#Geralt Whump Week | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aceofwhump · 1 year

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Hi! Do you have any favourite recovery fics??? Like Buck recovering from any one of his mishaps (or Anthony Bridgerton, or Matt Casey, or Mike Warren, etc) where they cover the process (the part that shows always skip where in one ep things are absolutely fucked and in the next they’re absolutely fine I’m looking at you and your rebar 9-1-1)

Thanks!!!

I have a TON of good recovery fics. Recovery fics are some of my favorite things to read! Especially really long ones where the character is recovering from a trauma. If you don't mind other fandoms I've got a ton of recovery fics to rec. Not a lot for Anthony Bridgerton or Mike Warren in terms of recovery fics for canon whump sadly. Actually there's not a lot of recovery fics for them period. But I hope some of these other ones will sate you!

The Witcher:

Hold On by CaptainRex_ika

It has been months since that day on the mountain, a day that left Jaskier alone. Now, he finds himself a captive of Nilfgaard, who just want Geralt and that child surprise of his, and they believe Jaskier is the way to get the White Wolf's attention. After all, he is known as the Witcher's Bard. Jaskier believes that this time Geralt won't come for him...not after that day.

warming of a heart by Alexlively88

tws: A/B/O, past rape/non con, abortion/discussion of abortion, rape recovery

Killing a rusalka is just a normal day in Geralt's life. It's just his job. What isn't his job is rescuing abused omegas. He does it anyway. Or, Jaskier is done with life. To his disappointment, life isn't done with him just yet.

If You Ask Me for My Fire (Just Watch Me Burn) by DigitalSaiyan

tws: past rape/non con, rape/noncon, rape recovery,

Jaskier has zero intention of sharing the degrading experience of getting tortured. Ever. He’ll bury the memories and someday they’ll be as scabbed over as Caingorn was. Which had been completely, absolutely, fine. And the only reason that wound is bleeding a little now is because Geralt came out of nowhere—after the most humiliating experience of his entire life—and reopened it. But that’s fine because he’ll leave and return to the terror of his smuggling work and forget about Geralt all over again. There's nothing hard drink and the constant danger of execution won’t get his mind off. There’s something therapeutic about fearing for one’s life that makes anything not of immediate concern go away. So yes, things were just fine before Geralt showed up. Two years post-Caingorn, Geralt rescues Jaskier from jail and sends him with Ciri to Kaer Morhen. However, Geralt starts to suspect Jaskier is hiding serious trauma.

Panic Attacks by AllTheQueensHorses

Jaskier, captured by Nilfgaard and tortured for weeks, has panic attacks because no one knows where he is and no one is coming to rescue him. Basically a giant whump fic with plenty of angst and hurt but no comfort until later. Trigger warnings throughout the whole story for panic attacks.

Broken by GonEwiththeWolveS

In which Geralt finds out Jaskier was tortured. Or, the self-indulgent hurt/comfort fic.

What am I, if not a bard? by Mi_chan

Geralt knows something happened to Jaskier. He doesn't know the details, but he knows he needs to do something to help the bard. Jaskier is stubborn and refuses to talk to him. Geralt doesn't give up that easily, though. ~ Since the series totally downplayed Jaskier's trauma, here's the fix. The bard is hurting, he's scared and doesn't know what to do with himself, but Geralt is there, acknowledging his pain. ~

an incessant burning by 1derspark

“Jaskier,” Geralt prompted after a while. “Can you look at me?” He shook his head and hoped that his mumbled "no" would be heard. Geralt sighed but didn’t try to move him. His hand was running a comforting trail up and down Jaskier’s back. Eventually, he spoke again. “Yen, she told me some things, but I didn’t realize…” He trailed off, and Jaskier could hear him swallow. A click of guilt in the throat. He reached over to Jaskier’s arm. When he didn’t startle or protest Geralt took his arm. He rubbed a gentle finger over the wax burn. It was a barely-there thing, nothing to get all riled up about. But even having his arm exposed made Jaskier want to crawl into a hole. (Or Jaskier’s newfound aversion to fire, and the comfort he deserves.)

Hand in Trembling Hand by PenAndInkPrincess

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers at last. Geralt shifts so he can look at him. “I’m sorry I’m…like this, now.” “You don’t have to be sorry.” (Jaskier has a hard path to walk while he's healing. Geralt and Yennefer help him with this part.)

Ted Lasso:

an excess of warmth or coldness by bartonbones

When Jamie is seriously injured during a match, Roy and Ted are reminded how much they care about him--as a son, or as a younger brother, or as an exposed nerve. Jamie is reminded what it's like to have people care when his face gets knocked in.

Lemons and Lavender by LivingProof

He peels his eyes open. Shit, they really must be giving him the good stuff, cause he could swear he knows that dark figure lurking in the doorway, where his old man came in a few minutes ago. He blinks a few times, waiting for it to vanish. It doesn’t. “Roy?” he croaks. He blinks again, and Roy…or whoever…is standing beside him, 'cept Jamie still can’t tell, cause he can only see his back, cause whoever it is isn’t looking at Jamie, he’s looking across the room. Towards that window. At Jamie’s dad. “The fuck do you fucking think you’re fucking doing here?” Yeah. That’s Roy.

Barn Raising by altschmerzes

After the locker room disaster in Manchester, Roy drives Jamie home. The chaos they find when they arrive at the house swiftly proves it is not a safe place to spend the night, forcing a change of plans and a reroute to Roy’s own home. The following day Jamie experiences, in this order: The most bewildering breakfast of his life, a penalty kick clinic with a seven-year-old, and an overwhelming display from his teammates that brings him face to face with the fact that not only has he been accepted back in Richmond it’s also possible he might be, in a way he can’t remotely process or understand, loved here.

The Same Story by altschmerzes

It would've been traumatic enough for Jamie's father to ruin Richmond's most recent victory in front of the whole team, but when the confrontation turns violent in front of a gaggle of reporters, the ensuing social media firestorm is even worse. Over the next two and a half weeks, Jamie will have to navigate the charges against his father, walk a gauntlet of publicity that he never asked for, and prepare to give the interview of a lifetime.

Sandman

Bones Don't Rust by not_whelmed_yet

The same capture & rescue fic everyone has written, but playing off two ideas: - I wanted to see Dream’s physical recovery take long enough that he could begin his mental/emotional recovery before heading back to the Dreaming - There’s a lot of ways to hurt an anthropomorphic entity without taking them out of their snowglobe

I will find you in your dreams by Salmaka

A story where Dream, confused and weak from his time in isolation doesn't make it back to the Dreaming but ends up in Hob's house instead.

To Learn to Breathe Again by ironlin

Upon returning back to the Dreaming, Dream finds himself struggling. Thankfully, Lucienne is there to help.

9-1-1

To Be Loved by Scribbles97

Buck knew he was spiralling, that the dread that had been shadowing him since leaving the hospital should have left when the doctor had given him the all clear. Yet, he can't help but feel like he's still missing something. Eddie hadn't been able to give him the answers, but maybe Bobby could. Calm, dependable, reassuring, Bobby always had the answers and helped him through stuff.

Goosebumps by Princessfbi

Everyone kept telling Buck he was supposed to rest, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to do that when the cold was an incessant prickling under his skin. Five Times Buck Struggled to Stay Warm After Being Struck By Lightning and Put Into A Coma and One Time He Didn't.

Don't (Wanna) Know Who I Am by altschmerzes

Buck takes a nasty fall out on a job, and when he wakes up, he can't remember anything. Not what happened, not who the people in his hospital room are, not even his own name. The next two weeks he spends being passed from house to house every few days, Chimney, Hen, and Bobby taking turns keeping an eye on him while he tries to remember his life. The way back is slow and hard, and begs the question - who actually is Evan Buckley, and is he someone worth remembering? (Luckily, the rest of the 118 is there with an answer, if not to the first question, then at least to the second.)

Once Upon A Time

puppet strings by bewilderedmoth

Having technically died on more than one occasion now, having finally put all that trauma behind him and settled down in Storybrooke, August had hoped his troubles were long gone. When Gold returns to town in his quest to find the Author, hopes of a trouble free life in the sleepy town crumble away to dust. (A whumpy re-write of August's torture in S4, Ep 16. Set within the 'mess is mine' universe, but not actually canon to that AU)

they are mine by Lil_Redhead

Killian is still trying to deal with his emotional pain after returning from the underworld and all he needs is a motherly touch. Takes place after 5B season finale.

Unforgotten by NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable

Killian went through so much in his centuries of life, especially in the Underworld. Nightmares were to be expected. This is canon-compliant with my Undefeated story, and it will eventually be a part of a larger collection of works dealing with the aftermath of everything he's survived, and some he didn't.

You can take the boys out of Neverland by WinkyCutto

The Lost Ones don't like having to live by the rules and Henry and his family are about to find out that bringing them back to Storybrooke may not have been the best idea... Hook whump galore, you have been warned.

Superman & Lois

Path to Recovery by Beth4LC

It’s been a month since Clark lost his powers and there are still no clear answers to when he’ll get them back. In the meantime, he focuses on connecting with the members of his family.

Powerless by Beth4LC

Clark is home and recovering after Ally’s near-fatal attack, and he starts to adjust to his new reality.

Lucifer

Deal by hearmerory

Chloe didn't spend five years being best friends with the Devil just to let him go back to Hell. But recovery? Relationships? These are not things Lucifer has ever found easy. In the weeks after Lucifer's return from Hell, he and the humans, angels and demons who surround him find out how long, hard and traumatic those roads can be.

Crystals by OkamiShadou98

After seeing Lucifer's scars, Chloe searches for the truth about her partner and his shadowed past. In doing so, she comes face to face with the psychological demons he shields himself from. Recovery is a long, twisted road for the Devil and his Detective. Eventual Deckerstar.

The Man From Uncle:

Agents, Missions, and Hospitals by Tallihensia

Getting hurt on a mission is enough to make a partner’s blood run cold. The aftermath and recovery, though, is almost as bad. Caring and trust makes it better.

The Martian:

Waiting in the Sky by midnightradio

Mark is back on the Hermes but getting rescued isn't quite as easy as it seemed. Fighting for your life is easy, but living with what you had to do to survive is harder.

I Win, Mars by chuckisgod

You didn't just have to save him. You have to put him back together, too. Ares 3 was in time to save Mark's life, but not quite his mind. The Hermes has hundreds of days of space travel before they all get back to Earth. It's a ship running without maintenance, and the primary engineer has the world's most severe case of PTSD. What happens? Canon-compliant.

Just Keep Going by chuckisgod

"And this is how this story ends. The story of Mark Watney is the story of a man who was stranded on Mars, and instead of giving up he did everything he could to make it back to Earth, because that's the point." What would being abandoned on an entire planet do to someone? A window into Mark's emotional state on Mars. A sincere attempt to stay true to the real-life health effects of solitary isolation.

Life on Earth by watneykingofmars

A series of drabbles and one-shots about Mark Watney readjusting to life on earth.

Avatar the Last Airbender:

Hearth and Home by lets_support_frogs

After his Agni Kai, Zuko flees the Fire Nation without Iroh or his crew. He finds himself stranded, alone, and injured in the Earth Kingdom when taken in and raised as a healer and farmer by an Earth Kingdom couple. He finds new ways to use his bending and to influence in the changing of the war with new understanding of himself, his bending, and the war. As someone with new perspectives and influence he is able to provide a greater understanding of being a teacher, warrior, and friend when meeting the gaang. or Where Zuko gets to recover before using anger to protect himself when he is adopted by a nice Earth Kingdom family

#fic recs #whump #recovery #fanfics #mod's fic recs #mod replies #ask #mod post #i know i'm forgetting some but i'm going blank again #i read too many fics lol

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handwrittenhello · 1 year

Text

might've been a nightmare

“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?” “And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?” Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.” “Hmm.” “Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.” Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?” “Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.” “Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”

Geralt takes on a contract that will force him to answer one question: will he choose the fate of one, or the fate of many?

Rating: M Word Count: 9134 Tags: Horror, Suspense, Case Fic, Monster of the Week, Angst, Injury, Developing Relationship, Mystery, set nebulously s1, POV Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Humor, Banter, Soft Geralt of Rivia, (believe it or not despite those first few tags there ARE soft moments in this), Protective Geralt of Rivia, Self-Sacrifice, Jaskier Whump, Hurt Jaskier

read below, or here on ao3!

It was a swelteringly hot day. The height of summer in Velen was rarely pleasant, but a heat wave had been gripping the area for a few days now. Geralt subtly adjusted his armor in an attempt to allow a breeze to cool the sweat collecting on his back, but the air was deader than a necrophage’s dinner.

Any sane person would have long since abandoned their work in favor of taking a dip in a nearby pond, or napping under some shady trees. Geralt could afford no such luxury—there was always work to be done, and quickly in the summer, lest rotting corpses draw even more monsters to fight.

Jaskier, plodding along beside Roach, wiped sweat off his brow with a deep sigh. “Melitele’s heaving bosom, I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he groused. “What do you say to a break? Let the sun use up the worst of its ire while we regain some energy? Perhaps cool off in a nice stream?” he finished hopefully. His cheeks and tips of his ears were pink with the beginnings of a sunburn.

“There’s a contract waiting in Mulbrydale,” Geralt reminded him. “We can’t delay.”

“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?”

“And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?”

Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.”

Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?”

“Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.”

“Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”

“So that’s twenty-three more years of experience enjoying life than you!” Jaskier paused to drain his waterskin, wrinkling his nose at the tepidity. “Blech. Anyway.”

“Anyway.”

