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[ahhhhhhdonna]

Brooding no more!!!🍻

[ahhhhhhdonna]

Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski, The Witcher (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Wiedźmin | The Witcher Character(s) Additional Tags: Minor Injuries, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion Friendship, Betaed, Mystery, Exhaustion, Sickfic, Plot Summary:

After being attacked on the road, what started as a normal day quickly turns into a rescue mission. This is basically a Geralt and Jaskier friendship story with some mystery to spice things up. Slight Geraskier, if you want to read it that way.

[ahhhhhhdonna]

no thoughts head empty just jaskier's teary eyes and geralt's little forehead crease

[ahhhhhhdonna]

My personal head canon is that Jaskier is constantly eating all those random things because no one has properly fed him since he was rescued from the prison. Geralt's all "I need you" and they're off.

And, let's be real, he gave most of his jail food to the mice.

Someone feed the bard! :(

[ahhhhhhdonna]

touching 35 for yennskier or geraskefer please?? ❤

35. Touching their bruises and scars

And @handwrittenhello asked for "kissing each finger" for Yennskier, which tied nicely into this ficlet, so here's some post season 2 Yennskier hurt/comfort. Warnings for mentions of canonical self-harm and a past suicide attempt.

Yennefer finds Jaskier sitting on one of Kaer Morhen's few undamaged ramparts , feet swinging over the edge as he takes a long drink from a bottle of White Gull. It's just past dawn and the half-destroyed keep is lit up with a soft pink glow.

"Did you ever sleep, bardling?" Yennefer asks.

Jaskier yelps and drops the bottle. Far below, there's the sound of glass shattering as it hits the ground. "Fucking hells, witch! Are you trying to kill me?"

"I have my chaos back," she reminds him, perching on the rampart next to him. "I could use a more direct method if I wanted to kill you now."

"You don't need to remind me," he says. "I'm surprised you're not off with Geralt."

Yennefer shrugs, ignoring the sting of the words. "I don't think he has much to say to me right now."

"He'll forgive you, you know."

She stares hard at the horizon. "Maybe he shouldn't."

"Of course he should." He nudges her shoulder with his. "Yennefer, you had a demon inside your head."

"It didn't force me to do anything."

"Are you sure? Or did it just let you think you had free will so it could feed off your guilt and despair? That was its thing, right?"

She swallows the acid feeling in her throat. The inside of her mind still feels dirty and violated. "I suppose we'll never know."

"I know," he says with far too much confidence. "You wouldn't hurt Ciri, not of your own volition. And I'm saying that as someone who has absolutely no faith in your better nature."

Yennefer snorts and rolls her eyes. "I suppose you're right. I almost enjoyed your company back in Oxenfurt. Only demonic possession could achieve such a thing."

He barks a laugh. "Horrible woman."

"That's no way to talk to your wife."

Jaskier laughs so hard at that, she fears he'll fall off the rampart. When he gets control of himself, she expects him to make some pithy remark that isn't half as amusing as he thinks it is. Instead, he reaches out and takes her hand, turning it over. She sucks in a breath as he runs a finger over the scars on her wrists, old and new.

"Does it hurt?" he asks in a undertone.

"Not anymore. When my chaos came back, the cuts healed."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because someone had to," Yennefer says. "I brought that thing to Kaer Morhen's doorstep. If anyone was going to make a sacrifice, it should have been me."

Jaskier makes a small, wounded noise.

Yennefer touches the decades-old scar on her wrist. "My first night at Aretuza, I tried to kill myself. When I woke up, the rectoress asked me, 'Do you know how many people wouldn't even blink if you died?' And she was right. I could have died that night and not a single person would have given a shit."

"I would blink, Yenn," Jaskier whispers. "So would Geralt. So would Ciri. If you had died tonight, we very much would have given a shit."`

Yennefer feels too exposed in the soft morning light. It makes her want to say something cruel, something to start a fight and make him stop looking at her with those earnest eyes. "You don't need me to save you anymore, bardling. You have Geralt back."

"I get in a lot of trouble. There's plenty of rescuing to go around."

Yennefer huffs, but says nothing as he tentatively lifts her wrist to his lips and presses a feather-light kiss to the new scar there. It's a chaste kiss, but she feels it all the way down to her toes. "Trying to kiss it better?"

