Jaskier in the belief of privacy for his undressing. She hears a few mumbled “Fuck’s”, a curse against all buttons in general and one heartfelt, yet still muttered “Fuckity fuck -fuck!, just come OFF”, before his garments start to drop to the ground, one low thud after the other. Though still pretending not to pay him much attention, eyes still closed, Oleander can’t help the wide smile of amusement that spreads out on her lips.
When she next opens her eyes Jaskier has successfully settled into the tub across from her and sits resting against the edges mirroring Oleanders pose. From up-close, she gets a full view of the necklaces he’s wearing, emphasis on necklaces, since the bard is not only wearing one, as Oleander previously suspected, but two. One is a simple, yet expensive looking chain that carries a ring, from the other dangles a shape resembling an odd fork, with two instead of three prongs, an object perhaps, that Oleander has not seen before. The pendants rest comfortably in the middle of his chest, his prominent pecs displayed on either side. “The songs you played,” she says a little hesitant, aware discussing them must be a personal topic for the bard, other than when he chooses to share them with an audience. “... I really liked them. Under different circumstances, I would have liked to get up and dance, but for that, I was too exhausted. You gotta come to one of our village festivals and perform there, we can make up for my lack of dance then.” “Yeah? That’s good to hear.” His answer is more a comment on the compliment he’s just been paid, rather than the request to come perform.
His demeanour is changed, Oleander notices, is more relaxed now, a little quieter perhaps as downstairs. As if, she muses, as if the bard discarded the extravagant entertainer along with his signature coat. Stripped bare, he sits in front of her, the jewellery adorning him - the dainty chains dangling from his neck and a ring on his finger - the only earthly possessions that still embellish him. “Mhm,” Oleander nods, lays her head to the side, “do you not get super hot performing in that outfit of yours?”
Jaskier laughs: “Nah, that depends on the location, some barnes are so drafty that I freeze my buttocks off on the regular.” Oleander chuckles, relaxes deeper into the water and tangles her feet into Jaskier's outstretched ones. She lets their laugh remain in the air, lets it settle into a peaceful ambience of mutual comfort. After a moment or two, she picks up the topic of his songs again, a topic her curiosity wouldn’t let go of.
“Let me ask you a question now, if you don’t mind, bard,” she echoes Jaskier’s words from earlier in the evening. “Of what Butcher do you sing?” Jaskier’s face darkens, a shadow passes over his eyes, clouding the light blue for a moment. It raises in Oleander the picture of grey storm clouds pushing in front of a clear, blue sky. The bard sighs, his body stiffens and his darkened eyes turn to observe the surface of the bathwater, looking for images perhaps; an easy answer maybe. When he doesn’t find them, he breathes out deeply and meets Oleander’s glance again. “That’s a long story.” The “that I don’t want to trouble you with,” hangs implied in the air. “Another night, maybe,” he says, signalling he is not rebuffing her.
“What business brings you to the far corners of this land tonight?” He asks Oleander.
“Personal business,” she replies promptly, and after a moment of hesitation goes on: “My father is ailed by an illness and our village medicine is not enough to cure it… Some say he’s been poisoned by a monster, though we do not know which. Or if this is true at all. But our soothsayer pointed me to Novigrad, assuring me the residing alchemist here would have the remedy…” she pauses, processing the information just shared. “I’ve set aside a considerable amount of coin in my bag, still. All the coin we could spare really, to be able to afford it. Hence the cutbacks I had to make while on the road.” The truth and worry spill out of her easily. So easily. The close-kept secret of why she’s actually travelling piles out of her in front of Jaskier. Something tells her this secret is safe, here, with him. As much as it’s not actually a secret, but rather a lesson learned the hard way: spare coin is nothing for a traveller to reveal in these parts of the continent.
****** The atmosphere between them after the more serious topic turns quaint and lighthearted, with the both of them sat in the bathtub, idle chitchatting the night away. Words and laughs exchanged like they’re old friends, like their acquaintance has lasted years already and was not started on this night. This is until Jaskier, who scrutinised Oleander closely during her sharing a tale of her home, realises how much time has passed. The once-hot water must have turned tepid a while ago, way too cold for a human. “How about we get out and get you to bed, sweetheart?” He offers. “You must be cold and beyond exhausted by now.” “Mhmh,” she nods in agreement. Jaskier gets out first, procures a seizable towel from another shelf and holds it open, an invitation for Oleander to get wrapped up in the big, fluffy goodness. She accepts gladly and once she steps out of the bath, Jaskier wraps her up and rubs her dry as good as he can. Getting the blood in her limp limbs flowing again. He almost melts at the way Oleander falls into his opened arms, and, even through the thick material, leans into his touch.