“I’ll get you to be more selfish yet.” Jaskier wagged his finger at Geralt threateningly. “We’ll start small, and then before you know it you’ll have dropped the witchers-don’t-deserve-good-things act. Who knows, you might even dare to enjoy yourself now and then!”

Geralt only rewarded this with another hmm and handed Jaskier his own waterskin. Jaskier accepted, drinking deeply and wiping his mouth on his sleeve after.

“It’s a good thing I’m here to take care of you,” he finished, recapping the skin and handing it back to Geralt.

By the time they reached Mulbrydale, the sun had finally hidden itself behind the treetops, golden where it filtered through the leaves. Outside the town gates, a man hung lanterns to guide travelers in the coming darkness. “Ho, travelers!” he shouted when he saw them, raising a hand.

“Good evening, my good gentleman!” Jaskier cried back, as easy as breathing. Geralt would never know how he was able to flit among strangers so easily, how he fit in anywhere he went.

“Not as good as that, I’m afraid,” the man replied, drawing the gates open for them. “Best ye get a room at the inn and settle in quick, you hear?”

“What’s wrong?” Geralt rumbled, swinging his leg over Roach’s saddle and dismounting. He was quick to grab his swords as well, his palms itching in anticipation.

The man shook his head. “Couldn’t rightly put a name to it. People’re anxious, on edge. Won’t take too kindly to strangers making waves.”

Jaskier slung his lute case over to the side so the man could see it. “Ah, but do they know that the White Wolf has come to slay their beast? And that his loyal barker will regale them with the tale all night long should they wish? Come now, surely a little entertainment wouldn’t go amiss.”

The man shook his head. “I doubt you’d get more than sour looks out of this crowd, but on your own head be it.” He stepped aside to let them pass into town, and latched the gates closed after them.

Despite the early hour, not many people were out in the streets. There were no shrieks of children’s laughter, no wives gossiping over their washing, no farmers hauling home the day’s harvest.

“Lively place,” Jaskier muttered, kicking at a rock and sending it skidding down the dirt road. “What, did they all die of heatstroke today?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier was right—a town like this, though small, should have shown some signs of life. Spirits were usually high around midsummer—there ought to be festival preparations, or traders passing through, or even hog-wrestling competitions planned. Anything besides… this.

A dog came sniffing around the corner, nose pressed to the ground, ears back. When it saw them, walking along in its direction, it raised its head and growled, baring its teeth.

“Whoa there,” Jaskier laughed, throwing his hands up palms-forward. “What a good boy guarding his home,” he cooed. “We’re just passing by, don’t worry.”

The dog didn’t look convinced. It remained tense in its posture, hackles raised as they walked by—giving it a wide berth—and Geralt prepared to cast Axii should it attack.

It made no move towards them, and they were allowed to pass without incident.

“I’m normally good with animals,” Jaskier commented as they continued towards the inn, the Cock and Crow. It was lit brightly from within, the dull roar of overlapping voices drifting over on the wind—finally, a sign of life. “Maybe the poor thing’s been mistreated. That must be it.”

“I’ve seen you nearly get a hand taken off by the Baron of Vergen’s prized poodle,” Geralt remarked dryly. “You don’t remember?”

Jaskier flapped a hand. “Again, an anomaly. That thing was a vicious beast, Geralt, out for blood. Besides, you’re one to talk, Mr. Cats Hate Me.”

“It’s the mutations,” Geralt replied wearily, as he did every time the topic cropped up in conversation. “They can sense it.”

“They can sense you’re a sourpuss, you mean,” Jaskier teased. “You and that big scary face of yours.”

Geralt glowered.

“Ooh, yeah, that one.”

Geralt glowered harder.

Jaskier cackled and ran ahead, bursting into the inn with a flourish. Geralt followed at a more sedate pace, taking Roach to the stables, and arriving just in time to see Jaskier shaking hands with the innkeeper. She tilted her head and Jaskier took the stage, launching into one of his newer songs almost immediately.

A few heads turned to look at the source of noise, but by and large the patrons largely ignored him. Jaskier, never one to let a tough crowd bother him, pressed on.

Geralt turned to the innkeep. “Two rooms, please.” With the pay from the contract coming, they could afford it.

She clicked her tongue. “I’m afraid we only have the one. Two beds, though, if you like.”

“Fine.” He counted out the requisite coin onto the rough wood of the countertop. “And two meals, please, and a pitcher of ale.”

She took the payment, biting on a coin to ensure it was real—which stung a little, as it always did, these reminders of their distrust in him—but accepted it without complaint, handing over a brass key hung on a leather cord.

“First room on the left up the stairs,” she directed him, “and Magda will have your meals in just a tick. Magda!” she shouted, and a young woman poked her head out from the back room. “Two meals, quick as you please.”

“Got it, Sal,” Magda replied, wiping her hands on her apron. Geralt sat at the bar to wait.

Jaskier had since transitioned to some of his older work, likely in hopes of winning the crowd over with tried-and-true hits, but still didn’t seem to be making much progress. His lute case, propped open on the floor in front of him, had naught but a few coppers in it. Geralt would describe the overall mood of the crowd as annoyed at best.

Underneath the din of Jaskier’s playing, Geralt caught a few murmurs with his superior hearing—fucking twit, awful noise, can’t he just fuck off. He frowned. Jaskier hadn’t met with a crowd this bad in years, not since gaining popularity by Geralt’s side.

Sal placed two plates in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. “Here you are,” she said, following it with a large pitcher of ale. “Bring the plates back to the kitchen when you’re done, Magda’s off for the night.”

Geralt nodded his thanks, digging into his food while it was still hot. It was alright—chicken with rosemary and garlic, spices he rarely found while foraging, but overcooked and dry. The potatoes were too salty for his taste, and the carrots not cooked enough.

But any food that he didn’t have to prepare himself was a luxury, so he ate it without complaint and until there was hardly a morsel left on his plate.

He restrained himself from sucking the marrow out of the chicken bones, too, aware that anyone who saw would be rightly disgusted. He was content, anyway, since food hadn’t been too hard to come by lately, not with the land so glutted in summer.

He nursed his ale while Jaskier sang, in a rare good mood for once, contrary to the atmosphere of the other patrons. He wouldn’t say he was disappointed, exactly, when Jaskier packed up early and joined him at the bar, but he supposed he could’ve borne a few more verses without complaint.

“Don’t know what has gotten into everyone,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, sliding onto a stool, just loud enough that only Geralt could hear him. “Is it me? Have I got something on my face?” He looked at Geralt so earnestly, painfully young in that moment.

“Spinach in your teeth,” Geralt said, instead of voicing any of that. Jaskier of course had no such thing—they hadn’t even eaten any spinach in the last few days—but Jaskier still spent an embarrassing amount of time fretting and trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the inn’s spoons.

Geralt left him to his meal and went to go brush down Roach. He really ought to have done it earlier, but the extra half hour or so of waiting wouldn’t kill her.

The process was soothing, almost as good as meditation at centering himself and winding down for the day. He left her with plenty of feed and fresh water and went back into the inn.

To his surprise, he was greeted with dark looks from a few of the patrons, though none dared to make a move against him. Unsettled, Geralt retreated quickly to their room, where he found Jaskier already unpacking.

“Geralt, have you seen my quill?” Jaskier asked him, without turning around. “I swear I left it in the same pocket as my notebook, but…” he trailed off, digging around in his pack.

“No. Keep track of your own shit, bard,” Geralt grunted, sitting down on the furthest bed and pulling off his boots. His socks reeked after a day sweating in the sun, so he quickly shoved them in his pack and pulled on a new pair. What he wouldn’t give for a wash, but it was too late for that, probably. He’d have one tomorrow, after completing the promised contract, anyway.

Jaskier puttered about for a good bit more, still looking for his quill, before Geralt sighed and relented to helping him. He wasn’t tired yet, anyway, and didn’t feel like uselessly sharpening his swords or sorting his already-sorted elixirs.

The sneaky quill was hiding exactly where Geralt suspected it would be, in Jaskier’s own pack, though of course he only found it after Geralt had emptied his entire pack too.

Jaskier smiled sheepishly and accepted it, rolling it between his fingers, and set immediately to scribbling in his notebook. He hadn’t even sat down properly, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed with one leg half underneath him, boots shedding dirt and dust onto the blankets. Geralt sighed.

The scratching of Jaskier’s quill was almost soothing, Geralt long since used to the sound of it in the background. He doused one candle, leaving the other for Jaskier to see by, and undressed and climbed into bed. A full night’s sleep was invaluable when preparing for a hunt, and Geralt was eager to take advantage of it.

With the light of the rising moon filtering in between the shutters, and Jaskier’s breathless humming serenading him, Geralt dropped off to sleep.

The call of roosters at dawn roused him, his eyes opening easily and smoothly as if he’d simply been waiting to wake up. Jaskier, of course, slept right through it, as he was able to sleep through most anything, snoring away despite how he insisted I don’t snore, Geralt!

Geralt sighed and dressed, pulling his hair back into a tie to keep it out of his face. He really ought to have brushed it, to get some of the dirt and oils out and lessen the chances of a snarling tangle later, but couldn’t find the effort. Jaskier seemed to have made it his personal mission to take care of Geralt’s hair, anyway, and Geralt expected a thorough washing and maybe even a lecture later, regardless of if he brushed it or not.

He splashed cool water on his face from the basin against the wall, not bothering to pat it dry with a towel. He enjoyed the way it evaporated on his skin in the humid morning air. That done, he wandered downstairs to the kitchens, where Magda was stirring a large pot of oats over the hearth. “Morning, sir witcher,” she greeted him, wiping her brow dry with a cloth. “Breakfast’ll be ready in a few minutes, if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said, stopping in the doorway. “Anything I can help with?”

“Mm, I’m almost done, but if you fancy any nuts or berries with it, there’s some in the cellar.” She nodded her head towards a trapdoor set into the floor.

Geralt climbed down into the cellar’s cool dryness, a welcome respite from the heat of the kitchen. The cellar was truly full to bursting, the village apparently having had a prosperous season so far, but it didn’t take too long to locate a jar of preserved peaches, Jaskier’s favorite, and a sack of walnuts. Prizes in hand, he returned to Magda, who was ladling a few spoonfuls of oatmeal each into bowls.

She added the fruit and nuts and handed two bowls to Geralt, who handed over a few coins in return. When Geralt opened the door to their room, Jaskier finally roused, though that was probably more the fault of the oats’ cinnamony aroma than anything else. “Mmph, is that breakfast I smell?” Jaskier mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Geralt handed him his bowl, sitting down on his own bed to eat. The food was good, and filling. Jaskier yawned his way through his own bowl, still waking up, but by the time Geralt was done, he had revived a little. “What were you doing up so late?” Geralt asked neutrally. It was no business of his when Jaskier went to sleep, but normally the bard was more conscious of the time when he knew he would be coming along on a contract the next day.

“It wasn’t that late,” Jaskier protested. “Just didn’t sleep well, I suppose. We can’t all wake up at the crack of dawn looking fresh as a daisy, Geralt.”

Geralt, who had notably never resembled a daisy in his life, gave Jaskier a flat look. Jaskier grinned.

“Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” Geralt ordered, snatching up Jaskier’s empty bowl. Jaskier got ready for the day—spending twice as much time doing his hair than anything else—while Geralt checked over his swords and elixirs.

When Jaskier finally declared himself fit for company—as if the workers at the quarry would care if his doublet were green or red—they set out on foot, leaving Roach behind for the day. Geralt was loath to work her harder than he had to in the summer heat.

The quarry was only a few miles from Mulbrydale, anyway, and it gave Geralt a chance to stretch his legs and warm up for the fight.

Jaskier walked beside him, composing some silly ode about the day—Geralt didn’t see any mares two abreast in the golden fields or orchards dripping with the ambrosia of summer, but they made it into his song anyway.

“Hoping to impress the miners?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier fiddled with the tuning pegs of his lute. “Maybe. They can’t be a worse crowd than last night,” he scoffed. “Besides, I find that the common folk appreciate songs that reflect the world they live in. It’s about finding beauty in one’s surroundings. I had a professor once who swore…”

Jaskier launched into a story, something about pastorals and creative license and natural rhyme schemes. Geralt let the words wash over him and trekked on.

The sun had fully risen by the time the tall spiked fence surrounding the quarry came into view. “That’s suitably menacing,” Jaskier commented. “Do you think it’s to keep something out, or to keep something in?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Wild dogs roam these parts,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier scowled. “Oh, you’re no fun.”

“It’s not my job to entertain.” Geralt threw a pointed look at Jaskier. “Now come on.” He pushed open the gates, creaking on their hinges.

The quarry was a hive of activity, concentric rings of stone jutting down into the earth at lower and lower heights. Ladders and platforms adorned the quarry at odd intervals, with workers scurrying up and down and to and fro. It was a hive of activity, buoyed by the sounds of picks striking stone and echoing calls shouted among the miners.

Their arrival drew the attention of a grey-haired man stationed in a tall watchtower off of the main path. “Witcher!” he called, descending the ladder. “Thank the gods you’re here. I’m Eryk, the foreman of this quarry, and I’m mighty glad to have ye here.”

“You have a contract for me?” Geralt asked.

“Yessir. Come on, I’ll show ye.” Eryk gestured for them to follow. He led them down the spiraling path, descending deeper and deeper into the quarry, climbing up and down ladders with ease that belied his age.

As they passed, miners would stop their work and openly stare. Geralt, long since used to it, ignored it, though their gazes burned on the back of his neck.

“We’ve been hearin’ noises, you see,” Eryk said, hardly out of breath. “Always at night, after work ends for the day. We think they’re comin’ from the old shaft at the bottom of the pit.”

“Delightful,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt fought a small smile.

“Can you describe them?”