"No, I'm not the one with the chaos." His voice is light, but she can see the pain in his eyes and she remembers that he has some wounds of his own. She pulls her hand from his grasp and takes his hand, turning it over so she can see his burnt fingertips. His index and middle fingers are both shiny with burns.

"Fire fucker," she growls, thinking of the twisted, burnt corpses of that poor family in Sodden. She has no doubt that would have been Jaskier if she hadn't interfered and the thought is enough to make her want to hunt the bastard down.

"Yeah." Jaskier releases a shaky breath. "He was the worst."

She remembers the desperate, terrified despair in Jaskier's screams, the way he begged the mage not to hurt her, when anyone else would have been begging for their own lives. The way he leaned against her afterwards, completely trusting. She raises his burnt fingertips to her lips and kisses each of them in turn. His fingers tremble under her touch.

"Yennefer," he whispers.

When she pulls back, his burns are gone, the skin of his fingertips pale and unblemished, save for his callouses. His smile is more than a little watery.

"Yennefer of Vengerberg," he says, a quaver in his voice. "No one ever told me you were adorable. You kissed it and made it better."

She scowls at him, hoping to cover up the too many emotions welling up inside her. "Tell no one about this."

"Oh, I'm telling everyone. My next song will be about the witch with the healing lips. It will be my greatest--"

Yennefer pulls him into a kiss, silencing him. It's a long, lingering kiss, full of promises that need to wait until they're not still exhausted and recovering from the events of the last few days.

When Yennefer pulls away, she looks at Jaskier's dopey smile and says, "You're wrong. I don't have a healing kiss."

"Don't you?" He sound a bit breathless.

"No, because I just kissed you and you're as insufferable as ever."

Jaskier's mouth drops open. "You--"

She kisses him again. It seems to be the only way to shut him up.

It's not a surefire method, because between kisses, he murmurs, "I'm still writing a song about you."

"Don't you dare."

"I'm not even a little scared of you, witch."

Yennefer nips at his lower lip. "Yes, you are."

"Yes," Jaskier says, sounding a little dreamy. "I am."

Touch prompts

Tag list: @kueble @maya-the-yellow-bee @feral-jaskier

[ahhhhhhdonna]

A Lonely Aftermath

Notes: Season 2 spoilers. Jaskier has a lot of self-worth issues and is rather flippant about the idea of his own death. If that's upsetting to you I would recommend not reading this fic. I promise there is some comfort!! It's not all bad!

Tags: platonic yennskier, could be read as romantic I guess - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Injured Jaskier | Dandelion, Caretaker Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Blood and Injury, The Witcher (TV) Season 2, Post-Season/Series 02, Self-Worth Issues, i just want someone to care about him

Summary: Jaskier wasn't blind. It was clear to see there was no place for him in Kaer Morhen. He had fully intended on heading back down the mountain as soon as possible, but nothing was ever simple. Instead he ended up hiding away in his room away from everyone else while he tried to deal with a potentially lethal injury by himself.

It's a good thing then that Yennefer regained her magic and comes to check on him.

-

askier didn’t really know what to do with himself once all was said and done. The battle was over, dead monsters and witchers lying all around him, the stench of blood filling the air. Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri had reappeared only moments ago, and after making sure Yennefer was alright, it seemed no one had any use for him. Not that he was much use to begin with. The witchers had all wandered off to lick their wounds while the newly formed family were gathered before what was left of the monolith.

Jaskier was left feeling like a loose end. Though he was happy for them, he couldn’t bear to see the three of them together, Geralt finally with the family he deserved, but with no room for Jaskier himself. That was fine, he told himself, expected even. He could hardly say he was surprised after all that at the end of the day, he was still nothing but a nuisance. He’d been foolish to believe anything would really change between him and Geralt.

Instead of hanging around, he took himself back to the room he’d chosen, a small dark hole that was little more than a glorified cupboard with a bed in it. Still, the walls were whole, and a smaller space meant it was easier to keep warm without a fire. He didn’t plan on staying long anyway so it didn’t really matter.

Read more on ao3

[ahhhhhhdonna]

Oh, to be one of the golden rings on that bard's hand...