“Thank you,” she says, while tired, but sated eyes blink up at him. She unwraps herself out of the towel, takes it from Jaskier and returns the favour. Once she’s done, having ensured every previously wet patch was sufficiently dried, going so far as to rubbing the tips of his almost shoulder-length hair tenderly without tugging too much on the strands, between the towel, she asks with earnest innocence tainting her voice: “Are you staying?” It’s a gentle invitation to prolong the time sharing the same sphere that they fell into while exposed in the bathtub, after having orbited around each other ever since Oleander set foot in the cabaret. An invitation Jaskier would be a fool to deny.
She reaches for his hand and guided by her, he graciously follows suit. Awestruck, he doesn’t verbally convey his enthusiasm, the “Staying? Of fucking course I am,” only silently running through his mind, at first. “There’s no place on the continent I’d rather go, than remaining here with you, my love,” he admits eventually. The smile she sends him over her shoulder in response is the spark igniting a previous wingless thing. It is now beating in his heart, an excited fluttering at the return to its natural state; after finally being reunited with what it had gone without, for far too long.
They both settle into the bed, tumbling on top of each other at first before each settles down on one side, and an easy, comfortable silence falls over them, only interrupted by the cracking of burning logs coming from the fireside.
Laying side by side, facing each other, Jaskier expects Oleander to nod off quickly, but to his surprise, her tired eyes stay open - her exhausted body too busy keeping her alive to let her doze off - she absorbs the living creation in front of her. Oleander reaches her hand out to Jaskier once more, this time to trace the path of the chain around the bard’s neck. Her eyes travel up from the metal, warmed by the man’s body temperature, to the pale blue of his eyes. The invisible line her fingertips follow disturb the hair on his chest; tickle him. All this time, Jaskier remains quiet, observes her, spellbound, as he waits for his queue. “Tell me a story?” She semi asks, semi requires after a while of muted study.
He swallows, his voice, after tonight’s exertion, is thinner, raspy when he says: “I don’t have a story.” Oddly enough, all his thoughts, the constant stream of tales, as well as all the commotion in his head, he finds hushed in her presence. In the unusual serenity of his genius, he searches until a sole story remains, because who is he to deny her?
Eventually, he says: “I do know a ballad.” She beams and holds her breath waiting for him. He stretches out his hand, and a finger, much thicker than hers, weaves aside a loose strand of hair that escaped her artfully crafted hairdo Jaskier admired all evening. “It’s in elder speech.” He gets lost playing with her hair for a moment before he continues: “I’ve been trying to translate it for a while now, not too much success, I must admit, as there are few words in our language as beautiful as elvish. Though,” he pauses for a second, pondering, “I can say, my latest revision did improve things immensely.” The honesty of her green eyes appear to bleed nothing but kind curiosity, but the longer Jaskier submerges in them, the more her exhaustion creeps through, and despite his desire to talk away the night with her, worry prompts him to require: “I’ll share it if you promise to go to sleep.”
“Okay.”
As Jaskier starts to recite the first line, he runs his finger down the curve of the side of her that’s exposed to him.
But when he feels her eyes still trained on him, open eyes, he stops to softly scold her: “Close your eyes then, little rose.”
She obeys hesitantly, though a smile rounds her cheeks. She scoots around on the bed: an attempt at settling in the snuggest position possible; wrapped into the blanket and eventually, she shuts her eyes.
She does sneak her hand out from underneath the blanket, to Jaskiers - skin touching skin - as she takes his in hers and guides it underneath the blanket, back on her naked form: a demand for him to continue the caress that he temporarily paused while Oleander nestled in.
He does as is asked of him and begins to recite. "This feels nice," are the last words Oleander dispenses, before she nods of listening to Jaskier intoning a ballad with his soothing voice:
“To adore you is all my life Fair Ettariel Let me keep, then, the treasure of memories, and the magical flower; A pledge and sign of your love. Silvered by drops of dew as if by tears…”
“Sleep well, dear heart,” he whispers into her forehead, once he's done, certain his flower has at last fallen asleep and presses his lips softly against her skin.
******
Please let me know what you think, feedback and reblogs are always welcome. ✨ sources: The ballad Jaskier recites in Time of Contempt, by Andrezj Sapkowski, (excerpt from the witcher fandom website). "bubbling band of baboons" is of course a Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire reference.