“It’s a howling of sorts, though I’ve lived in this area me whole life, and t’ain’t no dogs nor wolves sound like that.”

“Hmm. Seen any tracks, any evidence of a beast nearby? Maybe fur or droppings?”

Eryk shook his head. “Nothing, though I reckon ye’ve better eyes than us.”

“I’ll take a look,” Geralt promised.

They were almost to the bottom, now, the walls of the quarry towering high above them. Down here, the echoes of pickaxes and shovels were amplified, ringing in Geralt’s ears like an avalanche. Dust covered everything in a thin layer, raining down softly like snow.

“And to think I’d just washed my hair,” Jaskier mourned, ruffling it and undoing all the effort he’d put in that morning styling it. A small cloud of dust rained to the ground. “Just watch, soon I’ll—”

He cut off as a bit of the rock shelf fell away beneath him, sending him scrambling to the side in a bid to escape a nasty fall over the edge. Geralt wasn’t quick enough to catch him before his foot landed wrong, sliding on a piece of shale and wrenching his ankle the wrong direction. “Gah! Fuck!” Jaskier yelled, pinwheeling his arms to stay upright.

Geralt lurched forward, snagging him around the waist and setting him down on more solid ground. “Fuck,” Jaskier cursed again, leaning forward to pull off his boot. “That hurt,” he groused, poking at his ankle, which was already starting to swell up.

Geralt crouched down next to him and grabbed his ankle, pulling off his sock as he did.

“Stop, that hurts,” Jaskier complained, ineffectually batting Geralt’s prodding hands away. Geralt felt no bones out of place, no grinding of cartilage or sharp fragments.

“Just a sprain,” he said, setting Jaskier’s foot back down. “We’ll wrap it, though there’s no snow or ice nearby to slow the swelling.”

“Nonsense, I’m fine,” Jaskier protested, struggling to pull his sock and boot back on. He levered himself up to standing despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him seated, bracing himself on the witcher’s broad shoulder.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“It’s fine!” Jaskier insisted, waving both him and Eryk off, who had noticed the commotion and doubled back.

“I swear, this place must be cursed,” he said, shaking his head. “First Davy almost took an arm off. Then it was Niklas, with that concussion, and now this.”

Geralt frowned. “Cursed?” Could that explain the strange howls at night? “Have you noticed any magical effects?” His medallion wasn’t humming, but there could be any number of reasons for that…

“Ach, ‘twas only an expression. Truly, I think some beastie must haunt our mine. The rest is just plain bad luck.”

“Lady Luck can be a cruel mistress indeed,” Jaskier chimed in, limping forward. Geralt fought off a headache at the sight. “I’ve always been clumsy, though, my good friend here can attest to that—”

“Will you stop moving?” Geralt growled, catching Jaskier by the shoulder. “You have a sprained ankle. You need to sit or it’ll get worse.”

“And I told you I’m fine,” Jaskier snapped, whirling on Geralt. “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m a fragile doll, Master Witcher.” The vitriol in Jaskier’s words surprised Geralt. He pushed past Eryk and stomped off down the slope.

Geralt followed, and they soon arrived at the bottom of the pit. There was a small camp of sorts, with tents pitched in the middle surrounding a firepit, ringed by barrels and crates of supplies. Geralt counted seven smaller tents, and one bigger, sturdier structure behind the ring, tucked underneath some scaffolding. The ground was cracked and dry, though were it to rain, the dirt would quickly turn to sticky, sucking mud. There were planks of wood laid across the ground to walk on, uneven and rough.

Set against the nearest quarry face was the shaft Eryk had mentioned. It was barred with two doors made of wooden planks nailed sloppily together, which creaked on their hinges as Eryk unlocked and swung them open.

Inside was a typical mineshaft, dark, damp, and smelling slightly of burnt rock dust. But underneath, there was definitely the undercurrent of something rotting. Necrophages, definitely.

“I’m going in. Lock the doors behind me. They’ll be agitated, and you don’t want one getting out,” Geralt instructed, pulling a vial of Cat from his bag. He downed it in one, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline through his veins as his vision sharpened and the shadows brightened. “Stay here.”

“Geralt—” Jaskier began, as if to follow Geralt.

“No,” Geralt growled. “It’ll be too dark to see anything, and you won’t get very far on that ankle. Stay. Here.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode forth into the mineshaft, drawing his silver sword. The doors creaked shut behind him, plunging the mine into shadow.

Geralt kept his senses primed as he ventured forth, listening for any scrape of claws on stone or any scent of rotten meat. The tunnel split into two paths ahead; following his gut, Geralt took the left, which showed more condensation on the walls and sloped slightly downward.

The ground was worn smooth underneath his boots by years of miners treading over it, but when he concentrated, Geralt could pick out thin notches scored into the stone. Four deep furrows and a fifth shallow one set apart—the typical pattern of an alghoul’s claws.

And caught in patches here and there on the walls, little tufts of fur—dark, fully mature. Fuck. Alghouls were even more dangerous than garden-variety ghouls, their venom more potent and able to pierce a Quen shield easily with the ridge of spines on their backs.

Geralt dug in his pack for another vial, pulling out necrophage oil. He dripped it along his blade, coating the metal to weaken and poison the beasts. As prepared as he could be, Geralt crept forward down the tunnel.

As he rounded a final corner, he heard it: the rumbling growls of a sleeping alghoul. Its nest was up ahead. Geralt didn’t dare hope for an easy fight, but perhaps he could gain the advantage of surprise.

The alghoul didn’t rouse at his cautious approach—a good sign. It had gotten complacent down here, untouched by predators. Geralt raised his sword to strike.

Then—behind him. A slight shuffling, a small scrape of claws on stone was all the warning Geralt got as a second alghoul launched itself at him, a screaming growl tearing its way out of its maw.

Geralt swung his sword up just in time to deflect vicious claws slashing at his throat. He threw out an Aard with his dominant hand, knocking it backwards into the wall, stunning it just long enough for Geralt to whirl around again.

The other alghoul had been woken by the commotion, and attacked him with no less ferocity. One alghoul was difficult enough, but fending off two would be a challenge Geralt hadn’t had in a long while.

The fight was a blur. Geralt fell into rote patterns of slashing, blocking, dodging. What made it more difficult was fighting in such a confined space—there was scarcely ten feet of space between the walls of the tunnel, and the rocky ceiling wasn’t much taller than him. He had to be conscious of every single move, every foot he placed and every attack he made.

One lucky strike caught the female of the pair in the throat. Hot, sticky ichor burst forth from the wound, staining the ground and walls black. It shrieked and gurgled in pain, lashing out with the rage of a wild animal, but its strength rapidly failed.

The second one, enraged by the death of the first, redoubled its attacks. Geralt cast Quen right before its spines caught him in the face. His shield exploded and he got away with only a small nick over his eyebrow, and it gave him the opening to thrust his sword out and up into its soft belly, rending it open from groin to skull.

Its steaming innards billowed out, the stench of death rapidly filling the cavern. Geralt caught his breath, wiping sweat off his brow—the fight had been long, and even deep in here the heat of summer still penetrated.

He cut off the front claws of the two beasts as proof of his kill, then set about destroying their nest. A gruesome sight greeted him: a pile of bones, some animal, some human, most with bits of flesh still hanging off of them. It reeked like all necrophage dens did, and Geralt held his breath as he kicked away bones and set everything aflame with Igni.

His work done, Geralt hiked out of the mineshaft, his eyes slowly adjusting to the searing light of outside. Cat wore off shortly before he exited, a rare blessing not to have to fight off a headache as he talked to the contract giver.

Eryk and Jaskier were still waiting outside when he pushed the doors open, and had been joined by a small group of miners. All were sitting on assorted crates and boxes, dragged over to form a half-circle.

Jaskier, ever the entertainer, was in the middle of a story, complete with wild gestures and probably more than a few tall tales. As soon as Geralt approached, though, he paused, greeting him with a joyous “Geralt!”

“You shouldn’t be standing on that ankle,” Geralt huffed, throwing the alghoul claws at Eryk’s feet. “I killed the beasts. Two alghouls made a nest in the western tunnel. Shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“Ye killed ‘em already, Master Witcher? My, ye work fast!” Eryk crowed, picking up the claws with interest and examining them. “Vicious beasties, they had to be, with knives like these!”

Either Eryk was genuinely impressed, which was exceedingly rare, or he was trying to stiff Geralt on payment and hoped that compliments would ease the sting. “We didn’t agree on a price beforehand.”

Eryk dropped the claws. “No. I didn’t think ye’d kill ‘em so fast, to be honest. What’s the going rate?”

Geralt hummed, tilting his head. “Normally I’d charge one-fifty for necrophages.”

“But?” Eryk prompted, savvy to the kind of hard bargain men on the Continent drove.

“But alghouls are much more dangerous, especially in pairs.” Geralt paused. “Three hundred.”

“I don’t have that kind of coin, Master Witcher, not with business so slow. Two hundred.”

“Two fifty,” Geralt acquiesced, which was what he’d been hoping for anyway.

“Deal.” They shook on it, Eryk grimacing slightly as some ichor rubbed off on him. He wiped his hand on his pants. “Thing is, though…”

Geralt sighed. “You don’t have the coin.” Of course.

“But I will!” Eryk promised. “There’s a shipment pickup tomorrow morning, a big order from Novigrad. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have yer coin for ye.”

As if Geralt had any other choice. And he’d so been looking forward to a hot bath paid for with his newfound wealth. “Fine,” he growled. “Tomorrow morning.” He turned to Jaskier. “Come on, bard.”

Jaskier limped his way over to Geralt. There was no way he could walk all the way back to the inn like that, and Geralt had little stamina left to carry him. Not to mention the indignity of it all, which Jaskier would surely protest.

An idea struck Geralt. “May he borrow a horse for the way back? He can’t walk on that.” Plus it would be insurance, an incentive to pay Geralt what he was owed the next day.

“Geralt, I’m fine—” interrupted Jaskier. Geralt ignored him.

Eryk frowned. “I’ve got but an old nag, not fit for much carryin’.”

“It’s not far. A few miles.”

“Fine, fine, but I’m not payin’ for ye to stable her.” He led Geralt and Jaskier to the side of the large cabin, where four horses were stabled. He had her saddled up quickly, and Geralt helped Jaskier into the saddle despite his protests. Once settled, he did look happier to be off his ankle. Geralt resolutely didn’t say I told you so.

Geralt led her up and out of the quarry while Jaskier rode, throwing goodbyes out to the miners. He’d made fast friends, it seemed.

It was late afternoon, nearly evening, by the time they arrived back at the inn, both their stomachs rumbling. In the excitement they’d both forgotten to eat lunch. When they got close to the inn, Jaskier dismounted, despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him on the horse. “I’ll see about a meal,” he said, shooing Geralt off to the stables.

Geralt hurriedly got the old nag settled and followed Jaskier into the Cock and Crow.

And just in time, because Jaskier, always pushing himself too far, reached his limit as he started up the stairs. “Shit,” he cursed as his leg buckled beneath him. Geralt caught him underneath the armpits and swung him up into a carry, ignoring his wriggling. “I can walk,” he said mulishly, just for appearance’s sake, because he very clearly could not.

“You shouldn’t,” Geralt returned bluntly, pushing open the door to their room and setting him on his bed.

He knelt and pulled off Jaskier’s boot, ignoring the way he pouted. It was a good thing Geralt had brought his pack with him; he reached in and pulled out some old but clean bandages.

“Aren’t you always telling me to be more careful with myself?” Geralt lectured as he wrapped Jaskier’s ankle. Jaskier crossed his arms with a huff.

“That’s different. You hunt monsters; I apparently have trouble even walking right.”

“It’s not,” Geralt argued. “A sprained ankle isn’t nothing, especially if you don’t treat it properly.” Surely Jaskier knew the dangers—permanent damage, or worse. And for a bard that made his living by walking around the Continent after Geralt… “What’s this about?”

Jaskier sighed and hung his head, caught out. “I didn’t want to be left behind,” he admitted. “I desperately need new material, especially if I’m to please such a fickle crowd as the one here.”

“Material for your songs? That’s why you’re being so stubborn?” Geralt could hardly believe it. He knew Jaskier went above and beyond for his craft, but this…

The thing was, Geralt was realizing, was that Jaskier wanted. He wanted to the point of idiocy sometimes, beyond all logic. He would injure himself further in a heartbeat, just to follow Geralt into dark places.

Selfish.

Geralt held his tongue and began wrapping Jaskier’s ankle, firm but gentle with his movements, despite how he wanted to shake some sense into the bard. Jaskier, in a rare show of wisdom, kept quiet, even when Geralt accidentally pulled too hard and jarred his ankle. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“’S okay,” Jaskier replied. “Thanks.”

“Keep your weight off it,” Geralt instructed, standing and brushing off his knees. “It’s the wrong season for ice or snow to bring the swelling down, but I may have enough herbs for a salve.”

“You don’t have to do that, it doesn’t hurt,” Jaskier said quickly.

Geralt gave him a flat look.

“Alright, it doesn’t hurt much,” he amended. “Besides, you need those for your potions and whatnot.”

Geralt ignored him—he was doing a lot of that lately, he realized—and rifled through his pack until he found the herbs he needed. Jaskier scribbled in his notebook as Geralt ground them up into a paste, tasting it himself afterwards to be sure he’d gotten the proportions correct. Then he scooped it up into a small tin he’d recently emptied out, screwing the lid on and tossing it into Jaskier’s lap after.

The bard fumbled to catch it, almost upturning his inkpot onto the bedcovers in the process. With a yelp he barely managed to catch both, throwing a look at Geralt that suggested he was unamused. Geralt grinned back.