[ahhhhhhdonna]

regarding oxenfurt

warnings: Witcher Season 2 spoilers, pyrophobia, mention of/description of burns and canonical torture

A/N: Jaskier is traumatized and this writer is going to address it even if canon won’t. A little rusty on these characters. Hope you enjoy <3

Jaskier takes in a deep breath of the night air, relishing in the lack of must and mildew and mold that had permeated the air of the prison. He much preferred the scent of pine and soil, thank you very much. It was colder out here, but that also may have had something to do with the fact that Jaskier was sitting as close to the fire as he could stand which—as happenstance would have it—was father than he was used to.

“You left something out,” Geralt says abruptly. Jaskier looks up at him across the fire, but Geralt isn’t looking at him. Instead, the Witcher snaps a twig and tosses it into the flames. Jaskier tries very hard—and still fails—to not jerk his hands back at the spray of sparks it sends into the sky.

“Hm?”

Geralt’s brow furrows, and Jaskier wonders if those Witcher senses caught the way his heart jumped. If he can still hear the way it’s pounding and sprinting in his chest.

“About Oxenfurt.”

“With Yennefer? Pretty sure I covered the important bits. She was traveling with some fellow. Said she didn’t have magic, which may or may not have been a lie, it’s rather unclear at this point—”

“She said you were in some trouble.”

Jaskier tenses, his muscles coiling. The burn scars on his hand tingle. “Ah,” he says. “I suppose that’s one way to phrase it.”

Geralt looks up. Jaskier looks away.

“She didn’t go into detail.”

Keep reading

[ahhhhhhdonna]

I was struck by the fact that Geralt "needing Jaskier's help" was really him needing a bit of information, right?

Like, he could have freed him, asked him what the heck happened with Yen, and then just left him there in Oxenfurt.

He doesn't NEED Jaskier to accompany him on the quest to find her. But he takes him anyway!

In fact, he says "WE need to go to Cintra." Even though, Jaskier will inevitably slow him down on this very important quest to save his daughter's life.

He even takes a moment (as fleeting as it might be, I know!) to apologize on this extremely time sensitive trip.

So, unless I'm missing something...is this a scenario where Geralt's actions speak louder than his words? He brings Jaskier because he wants to, not because it's crucial to the mission or because the bard wanted to follow.

Geralt WANTED him to come along, okay?? And now I'm just going to go cry in the corner and-

[ahhhhhhdonna]

and you sit next to me (your fingers brushing mine)

Once the immediate danger has passed and the dust has settled, Yennefer seeks Jaskier out to return the favour of being the only one to make sure they’re both alright…

A/N: head empty only yennskier - title from ruin by the amazing devil :]

Keep reading

[ahhhhhhdonna]

“We need your help,” Geralt says. And then—a crack, in his expression. One that Jaskier’s only seen rarely, and never turned on himself. “I need your help.”

Jaskier hesitates. He can feel the ghost-bruises ringing around his ribs, still not fully healed. The ache in his fingers, long-since broken bones stiffly knitting back together. The chip missing from a tooth. The itch of the cut across his back that was never treated and never healed right; didn’t heal as well as it would have done if strong, calloused hands had stitched the skin back together and smothered it in ointment and bound it with bandages made for much more grizzly wounds.

He can feel the shard, still, in his heart. Like an arrowhead; like a dagger. The whip of wind on his cheeks. The twist of shale beneath an already twisted ankle. The ringing, empty loss. The loneliness.

He can feel the hoarse sting in his throat that still hasn't quite abated.

The screaming stopped days ago.

Jaskier hesitates. He swallows. He looks away—he cannot look at Geralt. He cannot bring himself to look.

And—

“Fuck it.” He hates himself. He wants to twist himself in knots.

He strides forwards, his boots sliding through the rotten straw on the cell floor, and pulls Geralt into a hug. And, impossibly, Geralt hugs him back.

He feels Geralt’s bulk beneath his arms, against his chest. His hair—cleaner than it once was—tickling his cheek. His breath against his neck. The familiar smell of horse and leather and, yes, onion, assails him. His eyes fill with hot, stinging tears.

He blinks them back.

He feels the magespell, tingling at the back of his head. The traitorous burr lodged there when they realised he wouldn’t speak. When they had to find some other use for him. He wants to tell Geralt to leave—tell him to run—but it binds around his tongue and he finds it heavy, unable to move, making him mute.