He left Jaskier to his songwriting while he went downstairs to talk to Sal. She was running plates out to the patrons, looking thoroughly harried in the rush of the dinner hour. Geralt had wanted a bath, but decided to risk her ire by interrupting just then, and instead sat down at the bar to order a flagon of ale.

He let the scents of the kitchen and the noise of the crowd wash over him, sipping calmly at his ale almost as if in meditation. Normally a crowd like this would welcome Jaskier’s playing—Geralt wondered if he would risk facing them again tonight.

Likely not without new material, Geralt concluded, and ordered another ale.

In the corner, two men suddenly leapt to their feet. “You cheatin’ bastard!” yelled one, face red with rage, almost the same shade as his hair. “I want my money back!”

“Cheating? You’re the one that cheated, you lying fuck!” Saying so, he pulled his fist back and slugged the redheaded man in the nose. Geralt grimaced, his advanced hearing picking up the sound of cartilage breaking under the blow. Blood spurted forth.

Geralt made as if to get up, but was beaten by a broad-shouldered farmer intervening in the fight. “Stop it, you two! Brendan!” he hollered, catching another swing that was aimed for the redhead’s face. “What would your da say?”

Brendan shrugged the farmer off. “He wouldn’t say shit, because you”—he pointed an accusing finger at the redhead—“got him killed!” He lunged forward again, was only barely pulled back this time.

“That weren’t me, it were an accident!” the redhead protested, muffled through his hand covering his nose and mouth. “He just fell—”

“He worked at that quarry for fifteen years,” Brendan snarled. “He knew the paths like the back of his hand! He could climb them in his sleep!”

The quarry again. Eryk had mentioned accidents earlier, and Jaskier spraining his ankle… Geralt’s blood ran cold. Was it possible there was something more going on than just the alghoul infestation?

It was too late to return to the quarry, the sun already setting. When he went back tomorrow morning to return the nag and collect his payment, he would inquire further into these accidents, see if there actually was a curse laid on the place.

For now, he went back upstairs to join Jaskier for dinner, turning the day’s events over and over in his mind. Jaskier plucked away at his lute, shaping a new melody, bouncing lyrics off of Geralt, who honestly couldn’t tell the difference between most of the choices Jaskier offered. He lay on his bed and pretended to sleep.

Jaskier shook his head in response to Geralt’s grunts and scribbled notes in his notebook, before finally declaring his masterpiece complete.

“I couldn’t find very good rhymes for alghouls, so I don’t want to hear any criticism about my wordplay,” Jaskier warned, strumming the opening chords on his lute.

The song was catchy, Geralt had to admit. Even though he hadn’t seen the fight in the tunnel, Jaskier painted an exciting picture of Geralt slaying the ‘dual alghouls’, resulting in his glorious victory after only six verses.

“Bit too long,” Geralt offered when Jaskier was done.

“How would you know,” Jaskier grouched, cracking his fingers. “Thought you didn’t like music. Or my music, at least.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Bastard!” Jaskier yelped, throwing a pillow at Geralt’s head. “Take it back.”

“No,” Geralt grinned, easily dodging the pillow and the second one that followed.

“Take it back! Tell me my songs are the loveliest you’ve ever heard!” Jaskier insisted, clambering on top of Geralt and pinning him down by the shoulders.

Geralt deftly rolled them over, switching their positions so that Jaskier was beneath him and he had the advantage. “What are you gonna do now?”

“This,” Jaskier cried, craning his neck to lick Geralt’s hand.

Geralt didn’t react. He’d seen much, much worse. “Oh no,” he replied, deadpan. “Saliva. Disgusting. Whatever will I do.”

Jaskier slumped. “You could at least pretend I have some power over you. I deserve to win sometimes.”

“I’ll let you win when you earn it,” Geralt suggested, letting Jaskier up. “That’s better than a hollow victory.”

Jaskier snatched his pillows up off the ground, dusting them off imperiously. “Just wait, Geralt of Rivia. You won’t even see it coming,” he threatened.

“I live in fear every day of when it will happen.”

“Good,” Jaskier replied, then yawned. “I’m going to bed. Songwriting takes it right out of me.”

Geralt wished him a good night, not quite ready to go to bed himself just yet. He meditated to the sounds of Jaskier changing out of his doublet and trousers into sleep clothes and bedding down for the night, softening into his quiet snores.

Without meaning to, Geralt was soon lulled to sleep himself, still thinking about the quarry and its mishaps.

Jaskier claimed to be feeling much better in the morning, especially after applying some of Geralt’s salve and rewrapping his ankle.

Geralt wasn’t able to convince him to stay at the inn, despite his best efforts, and so Jaskier rode Roach back to the quarry while Geralt led the old nag. The heat had broken somewhat, and it was a pleasant morning for a walk.

Before they even reached the quarry, however, they were met with a man coming the opposite direction. When he saw them he stopped and waited for them to catch up. As they drew closer Geralt realized it was one of the men from the mines, a younger one—Tomas, he remembered.

“Good thing you’re here, witcher. I was sent to find you,” Tomas said, motioning for them to continue back to the quarry with him.

Somehow Geralt knew this was about more than simply his pay. “What happened?” he growled, spurring Roach into a faster walk.

“Ronan went missing last night. All his things are still here, but there’s no sign of him.”

“You checked inside the mine?”

The miner shook his head. “Folk’re too scared. There’s talk—accusations that you missed one yesterday.”

“I didn’t,” Geralt said stubbornly. He was sure of it, and even if he had, the nest was still destroyed. “Sure he didn’t just run off?”

“Ronan wouldn’t. He’s kept this job for ten years, almost. Longer ‘n I’ve been around, for sure. I can’t see why he’d give it up, especially without telling anyone.”

Ever eager to save Geralt’s reputation where he could, Jaskier leapt in. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it! And I know Geralt. He won’t stop until he gets to the bottom of it. Like a dog with a bone, that one. Or more of a wolf, really,” he cracked, winking. “In fact, you can tell your foreman that we won’t be accepting any form of payment until this is solved.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, as neutrally as he dared.

“Yes?” Jaskier blinked innocently at him.

Geralt sighed. “Take Roach and go back to the inn.” When Jaskier looked as if he were going to argue, Geralt cut him off. “I don’t want her anywhere near this.” Or you, he didn’t add, because Jaskier would get into a snit about Geralt patronizing him. “You want to help? This will help.”

Jaskier huffed, but dismounted and swapped horses with Geralt. “This won’t work every time, I hope you know,” he warned, slinging his lute onto his back. “I’m only agreeing to this because I’ve already gotten a song out of it.”

“Duly noted.” Geralt slapped Roach’s hind flank, sending her back down the road the way they’d come. He hoped the pit in his stomach that formed at seeing them go meant nothing.

He turned to the miner. “Show me where Ronan was last seen.”

Ronan bunked with his mining partner of six years, Marik, underneath a sturdy tarp against the western wall of the quarry. The men’s belongings were scattered in the manner of one without a permanent home but with too many possessions to keep tidy.

Tools in need of repair rested atop a barrel littered with candle stubs that sat between the two paillasses. Marik, it seemed, had a habit of whittling, judging by the small wood shavings that littered the corners and the row of small figurines that were displayed proudly on a small table to the side. Ronan’s side of the tent looked as if he’d just stepped out for a moment—blankets crumpled, a pair of dirty boots slumped beside the entrance.

“Marik would have seen him last,” Tomas volunteered. “I think he’s working on the south wall today—I can get him, if you like.”

“Please,” Geralt requested. There were very few clues here as to where Ronan could have gone. For all intents and purposes, it looked like he’d simply stepped out to piss in the middle of the night and never come back.

Tomas ran off. Geralt examined the dirt in front of the tent, keen witcher eyes searching for tracks that might tell him where the occupants had gone—but the quarry was a well-trafficked area, and the soil was too sandy and fine to hold tracks for long.

Tomas returned shortly with a red-haired man behind him, wiping sweat off his brow as he ducked under the tarp. “Master Witcher,” Marik greeted, dropping his pickaxe with a dull thud. “You can find Ronan, then? Or avenge the beastie what killed him?”

“I’ll try,” Geralt promised. “Tell me what happened last night.”

“Not much other’n usual, honestly. Went to bed ‘round when the moon was high, both of us. I dunno what time it were when I heard him get up, but it were late, I know that. Not a hint of light in the sky. I thought he were takin’ care of business, y’know, and tried to fall back asleep. But then I heard a scream—and it were no fox, no matter what they say. I know foxes, and it were no fox.”

Geralt frowned. Was it foolish to hope that he’d simply been dreaming? Or that Ronan had misstepped in the dark, twisted his ankle, and was waiting to be found somewhere unharmed?

“Did you see anything? Go looking for Ronan?”

Marik hung his head, skin coloring pink. “No,” he admitted, “too scared, I was. Thought it might come and get me if I moved.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt said awkwardly. “Can’t blame you.”

“I should’ve,” Marik moaned, and to Geralt’s horror, started to weep. Tomas pulled him close, guiding his head onto his shoulder. “I should’ve gone after him. He were my partner,” Marik sobbed.

Geralt gave them privacy and exited the tent, heading towards the tunnels. He cursed himself for not preparing more potions—he hadn’t expected another fight so soon, but any witcher worth his medallion should have been more prepared. He would have to make do with his swords.

Inside the mine there was no evidence of recent alghoul activity. No fresh claw marks, no pungent scent of rot, no picked-clean bones. The nest still lay destroyed, nothing more than burnt ashes. He nosed around the site for a few more minutes before giving up. Whatever had taken Ronan wasn’t around right now.

He hiked back out into sunlight, where he found Eryk waiting for him. The foreman wore a grimace and held a pouch in his hands, bulging with coin. Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“Witcher,” he greeted wearily. “More ghouls, then?” He shifted on his feet, coin purse clinking.

“Don’t see any necrophage activity. Nest’s still destroyed.”

“I can’t rightly pay two hundred and fifty crowns for a job not done.”

“Nor would I ask you to. How about half now—I need to restock on potion ingredients, pay for another night at the inn for me and my companion. I’ll see the job done, find whatever took Ronan, I swear by my guild.”

“You’re an honorable man, witcher. Here.” He measured out half the promised pay for Geralt, pocketing the other half. “Will ye stay tonight? We could use a watchman. And maybe yer eyes would catch things in the dark we can’t see.”

“Let me go back to town and prepare. I’ll be back by sundown,” Geralt agreed. He had already been planning to keep watch overnight, hoping his presence would prevent another man vanishing.

“Aye,” Eryk said, and left. His head was bowed, heavy with the weight of the situation. Geralt wished he could do more.

After leaving the quarry, he headed back to town, to the marketplace. He bought some more common herbs and ingredients there, counting out a good amount of Eryk’s coin. It was enough to make several elixirs, as long as he supplemented it with a few things from his own stores.

As he left the market, a sweet smell caught his nose, and he followed it to a squat building with a sign labeled BERELDA’S BREADS. A bakery.

Geralt hesitated, weighing the coin purse in his hand for a moment. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.” Jaskier’s words echoed in his head.

He ended up buying two sweet rolls, and a pouch of a half-dozen balls of fried dough when Berelda offered them at a discount, given it was so late in the day. “I’ll only throw them out tomorrow, better you have them,” she reasoned. He popped one in his mouth on his way back to the inn, savoring the way the sugar melted on his tongue and flooded his mouth with sweetness.

He wasn’t sure what had him in such a good mood—perhaps the fine weather, and the promise of a good mystery to mull over? Either way, it was dashed as soon as he got back to their shared room. He’d been—anticipating Jaskier’s reaction, almost eager to face both his endless questions about what he’d missed and his joy at being gifted a treat. And maybe a little bit of vindication, too, see, bard, I do know how to enjoy myself.

But when he pushed open the door and saw only Jaskier’s unmoving form tucked into bed, his stomach sank to the floor. No overexcited reaction to be found here.

Moreover, it was still light out—barely suppertime, by his reckoning. And the bard wasn’t usually one for naps.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, walking over to the bed and gently shaking his shoulder. His body jostled limply with the movement. Was he—? No, he was still breathing, just deeply asleep. Geralt checked, just to make sure. “Jaskier,” he called again, a little bit louder, and this time Jaskier groaned and buried his head into his pillow.

“What?” he asked, muffled by cloth.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“No,” he answered, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “I was just woken rather rudely. What time ‘s it?” Oh. Just dramatic, as always.

“A couple hours to sundown. Why were you napping?”

“Dunno, I was just tired,” Jaskier answered irritably, finally rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. He looked decidedly rumpled, with sheet prints all up and down his face and neck and his hair rather unflatteringly sticking out on one side. And his eyes had dark circles under them, when Geralt looked. “Will you let me sleep in peace now?”

“Have you eaten?” Geralt persisted. He suddenly felt foolish—he wasn’t some stupid idiot courting a lover, bringing home sweets in hopes of wooing his beloved. Witchers didn’t do things like that. “I bought bread,” he said lamely.

Jaskier didn’t answer, and instead threw an arm over his face. Fine. If he wanted to go without eating, Geralt would let him wake in the middle of the night starving. He was grown and could make his own decisions. Even if those decisions pointed to something more worrying than simply a cranky companion.

“I’m going back to the quarry tonight,” Geralt informed him, sitting down at the table with his potion ingredients. Silence followed. “You shouldn’t come.”

Still no answer. Either he was already asleep again, or he was ignoring Geralt. Whatever. Geralt set to brewing a few doses of Swallow, a healthy amount of Cat, and while those were simmering, he distilled some blade oils.