Geralt squeezes him a fraction tighter, his gloved fingers slipping across the leather of Jaskier’s coat as he struggles to gain purchase, and Jaskier's stony heart sinks a little lower.

Fuck it.

He squeezes back. He does not shut his eyes, even though he wants to.

[ahhhhhhdonna]

Jaskier meets the cats part one ?? (i have no idea what I am doing)

also this is pretty much a sickfic

---

A violent shiver shook the bard's hunched over body, the cold that had settled into his bones weeks ago intensified. He pulled the raggedy blanket tighter around his shoulders, trying to prevent the biting wind from getting to the unconscious man that was halfway sprawled onto his lap. As the wooden cart rumbled underneath them, he could feel his companion seize from sickness. They truly must have looked pathetic to the group of soldiers that had passed them not too long ago.

A farmer's cart, pulled by three tired horses, packed full with refugees that were closer to death's door than a pig on market day.

A wet cough build up in his aching throat. He tried to stifle it with no luck and was left hagging and wheezing for air afterwards. The stranger sitting in front of him, turned away with a scowl on his face. He didn't blame him, the war had frozen the hearts of many.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” a young lad next to him began to utter. “With how slow these damned horses are, we will never reach Oxenfurt before the first snow. To think they can treat me like that, I'm a Lord and heir to my father's name, Melitele behold!”

Jaskier let out a chuckle, that ended in another cough. The lad glared at him and he returned the look with tired eyes. “And I'm the Viscount of Lettenhove, professor at Oxenfurt Academy, master of arts and the herald of the western Continents. No one gives a shit about your title, lad. Sorry to disappoint.” That shut him up rather quickly. Jaskier felt almost bad about it, almost. It was better for him to learn that lesson now than try to cause trouble once they were at Oxenfurt's gates.

The unconscious body in his lap shook through yet another set of seizures and Jaskier let out a defeated sigh. Until they reached the city, there was nothing he could do for the man and with how things looked at the moment, he would arrive alone.

Helplessness was a horrible feeling, one that Jaskier dreaded with all his might. The longer the war with Nilfgaard went on, the worse it got. He was tired, completely exhausted, physically and mentally at the end of a very thin line. He could see the outcome of all of this and it was not a bright future.

The cart came to a sudden stop, one of the horses letting out a scared noise, another one bucking and shaking it's passengers. The farmer that lead the horses let out a series of curses and a fearful murmur went through their little group. Jaskier clutched the bag between his feet tighter, knowing all too well that bandits liked to attack passenger carts like theirs. Personally, he owned nothing worthwhile anymore, but he also carried what little possessions his companion had when they met and he was not ready to let go of his pack willingly.

“What is going on?” The lad from earlier asked, craning his neck to get a glimpse of what was going on in the front. If this indeed was a bandit attack, he'd be the first one to die, Jaskier thought bitterly and hunched over a bit more, trying to shield the sick man in his arms from any possible dangers. “Witchers,” the farmer answered them, his voice thin with panic. “Witchers, a whole caravan of witchers.”

Caravan.

Cats.

Jaskier's heart jumped and his head snapped around. Melitele's fucking- “Are you cats?” He yelled as loud as he could with his hoarse voice. The man in front of him turned around, his face ashen. “Are you trying to kill us?” he hissed full of spite, but the bard ignored him. “Are you cats?” He asked again, louder, the dreaded panic making every word wobble. Behind them, he could hear a horse approaching the cart. “Who wants to know that?”

That meant yes.

Fuck.

“Fucking shit,” he breathed out. Relieve rushed through his veins, like sparks of chaos that made his muscle twitch. But then he could hear the man in his arms whimper and the fear set in again. They only had mere moments, he was sure of it. His throat spasmed when he yelled, “Hurry, please! I have Schrödinger with me! He's dying!” A round of monstrous yowls rang through the forest and suddenly, someone stood next to Jaskier, yanking the ragged blanket away from him and revealing the cat witcher in his arms. The humans around them flinched away in fear, the lad from earlier nearly scrambled off the cart. Within seconds, Schrödinger was taken from Jaskier, cradled against a tall witcher's chest as another hoisted Jaskier out of the cart, held tightly by his neck and forced to stumble into the direction of the caravan. He didn't even try to protest, just clutching onto his pack, trying to follow Schrödinger and the other witcher as fast as he could.