He fell into a light meditation until sundown, when he would return to the quarry. But when he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Jaskier, out of bed now, standing in front of the window looking out.

“Stop walking on that ankle,” Geralt growled, fed up with the bard’s behavior.

He expected a reply of but the setting sun is so beautiful, such an alluring sight for a poet such as myself! or something equally inane, but Jaskier didn’t reply.

“The silent treatment? Really?” Geralt asked, standing up with the intent to make Jaskier sit down. But when he got closer, he realized that the bard wasn’t truly awake, his eyes half-lidded and unseeing. He swayed gently where he stood, uncaring of his swollen ankle or the cool breeze that skimmed along his collarbone and ruffled his hair.

Jaskier didn’t nap, nor did he sleepwalk, not in the five years Geralt had traveled with him. Something was very wrong. Geralt seized him by the shoulders. “Jaskier, wake up!” he almost shouted. Urgency curdled deep in his stomach.

Jaskier blinked slowly, once, twice, and then his eyes began to gain a little more life. “Hmm? Geralt?” he asked, coming fully awake. “Oh, fuck,” he cursed, and stumbled into Geralt, his ankle making its displeasure known.

Geralt caught him beneath the elbows, supporting his weight with ease. “Sit down,” he ordered, lowering Jaskier back onto the bed and kneeling in front of him.

“Was I… asleep?” Jaskier asked, having to clear his throat a couple times to get the grogginess out of his voice.

“You tell me,” Geralt replied, lifting Jaskier’s foot to check on his ankle. The bandage was loose, a swollen swath of black and blue peeking up around the edges. “Unless you thought this”—he held up Jaskier’s foot higher so he could see—“was a good idea?”

He winced. “Ow. No, I was dreaming…” he trailed off. His eyes were distant, unseeing. He sucked in a sudden breath as Geralt pressed too hard on a tender spot.

“Have you been applying your salve?”

“This morning, yes. Probably could do with another application.” He reached over to the table by the bedside, grabbing the tin of salve. He held still as Geralt unwound the bandage and spread some of the thick grease over the swollen area, finishing by redoing the bandage tightly. “Thank you. I honestly don’t know what came over me.”

“Dreaming of running from jealous spouses?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier huffed out a small laugh. “No, I don’t remember. It was dark, I think? It’s sort of fuzzy. I don’t really remember.”

Geralt wished he hadn’t promised to spend the night watching over the quarry. Someone should be here at the inn to make sure Jaskier didn’t go diving headfirst through any open windows while asleep.

“You know, I might go play. I’m feeling much better after that nap,” Jaskier proclaimed, as if he could read Geralt’s mind. “Oh, don’t give me that look. No dancing on tabletops for me. I’ll stay put in my seat, don’t worry.”

Geralt still doubted Jaskier’s ability to give a lowkey performance, but it wasn’t as if he could forbid the bard from playing. “Alright. I’m headed back to the quarry to keep watch overnight.”

“I hope that includes a significant increase in pay due to overtime. Oh, who am I kidding, you probably offered to do it for free. I know how you get with contracts like these.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll be back in the morning. Lock the door and window tonight in case you get up again.”

“Yes, mother,” Jaskier sighed. “Now help me up?”

***

link to chapter 2 will be added here soon!

#the witcher #geraskier #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my fic

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d-andilion · 2 years

Text

in perpetuity

another one for @whataboutthebard!

prompt: whump - forced marriage and forbidden love

(geraskier, T, prince!jaskier, knight!geralt, secret relationship, angst, i hurt myself with this one folks, 2.9k, read on ao3)

As a child, Geralt dreamed of becoming a knight. He saw himself atop a noble steed adorned in gleaming steel armor, flying the colors of a great house. His sword would be the bringer of justice, the upholder of order. In the name of his liege, he would protect the innocent and drive out evil from the shadows. He would be a peacekeeper. A hero.

Witchers were not knights. Vesemir spent decades drilling that fact into Geralt’s head. He killed monsters, yes, but his protection extended to whoever paid him. Innocence and wealth rarely came hand in hand. Too often, the lords he had once wished to serve and the knights he’d idolized were the monsters no one could fight, much less a lone Witcher. Still, Geralt did the job he’d been trained for and took contracts for the smallfolk when he could. It was all he had.

When the monsters died out, Geralt and his brethren were left with only their swords. Just steel now. The silver, they buried in the rubble at Kaer Morhen. Witchers were no longer needed, but mutants made good mercenaries. It wasn’t so different, really. Geralt swung his sword for the rich and powerful, and was paid well for his trouble. And when the odd penniless farmer with hungry little mouths to feed offered him shelter to drive off a stray wolf or a few bandits, he did what he could.

Geralt never expected to bear the knighthood the nameless child he once was dreamed of. He didn’t want it, not anymore. Taking orders from spoiled shitheads for a living was grim enough without pretending he deserved a commendation for it. Every knight he’d ever met was a pompous moron who’d never seen a real fight. The last thing Geralt wanted was a place among their ranks.

Then he took a contract from King Arthur Pankratz.

It was an unusual contract. Geralt typically found himself handling border disputes or guarding wares for trade, half a world away from seats of power. He rarely had cause to meet the nobles that employed him, but this one brought him to the steps of Lettenhove Castle. Some sort of epidemic had swept their tiny kingdom the winter prior, crippling their defenses. Geralt and the few hundred others who accepted King Arthur’s contract were to serve as palace guards and city patrol until more citizens could be recruited and trained.

The work was dull but the wage was more than fair and the barracks were far finer than his usual accommodations, so Geralt was happy to sign away twelve months of his service. He even earned himself some extra coin and palace lodgings to help train the new recruits. It was shaping up to be the best year he’d had in half a century.

Prince Julian arrived a few weeks after Geralt did. The king’s youngest spent a few years touring the world after he graduated from the Continent's most prestigious institution, but his father had called him home in the wake of their kingdom’s recent turmoil.

Geralt didn’t think much of the news. Julian had three older siblings in the palace and Geralt could count the times he’d seen any of them on one hand. The few veteran guards Geralt worked with on training duty were sure the prince would find a way out of the castle as quickly as he’s come, but they warned Geralt to be wary. Prince Julian—Jaskier as he insisted on calling himself—was made of trouble, they said. Better safe than sorry.

The day they met, Geralt didn’t even realize he was speaking to a prince. No one bowed to the fop in a sunny yellow ensemble as he marched onto the training grounds, a lute slung over his back and a crown of dandelions in his hair. No one seemed to blink an eye as he meandered lazily between sparing circles and drill sessions like he belonged there. He wore no gold or jewels, sported no attendants or complement of guards. He looked like a bard if Geralt had ever seen one.

The bard eventually made his way to where Geralt stood supervising his recruits, flashing Geralt a grin that dripped confidence and scanning him up and down with bright blue eyes.

“Now you look interesting,” the bard drawled. “I love the way you stand there and brood.”

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt replied. There was a choking sound to his left and the guard beside him started to cough vigorously. Geralt shot him a curious glance and turned back to scrutinize his recruits.

The bard just laughed. “Come on now, I’m sure you have a few stories to tell. I’ll give you one in return if you like.”

“Busy,” Geralt barked.

“What about later, then?” the bard asked. He was close enough now that Geralt could feel the heat of his body along his side. “I’d be happy to find somewhere more… private to chat.”

Geralt was never the most sensitive man, but he knew when he was being propositioned. Credit where it was due, the bard had balls. Geralt leveled him with a stony glare. The bard could certainly have fallen into the vague category of Geralt’s type. Tall with broad shoulders hidden beneath artfully tailored fabric, an undeniably pretty face, eyes that could set him apart in a sea of faces. And he had this spark about him, a fire burning under his skin that made him a beacon Geralt didn’t want to resist.

Geralt hadn’t realized he was about to accept the bard’s offer until much later. Regardless, he never got the chance. A harried palace attendant interrupted whatever little moment had bloomed, panting her way across the courtyard.

“There you are, your royal highness!” she called between harsh gulps of air. “You will be late for the council briefing. We must go at once!”

Prince Jaskier breathed a disappointed sigh. “To be continued,” he muttered for only Geralt to hear. Then he turned on his heel and followed his attendant, to her palpable relief.

Geralt had been sure he would be executed, but no one came for his head that day or any day after. The other guards assured him that Jaskier was unlikely to demand retribution for Geralt’s disrespect. On the contrary, the prince had taken a shine to him. The trouble would come, they warned, when that shine turned into something a little more tangible. The prince didn’t mind sleeping with commoners, but his father was far less forgiving. It simply wasn’t worth the risk.

But Jaskier kept coming back. To the training grounds, to Geralt’s patrol routes, to the canteen where the guards took their meals. At first, his constant chatter was infuriating, but Geralt came to find it almost soothing, a rhythm he could sink into and even find a bit of comfort in. Before long, Jaskier coaxed stories out of Geralt too; about monsters, yes, but about him, about his path as his life. He found himself telling Jaskier more than he’d ever told anyone besides his brothers.

The spoiled, reckless royal Geralt envisioned Jaskier to be disappeared day by day. Jaskier could be impulsive and sometimes even careless, but more than any of that, he was free. His heart flew on a summer breeze and his smile carried pure sunlight. He was warmth given form like nothing Geralt had ever known. Inescapably beautiful.

Falling into bed together was a terrible idea, and Geralt knew that. By the time he finally gave in, he knew it didn’t matter if he fucked Jaskier or not. It was too late to save anything from breaking. Geralt was already completely, enduringly in love with him.

When Geralt’s contract with the king ended and Jaskier begged him to stay, he didn’t even think about saying no. Where would he go without Jaskier anyway? Who would he be there? How could he fight another bandit or guard another wagon of grain when he knew what it felt like to hold the sun’s fire in his hands without burning?

To stay at Jaskier’s side, Geralt swore himself to his service. A loyal sword to guard the prince’s back and keep his council, in perpetuity. Forever. It was the only vow Geralt had ever made and he intended it to be the last. By the law of the land, a royal sworn sword became a knight the moment his vow left his lips. Geralt’s dream finally came to pass.

His fantasies had never been quite like this.

In one of Lettenhove’s many fine receiving halls, sunlight pours through high stained glass windows onto a sorry scene indeed. Jaskier is slouched in his chair, golden crown crooked atop his head as he glares down from the raised dais he occupies. Geralt stands at Jaskier’s right hand as he always does, trying with limited success to focus on scanning the room for potential threats. The lord kneeling below them, whose name Geralt forgot moments after he heard it, has been droning on for what feels like days.

Knighthood is very little like Geralt’s childish imaginings. There’s no armor or billowing cape to start. Geralt flatly refused to wear them in any context that wasn’t ceremonial. He’s not letting Jaskier be run through by an assassin because his sworn protector was too slow under four stones of armor to save him. When they’re off palace grounds, Geralt wears a better-kept version of his old leather armor. Most days, he dresses in a fine but flexible doublet with his sword at his hip.

There isn’t a great deal of fighting either. Outside of the training grounds, Geralt hasn’t seen a real scrap since before he took his vow nearly three years ago. The vast majority of his days are spent like this: following Jaskier as he goes about his business through the castle, watching his back and offering input on matters when requested.

As of late, their time has been occupied by more and more lords and ladies of who-fucking-cares, coming to make their bid for the hand of their prince. King Arthur let it be known a few months back that his youngest child would marry by the end of winter. Now the leaves have begun to turn and the castle is filled to the brim with would-be suitors.

Jaskier has been notoriously hostile to every single one of them, but no one has yet been deterred from trying. The current Lord Whatshisface has been walking them through his entire family tree to illustrate what a strong couple they would make for the better part of the last hour. Even the lord’s own staff look to be flagging; the knight on his left has yawned three times in the space of a few minutes. The lord starts up on a tangent about his sixth cousin’s great-great-grandmother, and that seems to be the limit for Jaskier.

“Fuck’s sake, I can’t take another minute of this,” Jaskier says.

The lord blinks stupidly. “Your royal highness?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so bored in my entire life! Were your born this way or did you have to work at it?”

Geralt contains a snort as the lord begins to flounder, sputtering in place of a reply. Jaskier stands and removes his crown, then drops it in the hands of the nearest servant with none of the delicacy required for a thousand-year-old family heirloom. Geralt follows Jaskier dutifully, a smug grin on his lips, as Jaskier marches down the steps of the dais and out of the receiving room without sparing the lord another glance.

They’re quiet in the halls—too many ears with ulterior motives to speak freely—but the moment they’re back in Jaskier’s rooms, he sprawls over the settee and begins his tirade.

“Can you believe that bumbling idiot?” Jaskier groans while Geralt makes a quick round of the room. He doubts very highly that someone is snooping behind the drapes, but being overly cautious is part of his job description. “I mean, honestly, do you think they breed them to be this dull? Is there a secret storehouse of mind-numbingly boring people with impeccable manners that I don’t know about?”

Geralt doesn’t reply. Jaskier doesn’t really need him to at this stage of ranting. Instead, he pokes his head into each chamber in Jaskier’s rooms as part of his rounds. When he returns to the sitting room, Jaskier has thrown his doublet across the back of the settee and his boots are somehow on opposite sides of the room

“What did you think of that one?” Jaskier asks. Geralt snorts.

“Useless popinjay like all the rest of them.”

Jaskier laughs at that. “At least he kept any miserable excuses for poetry to himself. What was it the last one called me? Lady Whatsername?”

Geralt remembers that exchange all too well despite every attempt to forget it. “‘Julian,’” he recites, “‘my dewy frog in the shining swamp of desire—’”

“Oh dear, that’s quite enough, thank you,” says Jaskier with a face like he’s smelled something awful. “And my father genuinely expects me to marry one of them. Lucky for me, I have no intention whatsoever of going through with it.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop a few degrees. It’s suddenly unbearably quiet, the sort of quiet that starts to scream after a while. They don’t often discuss what King Arthur’s winter deadline means for them. There isn’t much to talk about from Geralt’s perspective. He can’t do anything to stop it.