As soon as they were out of the way, the farmer spurred on his horses and the cart disappeared between the trees, none of the refugees daring to look back.

“I found him in a ditch near Roggeven,” Jaskier started babbling, knowing full well that every single cat witcher surrounding them was listening. “He was barely conscious, wounded badly. I did my best to help, but he was poisoned during a hunt, told me about his allergies so I couldn't brew any potions for him. I have absolutely no idea what to use instead of drowners, he wasn't able to stay awake long enough to tell me.”

His eyes firmly fixed on the unconscious man, Jaskier barely took notice of his surroundings. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that more and more cats joined them, jumping down from trees and other caravans, stepping out into the light from where they had been hiding in the shadows, some seemingly appearing out of nowhere. “He didn't have his swords anymore when I found him, but I could save some of his things. I hid his medallion in a sewed in pocket,” he explained while holding out the pack that was quickly taken from his hands. “I was trying to get him to Oxenfurt, a friend of mine is a healer, she would have known what to do.”

He stopped, when an arm is slapped against his chest, fingers gripping into the worn fabric of his shirt. He couldn't help the responding wince leaving his lips, when Schrödinger let out a pained yowl, he wanted to dart forward and do... something. The adrenaline of nearly losing the cat was still rushing through his body. His fingers twitched helplessly and he balled them into a fist, not daring to move his feet.

The tall witcher placed Schrödinger's limp body inside a caravan with a rounded, wooden roof and immediately, three other pushed the tall one away, scrambling to get to the sick witcher. Jaskier caught glimpses of a potion bottle and a bundle of clean cloth wraps, before the witchers' broad backs blocked his view.

He blinked once, twice, before forcing his eyes away from the scene and his mind back into existence. When he looked up, he was met with the sight of a heavily scarred witcher, glaring metaphorical daggers at him. He was old, older than most witchers Jaskier had met so far. Crow's feet sat in the corners of his eyes, the big scar that crossed his face - up from his left eye over his nose down to the right side of his jaw – was long faded and his short brown hair was heavily streaked with white and gray. Even with how little Geralt had taught him about the cats, Jaskier would have betted his good boots that the man in front of him was no other than Guxart, the current leader of the cat witchers. Not only was he standing face to face with the most respected and strongest of the cats, he was also surrounded by around thirty more witchers that surely held no qualms against killing a bard.

Schrödinger's pained yowl cut through the tense silence in the air and Jaskier flinched violently at the almost familiar sound. With the rest of the adrenalin finally leaving his body, his hands started shaking from exhaustion. “Will he be alright?” Jaskier asked, his voice sounding smaller than he would've liked.

“What is your price?” The man he thought to be Guxart asked, ignoring his own question. The bard let out a confused noise that was followed by a body-shaking cough. “I'm afraid I don't understand?” He ducked his head between his shoulders, his chest hurting as he spoke. Now that he wasn't overcome with the fear of losing his newfound friend anymore, his body caught on with his sickness, like a fool onto a bad joke. “Your price,” the witcher spat out with clenched teeth, making it sound like a hiss, “what is the life of a witcher worth to you.”

Realization dawned on Jaskier, who was so used to Geralt being used to him. But not every witcher knew how to react to his kindness. Most people didn't. His kindness, or bluntly put his excessive need to help those that were part of his life, was Jaskier's best and worst trait. In this case, standing in the mids of people that were expecting him to be just another traitor, he knew not to tell the truth. He didn't want anything in return, he had helped because he wanted to. But in the world of witchers, everything had a price, nothing was done out of kindness or a good will, not if you didn't belong to them. Pack, Geralt had called it, when he tried to explain to Jaskier the depth of the relationship with his brothers and Vesemir.

The bard wasn't part of the cats' inner circle, he wasn't trusted to act out of selflessness. He had to name a price for saving Schrödinger's life.

“I want-” he started and was quickly interrupted by another coughing fit that left tears in his eyes. Around him the witchers tensed. A few started pacing up and down the clearing, others let out growls and hissed sounds. Chaos was prickling in the air, the atmosphere tense enough to cause an ugly headache bloom behind the bard's temples.

“I just want to know if he's okay,” Jaskier rasped finally. The disbelieve was written all over Guxart's face, just like he had imagined it. “I am serious,” he spoke before anyone could object, “If I could talk to him when he wakes up, that'd be great. After that I'm out of your hair.” He held up his shaking hands in what he hoped was a somewhat deescalating gesture, but the motion set something lose in his throat and before his tired brain could phantom what was happening, he was coughing once again. This time though, his throat wouldn't stop spasming, efficiently stopping him from getting any air into his lungs. He started wheezing and gagging, pounding his fist against his chest. His knees hit the ground when his legs gave up under him. A hand found his head, pulled him up by his hair. Tears of pain and fear ran down Jaskier's face, blurring the world around him into a kaleidoscope of movement.

Still, he was able to see the outstretched hand in front of his face, was able to taste the chaos on his lips, before Guxart folded down his middle finger and the sign Somne appeared in front of his eyes. Jaskier fell to the ground like a puppet who's strings got cut, unconsciousness washing over him like waves over sand. Someone turned him onto his side, another one casted Axii.

Then Jaskier was no more.

---

[ahhhhhhdonna]

2. Angst for fluff prompt 😔

"Wait. Gimme a kiss." | tw: blood

Geralt is smiling at Jaskier.

It makes him frown, having such a soft thing directed at himself. Geralt's dimple is deep on his cheek and there's a crease on his forehead, his eyes narrowed with nothing but mirth as he looks down at him.

"Hello," his Witcher murmurs, reaching down to brush a wayward strand of hair and tuck it behind his ear. Jaskier blinks once, twice, and realizes, in an uncharacteristically calm manner, that they're lying on a plush, spacious bed — but instead of keeping to their own sides, their backs occasionally brushing, they're lying side by side, legs entangled and warm breath on Jaskier's collarbones.

It feels good.

"Hello," he says back, because how couldn't he, when Geralt's hair is mussed and his cheeks are pink with sleep, and there's an edge of warmth in his eyes, well-rested, for once. Jaskier brushes his knuckles against Geralt's cheek, just like he'd always wanted to, and feels a soft rumble coming from Geralt's chest, just like he'd always wanted to.

He also feels a stab of pain slicing through his left side, and looks up at Geralt with a pinched expression.

As if he's read his mind, Geralt takes his hand in his. "You were injured," he says, voice low and honey-sweet. "A forktail. You followed me, got too close. You're okay now."

Fuck. Jaskier swallows, his eyes searching for the tell-tale tension in Geralt's jaw, the flare of his nostrils. He finds nothing. "You— aren't you mad I followed you?"

And Geralt laughs, like Jaskier's just suggested he sell Roach and get a cow, instead. "Of course not," he says, brushing his thumb over the tiny frown knit on Jaskier's eyebrows. "I was worried for you, but not angry— never angry."

Jaskier can't help but frown again. Never angry sounds like an understatement. "And how... why—" He closes his eyes, tries to sort out his thoughts. "How long was I out?"

"Hm," Geralt considers. "Four days, give or take."

Ah. "And when... I mean, how, that is—"

"You mean to ask how we ended up here," Geralt finishes for him, gesturing between the two of them.

Jaskier feels a flush creep up his neck. "Um. Yes."

He feels a soft kiss being pressed to the crown of his head. It's dizzying.

"You kind of..." Geralt's face scrunches up in that adorable way it does when he's trying to find the right words. He looks at Jaskier. "Blurted out you loved me before passing out."

Smooth, Jaskier. "Right."

"And," Geralt continues, playing with Jaskier's fingers, "you were delirious, after. You had a fever." His face is serious, now. "You kept saying it."

Jaskier silently wishes the forktail had taken him, just to stop the embarrassment from trying to swallow him whole. But—

"Did you say it back?" He asks shyly, even though he can feel Geralt's thigh pressing against his.

Geralt smiles, wide and genuine like he's never seen it. His thigh presses harder. "I did."

Jaskier grins, giddy, and the sunlight coming through the inn's window hits Geralt in the back, shadowing his face but leaving him with a pale yellow halo around him, and Jaskier doesn't know where he ends and the warm sunlight begins, the feeling of Geralt's fingers trailing down his spine feathery and tender like nothing else. Jaskier wants to close his eyes and bask in it — in them, in the way he can hear birds singing their early morning song outside and the rhythmic sound of the cook downstairs beating meat into submission, so their lunch is warm and rich.