Jaskier has made his intention to frighten his suitors away very clear, but his father doesn’t seem to ever run out of options to put in front of him. His only other coping strategy seems to be statements of denial, each one a little less confident than the last. In the spring, his voice was sure and his eyes burned with defiance. Now, with the autumn treeline visible from his window, he makes himself small.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries tentatively.

“I won’t do it,” Jaskier snaps shakily without looking up. His hands ball up into white-knuckled fists in his lap. “He can’t force me.”

Geralt takes a deep, slow breath. Inhale. Exhale. “You well know that he can. And if he has to, he will.”

“He can’t!” Jaskier cries into the blaring silence. He makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a snarl as he tries to breathe. “It isn’t… It’s not fair.”

Jaskier looks up at him then, and Geralt wishes he hadn’t. His blue eyes sparkle with unshed tears. He looks helpless, furiously helpless, and there’s nothing Geralt can do about it. The vow Geralt took to protect him is meaningless here. He can’t save Jaskier from this.

Geralt traces the curve of Jaskier’s flushed cheek as gently as he can with his rough, calloused fingers, and Jaskier leans into the touch. Anything Geralt could say feels woefully inadequate right now, so he says nothing.

Jaskier stands, fingers curling tightly into the front of Geralt’s doublet. His eyes search the empty space in front of him for something he can’t seem to find. An answer, a hope, a prayer.

“My great grandfather’s younger sister married a knight,” he says. “There’s precedent.”

“It isn’t the same to them. You know it isn’t,” says Geralt evenly. Most knights hail from noble families. The gaping loophole in their code of fealty is the only reason Geralt is standing here right now. Jaskier’s father would never let him marry a commoner, a Witcher, knight or not.

Jaskier barks a hollow tearful laugh. “So you are good enough to die for me, but not good enough to love me?”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s face with both hands wordlessly and presses a kiss to his forehead. Jaskier trembles under his touch. When Geralt pulls back, Jaskier’s eyes bore into his, and Geralt can see Jaskier’s heart breaking in them, though he still hasn’t shed a tear. His prince, so beautiful, so brave.

“What happens to you, then?” Jaskier asks. “When I’m marching down the aisle with my useless popinjay, where will you be?”

“Guarding your back, the way I always have.”

“And then?”

Geralt brings their foreheads together, his nose brushing Jaskier’s.

“I swore you an oath of fealty,” he says. “Not the kingdom, not your father, not the gods. You. I’m not proud, Jaskier. I don’t need to be your husband to stay by your side. Whoever you marry, it doesn’t matter. I’m yours. In perpetuity.”

The echo of Geralt’s vow hangs heavily between them. He made it selfishly, as means to dig out a place for himself in Jaskier’s life, but Geralt still meant every word of it then and he means it now. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, but Geralt keeps looking. He wants to drink in every detail of what it feels like to hold his prince, his bard, his sun, in his arms.

“We could run away,” Jaskier whispers wistfully.

Geralt knows Jaskier doesn’t mean it. For all his fury and threats, Jaskier loves his family and his people. He would never abandon them, not for anything.

“Alright,” Geralt whispers back. “Where?”

“Anywhere. The coast.”

An image comes to Geralt’s mind. Jaskier, shirt billowing in the ocean breeze, bare feet sinking into the sand. The sunset casts him in shades of gold as he laughs without a care in the world. He is safe. He is happy. He is free.

Geralt closes his eyes on that faraway dream.

“The coast it is.”

w.a.t.b. masterlist

#whump the bard #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #my fic #mine

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fandom-junk-drawer · 1 year

Text

The Witcher Headcanon (Modern AU) - Upset - Part 1

(Whump fic disguised as a headcanon)

Jaskier was typically outgoing, charming, and had an amazing sense of humor. He was good-natured and wasn't one to get upset easily. Except when it came to Valdo Marx. That a**hole was a completely different story!

But Jaskier did get angry, or sad, or got his feelings hurt, like any normal person. And while he did get upset, he was also quick to forgive his friends. He may not forgive himself as quickly or easily, but would always forgive the people closest to his heart.

He had even forgiven Geralt for abandoning him on the mountain, but Geralt wasn't so sure Jaskier was going to forgive him for this...

Geralt and Jaskier had just pulled into the driveway when Jaskier had been called away for band business. He'd jumped out of Van Roach, broken the world's speed record for showering, thrown on clean clothes, and headed over to their little studio.

Geralt had been left to unpack everything from their recent roadtrip: two weeks on the Path, hunting monsters in Temeria. He was tired, but he had to get the van cleaned out and restocked for the next trip. He gave it a good vacuuming, took out all the empty food containers and packaging, and tossed all the empty cans and bottles.

He shampooed the carpet and seat where Jaskier had spilled his drink after Geralt hit the brakes quite suddenly, on purpose, after Jaskier kept forgetting to put his seatbelt on, and wouldn't stop putting his feet up on the dashboard. Jaskier had folded in half with a surprised shriek, and Geralt had to stop to pull his a** out of the footwell.

Geralt restocked the medical supply cabinet, then bundled all the bedding up and shoved it into the washing machine. Was it overloaded? Most likely. Was Yen going to be mad? Not if she didn't find out. Geralt left the machine to do its job and f**ked off to go do something else until it was time to dry everything.

After half an hour of sitting in front of the tv, he heard the washing machine stop, so he peeled himself off the couch and went to shove everything in the dryer. He was pulling the blankets and sheets out when he saw it...

Geralt experienced a mental pause while his brain devoted most of its function into verifying that what his eyes were seeing was really true.

Then came the wave of panic as he carefully pulled the blanket out of the washer. Ohsh*tohsh*t! It had gotten mixed in with the other bedding, and he hadn't noticed! Sh*t! Oh gods! Were the tattered spot worse, or had they always looked like that? Ohhhhhhhhhh.....

Yennefer was out in her herb garden when she heard Geralt swear loudly and emphatically, "FFFFAAAAAAAHHHHKKKKKHHHH!!!!". She ran inside immediately, and heard him swear again in the laundry room.

She flung door open, voice raised in righteous fury, "You better not have overloaded the washing manchine again, Geralt!", and froze on the spot when she saw Geralt standing there, holding a blanket.

Yennefer gasped, experiencing the same panic as Geralt when she recognized the familiar, but now much cleaner looking ratty blanket. That wasn't just any blanket. It was Jaskier's blankie. And Geralt had just washed it! Their eyes locked, and a single thought passed between them,

oH sH*T!

They both knew the significance of what had just happened. They were f**ked. There was no way to fix this. Geralt's brain made a valiant effort though, and coughed up an absurd, but simple solution.

"Yen, quick, magic it back to the way it was!"

"What?!"

"Just...I don't know, put the...the 'yuck' back on it!"

"You want me to just magic decades of drool, dirt, sweat, and gods know what else back on to it? What the f**k, Geralt?"

"Ok, ok, then at least put the stink back on it so it will smell like it did before I accidentally washed it!"

"I can't, you nimrod! I don't know what it smells like!"

Geralt gave the blanket an experimental sniff. That one corner still smelled funky to him. Maybe it was going to be okay.

Yennefer burst his bubble. "He's not a Witcher! He doesn't have your sense of smell!" She took a sniff herself. All she could smell was lavender and linen. "And I don't either!"

"D*mn, it's a little...uh...ragged too!" Yennefer groaned, looking at the bits where some of the old, slapped on patches had frayed and pulled away from the other bits of fabric. There were stringy bits, and small areas where the old batting was showing through.

Geralt felt his heart sink with dread. The blankie was mostly in one piece, just a little 'battle worn', but it was still obviously damaged and would need repair.

Oh, f**k, we're...f**ked!"

They were very much f**ked because that was when Jaskier walked in. He knew something was wrong. He could sense dread and urgency through Yennefer's mental link as soon as he walked into the house.

Jaskier opened the laundry room door and froze. He saw Geralt holding his blankie. Saw the open door of the washing machine. Saw the ragged look of his blankie. Smelled laundry soap. And put one and one together.

"You...you...washed it..." he said, his voice small and flat. Geralt and Yennefer both flinched. Jaskier slowly reached out and took the damp blanket from Geralt's hands. He started trembling then, and Geralt could smell the distress coming off him. It was making him sick to his stomach.

Jaskier ran his hand over one frayed patch where the stitching had given way, his thougths racing as he tried to both process what had happened, and simultaneously come up with a way to fix it.

"Jask, I-!" Geralt began to try to explain, reaching over to lay a comforting hand on Jaskier's shoulder.

Jaskier jerked away from him, "No!" he barked, his voice rough and tight. He was shaking now.

"No..." he whimpered, his voice sounding small and broken. Yennefer gasped when, out of pure distress, he started banging his fist on his head and repeating "No" over and over.

Geralt grabbed his wrist, "Hey! Stop it!"

Jaskier twisted and jerked, then tensed up as he felt a familiar pain flare in his chest. "F**k you!" he cried, suddenly angry. "F**k you, Geralt! F**k you!"

"Geralt, his chest-!" Yennefer said quickly, feeling the pain through their link.

Geralt immediately released his grip.

Jaskier stumbled as Geralt let go. He took a step back and bumped up against the counter, sliding down to sit on the floor. He felt light-headed.

"Breathe, Jaskier..." Yennefer said, her voice full of concern. She crouched beside him and lightly slapped at his cheek until he blinked and took a breath.

Yennefer tried to press her hand to his chest, to feel if those ribs had separated from his sternum again, but he turned away from her slightly.

"Let me see, Nightengale. Please?" She asked quietly.

Jaskier shook his head and hugged his damp blanket to his chest, sniffling and trying to get a hold of himself. "Get out." he said quietly after a minute.

"Jaskier," Yennefer said gently, pulling on his hand when he started fisting his hair. "Let's get your blankie in the dryer, okay?"

He didn't look at her, just stared at the floor numbly, holding his wet blanket, eyes glistening with tears.

"Jask?" Geralt rumbled softly.

"Just f**k off, both of you. Please."

Geralt looked at Yennefer, who nodded. They quietly left the room...

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geraskierficrecs · 2 years

Text

End of the Year Updates (2022)

Thank you all for hanging around and continuing to be amazing friends, writers, artists, and readers for the Witcher fandom! You have all been incredibly supportive and make me so glad that I am a part of this too. To that end, I’ve collected all the fics I’ve completed or are in progress this year.

Links and descriptions under the cut.

In-Progress:

The Sin Eater

“He doesn’t have much time now,” the demon observed, “Even Witchers need oxygen. This is your only hope of saving him.”

Jaskier’s face went firm and determined, turning back to the creature with no sign of his earlier hesitation.

The demon looked amused. “Are you sure he’d worth giving up so much?”

“All that and more,” Jaskier whispered.

Then he stepped into the circle. ————————— To save Geralt, Jaskier lets himself be possessed by the demon he was hunting. Will there be anything left of the bard for Geralt to save?

The Fixer

In the world of the wealthiest members of society, there is only one man who you call when there is a problem that needs to disappear. Whether it's killing off your competition or ensuring you have the blackmail you need to keep your enemies at bay, Jaskier--better known as Dandelion--has made a living getting his hands dirty.

So, when the offer comes to track down the missing child of a billionaire CEO, Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier is more than happy to go undercover and get the information they need to ensure Geralt doesn't become a problem.

But what happens when he starts to have feelings for the kind, smartass barista and his strange family?

Completed Multi-Chapter Works:

Lark of My Heart

“What do I smell like to you?”

Geralt looked up from where he was sharpening a blade to frown at the bard. “What?”

“You’re always sniffing around me,” Jaskier explained with a smile that covered the sheepish blush on his cheeks, “And I've read that Witchers have a keen sense of smell so tell me, what do I smell like to you?”

Home. ___________________________

After the mountain, Geralt faces the reality of what his temper has destroyed and tries to pretend like he's fine with that. (He isn't.)

Call Me Sunshine (Jaskier/Eskel)

It becomes a habit to keep an eye on the front door every Wednesday. Jaskier told him after the second week that he tries to grab the flowers on his lunch break. It’s how he found the shop in the first place.

“I tutor a kid near here,” he tells Eskel as he watches the florist trim the thorns off some David Austen roses. “He’s a menace, but his mom wants him to learn piano and is willing to pay for all the grey hairs I’m getting.”

“You play piano?”

“And a few other instruments. My favorite is the lute.”

Eskel grins a little. “A lute? Do you moonlight as a bard too?” ___________________________

Or, a florist AU with enough misunderstandings and pining to fill an entire season of a CW show.

Dying for You (Again and Again)

By his understandably shoddy memory, Jaskier had died over 1300 times since he first drew breath several hundred years ago.

Somehow, none of those deaths ever seemed to hurt as much as the dreams of Geralt. ___________________________________

Or, the Old Guard AU no one asked for, but I wrote.

With My Last Breath

Jaskier is tortured by Nilfgaard--angst, whump, and fluff follow. In that order.

Wolves and Men

There was a challenge in his expression. A dare for Geralt to cast him aside once more.

Like he had on the mountain.

If life could give me one blessing—Geralt shook his head to banish the memory of those vicious words. Words he’d had plenty of time to regret in the years since Jaskier had walked away. Since Gerat had sent him away.

“Jaskier,” he whispered, voice thick. ________________________ Jaskier thought he'd found the perfect alpha to follow for the rest of his life only to be cast aside. He should have known better--the White Wolf always hunts alone.

If Wishing Made It So

Geralt stared down into the ravine and the glittering rocks below and wished the rumors of the Witcher’s missing emotions were true. He wished for a lot of things, then, staring down at the smear of blue silk stained red.

None of them came true. ———-

On a hunt that goes bad, Geralt is forced to imagine a world where his bard will no longer walk at his side.

Series:

Villainous Universe

Series featuring a supervillain Jaskier falling for the superhero Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Contains explicit content as well as all my favorite angsty tropes.

The Sentinel/Guide Verse

Jaskier was half way through a lackluster rendition of one of his least popular songs when his world went static.

In his ears, a foreign heartbeat thundered, ragged and wounded. It felt as though his lungs had gone sideways with the sensation. Even the air itself tasted like it was charged with lightning, bright and bitter as ozone. Deep in his gut, he felt something urging himself forward, pulling him like some invisible string towards an unknown destination.

Something brushed across his senses, rough as tree bark, and sinking into his skin to crawl like ants beneath. He froze, eyes darting around the room like he could spot whoever it was that had sent his senses scrambling against the hard earned shields he was always careful to maintain. In his hands, his fingers faltered, melody disappearing beneath the wave of wrong that felt like it was choking him.

The answer was simple--and impossible.

There was a Sentinel here.

The Full Cops and Robbers Verse

An enemies to lovers story revolving around a charming, mysterious thief and the cop that is absolutely done with his shit.

The Witcher Soldier Verse

Geralt barely managed to slam the pommel of his sword up in a glancing blow that shattered the metal latch holding the Soldier’s mask in place. The Soldier rolled into the movement with a dancer’s grace and came to his full height just as easily. For a moment, his hands reached up to run over the exposed skin, before he slowly turned to face Geralt once more.

The Witcher froze in a mixture of horror and near-frantic hope.

He stared into the eyes of a dead man and whispered, “Jaskier?”

The Soldi--the bard frowned at him in confusion and spoke with a voice rough with disuse,

“Who the hell is Jaskier?” ___________________________

Or, the Winter Soldier AU.

A Light in the Dark Series

One will rise And one will fail, But none can escape destiny’s call. ____________

Jaskier is a bard with a secret. For all the world knows, he strolled onto a stage ten years ago and made a name for himself as the sidekick of the White Wolf. But what came before? And will he be able to escape destiny's call?

A Three Part Series Exploring My Take on a Feral Version of Jaskier

One Shots:

Star Crossed

“It’s not true.” The man’s voice is rough as a knife over gravel and is short enough to make the bard falter at his tone. It takes him a moment to realize he’s referring to the story he’d told as part of the festival.

“You don’t believe in the lost lovers?” he asks, offended to the very core of his romantic heart. He stands a little straighter to glare up at the larger man. “I’ll have you know that my story comes from the works of Master Essi herself--she knew the lovers herself. It's the foundation story of our whole town and this festival! How can you say the story isn’t true?”

A shadow crosses over the stranger’s face and eyes that flash gold flick away from the bard to stare at the trees and the lonely hill. Despite himself, the bard feels his heart ache at the grief in his expression.

“He didn’t come back.”

Burn For You

Jaskier twitched helplessly as the women filed out of the mill and left him where he was bound on the floor. He arched his back slightly, trying to see to where the fire was slowly creeping from the bed to drip onto the floor. It hit the edge of the floor and he closed his eyes, going limp with exhausted pain.

His body ached as he lay on the ground, bleeding. The floor was cold at his back and noise came through staticky and broken like a voice through a waterfall. He could just vaguely hear footsteps thudding toward him accompanied by shouting. Still, his vision refused to focus, and the only thing he could identify around him was the flickering red of the flames reflected in the cloud heavy with rain that would never be enough to stop the fire spreading through the mill.

All he could hope was that the smoke killed him before he began to burn.

Gilded With Blood (Aiden/Lambert)

Aiden watched the slowly growing pool of his life’s blood dripping onto the red rock below him. His chest rose and fell in ragged little gasps made awkward by the sword still pinning him to the earth. Pain was far away now and he knew only the cold chill of death would replace it.

As his eyes closed, he couldn’t help but think:

This was going to destroy Lambert.

A Gentleman’s Guide to Seducing Your Fiancé

It is a truth universally known that Geralt fucking hated Viscount Julien de Lettenhove.

Their rivalry was the stuff of legends, the sort that drew the eye and the idle gossip of members of court. It ensured that each time they came within five feet of the other, the entire room would go still, watchful. Eager. For what could be more delicious, more exciting than a fight between the Crown Prince and his new betrothed?

I’ll Sleep Forever Next to You

“Geralt?” Eskel’s voice distracts him from his spiraling thoughts. “What’s wrong? Where’s the lark?”

Geralt seizes on his brother in arms, near desperate for someone who might know what to do. “He’s sick. He’s, he’s coughing, feverish--”

“How long?” The older Witcher looks like he does before battle, steady and fierce.

“I, I’m not sure.” Abruptly, Jaskier’s early night has all manner of new meanings. Had he been feeling poorly that long? His brow furrows. “He sounded like he was having trouble breathing last night.” _____________________________________

Or, three Witchers freak out over a bard with a cold.

Don’t Leave Me

Jaskier’s hands tighten around Geralt before slowly losing their grip, spasming where they fall limp. “Ger--geralt--”

“Don’t you dare,” he snarls back, “Don’t you dare try to give me your fucking goodbyes. You are not dying.”

“S--silly man.” Jaskier’s smile is full of painful fondness. “Would you fight death for me?”

Geralt swings him up into his arms and nearly weeps at the sound of familiar hooves running in his direction. “Every. Fucking. Time.”

Between One Heartbeat and the Next

Please. Please, not this.

Don’t make him listen to Jaskier’s voice beginning to strain in a way it never did on stage even as he continued to reassure Geralt.

“It’s okay… Geralt, you’ll be okay.”

Not without you.

“You’re...gonna be fine in...just a little while.”

You won’t.

“ ‘s...not...so bad...like going to sleep.”

Nononononopleaseno

Waiting for the Sun

Jaskier was dying.

The confirmation came with each cramping, shallow breath and spots of grey drowning out the mottled stone walls that would become his tomb. After all the years he’d spent terrified of this moment, it was almost anticlimactic to realize he was too tired now to fight back any longer. He was dying. The world would continue without him.

Blood dripped from his fingertips and formed erratic patterns against his own skin. Over the sound of his racing heart he could hear footsteps and murmured voices that made him want to vomit or rage in fury.

They were watching him. He didn’t need to look up into the window to see the strange faces twisted into cruel smiles, pleased at his suffering. He hated them.

Not a Damsel, Not in Distress

The one closest to him raised his trembling sword with a panicked expression at the unexpected violence. “Wh--what the fuck? You’re just a bard.”

Jaskier’s smile was more a baring of his teeth, made more alarming with the blood sprayed across his skin and clothing. “Your first mistake was believing that.” _____________________________

Geralt and Jaskier are ambushed by a pack of mercenaries. It was really their fault for believing the yellow eyed Witcher was the only threat.

Frantic

Geralt was hanging limply against the rough bark. Two daggers kept him pinioned like a bug in place and left dark streaks of drying blood down his arms and exposed chest. Silver hair was matted close to his forehead from a sluggishly bleeding would that left golden eyes hazy and unfocused. Worst still were the bruises littering every inch of exposed skin like a collage of torment.

His Witcher had been tortured.

———

There was a name for the emotion burning like fire in his blood, eating away at the dandelion bard that had made his living seeking the pleasure of others. A simple phrase that barely encompasses the new tension in his bones and made his mind focus with singular, violent intent.

Wrath.

A Blade in the Back

There was a flicker of movement at his side and he felt something slam into his unprotected flank. Magic blew past him, ruffling his hair but leaving him unharmed. Surprised by the sudden attack, Geralt stumbled and whirled to face whoever had hit him.

Only instead of a beast, he saw a bard.

Jaskier clutched at his chest where a dark stain seemed to spread over his heart. His bright eyes stared at Geralt helplessly, mouth opening and closing without sound. Geralt stared back at him in shock until Jaskier dropped heavily to his knees, collapsing like a puppet with his strings cut. ___________

In the midst of a battle, Jaskier is hit with an unknown curse. All at once Geralt finds himself locked in battle with the only man he wants to protect.

The Sweetest Poison

“And what do you want in return? Your freedom? Your safety?”

Jaskier didn’t flinch from her scorn and Geralt could see his knuckles go white with the force of his grip around the small vial. “Save him.”

The mage stared at him for a beat before letting out a burst of laughter that echoed off the wall like the flutter of vultures wings. “All this trouble for the Witcher?” she asked incredulously, “Tell me, boy, do you really think he would do the same for you? That he cares at all what happens to the bard who follows after him like a lost puppy?” She stepped forward, confident as a soldier preparing his death blow. “Oh, I know who you are, bard. I watched you trailing after the Witcher, eager for every scrap of affection or interest he’ll toss your way. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Jaskier was breathing heavily now, jaw clenched tight enough that Geralt could see the muscles fluttering with effort.

“Were you hoping this ill-conceived rescue mission would be enough to make him finally notice you?” she murmured with a mocking smile, “Poor little bard--always singing of love but never truly experiencing it.”

Into the Jaskierverse Additions:

Interlude: The Thief

Jaskier opened his mouth to cry out, to scream, anything, but it was ripped away by the jagged shards of reality tearing through him. It was the djinn all over again. The agony of watching Geralt disappearing beneath the rubble of the house. The first chill that always signaled Geralt returning to Kaer Morhen. The pull of power and magic that he now recognized as the moment before a spell hit and he was left with no option but to wait for the pain to hit--helpless in the whims of an unnatural force.

Only this time there was nothing to stop the raw power that seemed determined to unravel him down to his very soul.

was

remade.

Not Without You

“Geralt?” he finally whispered, a fragile hope in the familiar word.

“I’m here,” Geralt said as he crossed the room to stand next to the table. “I’ve got you.”

Kicking aside the corpse of the mage, he fumbled with the restraints until he was able to release Jaskier’s arms and legs. They twitched weakly against him and Geralt ran his hands over the rough shirt and pants Jaskier had been dressed in, searching for any other injuries.

“Geralt?”

“It’s me,” Geralt soothed. “They won’t hurt you again, I promise.”

Jaskier’s hands found an anchor against the front of Geralt’s shirt and he shuddered violently. “I thought...I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

#geraskier #my stuff #geralt/jaskier #geraltxjaskier #jaskier/geralt #whump #angst #Angst with a happy ending #modern au #completed story #ao3feed #masterlist #feral jaskier #badass geralt #badass jaskier #lambert/aiden

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fanoftheimagines · 2 years

Text

Bring Him Back

Day 2 of Jaskier Whump Week 2023

Pairing: Jaskier/Reader

Prompts: Flashback

Reader Gender: Non-Binary

CW: Hurt/Comfort, reader is annoyed and snaps at Jaskier, Jaskier has a traumatic flashback, healthy argument resolution, healthy relationship

Word Count: 366

Summary: After you snap at Jaskier and he flashes back to that moment on the mountain, you have to bring him back.

Post S1 E6

A/N: This one is a bit rushed, but oh well. This takes place in Bēstiārium, but you don’t have to know anything about the story for context.

Tags: @jaskierwhumpweek @zana999

Masterlist | Bēstiārium Masterlist | AO3 Link

Jaskier Whump Week Masterlist | Jaskier Whump Week 2023

GIF: https://lamberts.tumblr.com/post/676824176391307264/his-superpower-is-empathy-and-sometimes-that-can

The two of you had been on edge all day. It had been almost an entire month since you came down the mountain and started toward Oxenfurt. The constant traveling, the little-to-no sleep, the little annoying things you could normally ignore but didn’t have the energy to anymore had all added up to a barrel full of oil. All it needed was a lit match for the whole thing to explode.

After the fifth rendition of an angry and frankly bastardized version of Toss a Coin, your nerves were fried. You understood Jaskier’s grief – you held the same feeling in your chest – and normally you had much more patience for Jaskier’s antics. But right now, if you heard one more note of that fucking song…

“Toss a coin…” He started over again.

“Damn it, Jaskier!” You snapped. “If you sing that Melitele-forsaken song again, I swear I’ll say something I’ll regret!”

Jaskier instantly silenced and stopped walking next to your horse, Newt. You pulled to a stop as you realized what exactly you just said. Damn it, Jaskier. Exactly what Geralt said before he broke Jaskier’s heart. Oh, what have you just done? Quickly, you hopped down from your horse. Jaskier was staring ahead looking at nothing, clearly not with you. You approached him with your hands outstretched.

“Jaskier? Come back to me,” You grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Feel the breeze on your skin. Hear the sound of my voice. Come back to me.” His fingers closed around yours and he looked at you. “Five things you can see, love?”

“You.” He whispered, though still clearly a bit still on the mountain. “Newt… Trees... Flowers... Lute.”

“Good, good,” You breathed out in relief. “Four things you can feel.”

“Your hands. The wind. My clothes…” He trailed off, thinking, “Um…” With a soft smile, you leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. He sputtered when you pulled away. “That.” He finished.

You rubbed his arms. “Welcome back.” You paused before pulling him into a hug. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know better. There’s no excuse.”

He tugged together on your shoulders. “Please don’t leave me.” He whimpered.

“Never. Never.”