He can hear Geralt say something about Roach, the stables. He's not sure. Through sleep-fuzzy eyes, he can see that Geralt's already standing, pulling on a thin chemise and gathering his hair up in a bun.

"Wait," Jaskier says, his voice groggy with sleep. "Gimme a kiss, before you go."

He hasn't gotten a proper kiss since he woke up, after all.

And Geralt smiles at him, soft and loving, and Jaskier can't wait to pull more of those out of him, and he mouths of course and moves toward him, reaching out, but the more he walks, the further away he is. He doesn't seem to notice.

Jaskier frowns. "Geralt— what—"

Geralt's still smiling, but his teeth are sharp now, fangs in his mouth. They're bloody.

Jaskier's side throbs with pain.

He tries to get off the bed, but there's blood on it, now, and he can feel his limbs give out, and Geralt strides toward him, blood dripping on the floor as he reaches out for Jaskier, and chants, "Greedy thing, Jaskier, I've kissed you already, can't you feel it, can't you feel it, can't you feel it—"

Jaskier feels his bandage tear, his skin unstitching itself, and uselessly tries to shield himself with his arms. Geralt's on the bed now.

"Geralt," he tries, his voice broken with fear and dread, "Geralt, please, please, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—"

He wakes up crying.

Yennefer looks at him, eyes tired, resting against the wall of their cell.

"Again?"

His shackles are heavier than usual.

[ahhhhhhdonna]

Doppler, Darling

Its a doppler.

Its about time they tried this trick, honestly. Jaskier would've thought it would be the first damn page of the book. Kidnap him, rough him up a little, have 'Geralt' swoop in and save him.

That there's a Geralt in the doorway at all is a dead giveaway its a doppler, but the creature also didn't get quite get the shade of Geralt's eyes right.

Aureolin. But Geralt's eyes are somewhere between lemon and gold.

Its been... Months? Seven Hells, maybe even years. Jaskier's hair threatens to kiss the dimple on his smile line now. Its probably been years.

It feels like its been years.

"Jaskier. You're alive."

"Disappointed?" he asked blithely. Geralt had said that before, way back when. Just before he made that godforsaken wish and ground up what remained of Jaskier's bleeding heart.

"So what brings you to my humble abode?" he continued, cutting off whatever the doppler might've thought to say next.

"We need your help."

He barked a laugh and let his head loll, staring up at the stone above.

"Ahh, wow. Okay. You're good. That is definitely why Geralt would bother to be here. 'We need your help'. Fantastic."

When he looked down 'Geralt's' mouth was a thin line, wary stare tinged with confusion and concern.

"Jaskier, its me. I'm here."

"Oh, how I've closed my eyes and heard you say that in a thousand ways over a thousand days," Jaskier sighed, rubbing at his mouth. "You've told me you're sorry. You're here to take me away. My personal favorite is when you tell me you've missed me. That one keeps me going for a few days afterwards, silly little words that they are."

"Jask--"

"Don't."

He shifted, let his gaze drop. "It was a good attempt, I'll hand you that. You even got the crease between his brows right. But there's one fatal flaw in your grand design, dear doppler."

Silence for a time, and then, so softly;

"What's that?"

He smiled.

"Geralt would never come for me."

[ahhhhhhdonna]

Inspired by this tweet. Minor book canon spoiler.

The moon is cold.

For a place as warm as Toussaint, the light that pours through the window is especially chilling. It glimmers on silver hair, on the sharp jawline under callused fingertips.

In the cold moonlight, Jaskier watches Geralt sleep.

He sleeps deeply and peacefully, a treat that is becoming more often since their retirement to the vineyard. It’s good that he’s sleeping, Jaskier tells himself. Rest never comes easy for a witcher, and yet, Geralt has found it in this little corner of the world, where the days are gentle and the nights are mild.

It’s good, the sight of Geralt sleeping.

And yet, Jaskier is afraid.

He’s afraid to watch Geralt sleep these days.

The silvery light coats Geralt in an aura, making him look out of this world. It’s just as cold as the moon, his complexion, all traces of his faint blush washed away. At night, his pale skin always seems paler, all warmth drained empty, a stark contrast to the dark blood at his lips—

No, there’s no blood.