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #the witcher imagine #the witcher x reader #jaskier whump week 2023 #enby!reader #trans!reader #romantic!reader #enbyxm #transxm #my fanfic

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bambirex · 2 years

Text

The Day Has Come Where I Have Died (Only To Find I’ve Come Alive)

Day 2 of @jaskierwhumpweek

Pairing: Geraskier

Characters: Jaskier/Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia

Prompt: flashback

Tags: trauma, blood, flashbacks, suffocation, crying, panic attacks, established relationship, hurt/comfort, past violence

Word count: 2,785

Chapters: 1/1

Summary: A familiar place forces Jaskier to relive the most horrifying experience of his life.

Creator’s notes: I'm still not completely sure if Jaskier remembered anything from the djinn's attack, but I decided he did. Written for Jaskier Whump Week, I went with the flashback prompt.Please, heed the warnings!

Read on ao3

The day started off so well.

There was absolutely no indication whatsoever, that things would go so wrong.

But to be fair, there wasn’t any indication the last time, either. That appeared to be a normal day as well, until it really wasn’t anymore.

The Sun sat high on the sky, its rays warm and bright, beckoning the songbirds out of their hiding. The leaves of the trees were a harsh green color, the flowers spreading their delicate petals towards the sky in full bloom. The imagery in itself made Jaskier want to write a jaunty little song. He was feeling at his most comfortable walking next to Geralt and Roach; no monster or bandit has gotten in their way so far, so even Geralt seemed to have his guards down, listening to Jaskier’s chattering with a faint, but very fond smile.

“I’m just saying,” Jaskier continued his rambling from before, “that if it’s made from the finest silk, you need to reach deeply into your purse.”

“It’s still too much for a shirt, Jaskier.”

“Well, I am going to buy it!”

Geralt snorted softly. “If you have already made up your mind, why are you asking for my opinion?”

“Because, you will see me wearing it,” Jaskier purred, reaching up to give Geralt’s leg a small, teasing squeeze, “and I wanna know if you would find me pretty in it.”

Geralt reached down for his hand, brushing his fingers across Jaskier’s gently. “You know I find you pretty in anything.”

Jaskier preened at the compliment, his face breaking out into a wide grin. “So, does that mean I can buy that shirt?”

“I mean, it’s your money. But I don’t wanna hear you complaining when we don’t have enough coin for a normal room to stay in.”

“Oh, but I’ll just win enough for that in my next competition,” Jaskier laughed, “or, you know, I have a handsome, heroic witcher lover who will earn just enough in no time!”

The sound of a faint splash reached Jaskier’s ear, which meant there were fish around that they could eat for lunch. Jaskier turned his head towards the sound, and immediately stopped dead in his tracks.

The small lake looked familiar, and so did the trees around it. The rocks on the shore, a half-naked bush, even the color of the soil brought back memories quicker than lightning. Jaskier usually didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings unless he absolutely had to. Geralt always joked about how he would get lost anywhere.

But that place Jaskier would never forget. A seemingly harmless looking little creek that wouldn’t stand out for anyone else forever burned into his brain. He wanted to look away, but his eyes disobeyed him. They remained stubbornly stuck on the surface of the lake, seeing things that weren’t there anymore: an amphora with a mage’s sigil, an object that hid the creature that almost ended his life.

His legs seemed to have rooted into the ground. All his muscles closed up, becoming an unmovable, leaden weight inside his body. He couldn’t turn his head, his jaw tightened uncomfortably, sealing his lips closed. Jaskier wanted to talk, to tell Geralt he wasn’t feeling well, but he was simply unable to.

The sky turned an alarming dark grey color when the lid of the amphora came off. The wind picked up, whistling loudly and shaking the trees around them. Jaskier was foolish enough to not feel scared: either the alcohol in his system that he poured into himself to heal his heartbreak over his latest lover numbed his survival instincts, or the excitement over such a groundbreaking discovery did. Either way, he found himself waving the amphora around and making his demands. It was a djinn, for Melitele’s sake. Of course, he wouldn’t pass up on the opportunity to ask the mighty spirit to make his Countess forgive him, or to erase his biggest rival out of existence. Who wouldn’t have done that, when they held such power in their hands?

Geralt seemed to have thought differently, because he stopped him from saying his last wish. Jaskier, already riled up, has gotten up in his face. They fought, and Geralt angrily told him he just wanted some peace for himself. That was the final nail in his coffin, as it later turned out, for more than one reason. Jaskier wanted nothing more than for Geralt to finally call him his friend, at least- he has accepted by that time that he would never be more to the witcher, but he hoped that he could have still been that, at the very least. He tried to cheer the obviously moping Geralt up, tried to make him talk about what he actually felt when he found him fishing at the lake. He tried to be his friend, and once again the only thing Geralt threw into his face was that he wanted to be left alone. So, Jaskier acted out of anger, hurt, and admittedly, a sort of immaturity when he smashed the djinn’s vase against the ground, shattering it into pieces. He never got to feel the satisfaction over his act. In the matter of seconds, the sky darkened even more, and the wind was howling louder. It felt like the world has turned upside down- and in the middle of the chaos, a strange pain formed inside Jaskier’s throat.

It started out almost innocent, at first, like a really bad sore throat, irritating his vocal cords. It escalated way too quickly: the pain worsened until it felt like there were razor blades cutting into his flesh from the inside. He squeezed a hand over his neck, as if trying to cover the source of the pain would have done him any good.

When the storm clouds floated away, Jaskier doubled over in pain. His lungs weren’t filling up with air the way they used to. There was a grip on them that didn’t let him breathe in deep enough. His chest hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his throat. Jaskier wasn’t even sure the sensation should have been called pain, at all. It was a feeling so utterly appalling, so horrifying, that it might have passed the threshold of what everyone described as pain.

Jaskier’s breathing came out ragged and harsh, a terrible wheeze that Jaskier has only heard from dying people before. He thought he might have been dying, as well. The chafing irritation made him cough, and the cough made the pain worse, a terrible losing game that not even Geralt’s gentle hand on his back could help Jaskier win.

When the next cough was ripped out of him, blood spilled out of his mouth and onto the ground, painting the grass bright red. He felt the blood coating his lips, trickling down his chin. His lungs constricted, and the insides of his throat seemingly snapped shut together, creating a deathly iron grip. He wanted to ask Geralt to help him, but he found himself unable to speak. He just looked up at him pleadingly, praying him and all the gods to help him.

As time passed, the pain didn’t ease, but got so much worse. Blood and drool kept trickling out of his mouth as he gasped for air. He only managed to take short, unsatisfying little breaths that did nothing to help him. Finding himself barely able to breathe, panic rose inside his chest, making him gasp even more desperately. The more his lungs resisted, the more terrified he felt. He was certain he was going to die, choking on his own blood.

His throat felt tighter and tighter by the minute, as if an invisible noose had been wrapped around it and pulled. He reached for his neck with a choked, pathetic whimper. His trembling fingers found a large lump at the place his neck should have been. It felt like a rock under his hand, pushing out against his skin. The lump was responsible for shutting his throat closed and cutting his air off. Tears poured down his cheeks, mixing with the blood and sweat. Crying was a horrible choice as it constricted his nose as well. Jaskier wished he could stop, but the fear and pain only made him whimper more.

He found himself trapped in an endless circle of excruciating agony and terror.

His entire livelihood was threatened. He was a bard, he sang songs for a living. Right now, he couldn’t even talk, just make wheezy, croaked sounds. What was he going to do, if he survived by some miracle, but this thing has done irreparable damage to his vocal cords?

The elf healer soon reminded him that it could be even worse. Losing his voice was just one thing: he could have died, like Jaskier feared.

In all his brash, carefree glory, he’s always insisted that he was just here in this world to enjoy life, and he didn’t care about what might come after. But in that moment, when he was faced with the idea that he would die a painful, slow death, while still young and with so much to do, he realized he very much cared. He wanted to live, he wanted to keep on creating and loving and going on adventures. He clung to Geralt desperately, barely able to squeeze out his name through the blockage in his throat as he begged him not to let him die. More blood poured out of his mouth as he tried to speak, soaking his doublet and his chemise. Any other day, he would have complained about his best clothes getting ruined. Right now, he would have taken any discomfort if it meant the pain would stop, if it meant he would get to live.

Jaskier wanted to tell Geralt how much he loved him, because it seemed like he might not get another chance, but he couldn’t. His throat swelled even thicker, and it caused the muscles in his neck to go numb. He could barely turn his head, and his tongue felt swollen inside his mouth, too, bitten raw as Jaskier struggled to speak. His remaining strength started seeping out of him, his body growing limp.

There was a grey edge to his vision, and it made him kick out in panic, flailing around in Geralt’s arms who tried to carry him as the bard’s legs gave out under him.

His stomach churned and he started gagging, but only more blood came out. He let out a pitiful, high-pitched whimper. His whole body was covered in a cold sweat, making his clothes stick to his skin uncomfortably. He felt feverishly hot and ice cold at the same time as he struggled to stay awake. He was so weak, but he was terrified to close his eyes. He didn’t want to lose sight of Geralt, his only anchor, his only hope.

Gods, how Jaskier wished he were just a little less annoying, if he were just a little better for Geralt. Now he would have to die with the knowledge he never managed to make Geralt love him in return, and even in his final moments, he caused the witcher nothing but discomfort.

“Jaskier? Jaskier! Can you hear me, what is going on?”

Jaskier only faintly heard Geralt, as if listening to his voice from under a thick duvet. He wasn’t sure where he was. He still couldn’t move except for the unstoppable trembling that kept rattling his bones. Geralt had his hands on his shoulders, squeezing ever so gently – it was the only thing that managed to ground Jaskier in the moment somewhat, that made him realize he wasn’t being tortured by the djinn anymore.

Yet, as the memories flashed in front of his eyes and screamed inside his brain until he thought his skull would explode, he felt his throat tightening. His hands flew to his neck in panic. He wanted the feeling gone, it couldn’t happen again, he didn’t wanna die, there was no air, there was so much pain…

“I can’t breathe,” he whispered, shaking his head desperately as tears welled in his eyes, “it hurts…”

Geralt gently cupped his cheeks. His eyes were full of concern as he inspected his face.

“Your throat? What happened?”

Jaskier tried to swallow, but he only managed a quiet, choking sound. “The djinn…” he whimpered, his hands still trembling around his own throat. “I’m going to die, it hurts so much…”

Geralt gently pried his hands off his neck, then held them up to his lips. He kissed each one of Jaskier’s knuckles, all the while looking deeply into his eyes.

“It’s gone,” Geralt promised him softly, giving his hand a small squeeze, “it can’t hurt you anymore. We got rid of it.”

He reached out and gently brushed Jaskier’s fringe out of his forehead, before he kissed each of his cheeks. “Breathe for me. In, and out.”

“I can’t,” Jaskier whispered shakily. Geralt wiped his tears off, his touch gentle and real, way more real than the memories. But they were still too loud, their death grip on Jaskier’s neck barely easing.

“Yes, you can,” Geralt told him. “Look into my eyes. Don’t look anywhere else. Just at me. There you go. Now, take a deep breath.”

Jaskier tried. The first one was shaky and unsatisfactory- then, as he kept looking into those familiar amber eyes, and listened to that gruff and yet still so kind voice, he felt the tightness of his throat letting up. Air filled up his lungs, and his frantically breathing heart slowly but surely started controlling itself again. Jaskier tentatively touched his neck and then his lips, and he was relieved to find no swelling, no blood.

‘’I’m sorry,” Jaskier said quietly, once the fog around his brain cleared. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Geralt assured him. He pulled Jaskier close to him, arms wrapping around him tight. Jaskier burrowed into his chest. “I was scared, but that’s not your fault. I just didn’t know what to do when you suddenly stopped and started shaking.”

“It felt like I was reliving it,” Jaskier sighed, shuddering. The memories had an awful coppery taste in his mouth- like blood. “I recognized this lake and suddenly I started seeing it. And… feeling it. I felt like I was suffocating again.”

Geralt sighed deeply. He rubbed soothing circles onto Jaskier’s back. “I’m still so sorry about that, Jaskier, you have no idea.”

‘’It’s okay. Just… sometimes I think I’m over it, but then something like this happens, and… I’m not… not mad you, not at all. But it was still the most terrifying fucking thing I have ever experienced.”

He looked up at Geralt. “And as I relived it, I remembered how much I wanted to confess my love to you in case I died, but I couldn’t speak. I was so angry at myself that you had to go to such lengths to save me.”

“I would do it again,” Geralt replied. His voice was so genuine, it made Jaskier’s heart flutter. “And I love you so much, Jaskier, and I will never let something like that happen to you, ever again.”

He kissed Jaskier on the lips sweetly, one last grounding touch to make sure Jaskier wouldn’t float away again.

“Let’s go,” Geralt said, gently turning Jaskier away from the lake. Jaskier squealed when he was suddenly picked up and placed on Roach’s saddle. He let out a sigh of relief when Geralt seated himself behind him, instead of in front of him- that position probably would have brought back the memories again, when he was limply hanging on, but didn’t dare grab onto Geralt’s waist in case it angered him.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asked, shaking his head to clear it. Geralt snaked an arm around his waist, the other reached for his horse’s reigns.

“To the market.”

Jaskier heard the fondness in his voice, as he added:

“I’m buying you that shirt you keep whining about.”

“Aw, a consolation prize for a daytime nightmare,” Jaskier laughed softly. He covered Geralt’s hand with his own, then he twisted around to kiss him on the lips.

As they slowly left the lake behind, Jaskier felt a tremendous amount of weight leaving his shoulders. He knew all too well by now, after the nightmares and the icy dread settling inside his stomach whenever someone talked about a djinn, and now this, that the fears and pains of the past weren’t easy to leave behind.

As long as he had Geralt by his side, though, he was certain at least his future was looking out to be brighter.

#geraskier #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier whump #my fic #geralt x jaskier

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