Not anymore.

Jaskier presses his fingers to Geralt’s cheeks, finding warm skin and the usual day-old stubble. His hand comes away clean. No blood.

Of course. Geralt is here, alive and well. They’ve just spent a whole evening lazing in bed, reading side by side by the candlelight. Jaskier watched Geralt drift off, watched the soft rise and fall of his chest even out. A witcher’s breathing is so slow asleep that the human eyes cannot detect it, so Jaskier rests his palm right over Geralt’s sternum.

He waits.

The two seconds before the next inhale seems like an eternity, but it comes at last, the minute movement a soothing balm to his nerves.

Jaskier lets out a sigh.

Still, he checks one more time, and then another. Geralt’s hand is pliant and warm against his side, the skin at his wrist particularly sensitive. Jaskier only rubs a thumb against it a little before moving on. There’s warmth everywhere he touches. There’s life and softness, and everything he misses before waking up every morning.

Geralt promised he’d be here, so Jaskier believes it. He trusts Geralt to be here, but then, why are his eyes pricking?

He checks one last time, just to be sure. Jaskier feels for the witcher’s languid pulse on his neck, keeping his touch gentle. He waits, trying to find it.

But he can’t find it.

No.

A tear falls, hitting the pillow. Jaskier’s hands are growing cold, shaking with fear. It must be him then—with his fingers stiff and his mind muddled. He burrows into Geralt’s side, where the witcher lies still, so still it’s like he’s already dead. Jaskier searches for all the warmth left in the world, his hand landing on the gaping wound—

No, there’s no wound either.

He knows he’s being silly.

Another tear falls, and Jaskier curses himself for being so scared by his memories. It’s only the night. Geralt isn’t going anywhere. He isn’t, Jaskier repeats to himself. He isn’t leaving…

And then, bleary eyes meet Jaskier in the dark.

Oh.

He’s woken Geralt up again.

The moon isn’t enough for Jaskier to see the beautiful amber color, but he’s long learned Geralt’s every look by heart. Those brows must be pinched with both worry and understanding.

Arms pull Jaskier into the tightest hug as if their bodies are melding into one. The trembles cease a little when a much rougher hand guides Jaskier’s palm towards the steady beat of a witcher’s heart.

Tu-tum. Tu-tum. Tu-tum…

One to a human’s four.

Soft lips catch the tears eventually, a silent apology.

Jaskier lets himself be surrounded by the clean scent of soap and evergreen, his nose buried in a mop of long, silver hair. There’s no blood in the air. It was lost in history too long ago.

Jaskier falls into a fitful sleep with the most beautiful rhythm under his fingertips. His hand is kept there under Geralt’s gentle hold through the night, so he wakes to it as well.

[ahhhhhhdonna]

zugzwang (german, n.) - a situation where every possible move or decision is a bad one, or one that will result in damage or loss

geralt/jaskier, rated M for bard whump and blood and injury detail. prompt from this post

Geraskier alphabet masterpost | Ao3

The moon hangs full and bright overhead. Jaskier stares up at it through the little window of their room, watching its slow climb into the sky. It had been barely peeking through the trees when Geralt left.

They can’t afford the room, not really, but with each morning bringing with it the gruesome discovery of yet another mangled corpse, Geralt wasn’t prepared to leave Jaskier alone in the woods while he set off to hunt the beast responsible. Jaskier can hardly say he feels better being cooped up alone inside, however.

Geralt’s been gone too long.

Keep reading

[ahhhhhhdonna]

“No, Jaskier.”

“Yes, Jaskier,” Jaskier repeated, with an inflection usually reserved for small children and even smaller kittens.

“No.” Geralt growled, knowing all too well he was losing to the tide. Far too many times that tone of voice had lead them into trouble, forced him to drag Jaskier kicking and grappling by the waist or scruff away from whatever situation he had gotten them into, or whatever trifling lunacy had caught his fancy at the spur of the moment.

Jaskier turned his puppy-dog eyes on him then, and Geralt felt his heart - stone cold, he’d told himself, and been proven wrong - sink in his chest, as his bard leaned against the adolescent gryphon and wound his arms about its neck.

“I’ll let you name her Roach?”